The return of the jing jing

Saturday night dancing and reclaiming main character energy

By mid-May, I’m so sick of my own moroseness and wallowing. Enough is enough. Saturday night is marked as the official end of the wallowing period, and my best friend Aishu flies in to preside as master of the ceremonies. 

Sometime over the course of our devotedly co-dependent relationship, Aishu and I came up with jing jing✨. It translates to the emotional sugar rush of seeing life as full of possibilities and adventure, with the right person by your side. It’s main character energy. It’s both perspective and manifestation. When you feel the jing jing on a night out, you know that things will magically work out for you, adventures will fall into your lap, and that you’ll have plenty of stories, purely through cosmic goodwill and commitment to the plot. 

Ever since April, I stopped feeling the jing jing. And I’d never needed it more—our shared (slightly exaggerated) faith in being able to manifest a delicious life, purely by virtue of our combined magnetism. 

When I live in the pit of wallowing, I’m reduced to an irrelevant content lead trying too hard to be a writer, doomed to financial struggle with a fucked-up-soap-opera family, and a damaging penchant for chasing and trying to fix (spoiler alert: you can’t) emotionally unavailable, enormously privileged men (specifically from South Delhi and all with names starting with S), still struggling to understand themselves. 

But with Aishu, I can be magic. I have the jing jing.

****

I warn Aishu that I’m in a pit. The jing jing has been significantly compromised, I don’t remember what it’s like anymore. I’m seriously depressed. I’m not sure if I can be shiny anymore. 

She is unfazed. She tells me that she’s bringing streamers and balloons for the pit. We will sit in the pit together, and set the place up. There will be fairy lights.

****

There is a lot of pressure on Saturday night. We are experiencing Delhi together after a whole year, and with no squad or boys in tag. The backup plan is a tub of ice cream and the new Bridgerton season. We change outfits four times, and redo our makeup. We draw on matching holographic eyeliners, and then rub it off. The glitter stays. We wear jeans because we “aren’t trying”. I remind myself to believe in the jing jing, no matter what.

****

It’s 10 pm when we make it to the first stop of the night. I take Aishu to the new “dive bar” in Greater Kailash, for research’s sake. I find the place infuriating, and simply need my feelings validated. I’m not disappointed, she is incandescent with rage after five minutes of fighting the crowded bar for a drink.

If S is a “dive bar”, the dive involved is into a shallow porcelain bathtub, you can kneel in it. It’s deliberately posh and exclusionary, and filled with the most archetypal South Delhi patrons. The branding calls it a “watering hole” for regulars and strangrs to mingle, but what if the regulars are living embodiments of Delhi’s wealth and class anxieties, terrified of accidentally striking up a conversation with someone who’s beneath their private-school-US-undergrad-family-business-Vasant-Vihar-living class category? The crowd dries off into different cliques—you’ll need a micro-celebrity calling card or a common family friend to break the mould. As we stride in and push past people, men look at us with interest and trepidation. They want to talk to us, but what if we are from Rajouri Garden?

Here’s my favourite game to play in such crowds, I tell Aishu as we wait. Find someone who’s not wearing neutrals. The wealthy are often terrified of standing out and betraying individuality that negates class conformity—you would rarely spot a memorable piece of clothing or accessory in these settings. The gold hoops are understated, the women are conventionally beautiful with neat noses and unblemished skin. Luxury clothing so quiet that it’ll put you to sleep. 

Aishu spots a few exceptions—a couple of men in ugly polo shirts of teal and coral. Their mothers bought it for them, I explain.

What about the rich Delhi creatives and the art queer billis, you ask? You won’t find a lot of them here. They’re cosplaying being indie-broke, and the prices here don’t go with that pretence.

One overpriced cocktail and we leave, that’s the plan. I stomp and glare as Aishu fights at the bar. A man sidles up and asks me if I can hold his drink, he’s trying to find his lighter. I retort that I’m going to drink it, taking huge gulps of whiskey sour as he searches his pockets. Aishu returns with a glass full of ice, we perch on the steps and people-watch. A big, mismatched group sits beneath us, we ask them how they know each other. They are befuddled by the question and say, “Oh from here and there”. Whiskey sour guy nonchalantly wanders closer and keeps looking at us, but is unable to strike up a conversation. It’s the stiff South Delhi social upper lip, he cannot let down his friends.

****

On our way to the next spot, I’m in full drunk lecture mode about the pincode-based power dynamics of Delhi’s ‘old money’ and ‘new money’. Aishu is fascinated, especially after the immersive ethnographic study at GK. The next place is the GK crowd’s worst nightmare, I tell her. We are on our way to the other end of the spectrum. I’m taking her to Hauz Khas Village.

****

Hauz Khas Village has been undeniably cringe since the early 2010s. Most people I know wouldn’t step foot in it willingly. But a friend recently discovered that one of the bars, Matchbox, is making a fashionable comeback. Gen Z kids from the Northeast have taken over the place, and the sweaty dance floor has DJs playing K-pop and viral TikTok songs. The bouncer at the door tells us that it’s a full house, we have to cajole him to be let in. He asks for our IDs, we are flattered as aging 27-year olds.

Four vodka shots under a grand, and we are dancing our toes off. Everyone is young and pretty in the red lights. The girls are in bodycon dresses and bright lipstick, the boys have floppy 90s-heartthrob-meet-boy-influencer haircuts. We’re miles away from the neutrals and the money, and the relief is palpable.

In the bathroom, we meet a girl named Nunu. Aishu tells her I’m going through a breakup. You’re too pretty for that, she coos at me. I want to kiss Nunu. She invites us to the afterparty at another club. This is our tharavadu now, Aishu says.

****

The smoking room has arcade games you can play for free, but it’s too crowded tonight. We talk to boys and drink their beer, they introduce us to their cousins. We tell them we are from Kerala, and that we hate speaking in Hindi. They love that. FUCK HINDI, we’re all cheering and screaming. 

I raucously bond with one of the cousins, we both have names starting with T (naturally). He’s Tibetan. He also used to be a monk in Dharamshala until he ‘quit’. He asks us to go with him to the afterparty. I ask him how old he is. He’s 25. 

At 1 am, Aishu and I are skipping down the road with the ex-monk and his cousin; they’ve promised to buy the drinks. The cousin is sober, tired and clearly babysitting. Aishu and I sidebar—the ex-monk is incredibly gorgeous and so gullible. The golden retriever energy is off the charts. Our intentions are obviously to exploit, and he is oblivious. We all pile into an auto like clowns in a tiny car. 

Our auto flies towards Central Delhi, and we’re questioning the ex-monk on why he left the monastery. We have so many questions. He tells us stories. “It’s just that they have a lot of restrictions”, he says. “And I really got into snooker. I used to sneak out at night to play in these bars, and I just wanted to keep playing it.”

It’s evident that he’s telling the truth, even if it is so inconceivable. 

****

The afterparty is at a club in Connaught Place. Ex-monk has to convince the bouncers to let us in. He then runs around to get the promised drinks, we sit back and watch. We don’t see Nunu anywhere. There’s more dancing. The men are all boys, and respectful of personal space. It’s the bare minimum, but we’re so grateful. We occasionally spot a rare North Indian man, their presence feels threatening. 

Maybe it’s all the serotonin from the dancing, but I feel the cells of my pain-ridden brain starting to rearrange themselves. My self-consciousness is dissipating. I notice a boy who looks like Conan Grey, and decide to tell him that he’s insanely pretty. I do it before bolting back onto the dance floor, it feels nice.

****

It’s 4am, and our toes are giving up. Ex-monk is kissing me, trying to convince us to go back to his place and try some port wine. He’s leaving on Tuesday. Aishu bullies him saying we will consider it if he cancels his flight. He is so confused and says he can try. We ditch him eventually. 

I really hope he finds someone, he deserves better than us, Aishu tells me. 

I can’t believe I ever doubted the jing jing, I tell her. 

We sleep all through Sunday.