So I've been threatening to publish my novel, Cough Syrup Surrealism, for a while now. I'm glad to tell you my baby's finally got a face, and a release date. And a Facebook page, because nothing screams AUTHENTIC more than a Facebook page, right? The cover's below, and here's the link to the page:
The book is already available for pre-order on Flipkart and uRead, but the official launch (Translation: PARTY!) is on 10 June, Monday night at 7:30pm at The Den, Bandra in Bombay. It's a Nineties-themed night, with plenty of booze, books and banter, and of course a kickass 90s playlist. If you're in Bombay at the time, please drop in, say hello, help yourself to a few happy-making beverages and pick up a copy of the book.
Please check out the Facebook page and like/share/tweet/comment/mailmeyourpanties and show me some love, you guys! Launch party, and other details are all up on the page (because noone takes anything seriously unless Facebook tells them to), as well as some incredible artwork by resident aesthetician Igirit.
I'm on @icyhighs if you'd like to drop me a line on Twitter. Thanks in advance, and fare thee well ye merry lot. Your support's meant the world to me, and will always do. I'll be back to blogging (and hopefully lose the writerly airs- yes, I KNOW how I sound!) in a couple of weeks. Hope to see you all at the launch!
"No, of course I'm not bored," I assured her, "just thought you may want to try something new. You're what, 25? Live a little!"
''Oh I know it's not like there's nothing left to try," she said, "I even have a list. It's not that. I'm just not that interested in theatre or... shopping or... I don't know.. freebasing." ''Freebasing's overrated anyway,'' I told her. ''So you agree?'' she asked. I looked at her. ''I guess so,'' I said, ''summer's almost over. You should leave. That was the plan.'' ''That was my plan,'' she said, ''you have a better idea?'' I scoured her face for sarcasm. She looked as sincere as she sounded. "Look," I said, "I'm getting the feeling I'm a little out of my depth here. When I asked you if you'd like to try something new, I just meant try the kakori kebabs. They have a new chef here and the kebabs are on an introductory half price deal."
Icy Highs's Music Recco: A little longing goes away - The Books, Lost And Safe (2005)
So the other day, a few of us had an early reprieve from work and were standing around outside, hungrily breathing in daylight like men fresh out of solitary. There was that familiar summer conviction in the air, that feeling that life was starting anew and promising to be phenomenal. In less than a minute however, our band of merry men had diminished to three, the others departing on a slew of errands that appeared to have reared their heads out of nowhere.
I was surprised. I was planning to make the best of our early finish, and get some midweek drinking action going. "What about you guys?" I asked, "got plans too?" Suddenly, pockets were rummaged, hair re-coiffed, sunglasses readjusted. Basically, anything but look me in the eye.
"I'm not really sure," mumbled KD, after some time, "I'm waiting for my girlfriend to text back."
"Me too," chimed in Leo, "and mine's in a meeting till six."
I felt devastated, violated.
"What the fuck guys," I said, "it's only four. Let's go get a beer."
"Oh come on dude," K retorted, "you do the same thing."
And that's when it hit me. It was true. Girlfriend was out of town so I had no conflict of interests that afternoon, but make frantic calls to Girlfriend was the first thing I did on most days after work. She would pick a place for dinner, or assign some kind of grocery responsibility to me, or tell me how many hours I had to myself till we met for dinner. Girlfriend scheduled my non-working hours with an iron fist, and I hadn't even realized it.
I insisted the guys buy some time for themselves and herded them over to the nearest bar. "Guys," I said, "we're adults. We should be able to come up with a plan on a free fucking evening without bringing our women into it." The guys showed their support by ordering another round of drinks. "I mean how did this even happen?" I said, "When's the last time we picked a movie or a bar? When did we lose all control?" The guys nodded enthusiastically but I could see we weren't making much progress. These guys needed something more raw, more visceral, to shake them out of their slumber. So I called Fatboy.
"The tyranny of the tongue," declared Fatboy, stroking his double chin, "literary emasculation."
"What the fuck, dude?" That was probably all three of us.
"Nicknames," he explained, "drugs don't emasculate men, nicknames emasculate men."
We looked at each other. None of our girlfriends had given us nicknames. We had all been called names, but not ones you'd utter in front of your mom. Fatboy was finally wrong about something.
"This is worse than I thought,"said Fatboy, shaking his head on seeing our blank faces.
"Oh fuck you," I said, "just admit you're wrong."
"It's not nicknames with you lot," he said sadly, "it's just as I suspected. You morons didn't even get the gateway treatment, you just let them stick it right up your asses. Do you realize what you've done?"
"Dude, stop shaking," I tried to calm him, "look you're upsetting poor Leo here. He's a graphic designer. That's almost like a real artist. He's really sensitive."
"Eighteen years," said Fatboy, still shaking his head, "eighteen years we fought tooth and nail to get rid of that disgusting, insulting, belittling label. A few years of freedom, of independence, of self-respect, and what do you do? You stupid, middle class, Westward looking idiots. You flushed it all down the toilet and then took a shit on the seat."
"I want whatever this guy's having," said KD. In a flash, Fatboy had him by the collar.
"Dude calm down," I said, "you were getting a little emotional there."
"You want to know why your women make all your decisions, bro?" sneered Fatboy.
"You want to know why you don't know what to do with your spare time?" he asked, "why everytime your women are busy, you feel a bit like a little boy lost in a supermarket?"
Maybe he did know what he was talking about. "Why?" I humoured his rhetoric.
"Because," he said, "you've gone and reclaimed the Label. You've niggerized it, throwing it around, giving it fancy little flourishes, and suddenly you've made it mainstream, blurred the lines. You can't fault the oppressor for calling you a cunt, if you refer to yourselves, and them, as cunts."
"Assuming my girlfriend is who you're delicately referring to as the 'oppressor'," Leao started, "I can assure you she's never called me a..."
"Not 'cunt', you idiot," I said, and pretended to have followed all along though I'd only just gotten it, "it's ba..."
"Don't say it," said Fatboy, and looked furtively around, "you'll get us all killed."
I looked around. We were at Gopalkrishna's, a shady little bar next to Dadar station, a place run strictly for the barely salaried slave to wet his beak before the long commute home. The three of us- writers, artists, struggling all- had never done a day's work compared to these guys. They would eat us alive.
"It's 'baby', you guys," I whispered, "they had us at 'baby'. Call someone a baby long enough, and suddenly they're sporting goatees and drinking tofu beer because babies are not fit to make their own decisions."
"They just respond to breasts," said Fatboy.
I woke up the next morning, ready for war. The Tyranny of the Tongue had had its time. It was time to restore the natural order of things, re-establish control. Unfortunately, Girlfriend would have to head straight to her office from the airport, so I just texted her saying I'd see her at night. Oh, I'll see her at night, all right, I thought, get ready for Alpha Man, baby.
Girlfriend was already home when I got back at night. The bedroom door was open, there was some French popstar trying to cross over to the more respected Vauxwagen-jingle genre of music, and I thought I smelled Thai chicken curry on the stove. "Tonight we dine in hell," I thought as I walked in.
Girlfriend was a mess. A blur of mascara and snot and Kleenex and tears and estrogen, all in a Girlfriend-shaped mess in our bed. I was ambushed.
"What's wrong, baby?" I asked, a little less sure about raising hell.
She looked up. "I just had a bad day at work," she said, dabbing at her face, "can you give me a hug?"
And suddenly, I realized it had always been a two-way street. The revolution would just have to wait.
Fatboy has a spookishly accurate radar for detecting sexual activity and frequency. He once scampered around our old flat for ten whole minutes, scratching at the door, sniffing the air, ears doing a Spock, till he finally put a finger to his lips, mouthed "follow me" and stealthed his way up the stairs to the roof. I followed him, not entirely thrilled at playing Moneypenny to his Private Dick. But follow him I did and sure enough, in the middle of the terrace stood the unfortunately named Postman Patrick, postman-pants in a puddle around his feet, a hand resting comfortably on the satellite dish, the other gently goading the head of Born Again Mary from flat #10 who was on her knees in front of him offering prayers in distinctively non-Catholic fashion.
When Fatboy came around to watch the game last week, I decided to put him through the paces for old times' sake. I would throw him off the scent, I decided, with some signature Super Sly. He hadn't visited in a while, so I gave the ol' mancave a thorough make-over: binned all my porno, a little air freshener action to clear the masturbatory fug in the living room, not a single paper towel in sight. As customary, I welcomed him with open arms and an open Kingfisher beer in each hand. "Faaatboy!" I said, genuinely excited, as we hugged. He took a sip of his beer, gave my back a friendly pat and pottered over to the couch. It's like taking candy from a big fat baby, I thought.
"So what's happening, broheim? It's been ages!" I said.
"Yeah, real good, man, you gain a little weight?"
"A touch. Haven't been getting a lot of exercise lately. Well, except in the bedroom, if you know what I mean."
"Dude, I always know what you mean."
"And the couch, too," I said.
"What?"
"I was just saying. It's not just the bedroom, you know, there's the couch, the kitchen, the.."
"Cool. Hey, game's starting."
No high five, no "sweeeeet!", just "cool". Something was wrong. Come to think of it, he hadn't even got his Chelsea jersey on. "Dude," I said, "see that ashtray to your right on the floor? Can you pass that to me, please?" "There's one on your lap," he said, eyes still on the TV. "Just get it, ok? New game ritual," I improvised. I had opened up a tiny window of opportunity. It would take all my investigative mojo, but it was doable. The moment he bent over to pick up the ashtray, I swung into action. With the lithest of wrists, I lifted his teeshirt, just a pinch, and there it was: proof- the treacherous flash of white around his waist. Fatboy wasn't wearing his lucky boxers for the game. Something was definitely wrong.
By half-time, I was a wreck. I decided I couldn't wait anymore to find out. But Fatboy could be strangely closed up at times. I would have to play this with some degree of subtlety, lull the poor bastard into a false sense of security before I confronted him. He wouldn't even know what hit him.
"Dude," I said, "are you breaking up with me?"
"What?"
"Nothing," I said as I choked back a tear, "that was selfish of me. What is it, bro? Cancer?"
"I think it might be the celibacy," he said, "your celibacy."
"What?"
He leaned forward, sniffed, and breathed in a noseful.
"Two weeks and some," he said expertly, "rough patch?"
"Three," I admitted, "I can't believe you caught that. How did you know?"
"Irrelevant," he said as he stood up, "I'm here to help."
"It's just a phase," I said, "she's been really busy, and I have put on some weight, and.."
"Yeah, loose the promise-paunch," he interrupted.
"The what?"
"The 'promise-paunch'," he repeated, "it's the adult version of the promise-ring. You get one every time you're comfortable in a relationship. Loose it."
"That's not a thing," I said, "and anyway... fuck you, a 'promise-paunch' is not a thing."
He shrugged. "Porno," he looked around, "you told her about your porno, didn't you?"
"How did you know that?"
"Dude, there are some things that are just sacred. One of them is a man's porno. You NEVER tell your girlfriend about your taste in porno. It's not healthy. They figure a man with such specific titilatory needs probably knows how to keep himself happy, even if they don't bother."
"Girls don't care about the quality of their porno?"
"Have you ever heard one admit it?"
"No."
"Exactly."
I began to panic. "What else?" I asked.
"Who tidied up this room?"
"I did."
"Where'd you pick up the cushions and the..." he was clearly struggling with the word, "the soft bedsheet type thing on the couch?"
"It gets cold in here sometimes and we like to cuddle," I said, "and it's a bolster, not a cush...FUCK!"
"Oh, you're in deep, my friend. You've been friendzoned."
"She's my girlfriend!"
"I know. That's the worst kind of friend zone."
"What do I do?"
"Loose all the gay shit. Loose the fucking chocolates in the fridge. What's the straight man's rule of chocolate consumption, bro?"
"Fuck off."
"What.is.the.straight.man's.rule.of.chocolate.consumption, BRO?"
"Only when you get the munchies, and only spontaneously. Never because you've stocked them at home."
"Thank you. We don't have a lot of time. Half-time's almost over. Send Girlfriend a text, tell her you're going out with the boys tonight, don't tell her where and switch off your phone."
"But where are we going?"
He looked away for a second, then turned around.
"Get your tightest leather pants on," he said, "we're going to reclaim your balls."
Icy Highs's Music Recco: 'Highwayman' - Johnny Cash
Only halfway to the ideas of March and I'm burnt out already. Not that summer's ever been kind. Blotches, rashes, migraines, car crashes- it's spawned them all. I lost two years of my life to the cruel Chennai sun. I fled from Singapore coz I couldn't take the heat.
It's not an affliction many people understand. It's not as glamorous as say, an "actual" disability. But summer here in Bombay is more real, life-like. I can't lock myself up indoors and hibernate in a cloud of smoke, or stick to air-conditioned environments. There's a life to be led now, things that need doing.
Still.
I don't so much mind that I'm a few shades darker, but old battle scars now shine a little brighter on my arm. Reminding, judging, warning.
Still.
In the cab today morning, somewhere on Sea Link, the floor mat leaps up in surprise at the audacity of a very confrontational speed breaker to reveal a hole underneath it the size of my foot. I kick it aside and watch the road speed by in a blur of cement and mortar and mediocrity.
And I tell myself I could do with a fix.
Icy High's Music Recco: "Deeper and Deeper"- The Fixx
The bigger the city, the bigger the scam- that's Sociology 101. I can live with that. What I didn't expect when I moved to Bombay however, was to be accosted by peddlers of counterfeit goods on every second street. Seriously, this city -or at least, my little hole in Bandra- is crazy: every second shop sells 'original' Gucci and Versace and the Queen's name-me-nots at a fraction of their prices.
I'm not particularly brand-conscious but I do stick to certain tried and tested labels when it comes to things like shoes or deodorant Not for any reason other than comfort. Oh okay, and maybe a little brand snobbery. The point is I pay top dollar for those peek-a-boo skinny jeans that get Girlfriend in a tizzy, and it pisses me off when I see everybody from the teaboy to the Prime Minister rock them bad boys.
Let's not forget I gave up a fairly well-paying job to become a full time 'writer'- which as the Mothership will tell you is just an euphemism for "checking Twitter and Facebook all day and living off his (quickly dwindling) savings". Brand loyalty however, like religion or heroin, is not easily thwarted by economic realities. I'll probably end up having to suck cock to pay for aftershave at the rate things are going, so imagine my angst when this conversation happened:
"Hey nice shoes, man. Are they real Pumas?"
"Uhh, no, you're imagining them."
"What?"
"Of course they're real Pumas. What is this, 'City of God'?" .
"Calm down, man, I just meant.."
"I know what you meant. I don't ask you if your tits are real, do I?"
"They're all me, baby. But thank you."
"What are you, home-schooled? Have you never had to interact with people before?"
"Those are not real Pumas, are they?"
"I don't know, I found them on the train."
"A real train, or like a second hand goods shop?"
"I miss being able to buy stuff. Yesterday, I had a cigarette and a dollop of disappointment for dinner."
"You should really consider getting a grown-up job."
"I know. Just don't tell anybody about my Pumas ok? If you look real close, they actually say 'Fuma'."
"You've got yourself a deal. Now go work on a CV."
"I can't. My Mac's on the brink."
"Dude, come on."
"Okay, okay, my 'Nac' is on the brink. Are you happy now?"
"Yup. And get that rash on your neck checked out. It's probably all that Bucci cologne."
No man likes getting caught tip toeing across a girl's living room at seven in the morning. It's an exercise in great inner turmoil- a mandatory walk of shame that must be undertaken before your induction into some sort of one-night-stand hall of fame. The surreptitious sweep of her bedroom door as it closes shut behind you; those tentative, Huxley-esque steps through domestic purgatory, hoping you don't step on her cat or- God forbid- the remote control on your way to the Other Side; and finally, finally, the operatic symphony of upper floor flush tanks flushing and air conditioners air-conditioning seeping in through the ceiling as you pause (and all menpause at this point) in the hallway, safely outside her apartment. Of course, you tend to look back at the moment with some degree of pride if the woman whose apartment you're attempting to sneak out of isn't your girlfriend of several months.
Fatboy, still sprawled out on the couch as we had left him the previous night, caught me in mid-tiptoe.
"Dude," he says, "crazy night last night, huh? Good times."
"SShhhh!" I tell him and mime my way closer.
"Where's Girlfriend?" he wants to know, "I said I'd make breakfast."
I gesture wildly for silence as I collect his jeans and shoes, roll them into a ball and deposit them on his lap.
"Let's go," I whisper, "now."
"What, why?" And then he panics. "Fuck, did you do some weird shit last night? Is Girlfriend hanging from the ceiling with a crown of thorns around her head? I'll never understand your Jesus fetish."
"Worse," I say, "she's got the Grumps."
"The 'Grumps'?" he asks, "what's that, like a that-time-of-the-month scenario? Water turning to wine?"
"Ok one, you're going to hell," I say, "and secondly, no. It's her time of the day."
"Oh come on," he dismisses the notion,"she's not a morning person; big deal."
"SSSSSHHHHHHH!!" I shush, but I know the damage has already been done.
"Listen," I say and cock my ear bedroom-wards for signs of danger, "don't ever use that word around here."
"What, "morning"?" he says, "seriously, you're such a drama quee..."
The room changes before he can even complete the cliche. The smoke and the flatulence and the waft of leftover Peking Duck that permeated the atmosphere till moments ago have all made way for a terrifying, uncharacteristic wintry cold. There is a draft in the room, originating from under her bedroom door as far as I can tell. There are sounds of unrest, of bedsheets being flung in frustration, of thunder making its way up Girlfriend's body and quickly gaining momentum.
I look Fatboy in the eye and tell him I'm sorry I snogged Sara Markose in tenth grade.
"I knew you were into her," I say, "that was unsavory of me."
The draft has become a force of nature; there are icicles on top of the television, hail stones rain down from the ceiling. Her bedroom door appears to be vibrating on its hinges, threatening to be blown away. "SAVE YOURSELF, FATBOY!" I scream as I jump over the couch and rush to her door as fast as I can. Holding on to the door knob with all my strength, I fumble around in my pockets for the key. Fatboy, equally scared but just as loyal, jams a chair under the knob. I find the key, lock the door and collapse on the floor, exhausted. "Thanks bro," I say, "you're a good friend. Now, go."
Girlfriend has left the bed. We can hear her coming. Her footsteps echo down the hall and across children's parks and hospitals around Bombay, sending pigeons and Catholic nuns into defeatist rapture. Their wails (and coo-roo-ctoo-coos) of despair come boomeranging back to meet her footsteps, through the open window and into the living room, but timidly stopping short at her door, bouncing off her Warhol-tinted works of art like tweens at a #Belieber tweet-off.
"This is the end," I say as the room turns on its side. The chair Fatboy had jammed under the door hurtles forward and catches him in the jaw, sending him reeling. "FAAATBOOOY!" I scream as I push out a leg for him to grab on to, my hands still firmly wrapped around the door knob. "There must be something we can do," he sobs, "have you tried garlic? Or a stake through the heart?" I weep as I remember attempts past- padlocks and chainsaws and sugar donuts- all fated to failure. And pain. Oh, the pain.
"Go," I say, "just go."
"I can't, bro," he tells me, "I'm not leaving you behind."
There is a sarcastic knock on the door, almost a taunt, and a body crashes against it with a force that sends me flying across the room. "Run, Fatboy," I yell, "I didn't just kiss Sara Markose. I got some cheeky sideboob action too." "You BASTARD," he says and kicks me on his way out.
When I come to, it's midday-bright. I can hear Girlfriend in the bedroom, going about her business, humming an old song. "Girlfriend," I call out, "baby, are you okay?" "Yes," she shouts back, "open the door." I find a Cosmo magazineon the floor and slip it under her door, the key pressed between an article on what men want and an inforgraphic on the dangers of pandering to their needs. I take my spot on the couch, and await judgment.
"Is Fatboy gone?" asks Girlfriend as she steps out, all pinstriped and corporate-sexy and ready for work.
"Yes," I say, "and I don't feel good about this at all."
"Oh don't be a baby," says Girlfriend, and ruffles my hair, "you know this was the only way. He can't boil an egg to save his life."
Icy High's Music Recco: "Wake Up Everybody"- John Legend & The Roots
