When in North America, go clubbing: Gursimran Khamba

I’m not a huge fan of clubbing. Maybe it’s just me but somehow getting squished amongst a hundred people in the dark and having to involuntarily smell their armpits isn’t my idea of ‘fun’. It’s why alcohol becomes a necessity. Not only because you need to numb your senses to tolerate people grinding you all the time, but also to prevent an epileptic attack when the multi-coloured strobe lights burn your corneas.  Maybe I’m getting older, maybe it was the drunk girl who I thought was hitting on me but ended up throwing up on me in university but I take ‘night outs’ with a pinch of salt. Unlike the West, Indian nightclubs aren’t really places you can go to ‘pick up’ someone from the opposite sex either. (Though the music does prevent you from having a conversation and realising how stupid the other person really is. Pro tip: If they like EDM, they probably have trouble constructing sentences). 

In Toronto, I discovered that my cousins quite enjoy clubbing. This means over the last week I have had to start punctuating each of my sentences with ‘Yo’, ‘dude’ and ‘Dats da bomb!’ in order to appreciate and soak in the local culture. Here’s the issue however — nothing makes you feel more brown than clubbing abroad. Unlike most places back home you’re supposed to go and talk to strangers. The process, however, is totally different. In Indian clubs, you sit creepily at the bar and scope out groups of women while judging them. After you like someone, you try and see if there are any other guys getting too close to her. If that is clear, you ask your friends if anyone knows her and can introduce you to her. If that fails, you slowly try and get closer to her group and try and catch her complete name. Finally, you go home, try and stalk that person on Facebook and send them a request with a message ‘U wErE looking lyk amaze be friendship dosti yaari masti fun’.

Abroad, this machismo disappears in a heartbeat. In a club I was last week, here’s the process my brain went through in that very order after I kept making eye contact with a girl who was really cute...

‘Whoa, she’s looking at me. Wait, why will she? I’m brown we have a horrible reputation here.’

Wait she’s also looking at other guys. Maybe she’s looking to hook up with someone. I should go talk to her before someone else does.’

‘What if she wants me to buy her a drink? $20 is like Rs1,200. Is that even worth it? I can buy an iPod for $20 more. WHY ARE YOU CALCULATING YOU’RE IN A CLUB SHE’S CUTE SHE’S LOOKING AT YOU!’

‘I should really go talk to her. I have 50,000 Twitter followers.’

‘What if she’s not on Twitter? I’m not even wearing deodorant. Ah screw it it’s 2 am. What if she takes me over to her place I get sleepy at 2.30 pm what if I can’t get it up?’

‘Why are you assuming she wants to sleep with you you sexist bastard? Stop being such a Delhiite.’

‘Wait she left with someone else? Makes sense I’m brown we have a bad reputation anyway.’

It was such a scarring emotional experience, I felt the need to start clubbing in Mumbai again, just so I can feel mildly masculine. I also need to learn better pick-up lines. Who knew ‘my father owns a Honda City’ wouldn’t work?