"Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll", also known as my life! / ila

"Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll", also known as my life!
My day starts at two in the afternoon. I wake up with my Blackberry bursting into the most recent and popular song at the billboard and a yawn wider than the Pacific Ocean. I dust of my quilt and saunter to the bathroom. I reluctantly brush my teeth and turn on the shower. I bathe for an hour till my phone starts ringing again. I grab my towel and run inside the room to answer my phone. It is my friend Helen. She wants me to accompany her to South Delhi today. I comply with her wishes.
I open my closet and pull out a "ZARA" chiffon top (these are few of the best brands available in India at the moment) and sport it with skin tight "Tommy Hilfiger" jeans. I adorn my feet by wearing the newest addition to my footwear collection, my most prized possession, a pair of "Jimmy Choo" studded platform heels. My father purchased them for me on his last trip to the Americas. They are my latest obsession. I embellish my look with a pearl bracelet and a Louis Vitton hand bag. I emblazon my lips with red lipstick and aromatize my body with Chanel's newest fragrance. With these tasks covered, I have achieved my first most important goal of the day, 'looking fabulous and glamorous'.
My father is loaded with wealth. My house smells of fresh, crisp, and alluring bank notes. My mother personifies jewellery. I live on an entire hill. The owner of that hill is my grandfather. One of the leading magazines in India had classified us the eighteenth richest family in the country. I am very proud of my background, and my manners are almost supercilious. I have never been denied anything. I am a most pampered and a most profligate child. Money grows on trees in my family. My knowledge with regard to the value of money amounts almost to naught. When I mentioned earlier that money grows on trees in my family, I indeed meant it. My father is a politician, mother is the heiress of a business empire as vast as the outer space, and we own acres and acres of farmland. Yeah, nothing matters as much as the farms. Farms are the most important assets to a certain category of Indian businessmen and politicians. Wondering why? Well, the answer to your question is that there is no income tax on agricultural income in this great country. It is the most instrumental and facilitative provision in the constitution of India to secure the black money of a particular section of Indian elites.
I and my friend place our feet adorned with Jimmy Choo and Charles and Keith onto the sacred marble floor of the most expensive mall in the whole of North India. I cannot conceal the exhilaration I experience every single time I enter this mall. This mall and the big brands that it shelters are the elixir of my life. Just stealing a glance at the commodities displayed here lights a flame in my heart. However, as I had promised my father to practice frugality in my expenditures, I decide to just window shop. I and my companion amble about picking up a few goods here and there. Our shopping exhausts us entirely and we hit an extravagant collation joint. Since, the seventeen thousand rupees in my wallet have already been spent in 'window shopping'; I have to pay by the means of my credit card. The cold coffee in the collation joint is priced at four hundred and seventy five rupees. Undauntedly, I offer them credit card. I pay and leave. Unaffected.
It is evening now. My frantic mother calls. My mother has pursued the wrong profession of being a home-maker; she could have made a great spy. She seems to have planted innumerable 'nanny cams' all over my room and my body, I suppose. She mostly always guesses my whereabouts and my good doings. My family is outright conservative, at least I think so. Although, unlike many girls of my age in India, I am allowed to wear what I like, an outing with a boy is strictly out of question. Attending a party in a nightclub, smoking, and drinking, would trigger a severe nervous breakdown in my mother's health system with catastrophical consequences. Having sex, consuming drugs would cause not only my mother's heart but also my dearest daddy's heart to fail. Leaving me a stinking rich orphan. So for the benefit of their health and because of my undying love for them, I convincingly and splendidly hide these minute details of my life from them along with the fact of my twenty-three percent attendance at college (a seventy percent attendance is required to give the exams, it does not affect me much because I know that money can do everything, and I might be short of attendance but not of money).
I lie to my mother that I am in my Paying Guest accommodation and am about to sleep since I have to rise early for class tomorrow. It is nine-thirty in the night. I vividly describe to her my day at college today and the significant lessons I learnt. She expresses her pride in me and wishes me a good night. My father calls and I repeat the same schedule except with exaggerated kisses and never ending goodbyes.
As soon as I put down the phone, my friends seated around me burst out into mirthful laughter. As if to mock at the naivety of my parents. I join in. I smoke up a joint. The music in the room is louder than the echoing roar of a lion in a silent valley. I commence conversation with the boy seated next to me. We have met a few minutes ago. He offers me a drink. We make a little small talk and start to stare at the couples grinding shamelessly in front of us. We catch a glimpse of each other and turn our gaze to the dancing couples again. A few moments later, we turn around, close our eyes and kiss. The remaining memories of the night are vague. Either I was too high or my mind does not want to remember. I recall falling asleep, though.
I wake up next to him (the boy from the night). My mother calls on my phone to wish me for today is some Hindu festival. I feign to be in full possession of my senses and assure her that I am getting dressed for college. I put down the phone. I gather my clothes and put them on my soiled body. I leave the house of the party without taking even a small peek at 'the boy from the night'. I hire a rickshaw and reach my paying guest accommodation, bribe the owner with the leftover bottle of BUDWIESER, and a pack of cigarettes so as to keep him from informing my parents. Deep pangs of pain are shooting through my head. I innocently decide to skip college to catch a nap so as to get rid of my hangover. I unlock my room. I spot my bed in front of me. I kick of my Jimmy Choo heels and seek comfort in the fuzziness of my blanket. I switch on the air conditioner and switch of the lights. There is a remote to carry out both the tasks. It is so much of work to actually walk till the switch board to make yourself comfortable. I try to fall asleep but there is this familiar feeling which is hindering me in my pursuit of comforts. The feeling is called guilt. It is devouring my insides. In my dreams, the enticing pleasures produced by the strength of wealth are battling with the inevitable feeling of guilt. The enticing pleasures of wealth win.
It is two in the afternoon again. I wake up to get dressed to attend a pool party at the Hilton, Delhi; followed by a birthday bash of some acquaintance in a posh lounge in South Delhi. Mother calls and I assure her that classes went smoothly today. She takes pride in my regularity to attend classes and promises to gift me a Dolce & Gabbana bag. I smile to myself as I put down the phone. "Great day ahead", I think to myself.