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Photo courtesy: Arshia Varlet

The thing about leaving that place you call home is that you don’t go back. Not ever. 

Not really.

Remember that first time you get on a plane headed thousands of miles away –leaving everything and everyone that made up your life until that moment. And you promise yourself that you’ll be back soon. The truth is, you don’t.

Because the person that gets to the departure lounge is not the same person that emerges out of the arrival gate in their destination city. Because that journey alters you irrevocably. And from then on, you’re always in transit to somewhere else.

I grew up in a teeny suburban flat in Mumbai – a city that never really felt like home. But the India that I grew up in, certainly felt like my home.

Yet today, if I were to ask myself where is home, I don’t really know. There is an aching familiarity when I’m back on Indian shores. The warm sunshine and the even warmer people feel as much part of me as my dark hair or skin. But then, in London when I stumble unexpectedly upon a five hundred year old street, I feel that I belong. As if I’m the modern thread that links today’s London to its ancient past.

Even more importantly, my new home city offers me an explosion of possibilities. It leaves me abuzz, excited –I can be anyone that I want to be here, accomplish almost anything. And that’s become a crucial part of me.

There was a time when people were born in a small town or village, and never wandered further. They went to school nearby, forged deep friendships over playground fights and shared lunches. Perhaps they even met their mate a few hundred yards away. Then, came the children. Who also went to the same school and had their own playground fights and shared lunches. And so the circle of life went on.

Now we travel the globe, in search of that dream job, the perfect mate, the possibility of fulfilling the ultimate travel dream of finding that remote as yet undiscovered island. And along the way, we lose rather important things like the sound of a best friend’s laughter or the smell of your mother’s cooking.

However losing your sense of home, is not all sad. It can be energizing, transforming. Because the one factor that keeps you alive, truly alive, is a sense of possibility. And for me personally, that sense of infinite possibility is a living, breathing part of my life in London.

I’m lucky that for me at least, there is no constant hankering back to my roots. Because I know that the place that I once called home is waiting for me, if I ever want to go back. Perhaps it would have changed unrecognizably but it’s still there…somewhere.

My sense of duality defines me today. I am two people in one. I ‘fit’ in India. And I ‘fit’ in the UK. And tomorrow, I might ‘fit’ into a third place too.  So home has become a fluid concept. Ever-changing. Ever-surprising. 

Lesbian and loving it

She’s the quintessential Indian beauty. Limpid, almond eyes. Lustrous long, dark hair. Petite, graceful. And gay.

I walked into Club Kali, a ‘lesbian friendly’ nightclub, expecting a room full of butch women. And left with all my pre-conceived notions altered. In fact, I’ve rarely seen so many stunning Indian women in one place during all my time in London.

The plan was to celebrate a friends’ birthday and brush up on my rusty Bollywood moves at the club. 

I had no idea what to expect at Club Kali. And found find myself burning up the dance floor at 3 am, in what was surely one of the most relaxed clubs I’ve ever been to.

Perhaps it’s the lack of testosterone. But this place was so chilled out, it was as if they were pumping love hormones in the air. No grabbing hands. No preying men. Just a few couples kissing quietly in dark corners. The rest were dancing with incredible energy to the latest Bollywood tracks.

The need to drink copious amounts of alcohol didn’t seem all-consuming, unlike most other clubs. So no broken bottles and puddles of puke in the toilets. Grim but that is the reality of going out on a Saturday night in most cities in the UK.

However a trip to the ladies was an interesting experience. While it says ’Ladies’ on the door, once you walk in – there’s the strangest assortment of pretty young women, older Indian men in saris and young men who are obviously not young men.  So obviously the term ‘ ladies’ is flexible.

Club Kali was surreal. There were peacock hued saris adorned by a million glittering crystals that caught the myriad disco lights. They were gajras made of jasmine flowers snaking across jet black chottis. Glass bangles clink clinked to keep time with the pulsating beats.  But look closer and you could see that not all of these were Indian women – a lot of these sari-clad apparitions were in fact middle-aged Indian men. Now that is a sight you would not see in India.

It got me thinking about how confusing it must be growing up gay in India. Like millions of others, I grew up on a diet of mainstream Bollywood films.

The macho hero always beat up mustachioed villains and rescued the demure sari-clad (always ‘wet’ of course) heroine from his clutches.  She then batted her eyelashes coyly at the hero. 

There are no Hindi films where the heroine pines for her best friend or flirts with the other girls in her gang. Or where the hero flashes his muscles as he walks past the boys in the neighbourhood. I cannot even begin to imagine how difficult and utterly confusing that must be, to know that you are so different from everyone around you.

While life in India is always warm, supportive and nurturing – there is just no room for alternative sexuality.

There is certainly no place for it in Indian society.  As a typical Indian, your life is mapped out for you. You finish your degree, find a ‘good’ job, get married, have kids and so on. The only ‘gay’ most Indians understand is to do with being jolly in a party.

So for the regulars at Club Kali, it’s probably a bit like being back in India. With one, all-important difference – you can be gay or straight or anything in between here, it’s all acceptable.

The screens played clips from films starring Madhuri Dixit, Madhu Bala and Shilpa Shetty. And I realised for the first time, how Bollywood is such a perfect gay icon with its over-the-top costumes and doomed, dramatic gestures.

There was a point in the evening when I stopped dancing and just stood back looking at everyone around me. The room was full of laughter, rhythm, mad costumes, gender confusion – and pure, uninhibited fun.

My night at Club Kali was an eye opener in many ways. Not all of it was serious.

I discovered that I was rather popular among the clubbers here.  But the flirting was light, non-threatening. Once someone realised that I was straight, they paid me generous compliments and left me alone.

One of the highlights of the evening was a certain lady/gentleman who came up to me and said, “Gosh, you are beautiful. Are you a lesbian?” I exclaimed, “No!” He/she swayed in the most dramatic fashion, eyes rolled heavenwards and said, “ What a waste!”

Very complimentary.  I thought.

A little piece of Britain called Dubai

Imagine this for a minute. You step out for your weekly shop at Waitrose, picking up some plump British strawberries. Then you stop at Boots to pick up your No.7 anti-ageing cream. After which, you stop for a spot of lunch at Carluccios. Before browsing through the latest UK bestsellers at Borders.

We all love the British high street. Especially when it’s situated in balmy Dubai.

Welcome to mini Britain. Without the bad weather. Dubai is awash with British accents – be it Brummie, Liverpudlian or Cockney. Every high street brand worth its name has a presence in Dubai’s myriad malls – take your pick from Monsoon, Topshop, H&M, French Connection and more. Wherever you turn, there’s something or someone British.

No wonder thousands of Brits move to Dubai – it’s expat paradise. All the comforts of home and none of the terrible weather. No taxes to pay and juicy expat salaries to play with. Maids walking a few steps behind you, carrying those purchases from Harvey Nicks. Drivers to pick you up and drop you off to afternoon tea with the girls. Nannies to soothe and take care of little ones, as you walk along the marina admiring the yachts.

However, before you start packing your bags for Dubai – there is one thing to consider. Before you book that flight, take a good look at yourself in the mirror – what colour is your skin? If it’s not the right one, you may find your Dubai dream rapidly turning into a nightmare.

UK’s been home to me for over 7 years. Of all the things I love about this country, its secular belief system is the most important to me personally. Whether I have brown skin or white, whether I’m a Hindu or Buddhist or choose to live in a cave with bats in order to pursue my spiritual beliefs – I am treated exactly the same as everyone else.

In only a matter of decades, Dubai has grown at a dizzying pace overtaking every other country in the region. The tall skyscrapers reflect the towering ambitions of the country, and they still stand tall inspite of its recent economic troubles. And those living in Dubai live, breathe and wear that dream – designer gear and accessories, snazzy cars and penthouses are considered necessities not luxuries. But the gleaming façade is just that.

My Indian friends who’ve lived in Dubai over the last decade complain bitterly about their ineffectual bosses, hired solely for the colour of their skin. I’ve even been told that if you approach a company in Dubai and you’re white – your salary is automatically about 20% higher. Just like that.

Walking down Dubai’s myriad malls, you’ll see for yourself that 8 out of 10 British expats living in Dubai are Caucasian.

Most companies in Dubai hire white employees for their top positions – it’s a matter of prestige.  Almost like having a smart office or cool website  – it’s expected. They employ the local Emiratis, because they have to under local law. The bulk of the workforce is made up of Indians, Bangladeshis and Philippinos. All of whom work have to work a lot harder and are paid much lower salaries than either the Europeans or the Emiratis.

The only thing worse than being brown in Dubai is being brown and working as a maid or driver. The moment you arrive in the country to start your job, your passport’s taken away. And you cease to exist as an individual. Your life is pretty much dependent on the whims and fancies of your employer. And there’s not a lot you can do about it.

Of course, as a woman, there are few places as safe as Dubai. You could be walking around town at 2 am and no one would dare bother you. Because the penalty for harrassing women is incredibly harsh. But if you are a Philippino maid working for a high-ranking Emirati for instance, things can go very differently.

Here in the UK, we do read a lot in the British media about women in Dubai jailed for kissing in public or some other indiscretion. But I was told that unless you choose to flaunt your private life in public, the authorities do turn a blind eye and let you get on with your life, however you choose to live it.

Inspite of the current economic climate in Dubai, British nationals are still moving over with jobs and families. Most people initially come for a few years, and end up staying for decades. It is so easy to be seduced by the easy life, good weather and great lifestyle.
Before you know it, you’ll find yourself owning several flashy cars, wearing designer threads and walking into the newest nightclubs. As long your skin’s the right shade, of course.

The glittering, glitzy dream that is Dubai has a dark underbelly. Or, should that be, white underbelly.

Slumming it in Mumbai

A balding black crow is attacking his dinner. It’s a dead mouse. And this elegant dining experience takes place in the home of a slum kid in Mumbai. That to me, sums up Mumbai. Dog eat dog world. Or crow eat dead mouse world. Take your pick.

Last night, I saw a documentary about the slum kids of Mumbai on Channel 4. http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/episode-guide/series-46/episode-1
While it shocks most Westerners, I’ve seen these things a million times. I’ve spent 28 years of my life in Mumbai. And whichever part of Mumbai you live in, you cannot escape the slums. It’s such a part of your life - there’s usually one right next to your home or work. You know someone from the slums or are involved with them in some other way.

Yet last night’s documentary shocked me. Not because of the levels of degradation that these poor kids lived in. My shock was more personal. In spite of living in Mumbai all those years and seeing these kids and their desperate lives day in, day out – I was so removed from all of this when I lived there.

I’ve probably passed a kid selling me crumpled roses at a traffic light. And pretended they didn’t exist. Or ignored some poor woman with a baby straddled on her back, pushing magazines in my face. If I didn’t see the despair in her eyes, I didn’t have to deal with it.

Mumbai gave me my life. It’s is the city that gave me an education and a job. It introduced me to my dearest friends, people I can still connect deeply with. It opened up my mind to books and art and my senses to fine food and poetry. And, most importantly, Mumbai gave me a chance to make a life for myself– one that was better than what my parents had.

I grew up in a tiny one-bedroom flat within a family of five. We were not rich, neither were we poor. So while all three of us kids were crammed into the pull-out sofa in the living room which was our bed – we never went hungry. We went to school, got an annual family holiday at our grandparents’ and were loved by our parents. The highlight of our week was a trip to a little restaurant, where our total bill was the princely sum of less than a pound. So, we were so much luckier than the millions of less fortunate kids growing up at the same time in Mumbai.

Of course, Mumbai is not all dark and dismal. The inhabitants have the biggest hearts I’ve seen anywhere – they are incredibly generous while having so little. The festivals they celebrate are the biggest, brashest, loudest. Everyone laughs a lot, and all the time. It’s the city of glittering dreams, where impossible ambitions are actually possible. Mumbai envelops you, brands you and you’re never quite the same again.

Living in Mumbai means developing an extremely thick skin. Or even an un-seeing eye. So while you see a beggar on the streets with rotting limbs or some poor tattered kid sleeping on the street – you learn to block it all out and just get on with your day.

Maybe it’s a survival thing. Because you do not and cannot allow yourself to get involved. With millions and millions living off the street and even more starving each day, maybe the sheer magnitude of the task makes it too overwhelming to consider.

Or maybe there’s something deeper, darker. There’s a sense of desperation that coats the air in Mumbai. Everyone hangs on to what they have for dear life. You’re trying so hard to claw your way to survival in this gruelling city, that leaving yourself open to sympathy for those less fortunate, could be lethal for you.

You see, the divide between the haves and the have-nots in Mumbai is very, very thin. One day, you could be going to work, earning a living. The next day, you could be on the streets with the other hungry millions. There’s no social security, there’s nothing. Maybe that’s why, I ignored the hungry cries and the dejected eyes for all those years. Because I knew I could not drop my guard for even a second, get off that treadmill even for a minute. The risk of losing it all, was too great.

But whatever it was, watching that documentary last night made me feel ashamed. That I was capable of living in that desperate city for all those years, without really feeling. I went to school and went to work. I went to parties and had great times. I went shopping and had fun. All the while, carrying on with my life as if none of the degradation around me existed.

The saddest thing is - it takes a British documentary about the city that I called home for 28 years – to make me sit up and really think about it. To allow my thick skin to thin a little bit and feel a tiny bit of the pain that exists in the city of dreams they call Mumbai.

Hic, hic, hurrray

It’s the party season. All that lovely Christmas cheer. The excitement of getting dressed up, all sparkly and Christmassy. And falling down drunk on a pavement at 3 am.

The days leading up the Christmas and New Year are dotted with parties, parties and more parties. And copious quantities of alcohol.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good glass of red. Maybe even two, three or four - on a good night. But any more, and I’d spend the rest of the evening communing with a toilet bowl.

I have no desire to wake up with no memory of the previous night. Or waste a precious Sunday, nursing a hammering hangover. So I usually stop, when my body tells me to.

Apparently, not everyone else does. Every party I’ve been to this holiday season, glass after glass of wine or champagne is downed with gusto. There is no food in sight – no one else seems bothered about eating except me.

Things start to get ugly after about 4 hours of non-stop drinking. Tempers get frayed. Inhibitions are non-existent. Everything is just one big alcohol-fuelled blur.

Going out in the UK is like worshipping at the altar of booze. A tad dramatic, I know. But real, nonetheless.

It’s not just my opinion. Here are a few statistics to ponder over our next glass of wine:

• 33% of men and 16 per cent of women in the UK drink alcohol at levels that are hazardous to their health
• Two in three under-18 girls (among 1,600 surveyed) needed medical treatment after drinking binges last year
• In 2007, there were 863,000 admissions to hospital in England due to alcohol misuse and 6,541 deaths directly related to alcohol misuse
• The number of British women needing treatment for alcohol poisoning has doubled to 14,000 a year since 2003, according to official figures
• The cost of treating alcohol abuse in the UK is £20bn every year

The statistics are enough to fill a few pages. But I think these will do for now.

So what is it with the British and alcohol? The French and the Italians drink too – but how many of them do you see vomiting outside the pub every weekend and collapsing on the streets?

Most Brits I know have no stop button when it comes to booze. Walk around any high street in any town across the UK, and the same scene greets you. Drunks young and old, male and female totter out of pubs and nightclubs. As a woman, it’s worrying to see so many other women, senseless from drinking - getting into cars and taxis with men they’ve just met. Or attacking each other over stupid arguments that usually start with something like: “Who are you looking at?” (Usually uttered in an aggressive, drunk tone of voice.)

My friends here tell me that most teenagers grow up drinking lots. So by the time, they hit 20 or so – their capacity for alcohol is huge. Compare that with say somewhere like India where I grew up. Over there, it was the other extreme. In our family, drinking was equal to alcoholism. It was weird and irrational. My folks believed that having a glass of something was an un-pardonable sin. So as teenagers, we sneakily drank the occasional rum and coke or wine and hid the evidence. I don’t think that was a particularly healthy attitude to alcohol either.

I hated it at the time – I thought it was so silly. After all, a few rum ‘n’ cokes didn’t mean heading to rehab.  But in hindsight, maybe it was a good thing. All the hiding meant I couldn’t really develop a huge alcohol habit. Unlike the thousands of young British kids stumbling around the streets as we speak, glugging their cans of beer.

There’s something else too. This unspoken attitude: I drink lots. Therefore I’m cool. The more alcohol I consume and the more wildly I behave, the cooler I become. That’s the impression I get from a lot of people around me. And surely, that is wrong. And is responsible for so much of the booze-related binge-drinking culture among British men and women.

I have come to the conclusion that I am un-cool. I’d love to be hip too. But not if it means downing lethal quantities of booze and ending up face down on some concrete high street every Saturday night. So I think I’ll keep my un-cool-ness. Thank you very much.

Mum’s the word

Women want kids. And they want kids in a primal, undeniable sort of way.

I know someone who has chosen to remain in a loveless marriage. Because she wants to have kids. And nothing else matters. Even the minor fact that she cannot stand her husband. Her big plan is to have the kids, then leave the man. And who are we to judge?

Another woman I know of, has three gruelling jobs. She finishes one, then falls exhausted into the next, and the next. Her goal is to save enough so she can afford fertility treatment. Again, her biggest dream to have a child of her own.

I grew up with images of self-sacrificing mothers on countless Bollywood films. These women lived, and without a single thought about themselves even died, for their kids. Their lives were interspersed with much emotional wailing and chest beating, all proving the self-less nature of motherhood. They weren’t so much real women as one-dimensional cardboard creatures who existed solely for their kids.

Some of my friends seem made for motherhood. Their glowing smiles when they’re with their kids say it all. Overall, they find being a mum a life-changing, positive experience. And even when they crib about the mindless chores that motherhood involves– it seems that deep-down they really enjoy it.

Why then, am I not rushing to buy pregnancy kits? Or taking pills to boost my fertiltity? Or cooing at the sight of every person under the age of eight?

I’m rushing headlong into the end of my thirties. But I feel no ticking of the dreaded biological clock. I lie –  I do feel the odd twinge at the sight of cuddly babies swaddled in fluffy garments. But that’s where it ends. Show me a child above the age of one, and I’m happy to play with them. And, this is the most important bit, hand them back to their Mum and be on my merry way.

So this is the moot point – is there anything wrong with me?

A lot of women I meet, seem to think so. When I tell them that I’m childless by choice – the first look I get is shock, followed by intense almost instinctive distrust. As if, by making this choice, I have gone against Mother Nature. As if, it is the duty of even woman on this planet to procreate. And how dare I not do my bit?

I don’t claim to understand their dislike. But I can see where it comes from. Most of us women are wired to reproduce. In fact most of the choices we make in our adult lives whether it’s choosing our partner or buying a house – they are linked to our biological urge to have kids. And though we think it’s all down to rational decisions, science has proven otherwise.

But my point is – we are a long way from Neanderthal man or woman. Instead of tending the fire in the cave and waiting for our men to hunt and bring back the meat for dinner – we are putting on our corporate clothes and earning our own dinner. So things have moved on.

Women treat other women who cannot have children – with pity and sympathy. And the few of us who have chosen not to have kids – we get loathing and anger.

Men do not react in the same way. In fact, they understand that having kids is a huge responsibility.

I have nothing against motherhood. I am happy for my friends with kids – it seems an enriching, hugely beneficial decision for them. So my question to my fellow women is this – why are you not happy to leave me my choice?

I’d rather curl up on the sofa with a nice book than rush after a bawling child. I’d rather go dancing on a Saturday night than pick up the kids from dance class. I prefer conversation with interesting adults to baby talk with little ones.

I believe that if you have a child, you need to do everything in your power to give that child a good life. And often, that means you don’t have much of a life yourself. And I like my life – thank you very much.

Is that selfish perhaps? Probably. Does that make me a horrible person? Hell, no. Do I have to defend my decision every time I meet a new group of thirty-something women.  Unfortunately, yes.

Ode to The Masala Dosa

There she awaits me, in all her crispy golden glory
Behind the wintry, foggy glass of the Indian diner
Holding the promise of buttery crunchy delights
And explosions of chillies on the tip of my tongue


She is unequaled, unrivalled in her appeal
A delight on the palate, a delicate dance
The sarnie seems a pale excuse for a snack
A bowl of pasta too heavy, too full of itself

She’s not alone, the divine dosa
Protected by moats of green and orange chutneys
So sail across the river of Sambar
And lo and behold, there’s your chosen one


It’s true love, me and my dosa
No dietician, no weight watcher
Shall ever come between us
Only happily ever after, me and my dosa