Acid House.

11: 20 PM: Brittany and I drove to a party downtown. It’s Saturday night, forty minutes to midnight; the night is an infant, and the morning far away. The limo sped down the highway, the roof was open. We swayed our drunken heads to expensive music. Champagne flutes tossed on the floor, we drank from the bottle. We turned our heads, stomped our feet, shook off sleep, shut our eyes and let the wind sweep away beads of sweat. Lip gloss, Hermès shirts, Ferragamo shoes, vintage Gucci, Manish Arora scarves. Brittany kept playing with her hair; her high heels were her best friend that night. I lit a cigarette, we both shouted and sang happy and free spirited like the pelicans and the unicorns.

11:58 PM: The limo stopped at a long, dust track. The chauffer held the door open. We adjusted our visions, aligned our steps, and walked till the road met the magnanimous pillars. The sounds of psychobabble engulfed us, we stumbled greedily to re-fuel and dance under the moonlight.

12:09 AM: I was pinned against a brick wall covered in indecipherable graffiti. My legs were wound around the waist of a strange man, with neon blue wrists, orange hair, a fake mole, a rather tight black vest and a caustic tongue. My hands grazed against cement and stone, my lips bruised, make-up smeared, the heaving man licked my neck. I was drunk but claimed to be awake and alert. Moaning contentedly, as my waist band was loosened, and a singular hand crept inside. I needed alcohol, I pushed him away. I steadied my step as I began to walk, but turned around, grabbed his tie, pulled him and kissed him, a kiss that would make him come back home with me.

12:17 AM: The Bar, strobe and laser lights played magical tricks on our head. Pulsating dance floor, bodies and limbs moved in faultless harmony to the music. The tall bartender, a part-time porn star who paired up with the cover girl of a Brazilian fashion magazine and an upcoming male model pulled my left shoulder across the mirrored counter. Sly, long-haired, tattooed, he offered me two dew drops of purgatory, I pulled out dollars, stole my drops, kissed him on the lips, grabbed an energiser, I needed to find my friends.

12: 22 AM: Brittany: Smoking with strangers turned friends, eyes moist and crimson. She dances with Joe, next to a table laden with equipment. Cigarette papers, and hash, unite to save their night. Her long golden hair, made my eyes swim towards her, I extracted her from Joe, she inhaled and smooched me, an insane amount of sooty hash, made my lips burn. I kissed her back, she turned and slid down my body, her head kneading my chest, my belly, my crotch, and it did not loiter! She sat on the floor pulling me along with her. I resisted, while Joe obliged, I took two long, deep, soul cleansing drags from a passion joint.

12: 41 AM: The music was purple, the floor green, the roof was white, and the ocean breaks got in touch with my ears. I walked into the mass of bodies, I was embraced, I closed my eyes, and let the music encompass me, like basic instinct the crowd moved, each had space to breathe and yet feel one another. The colors were exquisite. The smells fantastic, no emotion obscured the mind. We moved, mentally. I concentrated on my feet, the world swirled, kaleidoscopically. The mirrors on the wall haunted me; I licked my lips, to moisten them.

1:18 AM: Atif held my waist and rudely pulled me into his shape. I kissed him. He held my waist as I arched my torso backwards, my head moving slowly, with measured sways. He drew me up, his elbow holding my neck in place, his nose grazing mine, the room froze, the lights went out after an instant returned, the music broke, we levitated, I looked into his navy blue eyes and we kissed, his tongue swooping through my mouth, his lips gliding as intelligently. The music drove us insane. Like an infection our bodies spread over each other.

2: 03 AM: I turned around, to see Brittany inching her way towards us. She’s in-between us as the rush comes, she gyrates against Atif and I, we kiss, she unbuttons the second button of his shirt, her hands in the air, her hands return to the third, they graze his cleavage, the fourth, his chest moist her fingers up in the air. We fit into each other, like a mug in a dishwasher.

2:37 AM: I held their hands and dragged them towards the hay filled bath tub. I saw mountains and cheese we fell, each neatly on the other. There were white beam over our head, purple cushions under us, stray hair around us, warm sensations inside us, and disarrayed clothes upon us. Atif’s fingers ran through her hair, while mine dexterously undid his denims. We heaved, we savored the moment, and the three become singular. The music peaked and so did we, we fell back each on their back, spent, but ready to re-start. We lay there as the music dips, becomes haunting, mellow, serene, lonesome, the beats suddenly start quickening, the crescendo heightening, the rhythms pounding, the incessant note not ceasing, the waves rising, and our feet involuntarily moving.

3:49 AM: I went back on the dance floor, it had fewer people now. The night sky had turned a shade of greyish blue. The birds were rising. The candles were burning low. The mystery man re-appeared, walked purposefully towards me. I scanned the room with blood shot eyes, my hair and clothes are dishevelled. The man dances with me. We don’t touch, just dance beside one another, inching our way towards the wall of pulsating speakers.

4:14 AM: Joe and Brittany were on their knees, worshiping an invisible god. Their bodies moved in perfect semi circles. I saw them rise, I saw smoke, and I saw another burning joint. Mystery man is removing the straps of my vest. I want him to have more of me. I feel hot and claustrophobic, thirsty, I kiss his mouth, a long wholesome kiss, and it does not satiate my thirst. They music grew louder, stronger, and gothic. The sky turned dull silver and then cobalt blue or Manhattan white.

4:51 AM: The limo, Brittany and I. Cold water, empty bottles of Champagne. We sat nestled in each other’s arms. We needed a smoke; we smiled as we crept towards the grand finale of our night.
5:01 AM: It’s raining, as I walk into the gold lattice archway leading to a marble waterfall, chandeliers lighting my way to the reception,

5:06 AM: “Good evening”, he’s expecting you, this way please”,

5:11 AM: Carlos smiles as his robe slips to the carpeted floor, I don’t scream, but I cry, Carlos is on top of me, he can’t see my tears.

5:39 AM: Spent and satiated he slips off and falls asleep.

5:44: I pick up my shoes and the envelope, shut the door behind me. Never a word, always the envelope, always the five thousand dollars in crisp hundred dollar bills. My daily bread safe in the envelope.

My only client, my only sin. I don’t know that I’m alive, my only indulgence, but not my only source of income. “Carl speaking, 11:45, the Meridian, D will be there to pick you up”. Double whisky, one, two, three, four, I’m nearly there, two more. D, one arm supports me while the other unlocks my door. He knows I’ll be fine from here. I sleep. Whisky and toast. No time to cry. Under eye makeup and I’m at work. I’m no longer dissatisfied with my job. I’m indifferent.

My knees cave at the altar. Tears flow, its only here that I surrender, “make me believe, make me believe” is my song. Gucci’s hide the shame in my eyes. The clock strikes twelve. Mid day traffic drowns my thoughts. A black bird flies over the rafters. I light my cigarette. I walk and I cry. “Double whisky please”, I sleep alone that night, again.

I like standing under the hot shower. For a very long time, till I get wrinkles on my finger tips. The water hot, steamy, battering against my body. I close my eyes and become one with the sound of the water on my body. My nude body and soul are ignorant of shame. I bleed. I cry. My bath water treats blood and tears equally, washing both away. I tremble. I stretch my palms on the steamed wall. 

Dear Imagination

...The children did not quite know who their Imagination was. Since they didn't understand Imagination, how could they know its power? Its ability to transcend all barriers, to transport them to another place, a separate reality. Fighting daily realities, made them unaware that they too could partake of a future of opportunities, wealth and possibilities. And dear imagination was going to show them how. So on a bright sunny day - the kind of day which made Imagination rather spirited. Imagination wanted to play. But none of the children around her, Imagination's darling playmates, knew who she was. So she became gloomy. 

All of a sudden, along came fairies. They wanted to introduce Imagination to the children. These children, however, were extraordinary children. Even though they didn't know who exactly Imagination was, they all had their own Imaginations bottled inside of them. Though they were completely unaware of that fact!

How could the fairies show the children that Imagination resided within them, and how could they make Imagination happy again? They thought, and thought.

They needed a key - a special key. They scoured through their secret treasure troves and scavenged through the thronging marketplace. The fairies realized that the key lay in a very simple thing - Art. Delighted with their discovery, the very next day they went into the streets, armed with paper and outrageously-coloured crayons. Little by little, children began to gather around. Their curiosity was awakened as they eagerly received Art's accompaniments. 

Some children took to Art immediately, though they'd never encountered him before. Right after getting to know him, they recognized Imagination - for Imagination and Art always saunter hand in hand. Other children were a bit more cautious, but soon cast away their inhibitions and unleashed their imaginations from the hidden caves of their souls.

Now, when Imagination is sad, she dims and fades away. In contrast, when she's joyful, she brightens up her surroundings with her ebullience. As the children coloured, they became comfortable, and Imagination lost some of her erstwhile lacklustre and began to brighten up. While they coloured some more and started taking risks, she positively glowed.

The fairies saw their beaming faces, their joyous hearts, and wanted to help more. They decided to use what the children had made and exhibit, sell and auction them and with all the money they raised give it to other fairies who work relentlessly to ensure that children are save and that every child in their land is given an excellent education. 

The Dindori Shiraz Suite.

…”make no sudden movement and no one will get hurt”.

Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc, Santé and the earthy smells of the vineyard, crystal and pewter wine goblets, men and women swirling wines like their lives depended on it. A private tasting, vanilla in a cup, a red spoon and scallops in wasabi; My sixth glass of Merlot and fourth glass of a 1999 Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m laughing as are my hosts and random people. The photographer touches my elbow, I take twelve seconds to respond, he clasps my elbow, and I turn. My resplendent smile, his nervous banter, I excuse myself.

He pulls out a long filter cigarette. We find a solitary ashtray by the deck chairs. Promises made those which we shall keep. A rendezvous decided, a destination picked, purple scarves, vintage eye wear, smart black Marc Jacob shoes. That night after dinner; after conversations on real estate, golf, fashion weeks and philanthropy, I march to the Dindori Shiraz Suite. Hips swaying, eyes alert, chin up. Posture matters. As does the Pinot in my glass, we barely get through the third sip, he glides his hands dexterously into mine, I pull away, and modesty is damned. I need water. Pellegrino from the mini bar the end of my smoke between my perfect desirable lips; don’t talk too much. Don’t tell him your secrets. Lead. Pause. Smile. Then leave gracefully. He slams me against the suites vinyl door, one leg he wraps smartly around his hip, while his tongue swoops through the unknown spaces in my mouth. We peel of the excuses, we kick of the expensive shoes, and we inhale the perfume and the smell of the wine. He caresses, he taunts, he hurts and I reciprocate. We heave, we hold on and we consume. The frenzy I blame on the wine, the passion on the wine, the good fuck that followed I blame solely on that suave photographer who raided my personality for six hours.

I’ve fucked in candlelit bars, in swish apartments, in cabs and cathedrals. The photographer showed me dimensions, positions and challenged my anxiety levels all in those six hours. The sex wasn’t frivolous; it was a dialogue, a discourse, a duel and perhaps even a concert.

The four of cups, the fiend and the moon, this weekend your senses shall be tortured, said the tarot reader, before I drove to the private tasting.

The places you can go…

Would they let a 24 year old with no experience or qualifications as a primary school teacher into a Mumbai Public School?  Would the school management adapt to the radical changes that he’d bring, his fancy technology, his magical imagination, his burning desire to change every archaic thing from the word go? Most importantly would this 24 year old become more than a teacher, perhaps a leader to eliminate the most fundamental crisis in our Nation; inequity in education, where 1 in 3 children who begin primary school drop out before reaching 5th grade. Will this 24 year old be able to lead his country out of this crisis?

Two years have passed in two of Bombay’s worst classrooms where I worked full time attempting to amplify the potential of a group of India’s poorest children. While we had the extravagance of four walls and a ceiling we did not have an attitude, the resources or the desire to learn. We could not read, write or speak in English, our confidence was battered and our lives were stuck in status quo. We were more than four years behind our private school peers; we had a huge achievement gap that we needed to bridge. Where would we start? Where could we start?

We began with a sense of urgency. We realized that a mammoth world of magical possibilities awaits us. We understood that only hard work could get us there so we worked relentlessly. We celebrated spontaneity and differences, encouraged risk taking.

This was a challenging experience, to be patient and nurturing to 50 children every single day. To be humble around bitter school management and learn to control my emotions when I saw corporal punishment and various forms of abuse. To be resourceful when we needed a library or a field trip and to invest friends and strangers when I felt isolated in my journey. I also looked deeper within myself when my children were not showing progress, to re strategize when my class was destructive and disruptive. I persevered to understand that failure is so important, to re-evaluate what success means and to continually stay passionate and inspired. I learnt the virtue of patience and the lesson of never giving up on anyone; I learnt that my serving small serves nobody. I learnt the distinction between education and literacy; I learnt to walk into a slum over and over again to involve families, to invest them in their child’s incredible future. I learnt that change truly begins by re-engineering my internal dialogue, my prejudices and my limited mind set.

In my classroom I introduced my children to concepts such as love, peace, respect and unity, through art, literature, technology, out-door experiences or just by bringing the outside world into the classroom. The classroom soon seized to be an isolated space and it became a safe place to learn and play. Through this experience of enquiry, observation, discussion, demonstration and participation we learnt to balance academic excellence and holistic development.

Each of these children had one thing in common; they all had unconditional love. They live in Bombay’s darkest slums, amidst the sewage and the smell. They have families, large and bursting at the seams, where a patient ear, a loving word, a nurturing touch is a luxury. They see drugs at the curb, alcoholism in the house, they are victims of sexual abuse and physical violence, they see their grandparents being thrown out into the night and their mothers being mercilessly beaten, they use the same shoe for three years, they get the worst medical care yet find pristine joy in a one rupee packet of pickled berries. But just like the summer breeze blows cool of the Arabian Sea, after two years of intervention they’re definitely smarter and confident but most importantly they are beginning to trade their mediocrity for excellence, their indifference to education for the joy of learning.

Today more young leaders are walking into such classrooms, with their convictions intact, an immense sense of possibility and the honesty of intent, each day they thwart limited dreams, liberate our children’s ambitions, repair the lost faith in our country and truly ensure that one day all children attain an excellent education, because in our classrooms we don’t advocate discourse but we exhibit possibilities.

Abhik Bhattacherji

Stop.

Hello!

She left,

When?

Long ago

Why?

To buy drugs,

Thank you.

No problem.

Deep breath, count till ten before screaming.

Never pass a joint the wrong way. Thumb and forefinger upright

I said let the thirst intensify.

Breathe woman breath, don’t die on me.

Very gently, she takes an unfathomable drag from the narrow end of the rolled line of nicotine and hashish. It slows her limbs; locomotion escalates to a different realm. The stench is all encompassing. It is fragrant, almost like a sedative. They do not hold back. They continue for days to smoulder, to reel, to beam.

There is not a moment of veracity, which brings their perception to a halt. Frozen and trembling they smoke hash through the soot encrusted makeshift bubbler. One psyche, one mission, never to be sad.

The foetus squirms, engulfed in an ocean of amniotic fluids it drowns in the external miasma, it perishes within the host. Unaware of the information that she carries a corpse within her, she sits still and lets the dogs coil beside her, comforted by their warmth, she bleeds. She has exhausted her allowance of happiness, she seeks for more. No money, no strength, it is only will that takes her to the resource down the road. The man revels in her despondency. She’s desperate; she needs to survive, for the life she awaits to wring out of her vagina. The man gives her five days worth of deliverance and in return wants to touch her raised belly, reluctantly she lets him. His paws gnaw at her clothes, they grab, they taunt, they slither and they grope she struggles but never shed’s a tear.

The church bells chime in the distant. The Sabbath is upon them. The man lets go, if only to wash his hands and go back to his nine children and a dirty wife. She goes back into the setting sun. This old town, slow, unkempt, does not interfere with this woman, the mangy dogs her only companions greet her and she fondles them. She carefully reaches into the recess of her large clothes, blue, borrowed, old and stolen. Extracts the small pieces of heaven and feigns delight. Slowly she scrounges for tobacco that lies on the floor amongst soil, faeces, alcohol, maggots, and filth. She crushes her heaven and mixes it with the filthy tobacco, rolls it dexterously into a long strong joint. Lights it, inhales and slackens her nerves, no tears no guilt and absolutely no awareness. She gulps down greedily the entire length of her heaven. Then it begins, just like the wailing of a baby or a tortured feline, she stumbles to the centre of the space that she has inhabited for the last twelve days, sixteen hours, forty eight minutes and twenty six seconds. Her gasps are audible, as her moaning reaches a crescendo, heart palpitating her hands crawl to her matted hair, she stoops, her hands clenching her scalp, immune to physical pain, her eyes darken and then all around her it all comes crashing down.

It ebbs and flows through her. Tormenting her, she sees her life in a kaleidoscopic hallucination staging itself in front of her. Sweat, blood and other bodily discharges aside she sees herself being taken in through the back door, all she did was wear that dress her husband told her not too. They drag her; tear the wretched dress off her back. It rained that night, torrentially; her pleas for help were drowned, they locked the door committed the deed, laughed recklessly and left her under the moon to drown in her blood and tears.

Impregnated, the morning after she flees from society, family and humanity… he said that he’d call her everyday if all she craved for was attention. She slowly started forgetting him, deciding that it was the best thing to do. But she secretly craved for his touch, his affection, his presence. Darkness engulfs her; she stands and holds her belly, talking incoherently at the corpse within her. It is dead. She needs to die. She needs to smile for one last time and this time she needs to figure out the difference between heaven and hell. In a cave, amidst the wilderness, she smokes four days worth of hash. With each drag she sees, distant memories, the goldfish in her nursery, the kennel she and her father built for Cornelia, her graduation, tomato colada she and her mother made on summer afternoons, the taste of champagne on her wedding night, the drink she nursed in that fatal red dress that entombed her. But her last thought, her last memory as she smoked the burning roll at her fingertips was of the corpse within her.

With an ultimate burst of resilience she crumbles to her knees and clasps her hands in a prayer and speaks her last word. The rain started the minute her breath expired, almost like divine fallacy, almost like irony, it rained just as it had, the day she was gang raped. The heavens cried then, for her, for her transgressors and they wept, again, tonight. As the rain extinguished the burning stub, it wept for the woman who died alone. The woman who paid the price of sin, ending her life with the one word that would redeem her, the one word that could purchase salvation for her, the one word that would tip the scales of justice in her favour. The one word mortals’ fear and the gods venerate.

Sorry.

Abhik Bhattacherji.

I love CANDY.

I like all sweets, all sweets are just like any other sweets but haribo is better than all sweets. Because sweets are sweet but haribos are nice, if you had given me a choice of haribo or some type of sweet (which is sweet) i would choose haribo. Its like orange is orange, which is why it’s called orange. So that’s why i like haribo because they’re not just sweets, they’re haribo sweeties, but sweeties and sweets are not the same thing, because sweet is a taste and sweeties are blocks of sweet made from stuff. So i love haribo!
Okay then… well that question is totally like the hardest question EVER… Candy… Floss is absolutely LUSH, back when i was a youngster id love to try and fit all the candy in my mouth at once and let it melt down into sugar… mmm... I was a fatty! : D Sweets… anything good to suck on… rhubarb and custard, kola cubes, rosy apples e.t.c!!! I like to chew it chew it i like to chew it! Chewits rule…: D YES!!! But the best of the best of the best has to be CHOCOLATE… Sorry but chocolate out rules candy and sweets any day. Though i guess its candy ...: S Nehoo.s CADBURY Chocolate… WOO YEH WOO!!! IT’S Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!!!!!
POPROCKS!!!! BECAUSE… BECAUSE… THEY POP!! AND THEY ROCK!! AND IF YOU PUT THEM IN A CUP OF SQUASHED ICE… AND… AND… TELL PEOPLE TO LOOK IN THE CUP… OUCH! THEIR EYE MIGHT GET POPPED ROCKED!!! MUAHAHAHAHA!!! (Based on a true story...) DID I ALSO TELL YOU THEY ARE FULL OF SUGAR AND OTHER THINGS THAT MAKE ME HYPERACTIVE?! YAY! BOUNCE! BOUNCE! (Get Abhik some Prozak maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan....)
My name is Abhik, and I am candy-holic. Despite being an admitted candy-holic, I’d like to point out that there is a fine line between being a candy junkie, and a candy aficionado. Ah hell, who am I kidding – there’s no distinction. I’ll eat it all! Jujubes, Popeye Cigarettes, Nerds, and Liquorice sticks, Shoelace Gum, Hershey’s Kisses, Sponge Toffee, and Mr. Freezies – my kingdom for some Sweet Tarts! Oooh, I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog just thinking about it all! For a quick fix, I’ll scarf down a giant heap of penny candy; but when I’m feeling extra naughty, I’ll linger over a few of the most outrageously expensive, delectably sinful hand-made chocolate truffles. Either way, the euphoric wave that washes over me as the insulin rushes through my veins bringing me to the very edge of pure ecstasy, is the same blissful feeling of exhilaration that can’t be obtained by any other means than the simple, sweet, sugary delight of candy.
Yummy ......Just been i robbed barista of their sugar sachets last night ...and i downed almost 70 of them since 8 this morning ....and gee thanks i love you two
Haiku for sweets”unwrap chocolate chemicals rush to my brain antioxidants”
I am certifiably CRAZY. What's with the rushing burst of glucose-drenched words..Willy Wonka paid me a visit in your sleep last night? Or did I drown in a tub of melted Sour Punk and emerge with sticky, treacle-laced eyes, strips of Lindt for fingers and hazelnuts for fingertips? Jello-O spikes in place of hair, and evil, glinting M&Ms for eyes? Or did I shave with Sainsbury's cream instead of Gillette? OR ARE I JUST TRIPPING ON ACID?

After Tonight

After tonight, will you return to love me? We looked at each other across the table and the vibe was right my knuckles ached with anticipation as you walk across the room to come over and ask me for a dance. I’m frankly overwhelmed; it’s been a long time since I danced with a stranger. We link arms and walk towards the car. You the perfect gentlemen hold the door open for me, when we arrive at the hotel. I don’t expect anything but you surprise me. We drink wine and look at each other again and then the ritual eases and we touch your fingers and my fingers your lips and mine. You caress my hair and I yours. The moon shines through the porch doors as you kiss my lips. We kiss for what seems like eternity. Lieing in your arms make me feel like I’m in a warm safe. I don’t want to walk away now I want to claim the rest of the night as a dream that is unfolding like a vision. You look into my eyes and I know you’re the only one who I will come back to. The memory of your face wants me to run from the emptiness of this place and run right back into the moon lite porch into those arms which are mine. We lay naked in each others arms till the moon turned into sun and till we slept and dreamt of heaven in each others embrace. I’ll still be standing here when you come back for me. I will never be happy with any other lover as I have experienced your love.

To me!

Despite the hollowness, I am happy. Yes happy.
No really I don’t mind the emptiness.
The time of meeting my inner dialogue is over.
Really no mistakes now, I run my hands through my clean hair and I feel a rush of adrenalin. I don’t contemplate anymore.
I want it I have it.
I want it I get it.
Don’t blame me if I have a great job. How is it my fault I earn pots of pennies?
No really how is it my fault if I crave for a good life?
Didn’t you say work hard and have a good time?
Wait I need to light my smoke.
And please I don’t need sermons and guidance.
There is no one to reason out my freedom.
It’s my eyes.
They do all the work, they conduct the magic, and they execute all my sins.
And trust me I like them, it.
And I hate the letter Y.
At lest, I’m man enough to look my self in the mirror daily and say “I love you”
And please don’t bother judging me. It’s an effortless exercise, I am sure. But please don’t waste precious energy.
I’m sick of hearing “save for a rainy day”.
The rain gods can conserve their resources till I lie in my grave.
How is this cynical, how many men do you know would freely admit to all this.
How many men do you know?
I’m man enough to **** anorexic models without rubber. There I said it. I don’t give a **** if this sounds crass.
What was that?
“Look inside my self and see if this is me talking”
(Evil laugh)
Yes Sherlock it is I.
It is I who has sold my soul to the devil.
It is I who trip on expensive LSD.
It is I who buys Dolce and Gabanna and don’t think twice of starving children in Somalia. Should I kill my self? I think not.
You want to know me ah?
So here know me.
Do you know what I see when I squeeze my eyes shut?
I see glamour.
I see money.
I see promiscuosity.
I see light.
I see mirrors.
And I see hell.
Oh please I can’t cry anymore. Crying is a sign of loneliness and fear.
I’m alone and I’m scared.
I am.
Loneliness
Alone
Solitude
Alone
Fear
Paranoia
Stress
Alone
Panic
Pressure
High
Drop the pressure.
I can’t, because I don’t know how.

The art of seduction.

Sunday afternoon, post brunch, post one and a half bottles of white wine.
Drop into an art show looking around I spot her and she me.
The curator is the only common link between us. While he explains the subtleties of colour, the nuances of brush strokes, I and she have already taken off on a journey to the stars. For us there is no tomorrow, so tonight we dance like no tomorrow.
Famous first words from a liberated woman, “your place or mine”. She drove, again like no tomorrow.
My place, a company guest house. With two sleeping occupants.
We sit on the couch respecting the next five minutes of an unnecessary prelude. She calls me enigmatic and I call her my forbidden fruit. She wants to see my bedroom and en-route she pins me to the corridor wall and kisses me. I kiss her back with as much adventure as in a racy sex novel. To the sounds of the Morning orbits, a song close to my heart now…“all your sex and your diamonds”.
The evening is on. We both get that adrenalin rush of making love in house with other guests. No bedroom had we. But that did not stop us for one nano second.
Having sex with all your clothes on intensifies the element of mystery and intrigue. For a while we stretch out on the dining table and make crazy love. Panting for more, we use the quentiessential marble kitchen counter of with her halter and off with my Levis in darkness in perfectly rehearsed synchronization we make love. Back on the couch we can’t keep our hands off each other, necks covered with the remains of the evening we want some more there is no looking back now. Just like in the movies we move closer and closer and touch more and touch deeper. Each time we kissed we heard music divine.
We don’t want to stop but someone wakes up and walks into the room. To the naked eye we were just two regular people having a drink and a chat. They exit and we start whispering into each others bodies. We must stop, it’s highly dangerous that someone would walk in again and we could be compromised. But this is not a confidential secret society meeting. Oblivious. Sexual abandon and our dreams came true.
I walk her back to her car.
I don’t have her number neither do I know her name.
But we promise to meet before we die!

Luxury brands and the Indian market.

Like Marie Antonette once said: “If they can’t have bread, give them brands instead!”…

Diamond dripping & air kissing Indians can sip their champagne in peace, now that the Indian government has introduced a porthole for foreign direct investment (“FDI”) in single brand retail. In January 2006 the Indian government gave upscale retailers a further boost by allowing foreign companies to own a controlling interest of 51% in joint ventures operating “single-brands” stores. India has been pushing for enhancing FDI inflow, the FDI inflow into India stood at 5.5 billion in the financial year 2005-06. The Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessy group, the French luxury goods conglomerate that owns, Christian Dior, Givenchy, Donna Karan and Dom Perignon are in talks to invest 500,000 euros in India over the next five years.

Brand consciousness is suddenly on an all time high. While shopping for luxury brands more than its sensory gratification, the social approval is what most people try to buy. A higher price implies a higher level of quality and a certain prestige. For this, brands invest a lot of time and a lot of money in advertisements. They constantly need to have a certain sex appeal to attract consumers, this is quite evident while flipping through a perfectly photo shopped magazine or browsing the net. The urban Indian consumer wants to own products that inspire, awe and envy. Whether its drinking Pellegrino water or decking up in brands like Manolo Blannik, uber trendy, super sexy, extremely rich Indians are cashing in on luggage from Louis Vuitton, jewellery from Bvlgari and fur coats from Fendi.

Luxury is derived from the Latin word “Luxus” which means indulgence of the senses irrespective of its cost. Luxury brands are those whose ratio of functional utility to price is low while its intangible utility to price is high. What really makes a brand a luxury brand? Is it its heritage of craftsmanship, its exclusivity or its fashion intensive uniqueness? Its premium pricing, highly customized and limited editions creates an aura which make these brands desirable and luxurious. Whatever be the reason, the





debate on whether luxury products sell if so how much, who its buyers are and whether its market will grow has comfortably ended. There are an estimated 73,000 multi millionaires in the country, number of households with an annual income of more than 1 crore.

Till a few years ago rich Indians would shop for their fixes of luxury items while they went globe trotting, but now with many brands from all over the world deciding to open stores on Indian shores, one really doesn’t need to go across the Atlantic to indulge. It stands correct to say that India has come of age; in as far as the luxury goods market is concerned. Though most brands function from the confines of five star hotels they not only had a very limited footfall but also inadequate visual impact. Major Indian cities lack the concept of high fashion streets which else where provides a symbiotic cluster of posh retailers. While New York boasts of Fifth Avenue, Paris the Avenue des Champs Elysees and Hong Kong the Causeway Bay the luxury shopping experience is missing. The Indian market is fragmented and rather disorganised.

But with malls sprouting at an incredible speed things are about to change Indians can do retail therapy at high end malls and not have to depend on their next vacation or that invitation to the Milan fashion week. The Gitanjali group are investing in high end luxury and wedding malls in eight cities across India. Delhi and Mumbai have their high end malls and selected areas where one can shop comfortably. So apart from raising a toast to such sparkling growth it’s safe to say its passé and so last season to be seen in domestically made shoes and clothes, now its Jimmy Choo and Hermes all the way.