Fabindia.....!!!

And this will, most definitely, be the last thing I say today: Nee, I believe, is losing her head, because, as C put it, the country of her birth does not seem to have the kind of formal skirt that she would like to wear when she comes visiting this, the country of her employment. Formal skirt, black, I am thinking, maybe with pin stripes, or maybe not. Definitely with a slit at the back. Chic, she will look, our dear Nee...with a crisp white shirt with three quarter sleeves, and black, sleek pumps to complete the outfit. She should leave her hair be. It isn't all that unruly, unlike mine. It'll behave as it ought to.

But: Why the fuck must she be made to truss herself up in formal clothes in any case? How does a pair of jeans and a ganji take away from her intelligence? Is she less serious about her job if she's wearing glass beads around her neck and irregular stones dangling from her ears instead of tiny diamonds in cold platinum?

Whatever happened to when we were at our best dressed in khadi kurtas, torn, faded jeans, silver jewellery, lots of kaajal. With a jhola too, matched ever so subtley with the rest of the outfit. Subtlety was all it was about, in fact. Putting in all that effort into making yourself look as though you'd dressed most carelessly...oh, the Joy! Nenu cheptunna, Nee...full radical po!

Tanguedia

He looks at her, as she puts her arm across the shoulder of the man she is dancing with. They cannot look at each other, of course: this is a dance founded in the whorehouses of Argentina. Men from good families never looked at whores. They held them, however, as her partner holds her, by the waist, his body arching over hers. He pivots backward, in one swift move, pulling her up with him, and for one fleeting moment, as the few strands of hair that have strayed out of her loose braids touch his neck, he knows all rules will melt away, discipline will shatter to the ground, and they will look at each other. For one fleeting moment, he knows. Until she flings herself across from the man, and that moment is broken. She twirls back, he picks her up by the waist, and swings her through the air, her long, black, wild hair opening onto her shoulders.

He looks at her, his muse, his actress, his lover, as she steps back in position, standing diagonally from the man she is dancing with, there, under the high ceilings of a withering building in Paris. The only light they have comes in through the cracks in the walls, touching the back of her hand as she places it on his shoulder. She does not look at the man she dances with, no.

He looks at her, as she looks back at him.

Tangos: The Exile of Gardel. Fernando Solanas. A film meant to be on the lives of Argentinean exiles living in Paris, but one which must be watched, as far as I am concerned, simply for its stunning beauty.

H, you must watch. Also because I'm sure you’re acquainted with Gardel. No?

Strangeness

Is it strange to open up to a stranger? Or is it that a stranger isn't strange anymore once you open up to him?

Strange.