Anushka Manchanda has been diagnosed with terminal "Fridaynitoma" with two months to live before she re-emerges with a brand new record.

What do you say to girl-band survivor?  What’s tattooed, what’s pierced, what’s not? Something has to be. What’s a Popstar without mistakes? Dreary, arid, a doppelganger.

Here’s someone with a million: one Miss Anushka Manchanda

     Cadillac of a girl, with a hell of hug – dangerous like a designer drug, holds you like a lightening bug, and never leaves you.

     There was an epidemic in the early Two-Thousand years, Modern Rock and other bullshit. But people stayed awake. They didn’t miss the moments; the winks, pinks, inks, at all the wrong places. People falling in love; the girls wearing white on white, like ghosts. Their beautiful eyes just glinting, glittering, ear rings like chandeliers, fruity shampoos, eye-liners, toes and twinkle, Armani Code, heels, wheels, banana peels, goodbye stainless steel.

     It was a time of new beginnings; coffees, late nights, and clubbing, like U2 was somehow back in Berlin. Girls of 17 playing in bands, waltzing with Umbrellas.

     And somewhere midst the new tenderness, Warren Zevon was dying. The last of the first Sha la la la ls's were dyingly whispered.

     Maybe she did get a tattoo as a souvenir from 2002. And maybe it’s acting like a map providing scales in kilometers. I want to see what’s under her clothes, like really see her naked. Find that tattoo. But journalism is dangerous these days. It’s a day and age of tragedies, nip-slips, and malfunctions. What happens when people malfunction? Suicides baby.

     Every generation needs a Kurt Cobain to die young and decaffeinate the bloodstream. So we made a little pact, she and I; we’re learning how to lift, great weights and each other.

     This essay is my way of back-massaging Anushka Manchanda. She’s a girl after all – deserves the pampering apart from a list of little things: shoes, pillows, mo-bikes, bikini wax, Grey’s Anatomy, The Wonder Years, U2 records, TV, Scrabble, soap, beer, salad, fine-dining, Glastonbury, spa dates with contemporaries and arch enemies, remote controls, and a madshit writer keen on sweetshit living.

     The Popstar that she is; reminded me of her lateness issues. She read the blog – the Meghna Gulzar interview. Lucky for me, madam doesn’t scratch her nails on a blackboard. 

     And even though the insides count – here’s what she’d got on the outside: lips like Steven Tyler, hips like a Spanish dancer, standing like a Cadillac – all dressed in black. She’s got the constant danger from a handgun, pretending to be a devil having fun. The headline might just read: “Shot dead accidentally, mistaken for Thor’s brother Loki”.

But her kisses haven’t killed anybody yet.

"Drop out"… her aunt’s idea.

     Filled a vacant spot in an all-girl band. She called me a little post mid-night; was busy working on her new record: come back, bare back, backless, strapless, electric, sugar, loud, whispers, guitar riffs, romanticizing in different cities, Jimmy Hendrix, used vinyl, mainstream, underground, and vanity.

Good evening. Or morning. Which do you prefer?

Good Evening. Sound better.

You’ve been married what four times now.

Three and a half. (Laughs) But I don’t see them anymore. Except for Pratichee (Mohaparta). In fact, one of the girls lives very close by to where I’m at. But we don’t meet. We're all very cordial.

Is “Cordial” girl slang for something else?

No no. (Laughs)

Let’s see how adventures you really are. Want to celebrate your 19^th tonight?

Well I pretty much do that every night these days. (Laughs) We went out tonight. I’m in Goa right now. There was this Retro Band playing stuff like “Mustang Sally”. My younger brother walks in and he’s looking for younger people. Somehow my girlfriends and I didn't count. Little shit. He plays in my band. We had a big laugh.

Want to take a minute and sing Highway Star to a mirror or something?

(Laughs) No. I haven’t sung that number in years. And that bio needs to change. I know where you got that information from. The thing is they wrote it when I was still 23. Even my website, have you seen it? It screams Popstar. I like it. But sometimes it gets too much for me to even look at.

I was gesturing at your past. But let’s debunk the All American Girl-on-Girl classic here.

Oh no.

I know how bad girls get. What happened when you all washed your faces? Got rid of the kohl and the lipstick.

Well, everyone was so head strong which pretty much made it that much more frustrating. No one was taking any shit. There wasn’t a couch to sleep on. There wasn’t a couch. Everyone had their bedrooms, you know what I mean? (Laughs) Literally. Now the thing about that band was that we were under contract. And we got sick of each other. I’ll tell you how bad it was – we lived in a terrace garden on the 5^th floor, facing a beach. It was a beautiful apartment. It was really big. And we only threw one party in over a year. Got a little cramped. One of the girls had left. The contract was coming to an end. It was a time of new beginnings. We even wanted to drop the name and still play together. I remember having to go for a wedding. And I woke up to a phone call from an RJ friend who asked me for a quote. He had the News of our disbandment. I didn’t have a clue. It was in the papers. The entire morning was spent making calls. We had to counter-quote. But I made it to the wedding. (Laughs) And well, we did have some great times. It was fun, no doubt.

When you said Marco, what said Polo?

A little book. The stationary that was given to us…

And right then, her damn phone died on us. 

“Maybe she’s a session player”… I say to myself.

     Or like a shrink you pay by the hour – and I was expecting a bill for this conversation. But that’s life: batteries die; signals fail to bounce off the ionosphere. In our last conversation she told me the chips inside her head were frying; her Geldof moment. 

     Maybe what the girl needed more than this interview was a pair of suspenders, a café latte, some slow roast, sunsets, beaches, Palm Trees, ice cold beer, a joint, maybe two joints, an Eric Clapton record, an Eric Clapton tribute band, sun tan lotion, bikinis, Coca-Cola, Mascara, a white flowery skirt, a cassette copy of “Honey I shrunk the kids”, and a land-line as against her cell-phone.

But I called her cell-phone anyway. 

Her dialer tone was an old Shaggy song called “Mr. Boombastic”.

Shaggy. Really? (Loudly)

Yea. It’s one of my oldest favorite songs. Has a story to it. Dad used to watch MTV grind. I picked it up there. I hadn’t heard it for a while. So when I did, I was more than happy to keep it around. So I picked up my cell-phone, punched in a few numbers: Yeh gana copy karne ke liye star daba kar … (Laughs)

Did you do that voice-over? Such a familiar voice.

No. (Laughs) But I have done a lot of other voice-overs. Don’t you watch TV, or listen to the radio? Or are you one of those anti-establishment people?

No. No. No, no, no.

You’re just weakening your own case. (Laughs)

(Laughs) So the diary?

Ah, yes. A friend of mine came over. She was looking for a job. I was encouraging her in every possible way. And we got down to discussing career options. Suddenly I knew there was so much I could do. So much. I was opening up my Rolodex for her so to speak, listing out people I knew who could help her. It was on that stationary. And it’s funny because a few days later I got a job as a VJ.

Were you girls ever playing for keeps?

I don’t think so. We were just pushed. Look, it was human nature. Room-mates fight. But we weren’t just roomies. We had to go to work together. That’s never easy. I think we would have survived it had we lived separately. Thing is we were really good. You know, on stage. It was great. The performances were getting better and better. By the time the second record came up, we were super. Everyone was feeling that energy. 

Do you want to discuss the past at all? Bono said “You only glorify the past when the future dries up”. If it’s wet, I’ll step on the clutch and we’ll start from the first.

Sure. The past is boring. I’ve done this many times you know. This story came up a lot. But it hasn’t so much in the last few years. The future looks good.

A person who creates out of obligation is an artist. Do consider yourself to be one?

I started feel to feel more strongly about this only in the last two years. I never really nursed that desire. I played piano when I was younger. I played drums in a band in school. (Laughs) There was no one else to do it. I think everything led to everything. I was in class 12, and we were supposed to move to the United States. (Chuckles) Okay, this is a little morbid. My dog bit my face. I had these intense operations. Reconstruction surgery. The rabies shots came in cycles. And if that wasn’t bad enough, then came 9/11. They beefed up the security there. And I would have almost been quarantined – rabies threat. A cyst was formed under my upper lip, like a little ball. Mum said we’ll postpone moving by a few months. Then my board exams were around the corner. Then the show just happened. My friends talking me into it. Dad told mum it would give me the confidence I needed. They just let me go. I let go. But that was then. Now I’m creating music, sounds. I’m writing songs. (Laughs) Every time I go home my rooms’ a mess. Mum keeps asking me to clean it. I keep telling her I’m meant for greater things than cleaning my room. I have this sense of purpose. I’m working on my first record. It’s amazing. It’s making me happier. I want people to hear it. I want to create this really great sound that makes you go: "Fuck Yeah". It’s not "Lets change the world". It’s far simpler. But yes, I am an artist.  

Was playing in a girl band an experimental approach in retrospect? 

If I knew half the things I do now then, things would be different. I cannot tell you how new that entire space was. It was waking up, going to the gym, vocal training, dance rehearsals; studio work. It was non-stop. It rushed at you. There wasn’t enough time to think of myself as an artist.

I can imagine. You girls were confused on whether to eat or not.

Oh no. (Laughs) That was a joke.

If I wanted to torment you, all I’d have to do is play back those videos.

My eyes, my eyes. (Laughs) I mean even the clothes we were wearing. I was in “Anti Fit Jeans”.

Oooh. (Making the sound) Do you still wear them?

When I’m feeling Grungy. (Laughs) But I wear a lot of flares.

Do you own a pair of Acid Washed Jeans? They’re the shit.

Yes. I have a pair.

Do you watch Grey’s Anatomy?

No. not really. I’ve watched a few episodes when we did that song. But you can get sucked into pretty much anything. But that song was easy. I researched quite a bit. There was tons of information online. And they gave us a very clear brief. Which made everything easier. But I mean so many people watch that show.

Anushka, why do you sing at all? What are you trying to fill up?

Oh. Look it makes me feel good. I feel intense euphoria. There’s a sense of power. To create something. It’s very heady. I want to share this feeling with others. There were a few arguments I’ve come beyond: making music that you like vs. making music that people like. Sitting in a room playing a song vs. playing on stage. I’m boiling it down to something simpler. Going out and doing something that makes you feel good. I think it’s brave. You’re setting yourself up to be judged. That's never easy. 

I have a feeling Gen Y is great at love-at-first-sight and horrible at letting go. What were you doing in the 90s?

(Chuckles) Gen Y?

We’re Generation Y: born in the mid-eighties, grown up in the 90s. I shouldn’t have said Gen Y. (Chuckles)

No you should't have. But school, I guess. I was a topper in my class. I was one of those girls. (Laughs)

Oh no. We're taking turns saying "Oh No" - have you noticed?

(Laughs) Yes I have. I was watching MTV – the request shows. You had some of those horrible Hindi songs. But I opened a library where I’d rent books to people. I love reading. You know, it was sneaking the car out, learning how to drive. They had an umbrella lock. You know what that is? There was this boy in my school, class 3 or 4.

Did he say it? Did he say it?

No he did not. (Laughs) You boys. 

I was of course referring to the evergreen: “I’ll show you mine – you show me yours”. We totally should have done that. 

     Anushka was still just a girl – down the neighborhood, some 1,400 Kilometers north. But it was the same generation, and the same backyard. This was the 90s. This was hot wax, pillows and hair bands.  Everything was that much brighter.

Anushka: (Laughs) I used to play pretend - radio shows. I once taped over dad’s copy of a Metallica album. I can’t remember which one. He was so upset. But you know, we tried cigarettes – Navy Cuts. The dirty stuff. 

How Tom Waits of you.

(Laughs) I was seeing this guy. It was very dodgy. Mum laid a few rules; no entering the bedroom. Dad used to follow me out of the house sometimes. So I’d hide. But you know, I’m not that sentimental. I’m just emotional.

Are you high maintenance?

I used to think I wasn’t. I was convinced of it. But turns out I am. That’s what my boyfriend tells me.

Poor guy. So what does the basic Anushka Manchanda come with?

Headphones, motorcycle – a vintage, a Matt Grey Triumph motorcycle, mirrorball, black leather jacket (Pauses). I can’t seem to list this out for you. Is it fair to say I come with loyalty? I wear it. I’ve bagged a lot of love from home. I have the best parents in the world. (Pauses) You know, this is a stupid question.

No it isn't. But okay. When we spoke last you said you had a lot going on. Why are you burning yourself out? What joy are you getting out of not having time for creativity?

No no. That’s not true. (Pauses) I work like a dog. But I’m happiest when I’m doing that. I'm working on it. I’m trying to make time to catch up on reading. I love reading. I’ve made some time. I remember I did 4 shows in a day last December. But I’m not burning myself out. I work it out of my system. I attend these Psychedelic Music festivals at least once a year. Its six days of letting go. And I just explode. I dance and dance and dance. I love dancing. (ummfffhhh)

Note to self. Makes sexual sounds.

(Laughs)

Parent’s obsession with vinyl. Ever feel like locking yourself in a room with a Gramophone and not taking calls?

Oh. Not quite like that. My parents, they played the most fantastic music at the time. Mum was an air hostess. Dad was sailing. They collected records. They jammed their money; you know what that is right? They jammed their money and bought this big ass sound system. It was great. I had those records for the longest time. This Hendrix record, with the Gods behind him. It was something else. I remember it.

“Bold as love”.

What?

That’s the record – “Bold as love”.

Is it? It fantastic. I wanted to steal them.

Are you your own worst enemy?

If I listen to myself as much as I expect other people listen to me I wouldn’t be. Sometimes I am.

How do you remain organic with these industrial sounds around you?

I’m not organic. The only thing organic is the feeling. Now that is very organic. These sounds I’m working on are electronic. That’s the music. I’m processing so many sounds. Getting creative with sounds, and textures. But got to tell you, it’s very inspired.

You like board games?

Backgammon.

What on Earth is that?

You don’t know Backgammon? (Laughs) How can you not know it? It’s an old people game. I used to play a lot of Pictionary. Board game nights. Great stuff.

What’s your wish-list like? Still want to sing "Dude looks like a lady" with Aerosmith (Laughs).

Yes. I would still love to do that. I want to work with artists whose work I think is amazing. To learn from them. I’m teaching myself production. Putting ideas together. It’s a process. I want the sound to be sex for the ears. But I want a room with a view if you know what I’m saying. And I want my own Mangrove. I don’t really day-dream. Not that person.  But I get lost sometimes. It’s very "Dory" from Finding Nemo. But I mean look at me now. It’s late at night. My dog is sleeping out here. I have an out-door dining table. Its covered.

Like an Altar?

(Laughs) No. What? Altar? (Laughs) I feel like I’m breathing. I’m free. I’m so alive. My bike’s here. But it’s all greased up. My legs are killing me.

Why?

I can’t sit and talk. So I’ve been walking all over talking to you.

Shit. Nut. Are all your roads taking you home?

Where else will they go? Isn’t that what gives you all the security you need? That’s why you’re strong to go out.

What do you want your epitaph to say?

"She had a blast".

Now. No bullshit. But I hope you leave behind a body of work and be remembered for it. No creative goodbyes. Not a girl like you. Sleep tight, I’ll see you soon.

Aww. Thank you. Good night yourself.

Goodnights are great rituals, they farewell the white noise that circles us like vultures through the mornings, afternoons, and evenings of days. So I said goodnight and turned on the damn TV. They were showing "Vanilla Sky". There’s a beautiful line in it: "Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around"… he says… "I’ll see you in another life, when we’re both cats". 

     I guess Anushka saved me a re-birth. But cats are stylish. She's busy these days: a new record – re-inventions, labor, birth, pain, breastfeeding, sore nipples, R.E.M, running scared, crying, coping, lullabies, Vodka Cranberry. She’s right; it’s a brave thing – going out, even to a party. 

     Anushka called herself a seahorse in dire need of a line. That's just bullshit. She doesn't need one. That kid's tapped into something else - the powers of letting go. She’s sacred when she's naked. And I guess she’s readying to have her baby – bet she's enjoying all the kicks. 

Motherhood baby. 

Devang Patel thinks he's a well drawn boy in a badly drawn Cartoon.

A Monday ago my friends Shekhar Pimpalkhare, ex Merchant Navy, and future Yacht Sailor along with his painter wife Ketaki Pimpalkhare invited me and a few other friends over for dinner. He poured us Bourbon, and she cooked the fish.

Delicious. 

     This was an evening of discussions, of me posing nude on the cover, The Mona Lisa, Badminton, photography, the ghost of Marilyn Monroe, nature, cities, people, destruction, Modigliani, the divine comedy, greed, relevance, arguments, long-time, some-time, no-time, time, paintings, mirrors, light-sabers, re-fill, and Phil Ochs.

     Shekhar and I were discussing my new blog when I asked him if he’d connect me with an old friend of his I was terribly curious about: Mr. Devang Patel - the funnyman of Indian music.

Now this would have been one of those moments for me. Shekhar called him up and set up the interview. 

I sent a text to Devang asking where he was based out of; we could have met.

‘My base is Earth’… he replied, confirming, this wasn’t an easy client. But the interview would turn out to be more profound than funny.

A week later, Sunday, June 16, 5:30 PM, I called up him.

His dialer tone was "Awara Hoon", the Mukesh classic. 

     In an instant, I connected their voices. I had heard Mukesh as a child; my dad had cassette copies of his definitive collection.

Hi Devang.

Hello.

How are you doing?

I’m great.

Tell me that was Mukesh; because I’m actually confused with both your voices. Although his voice is unmistakable.

It is. But you know I used to sing in the voice of Mukesh in those school talent competitions. My father was a huge fan. I love his voice. "Dum Dum Diga Diga" was the first song I learnt.

Really? How long ago was that? I don’t even know how old you are.

I’m in my 40s now. (Laughs) This was when I was 12. But Mukesh, he had that pure man’s voice, you know. It’s something that you can relate to.

Are you a trained singer?

No. We are Patels from Gujarat. You can imagine, our family had no connection with music what so ever. It just happened for me.

How does something like this just happen?

I matured early. (Laughs) Think about it, humor became a weapon. I wasn’t following crowds. I was questioning. And these questions took me to a place from where I got an aeriel view of society, even myself, like an outer body experience. From there, you laugh, you know, at what you see.

Are you seriously telling me that it’s your worldview that got you into music, and more so into parody?

Yes. What do you think Patel-scope is? I felt I was speeding ahead of everybody. And I couldn’t judge anybody. I didn’t want to. And I got a view from atop the mountain, and from here, our little plans are nothing but comedy. See I was getting interested in people on the extremes.

Because the extremes are more interesting?

Very. Think about it. the extremes are not just interesting, they are similar. That moment where I felt ahead of life, everything became a satire. It was funny. Everything was funny. I mean, I bet Raj Kapoor saw it. How else can you explain the work? My friend, it’s a circle, nothing more. You have to learn to laugh. (Laughs) You have "Babas" promoting themselves. The foolish fool the foolish. When I wrote Bamboo #5, I was writing about greed. Go look at the words. They sound funny, because it’s a pop song. But for me, I was making an observation. I’m just passing by in this thing called life. I’m making an observation through my Patelscope.

Man. I never would have figured you for a serious guy.

I’m not.

Maybe a Sidewinder.

Not that either. I don’t and can’t confine myself.

Even as an artist?

No. That’s the thing. I love drama. I love music. I’m neither this nor that. I just love comedy, that divine comedy that makes me laugh all the time. And so should you. We really don’t control much, but pretend to have everything under control.

Jesus. You know, I have a friend called Shweta Shahade and when I told her about this interview, she said ask him, "Why did you do this to us, why?" (Laughs)

Well then tell her I’m a funny guy. (Laughs)

I will. Who was the quintessential comic influence?

Kishore Kumar.

That explains a lot.

Yea. You know, meri marzi.

“Meri Marzi”, rings a bell. You wrote that song didn’t you, the one shot on Govinda?

Yes. He introduced me to Madhuri Dixit at the time. A lot of offers came in, even after Patelscope was out. But Bollywood comedy wasn’t interesting to me. To do those small comic rolls, not my thing.

Have you received applause from the who’s who or whatever the fuck that is?

Yes. I mean I was told that I am Dhirubhai Ambani’s favorite singer and stuff like that. But look, it doesn’t change me. My servant is from Rajasthan; he lives and works in my house. He works harder than I have seen any man work. And he sends all his money to his family. When I see something like that, it moves me. It makes me wonder. I can observe a rich man, I can observe a beggar. I can’t observe the ones in between. There is nothing interesting. There’s a different kind of mundane mediocrity there, and its full of selfishness, which I dislike.

Did you ever get into trouble for your music?

Never.

Legally?

No. There is no restriction on parody. To me, parodies are cartoons of music. And I’d like to be one of the characters in there. World was, is, will be funny.

Devang, you have surprised me quite a bit. You are far too profound and far too misunderstood.

Why? Because I don’t have a job. But I don’t look at my music as a job. I do it because I love playing, and singing, and writing. That is the whole and sole reason. 

I’m beginning to see the world through Patelscope.

Look as long as you want. One day you’ll have your own scope. Me? My time will come. I will leave then. I’m a tourist. I live life as a tourist.

What started off as an interview soon picked up a life of its own. Devang became more and more reflective, and the things he told me fast became some well kept secrets. He had interweaved life's lushness, with the diving comedy and lived accordingly. There was no point explaining him; he did not care.  

     His feet were grounded, but then how do you find God if your feet aren't grounded? This was a fitting artist who had whitewashed his celebrity with a sense of self purpose and preservation. Every record and its predecessor was a stubborn and obdurate response. At the same time, it knew how to pinch, and pinch a perky little tit. Here's what I learnt, there was much to learn about a worldview from a man like him. And I for one, had come unprepared. And for the sake of artistic liberty, the interview has been cut short. 

Here's how we ended it. 

This is a little overwhelming. Tell me quickly about what you do during the "Navratri". Considering that’s right up your alley.

It is. I’m very famous here in Gujarat. And funnily, the Navaratri for me usually lasts for three months. Its 90-ratri. Pre-Navratri I’m in Australia, and Africa. And Post Navratri, I’m in the United States. Booked through out to play. The community really takes me in. and I give them a solid show. Make them get on stage with me. tons of stuff, lot of parodies, and I also do the same to come of the Garbas. They love it.

(Laughs). I’ll try and attend one of your shows this year.

You’re most welcome.

Before we hang up. How did you meet Shekhar and Ketaki?

Oh. Lovely people. One of the shows I did in Pune at Oasis, Shekhar’s club. It was pouring like mad. And here’s my memory, Ketaki ran into the green room and went “Devang, where’s your moochi?” (Laughs). He didn’t know I wore one for the video. Great people. Great times.

They are. Thank you Devang.

Thank you.

It was then that I realized, Devang Patel was dealing with life’s more difficult concerns. I can’t imagine the shit the bugger must have taken, even from the likes of me, but in conclusion, he is more than ever, essential.

     This wasn’t Andy Kaufman, this wasn’t Lenny Bruce, this was a different specie altogether. Fuck the success, self-belief was at stake here. In a day and age where taking a leap of faith has become a lost art, some came down to ridiculing themselves before others and finding a good laugh.

     Something told me this was the last of the great comic scenes, not in theater, not in the movies, not even in a sort of stand-up comedy, but in entropy in desperation, in the self-condemnation of losers and motherfuckers; and there was nothing beautiful about settling down.

     Devang Patels’ a tourist he says, with a map, to our hearts, in and out of our hearts, jokes about farts, shopping in Wal-Mart’s, playing darts, topping the top of the Pop charts, until we all may part. Fucking ingenious kind of genius. The bugger actually looks at life from above. Here’s the thing; when someone like him comes along, we’ve got to keep him in our hearts for a while.

I’ll go down a fan of his. 

Kalki Koechlin only waxes her armpits to better grip Vinyl Records.

(FULLY UPDATED)

Rome is burning. Nero is fiddling, away. Oh, what a mess, it’s the monster from Loch Ness. 

I'm here to save you. 

     Smell the smoke of cigarettes, hidden songs in cassette tapes, whiskey, gin, sex, drugs, gravy, biscuits, pizzas, condoms, pigs, bacon, Vaseline, shower gel, sweaty t-shirts, and Paracetamol. If the generation manages to turn the predicament over on its side, I’d say living well is the best revenge. If not, there’s little left. 

Something tells me I’m not going to see my 30s.

     So the big question is which song to play at the funeral. I’m torn between Warren Zevon and R.E.M. Or maybe both: “Hindu Love Gods”.

     See the writers have nothing to say. The fuck do we write about? But every once in a while, something gives, keeps the flowers in full bloom. See what I mean?

The Bubonic plague of mediocrity is going to kill a billion people. Tom Waits said, “The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering”.

     You can DDX (differential diagnosis) it all you like. But the world needs a miracle drug. Hence this piece - because Kalki Koechlin is a shot of Penicillin - for the third and the first world. She’s not just French; she’s a Frenchkiss in a time of cannibalism. Now don’t get too excited. She’s a nutcase, and a freak. But the best ones are.

I love her.

I’m just a writer; living off tragedy.

     But suddenly, dying becomes living. I sent her a tweet, told her she was a “character”, and then one thing led to another, like sex. We didn’t have sex; just saying.

     But I did score an interview for my blog Tumblr (which no longer exists), the usual, frustration of not having a Studio 54 to spend our early twenties in, or the long wait of Elton John records, and the popularity of the 70’s playboy bush. We shave down there these days; wax and shit.

Kalki was someone I could write about.

I was beginning to compare her to Andy Kaufman.

     We scheduled an interview at the Flying Windows Café – the alpha ray, coffees, sandwiches, salads but no Cabernet. That a superior Bordeaux by the way. Graphic novels and shit. Great place to meet, write, fight, lip-bite, be up-tight, do what’s right, do what’s wrong; smoke weed from a bong.

     When I was a kid I wanted to be the greatest writer since Charles Bukowski. Or Kerouac; the seller of blue jeans. But there was no world left to write about. In the scheme of things yet to come; Kalki was going to save my ass.

3:13 PM. 

I was late. 

Punctuality usually murders time. 

     I walked inside and caught her in the act, reading Patti Smith’s “Just Kids”. God I love it when girls that sexy love Patti Smith. We shook hands, ordered chocolate milkshakes and coffee and discussed my custom made sunglasses which she looked at curiously.

I think she was planning theft.  

     She told me stories of being first of the sets of films. This was classicality, acid washed jeans rivaling FTV, Ray Bans that blind you if you started too long.  She looked like someone who carried a switchblade in her back pocket. Plus the girl played guitar. Bono confirmed, never mess with someone who depends on hand-eye co-ordination. 

     Here’s the kicker, her post-apocalyptic world includes mix tapes, recorders, vinyl records, radio, writing pads, swimsuits, Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith, gardening at night, flashlights, telescopes, sausages, land-lines, low necks, shoes, emails, cameras, instant noodles, jackets, cigarettes, and olive oil. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a rare talent.

To bunk and de-bunk the myth; what exactly is your last name?

“Koechlin”. But its pronounced as “Cake la”. Like bring me cake in Hindi.

Oh so they’ve really fucked it up.  

You have no idea. All it took was one journalist somewhere. And there’s no point repairing it. I’ll look stupid saying “Cake La” by myself.

You’re born in ‘84. Great year. You’ve seen the 90s. I’m trying to compare the classicality of the 90s with these days. We went from something Helvetica-good to crap. Any reflections?

See I grew up in all sorts of places. I was born in Pondicherry. Went to boarding school in Ooty. (Smiles) My folks lived in Bangalore; my teenage years. Now that was the quintessential Rock-City. Loud bands. The noise. I was always in love with the messy haired guitar players. (Laughs) It’s sad to see what’s happened to that city now. Closed. Conservative. Dangerous. There was this freedom I distinctly remember. (Laughs). You know, as a kid I didn’t know I was white. I’d stare at foreigners the way people who haven’t seen them do. The curiosity of things.  We girls, we’re run around on the beaches, these dark Tamil girls, and I was one of them. This nativity. I’ve got these old photos. Blows my mind. And it was a French colony. Even the food, there was this influence. (Ponders) I’m really saddened by the fact that the places I grew up in are unsafe. Mumbai is still good. I’m lucky to be here. As a kid, I never worried about that. What time I got home or went out. The boys who dropped me home. There wasn’t a judgment to wearing short skirts. (Pauses) We had this Roger Water’s concert we went to.

’98 I think.

Ah. Those were awesome times. I mean even concerts aren’t the same anymore. I went to a Beyonce concert. It was another zone. Everyone was in high heels. I was the odd man out. I’m usually in the front row, connecting. But this time, it’s made it difficult to anyone to do things. Last night I went to a Nirvana tribute concert where a drink cost 800 rupees. The people who come there aren’t the fans. They are people with money. It’s tragic for people like me. The dedication to the artist is missing. The fans who even read the CD notes.

We were sitting inside the whole time; talking about Glen Hansard and the Frames. The most passionate singer in the world. I could see them working together.

Thought I’d connect them.

     But a loud motherfucking drilling machine drowned our voices like the metal-heads at Sabbath concert. We stepped out; took our coffees, and stationary. My laptop.

She picked a spot; there was no arguing.

     But every time we got into a particular line of conversation, there was always a detour sign out there, stopping us. It was happening again and again; someone or something was disturbing us on loop.

“Ostinato”.

     It was driving me up the fucking wall. This time, they were fixing wires overhead, like crows. We moved again. A few minutes went by. 

The question is how does one recover from this? I was interested in finding the magnetic north. 

(Slouching) Do you think Lipton employees take coffee breaks?

(Laughs) Yes. Of course they do.

Chinese Democracy.

What?

The Guns N’ Roses record.

Haven’t heard it.

Okay. But Guns or Roses?

I’m killing you aren’t I? But I was never really into them.

Teach me a French curse word.

‘Enculee’. It’s used like bastard. But it means getting fucked up the arse. (Laughs)

Your name is derived from the Dashavtars right?

Yes. My mum really reads into things. She isn’t a Hindu or anything. But Hinduism is more than religion really. She’s really been influence by the mythologies. I find them fascinating.

Do you like Saucisson?

Oui.

Oh dear.

Oui. See I love the smelly cheese, older the better. The older the Saucisson. I’ve ruined it for you have I?

A little. You’d love these girls I know in Pune, Diana and Tina Chinoy. Twins who own this little place called ABC Farms. You should visit. They once fed me Yak Milk cheese. Tina had to give me Basil leaves.

(Laughs). It’s an acquired taste.

Can you make a Spanish omelet?

Yes. As a matter of fact. Tortilla with Potatoes. My brother lived in Spain for a while. Madrid. I visited him. Great trip. Learnt the stuff.

I’m asking you these questions to confirm the coolness.

Oh. (Laughs).

Can you give me a great line out of the 90s? Like “The truth is out there” for example. 

Ah.  See now there’s a great line. Growing up, I never missed “The X Files”. God I loved that show. I always made time for it you know. (Ponders in surprise) “The truth is out there”. Good times.

Your accent still sounds South Indian.

In my defense I was born and raised in the south. I grew up speaking Tamil, French, and English. Hindi was acquired.

Acquired? I was born and raised in Pune, and I don’t think I have the nerve to try Hindi cinema. There’s this finesse that one needs. You didn’t have it. How the hell did you do the movies?

(Laughs)  I moved to Mumbai seven years ago. I couldn’t get around without learning Hindi. The first year was difficult. You can’t even get a cab if you don’t speak the tongue. I mean even in films like Dev D, it was horrible. I’d say Toda-Toda (Thoda-Thoda). Even now, it needs refinement. But I mean, as an actor it’s your job. That’s what actors are supposed to do. But I do find it limiting. I can’t improvise in Hindi the way I do in English. For my theater for example.

Are you into theater?

Yeah. I love it. Right now I’m doing this “clown” play. It’s Hamlet, but we’re goofing around. Its English and gibberish, comes to me automatically, you know what I’m saying. So maybe it’s because I don’t think in Hindi which makes the inventiveness difficult.

Are you insecure? I mean I hope you are.

I get what you’re saying. I don’t have a choice. It makes me happy, doing this. I’d be clinically depressed if I wasn’t acting.

That bad?

Yeah. I lose it a little. I do my own plays when I’m not acting. I put out my own work. After “Dev D”, I didn’t get work for a year and a half. I suppose it’s a two way street, you’re seeking love, that admiration. But it’s also a great way of self-discovery. I’d have issues if I didn’t express myself. I don’t want to write a diary for myself. I want a blog for someone else to read. Know what I’m saying? That’s why Twitter’s so addictive. Why else are people on Twitter?

Because it’s lonely.

Exactly. One of the loneliest places on the internet. I had corn flakes for breakfast. (Laughs)

You’re fun though. If the girls in our industry were lined up I’d be perplexed finding the odd man out. You’d stick out like a sore thumb on that list. And here’s the thing, I’ve never seen your films. But the face strikes out. Why aren’t you going out and making things happen?

It’s a double edged sword isn’t it? You make that mark, and you’re untagged from the commercial post. It’s ridiculous. People don’t want anything else. Producers have told me I was perfect for a part but unknown to the masses. You’re what you open with. You become your own enemy. Breaking that fucking mold, there’s another job apart from acting. After Dev D, most of the roles were that of a prostitute. That’s why a “Zindagi”(na milegi dobara) is important. Take Anurag Kashyap, for what he’s done; even he has a hard time getting finance on his projects. Think about that.

You’re not bullshitting me right?

No. They don’t want to invest in potential. The investments are based on trends. I don’t get consistent work. You have to find a creative way to get your things done. Look at you, the writing; it doesn’t make the kind of money. You don’t have Coca-Cola asking you to endorse.

Yeah. But I come from music. The “influence of my influence” school of thinking. Writing to rockstars. That’s my secret. If I made a movie, I’d make 100 million dollars at the box office and get an Oscar.

(Laughs) I love the confidence.

Hey I came up with the most beautiful name for a girl. Ever.

That’s a big claim. Let’s hear it.

Promise not to steal it?

I promise.

But do you swear?

Yes, I swear. You child.

Ch*****

(Laughs)

I had blogged about meeting her a few nights ago.

     Shit, I’m quoting myself: “Here’s what I want: Madonna, Elton John, plain white t-shirts, steak, water, swimming, cameras, mics, an Irish Falcon, Jade, a birthday cake, Christmas in May, weddings, sex, smell of rain, Jack Kerouac, tapes, otherness, astronomy, novels, Australia, Anurag Kashyap films, first time, millionth time, The Wonder Years, knives, lights, gun, BBC, and an interview with Kalki Koechlin.”

     But that was my master plan, sell platinum pages; act like it’s been ages, since she was born in ’84, saw the sweet rush of ’94.

I think the woman can do wonders in the mainstream.

     Here’s what I should do, buy her some R.E.M records. And I did. Except I made her a mix tape, which she took seriously.

Thanks for the Mix tape.

Pleasure. (Pauses) Would you consider directing?

I don’t know the medium enough. I’ve never been interested really. I do want to direct a play that I wrote but the buck stops there. I’m too excited about acting.

You should truly do some groundbreaking stuff. I could compare your acting skills to Axl Rose’s vocal pitch. You’re great at comedy. But I can see you scream bloody murder. I want to sort of emphasize on what Charles Bukowski said: “Style is the answer to everything”.

It is. Isn’t it? There are these layers of work we’re dealing with. Working from elastic limits. But people are used to mediocrity. I’d like to be an enemy of a bad product. I hate selling crap. I’m the kind of actor who begs for homework. The idealism of doing groundbreaking stuff is great, but we’re trying to reinvent ourselves through the things we love. look at where we’re sitting. Everyone here wants to be a writer or a painter or a film-maker. Everyone I know on “Yari Road”. It’s amazing. None of them are making regular money. Even the guy who started this café. They started making sandwiches and selling graphic novels.

I approach work the way bands approach records. A book, a painting, a conversation, it has to tell a story and start talking to people. See labels invested in artists at one point of time. I don’t know how it works in Bollywood. But I want to fuck up the mainstream

To do that you have to be mainstream.

See but I can see you make that comet impact kind of film and still make that 100 million.

Right in the middle of Bollywood, the movement that I am into, it has no competition. The mainstream will always exist.  

You can. You should.

That’s a lot of pressure. (Laughs)

Are you crazy?

(Laughs) I’ve had someone come up to me and tell me I’m crazy just like you. I’m not crazy. I use humor as a weapon. I love the sarcasm. I was an awkward child. Bunny teeth, braces. I have ruined everything for you. (Laughs) I just wanted to do something in the world, getting up and surprising people. I’ve got my guard up. But I play it cool.

Is coolness a part of the celebrity manual?

Yes.

You aren’t an actor. You’re an anti-actor.

I’m not trying to be an anti-actor. But I am conscious of it. That’s when I begin to question my own difference. My preparation is to be in a place that allows me to be spontaneous. That takes an effort. The work happens before I get to a set. I’m on holiday when I’m working. Tricky thing. Film-making isn’t linear. So research is crucial. I use about 20% of that data. But I need that 100% to pluck. Knowledge offers choices. There are always resorts, like breathing techniques that make you cry. But I try and experience it. Also I'm always on time. (Laughs) Sweeping the sets. 

So are you destroying yourself in the process?

There are withdraws. Depression. You go from shooting 15 hours a day to nothing. I don’t know how that’s going to affect me in the long run. I love acting because I get to discover myself. If I break down in real life, I notice myself. I have better control over the enterprise. Observing. Sensitivity. A constant documentary.

Have you spoken to fellow actors about their methods of self-preservation?

Not really. It’s a very private thing. Most people aren’t okay with discussing that.

When people ask me how to write I show them tetra packs. It comes with instructions: “cut here”. That goes on a writer’s wrist. Then the writing comes. Can you compare acting to that feeling?

Yes. Stewing takes time. Even when I write for example, it happens only at the brim. It’s a stream of consciousness

That’s the shit. But people are interested in plastic. Something tells me the 90s were a curse and a gift. The real genius begins to wane. That’s why I’m blogging. Just cribbing, you know.

No wonder you love Bukowski.

I come from music.

Well, music has this idealism to it. But that’s true even in the case of good actors. That’s the contribution. Take Daniel Day Lewis. He makes you understand anything.

Kevin Spacey.

Yes. Again. Genius. I used to work in his theater in London, selling tickets. (Laughs)

Kalki, you’re loving, caring, clementine, can you name some of your heroes?

Joni Mitchel, Patti Smith, Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chagall. I always found Dali to be cold. (Laughs).

Hmm. More coffee?

No. Just water.

I’ll get it.

No, no, they’ll bring it.

I want to turn 2013 into 1969.

Good year. I’d love to have been born in the 50s.

Right in time for Woodstock.

Yes. I mean, I’d love to walk around without a bra.

(Laughs) And the used Vinyl.

Oh yes. I used to buy a lot of Vinyl when I was in London. One pound each. Joan Baez. I had to give the records away when I moved back from. I miss them. Some of them are out of print.

Are you having a conversation with people? Leaving behind a dialogue?

Yes. Certain films. But certain amount of work has to be put in for it to make any sense. Time has to pass for that dialogue to exist. But that’s a goal. R.E.M retired. I think it’s amazing, that a band can just retire. 31 great years. Maybe after that kind of time, one can look back at the dialogue.

It’s a sad world isn’t it? The older we get the better we used to be.

Yes. It is a sad world. I’m often daunted by the enormity of the work that needs to be done.

Kalki, you contribution to Indian cinema is unique. You’re an original of specie. You’re going to have to take care of yourself okay.

Okay. I will. (Laughs) Touch wood.

IT WAS TIME for us to go. And we had put on some show. That girl was electric. Sure I saved most of the conversation to myself – “Life's rich pageant”.

Kalki, how does one get out of here?

Oh don’t worry; I’ll drop you to the main road.

We got into her car. She pushed in the R.E.M mix tape I made her and we played “Nightswimming” - my favorite ballad from the “Automatic for the people” record.

And then it happened - and unforgettable moment.

     It’s actually my perfect memory of Kalki - she leaned her head on the head-rest and closed her eyes. Bunnyteeth smiled.

Eyes still closed. I wonder what she was thinking.

But this was tenderness.

     Not to mention the piano on Nightswimming is shamanistic. It's also the best song ever written. Michael Stipe, a fucking genius. And in so many ways that song is about her. Fuck the metaphors; this girl loves swimming at night. I set out to discuss the mortality of my generation, but she sweetened the sugarfree. Here’s what I know for sure, Kalki Koechlin is essential for the generation. She’s the sense of closure for dying writers. 

Still loving her.