An All Too Familiar Feeling:

My brain is 75% Mojito, 25% Long Island Iced Tea. Forming coherent sentences is no longer a promise due to head's present state of liquidization. Apologies.

Radical events transpired last night. I could excuse them by hiding behind my journalistic desires to cover all aspects of Delhi life, but that would be a lie. Wearing tight white jeans and hitting the bars is not technically on my Cultural Anthropologist agenda...

Went to a nightclub in South Delhi called Urban Pindh, meaning urban village, which is a fitting description for  what Delhi is itself; a throbbing, bustling, metropolitan hub with backwards ways and even more backwards people. Case in point: strange Indian men you meet at clubs. On more than one occasion I found myself locked into a sort of dance-off from which I could not escape (which is funny because, as my sister will happily tell you, I'm crap at dancing). I mean, at least they're not gropey or all about grinding to sexist rap lyrics, it's just interesting that the national love of singing and dancing has been taken to the competitive level by ordinary clubbers. And whenever the fiery determinism in their eyes to top John Travolta's moves in Saturday Night Fever would die down for a second, I'd hear a shout above the din of bangra/Bollywood/house music in strained English, like, "YOUR COUNTRY NAME?" or, "OH, I SEE YOU MUST GO GYM."

I suppose it wouldn't all have been such an odd night, except for this sneaking suspicion I have that we're now all tied to the Delhi Mafia. At some point in the night, somebody made friends with the bouncers, three gorilla-like men with bandy legs, gigantic torsos and unbuttoned hairy chests. Very Euro-trash chic. Anyway, they introduced us to who I think might be the kingpin of Delhi's entire underworld club scene - a Don-like figure who requests we all call him "Big Brother." Conversations took place and acquaintances were made, and now we're all invited to go to Kashmir with him next weekend, free of charge. Mmmm, no thanks. And then there was the incident of a man on the street who had to be dealt with, for a reason I probably don't want to know, and how the bouncers returned with what looked like blood on their much-too-tight shirts, and then it was time to go...

Which brings me to this morning, or rather afternoon, state of paralysis, probably frightening you all half to death and wishing for my usual hangover cure (sausage egg mcmuffin and a raspberry mocha frappucino please!). But there's nothing like shocking cultural experiences to teach you something about living in a foreign city. And I've learned my lesson - I think I'll stick to my own little urban village for a while. Besides, if The Godfather taught me anything, I feel like keeping a low profile from now on would be a good idea...