Losing My Virginity and Other Dumb Ideas Read online

  MADHURI BANERJEE

  Losing my Virginity and Other Dumb Ideas

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  LOSING MY VIRGINITY AND OTHER DUMB IDEAS

  Madhuri is the director of a creative production house that can do almost anything in the media from making brochures to producing TV shows. She is a complete media professional, having worked in all forms of the visual medium—TV, advertisements, documentaries. She has worked as a senior assistant director for film-makers like Subhash Ghai, Kaizad Gustad and Rohan Sippy, and music director Anu Malik.

  Madhuri has an MA in Communication and Films from Jamia Millia Islamia—her thesis film, Between Dualities, won her the National Award for best documentary on women’s issues in 1999. Besides media, she is passionate about travelling, yoga and reading. She is currently working on commercial film scripts and her next book. She is active on Twitter, Facebook and writes a blog (http://madhuribanerjee.blogspot.com/).

  PRAISE FOR THE BOOK

  ‘Two spiritual beliefs that work magically to live fully in every aspect of daily life … including losing your virginity are … A. Everything is a choice B. Once the choice is made … let go …! More power to Madhuri for recognizing both in this book …!’

  —Sushmita Sen

  ‘Madhuri’s spunky, vivid take on negotiating sexual space in today’s insane social environment has won her several fans across gender divide!’

  —Shobhaa Dé

  To all my girlfriends, far and near; over the years, you’ve inspired me with many stories. I admire all of you for your strength, willpower and humour. Each and every one of you is unique and special in my life. Without you, my life is bland and boring.

  … As long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive

  I will survive—Gloria Gaynor

  One

  I looked across at the other table and saw a couple kissing passionately.

  ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘even girls half my age are getting laid!’

  I went back to sipping my coffee and reading the papers.

  1 April—my birthday—I had turned thirty.

  The cruel irony of being born on April Fool’s Day had haunted me all my life. But today, I really felt like a fool.

  I was alone in my favourite coffee shop, Coffee De, which had these lovely, bright, mismatched chairs, sofas and cushions. And yes, it served the best coffee and no one disturbed me. I was there almost everyday, having my muffin and cappuccino, reading the papers, or a book, or just working on my laptop on some new assignment. The great thing about this café was that it was open from five in the morning to late at night. So I could be here from dawn to midnight, as I generally was most days of the week.

  And today was my birthday. It was seven in the morning. I ran down here to have a pick-me-up before the calls would start coming and I would need to sound cheery. Only to find a couple already making out. Jesus! Couldn’t I have some alone-time on my birthday at least?

  Thoughts ran through my head. ‘You’re old now,’ said the little voice, ‘… you’re ALL alone. And everyone needs someone to love, someone to share their lives with, someone to grow old with, someone to … HAVE SEX with.’

  Sex. Sex. Sex. It all came down to that. Here I was, thirty years old, and still a virgin.

  Unmarried. Single. Alone. A virgin. A virgin. Yes, it resonated in my head. Nope, I couldn’t get away from that word. For so long I had thought it was okay to be one. A virgin, I mean. I believed that I would find the right man who would cherish me and I would treasure him. The ‘One Great Love’ that would blind me into losing my virginity after we got married. But that was the spiel I had given myself for over fifteen years. And my mother, even though we never spoke about sex, because God knows that’s just a taboo topic, would have been proud of me.

  But today I felt old. And that theory didn’t work.

  On the brighter side though, I didn’t look my age. I did have a few layers of fat around my belly, but nothing a good shirt couldn’t camouflage. The extent of my exercising was a Jane Fonda DVD I had acquired a decade ago, which I would put on and jump around to for forty-five minutes every week. I had shoulder length, black hair and olive skin. And I had beautiful eyes. They came from my grandmother. It was a lovely shade of grey, and because of them people could never figure out if I was an Indian or a South American. But despite my hair, skin and eyes, I had never had a real date in my life. So here’s the thing, men elude me. I’ve read all the books about men and how to get a date but I’ve never really had a steady boyfriend. After the first five minutes I feel the man is really stupid, extremely juvenile or highly pretentious. I have an IQ that’s, mildly putting it, above average. It might have given me the title of ‘over achiever’ in school, but never gave me a boyfriend. Frankly, I did not think I even needed one. I was too busy achieving things in life to have a man ruin it.

  I played the piano, I learnt animation and I studied modern art for fun in my spare time. I knew seven different languages, which brings me to what I do. I’m a freelance interpreter. What that actually means is that I translate languages for people, for example from French to Hindi, or Spanish to English, or Russian to French. The embassies call me to help them translate important documents from their native language to ours, to ‘Indianize’ it. Or when they hold a conference, I am the one the Indians would hear on their headphones translating a particular speaker’s speech. Or when delegates from different countries come, I help translate talks between dignitaries. Like when Lalu Prasad Yadav had to meet the railway minister of Russia, I was called to help translate their conversation. It was another matter that I could barely understand what Mr Yadav was saying and probably translated what I thought he should have said.

  Most times, I’m a guide for important delegates’ wives or families. I love my job even though it can become very erratic. It pays well and I get to meet some interesting people from around the globe. And it helps that I live in the melting pot of India, Mumbai.

  My parents currently live in Bangalore. My dad’s in the foreign service and we’ve moved aroun
d a lot. That’s why I know seven languages, because of the different countries I grew up in. Finally, when I was old enough to say I’m done with moving, I left them in Moscow and moved to Mumbai.

  It was strange at first, trying to find a footing in this city. Mumbai was definitely a harder place to be in than Russia, America or France put together. But it gave me so much more than all the other countries. And that’s why I decided to stay here and make it my home eight years ago.

  I stay in a rented, one-bedroom apartment in Bandra. It’s grossly overpriced and there’s no view, but I completely love it. I’ve done it the way I see art through the ages, from Renaissance to Cubism, with colours and images jumping out from every corner. Something like this café. And that’s why I was sitting here to collect my thoughts on my birthday; it felt like an extension of home.

  Which is why I was irritated that a couple of teenagers had decided to meet here before going off to college and were sucking on each other’s pimples.

  The topic of my virginity came back again. I had always been a social recluse. I didn’t have many friends and the only people I spoke to, outside my close circle, were clients. I always had a hard time opening up to strangers. I seldom found a deep connection with anyone and that is why I was still to lose my virginity. And if that wasn’t enough reason, I was mortified about getting pregnant or ending up with a life threatening disease. Protection wasn’t always hundred per cent foolproof and I wasn’t willing to take any chances!

  But today I felt it was Time. The time had come to change. I could feel a wave of a revolution coming over me. Sex and relationships could be two different things. I should forget about understanding men and just have sex with them. That’s what my head was saying. Who said age doesn’t play with one’s hormones? Today, mine were raging like the blazing dry lands in Wisconsin.

  The phone rang. It was my best friend Aditi.

  ‘Happy April Fool’s Day, babe. What you doing?’

  Aditi had been my friend for the last eight years. She was the first friend I had in Mumbai. And it was the most awesome meeting ever. I had taken the First Lady of France to see a film shoot and help her interpret Hindi and Bollywood better. Aditi was the assistant director running around trying to get a particular hat for the lead actress. While the director was screaming his head off, she noticed the First Lady’s hat and quickly came over and asked her to take it off and hand it to her. I was appalled and didn’t know how to translate this galling request.

  But Aditi said very firmly, ‘I don’t care who you are, but I’m part of a mega-crore industry and will lose my job if I don’t get that hat now!’

  So the First Lady took it off (after I translated what Aditi had said, a toned down version, of course) and gave it to her. We got an umbrella to shield us from the sun, and Aditi returned the hat after the shot. Later, Aditi took us around the set and introduced us to the Superstar of Bollywood. The First Lady said she had never had so much fun and Aditi and I exchanged numbers and have been friends ever since.

  ‘Having coffee,’ I replied to her blandly.

  ‘Intravenously?’

  ‘No, re! At CD’s. Sipping the usual strong cappuccino,’ I said.

  ‘What plans for today? Anyone plan a surprise thirtieth birthday party for you?’ she mocked knowing that I had very few friends.

  ‘Nothing much. No delegates in April. So I’m broke.’

  ‘You poor thing. That is a terrible April Fool’s joke that God is playing on you! So let me treat you tonight. What say?’ Aditi asked.

  ‘Okay.’ I replied, and then as an afterthought, ‘I also have some news!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I have finally made up my mind about the “problem” I have had.’

  ‘What problem?’ Aditi asked.

  ‘My virginity,’ I whispered, cupping the mobile phone so no one would hear me.

  ‘Ah, that problem! If you remember, I’ve been telling you since the last century that you should do something about that,’ she said laughing at her own joke.

  ‘I’m serious. Really, I need help.’

  ‘Okay, we should not waste any more time then. I mean, it’s already been three decades!’ And she laughed again while I cringed. ‘Let’s make it happen tonight. Let’s de-virginize you! See you at the bar at 8, okay?’ she said authoritatively and hung up.

  I smiled. I could always count on Adu.

  I hung up the phone with supreme confidence. It was going to happen tonight. And then I could shake this monkey off my back and get on with my life. I planned to have a great thirtieth birthday.

  Two

  I went back home from the coffee shop with a happy heart. I had woken up that morning feeling old, fat and very alone. Now I had a plan. I entered my one bedroom apartment and saw that there were books all over the place. It was generally a very neat and tidy place, thanks to my maid, who I noticed had not yet arrived. I surveyed the place. My bookshelf was in a mess and my cushions were all over the floor. The hall, or the living room, was spacious with wooden flooring. Yes, that was where the extra three grand a month from my rent was going, but I loved the flooring. I had a large, white sofa against one wall that I had got painted Prussian blue, a bookshelf against another and bright cushions from Fab India all over the place. There was a cuckoo clock that I had kept even though it had gone dead from too much cuckooing and now only showed the time. The walls were decked with several framed paintings of artists that I loved. One wall had ten miniatures of Salvador Dali’s works. And another, Monet’s lilies from across his lifespan. My bed was large with bright sheets and mismatched pillows that had faded over the years. A bright red chair rested against the window where I sat and looked outside at the row of shops downstairs. This was my home. And I loved it. And right now, it was a mess. Where was my maid?

  Just then the doorbell rang and I went to answer it muttering to myself, please let it be her, I don’t want to clean today. Not that I would have cleaned any other day because I’m just not into cleaning. I don’t know how people love to keep scrubbing away and tidying up when there are so many far more important things to do. It wasn’t the maid. It was a large bouquet of flowers from the only man in my life. The only man who had been there for the last thirty years. My dad. I called him up immediately. He was out on his morning jog. I admired the old man for his enthusiasm for sports. If I had his genes, I would have been a model instead of working so hard at being an intellectual.

  ‘Pops! What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Koko. Happy birthday!’ he said, panting while breaking into a fast walk rather than stop his exercise totally.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers. They’re gorgeous!’ I looked at them and they really were gorgeous. I loved flowers. I thought they brightened up the place. But I would never buy any myself because, for me, they were a waste of money. And also I would have to trim them, put them in a vase, maintain them. I didn’t have the patience for all that domesticity.

  ‘I’m glad you like them. I hope they gave thirty lilies to signify your age? And not less than that?’ he checked. He was always checking things. So what if they had not. How did it matter? But to him, it did and he would call up and reprimand people and tell the entire florist service to be better Indians!

  ‘Yes, they have, Pops,’ I said exasperatedly and then asked, ‘Where’s Mom?’

  ‘Oh, she decided to skip the walk today. Her back was hurting from sleeping in a wrong posture last night,’ he answered. I had inherited my mother’s excuses. She was always pretending to fall ill to get out of exercising and, as a result, had wide hips that she was forever complaining about. It was a vicious cycle that she had not got out of for the last twenty-five years.

  ‘Okay. Anyway, bye Dad. Will call Mom now,’ I said, since there was never anything much I could share with my father except my love.

  ‘Koko! Remember that you’re thirty now,’ he started his lecture. ‘And it’s time you decided what you want to do with your life. Remember, it’s the last year to sit for the s
ervices. So think about it!’ My father had always wanted me to sit for the services because there was ‘nothing better than serving the country’ as he put it. He still hadn’t realized that I had left them eight years ago and had found a career I liked. He just thought it was a hobby and I would eventually become, like him, a ‘servant’ for the government.

  I hung up just as the bell rang again. It was my maid. Before I could reprimand her for being late I saw that she had got me a present.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, taking the box from her hand.

  ‘For your birthday,’ she said, as she went to keep her polythene bag of a purse in the kitchen and start cleaning my house.

  ‘You know, I was going to scream at you for being late,’ I told her and then asked, ‘Can I open it now?’

  ‘If you wish.’ Then she said as an afterthought, ‘You know, you’ve never screamed at me in the last eight years I’ve been working for you!’

  That was true. I just couldn’t. She did not turn up a number of days and was late most of the time, but she kept my house spotlessly clean, looked after me when I was sick or down with a cold and was completely trustworthy with all my belongings.

  I opened the present. It was a candle from Mount Mary church. It was a lovely thought. ‘I prayed for you this morning that you would find a good husband. And you have to light this candle at home to make the wish come true.’ She was in my room, putting a new pillow cover on my pillow. I went over and hugged her. ‘Thank you,’ I said. She smiled.