14 Jan 2015
I look around, and pause again to take them all in, as I have done numerous times on this trip. We're all here, the original gang of four, chilling like it's 1999, like numerous summer vacations spent lounging under rubber trees in our paternal home playing made-up games and swapping made-up stories of bravado and discovery. We don't have to fib about body hair or school yard heroics any more; the pube-counter has been abandoned years ago, and we're not as fascinated by Bruce Lee movies or Steven Segal fight sequences as we used to be. Of course, not having to fib and doing it anyway are two different things- the playground may have changed but the games remain the same.
We're alike in ways only brothers can be: the dip of our shoulders, the chicken legs, the predilection for deep-fried-anything, mouths arched in permanent readiness for a good laugh. We like to have a good time, and we're good people who like to believe we're good people. My brothers have all brought women with them- life partners in various stages of permanence. They point out more distinguishing features of the group: the eagerness to be liked, the lack of get-up-and-go, the mishmash of good intentions and inertia. But they say this with affection, with almost-motherly indulgence, and we are perhaps more pleased than we should be.
Back in the long-ago, when we were still children, we used to have this tradition of prolonging every game of Donkey till the last possible second. Come end of summer, we'd all go our different ways from our grandparents' home, driven away to the closest railway station or airport by some accommodating relative or the other. This meant picking up the deck of cards from our usual spot on the veranda and carrying the hand in play all the way up to the top of the slope where the ancestral Ambassador car lay in wait, honking impatiently, glinting ominously in the sun. The end has come early, abruptly, this holiday. We're still splashing about in the little creek we found; still waiting for another joint to be rolled. We're still upholding tradition, still playing till we absolutely have to leave, till the taxi turns up, because it's the only way we know to deal with parting. But we're trying out a new game. It's called "Waiting For Grandma To Die".
Thank God she fell ill-er last night, when we had already moved to Agonda Beach blessed with signals our phones can intercept and a secure 3G line over which tickets can be booked at the last minute. Thank God she didn't steal away in the middle of the night when we were still on wind-swept, grid-less Cola Beach, chosen painstakingly to liberate us from emails and Whatsapp and con-calls, if only for a couple of nights. Because when you reach a certain age, when the pube-counter makes way for the grey-counter or the baldness quotient, it's all you can do to assuage the guilt of not-being-reachable. The grandparents who were always in touch somehow throughout our childhood with promises of kappa-irachi and Alphonsa mangoes the next time we visit would never forgive us if we didn't show up to say goodbye because we had no network.
7 Apr 2014
When I first watched Cinema Paradiso as a ten year old boy, this much was clear: much like the chosen savior of a clan here, a princess there in the many martial arts movies that populated my VHS collection, I would have to save Cinema. Not in terms of making good cinema or acting in one, but in the presentation. It probably says something about me that even at that age, I was more enamored by Alfredo the projectionist's love for cinema than by the six year old Toto's sense of adventure; Alfredo's contentment in worshiping the art and making it accessible to as wide an audience as possible as opposed to Toto's ambitious experiments with his home movie camera.
Consequently, it was never enough for me to just watch a film. I had to experience the journey. And because Alfredo waged his war against censorship and a philistine government in post-World War II Italy while I lived in comfortably middle class, culturally vibrant 90s Trivandrum, I would often have to create my own excitement: I would accompany our driver on his designated Friday evening trip to the cinema hall to score us tickets for the latest blockbuster. My father's secretary would have called ahead to make the reservations, but I'd make believe we were on a race against time: the fate of all pop culture lay in the automated arms of the next traffic signal. And once at the ticket stall, getting pushed and pulled along by the suffocating long lines of Trivandrum's ardent film-goers, or better still, jumping headfirst into a crowd of Mohanlal fans getting lathi-charged by policemen, I could finally feel like I was part of a movement.
In time, I would make my peace with the fact that cinema, at least in Kerala, was in no grave danger I could rescue it from, but until well past high school, I would draw umpteen models of what my Archie comics-inspired drive-in cinema would like and plot impromptu screenings of If Lucy Fell projected on the walls of my house for the benefit of our neighbor, an American-returned girl who was a couple of years older than me and hopelessly out of sorts with the world and was also named Lucy. So while growing up perhaps took the romance out of cinema, cinema certainly put the romance in me- a sense of right and wrong, of some imagined utopia in which bureaucrats and their minions alike could escape from the tedium of real life for a while and roll up their sleeves and laugh heartily at Jagathy's mishaps or shed copious tears at the fate of star-crossed lovers on screen.
Fast forward to thirteen years later:
I'm raging. I'm hemorrhaging internally from all the rage because PVR Cinemas in Cochin has just short-changed me. Despite the fact that it's in a mall and everybody dresses like they're at a club, I'm here because tickets only cost an almost-reasonable hundred bucks, and thanks to the juggernaut-like growth of multiplexes, the grand tradition of independent cinema houses is in its last days. The last ones standing survive on regional blockbusters and sheer will power; they're certainly not going to screen Noah in 3D. Besides, PVR offers unlimited refills on Pepsi and we happen to be in ownership of a bottle of rum that will no doubt be consumed furtively and in full over the course of the movie with generous helpings of Pepsi. I'm not even drinking, but it feels like a victory.
Till this moron stepped up to the Pepsi counter a few seconds ago.
"What do you mean "no more re-fills"?", I say, "It says "unlimited re-fills" on the sign behind your head!"
"Yes, but the sign made a mistake," he tells me, "no re-fill today."
"The sign made a...Look, the movie's going to start in a minute; I don't have time for this nonsense."
"Sir, I will have to ask you to watch your language."
"Ok I was out of line. Please top up my drink like your sign promises you will, so I can go watch my movie."
"What? Why? Look, is there someone else I can talk to?"
"Sir, if you continue to behave in this fashion, I will be forced to call the manager."
"Why do you talk like a textbook? But yes, that'd be great. Please call your manager."
"That was not an empty threat, sir. I will call my manager."
"Yes, please call your manager. You understand he's not also my manager, right?"
"I'm warning you: The manager will not be pleased to be interrupted in the middle of dinner."
"Oh great. Your manager's at home while he lets you robots run the show here? Fine, call him."
"No, the manager is eating his dinner at the food court on the next floor."
At this point, my friend tells me the movie is only a couple of seconds from starting. "This is not over," I tell the Pepsi guy as I turn to leave, "I'll be back." "I look forward to it," he replies, "perhaps next time, I can introduce you to our loyalty programs."
Icy Highs's Music Recco : Asaf Avidan- One day we'll be old
16 Mar 2014
The guys have been drinking all evening, and are just as excited as I am. I encourage them to act as riotously as they please; for a change, we have the law on our side. We haven't been on MG Road five minutes when predictably, a couple of cops wave us down. I slow down, pull over to the side, and watch one of them approach my car in the mirror. He clocks the number plate, and visibly brightens up. I can't wait to wipe the grin off his face. I've been waiting for this moment for so long.
I roll down my window and smile. The cop looks right through me, and inside the car: the usual suspects. By now, one of us would usually have stepped out of the car, muttering apologies and dropping names, pressing a five hundred rupee note into his palm. I can see he's a little shaken by our apparent stoicism. "Have you been drinking?" he asks. I want to answer calmly, gracefully, but my hand goes up like a first-bencher in school with all the answers. "I haven't been drinking, " I announce. "Suck-up," says one of the guys in the back and I admit to myself that he's probably right. A night without drink, and my inner nerd is in full swing.
"You won't mind a breathalyzer test then," he says and gestures to the cop behind us. "Not at all," I say and struggle to keep the class-monitor out of my voice. I watch the other cop in the mirror; I haven't dealt with him before. He has a slow, meaningful gait, an almost-strut, and somehow inspires flashes of that old terror of the law in my mind as he plants heavy feet wide apart and comes to a standstill outside my window. He has some kind of apparatus strapped to his crotch, with a tube-like contraption sticking out of it like a surprised penis. "Blow it," he orders, and the guys cheer, despite themselves, like hypnotized Heartlanders at a Salman Khan movie.
"I don't think you understand," I say, "I haven't been drinking. You can put that thing away now." The guys are really getting into the flow of things. "Blow it! Blow it!", they chant. "If you haven't been drinking, you won't have a problem," says the cop, "blow." Now sexual innuendos aside, I have a genuine problem with
intimacy hygiene. Drunk driving is policed so comprehensively in Cochin that even by the most conservative of estimates, that apparatus must have kissed at least fifty mouths tonight. I can't even shake hands with strangers. There's no way that thing is going anywhere near my mouth.
"You know what," I say, "I have been drinking. I'm really sorry, and I'll just pay whatever-"
But the guys have other plans. This is their moment too. "BLOW IT! BLOW IT!" they chant. "What are you waiting for?" yells one, "show them!" The old Us versus Them. I've been a man long enough to know that you can't back down in an Us versus Them situation. It's just not an option. I reach in the general direction of the apparatus and wipe its head clean.
"Do it already!" mutters the first cop. So headlights in my eyes, the guys chanting pornographic war cries in my ears, I lower my face onto the cop's crotch and blow. Passing, less anarchic cars honk in approval. I think I can taste vomit, smell cigarettes and alcohol. I pull back and come up for air just as I realize the cop's hand is actually stroking my head in approval. The guys cheer and applaud. I don't wait for the policeman to check the meter. I roll up my window and drive straight home to wash my mouth clean of the sweet taste of victory.
Icy Highs's Music Recco: The Drunken Whaler- Copilot
5 Mar 2014
I’ve always taken my uncling responsibilities seriously. Even before my little nephew was born, this much was clear to me: growing up, I didn’t have an elder male figure I could depend on to bail me out of trouble, or even to show me the ropes to basic adult stuff like shaving in a hurry or sleeping with women without falling in love with them, and this sort of deprival lasts a lifetime. I would not let my nephew grow up a fuzzy-chinned romantic fool.
My approach to uncling my little niece however, is a little different. Having played
Having said that, I’m quite fond of this gig I have going as the niblings’ only maternal uncle, and the unofficial “fun uncle” by a mile. As my sis never tires of pointing out, mine is a kingdom founded entirely on the great institution of the uncle-in-transit. I’ve never lived in the same city, or even the same state as the niblings till I moved recently to Cochin, so I’ve never had to unplug the X-box just as the nephew was approaching his top score or take a U-turn and head right back into the city after a long day at work because I forgot to pick up glitter pens for the niece’s ‘art’ project. I come bearing gifts, and when I’m visiting no household item can not be converted into a plaything.
So when my sister announced recently that she and her husband would be out of town for a night, I jumped at the chance to re-write a little history. When Fun Uncle was on the throne, the niblings would look back and remember, bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. Not only would the fun never set on his empire, but the subjects would also eat their five greens with relish, shower without complaint and scoot off to bed in orderly fashion at quarter to ten. It was only a matter of a few hours before I would be inducted into the pantheon of all time greats- Uncles Bun, Charlie and …err.. Kracker.
The first evening, a Sunday, passed uneventfully enough. I reached their place around five with a party-planner’s diary worth of things-to-do only to find that the agenda had not just been set, but that it was cast in stone: a trip to Donut Factory, followed by a visit to Crossword bookstore, both conveniently located almost across the road from each other in Panampilly Nagar where they stay. Fair enough, I thought, especially since my own game plan would have taken us on a criss-cross road trip across the heart and whatever soul is left of commerce-heavy Cochin.
The outdoor seating arrangement at Donut Factory did however tear a significant hole in my comfort zone. My nephew, who takes great pleasure in reading out- and consequently inquiring as to the meaning of- just about any road/shop/other sign he can find, pointed a questioning finger at the poster behind us: “A hole looks better on a donut than on your lungs”. The words were accompanied by a picture of the universal circle around a cigarette with a line running across it. “It means you shouldn’t smoke,” I said, “because smoking pokes holes in your chest.” “But shouldn’t that be your choice?” he asked immediately, with all the privileged disdain for authority of his particular breed of Cochin’s private school populace.
If they can sell cigarettes, and tax cigarettes, then of course it should be your choice, I wanted to tell him. Screw choice, smoking is just awesome, I wanted to say. But one look at his comically revolutionary face, and a quick flashback of him running circles around me in his Messi jersey as I lunged about gasping for breath during our impromptu football game a few minutes earlier, and I turned into my dad. “You’re seven,” I barked, “you have no choice.”
My niece plays games of a subtler kind. At Crossword bookstore a little later, after explaining to me the literary merits of the many numerous diaries maintained by a kid whodescribes himself as “wimpy” with a sense of irony I suspected was lost on her, she asked me: “So how much can I spend?” I quickly scanned the price tags on the shelf in front of me, and said: “you can both pick up a book each.” “No” she declared, “tell me how much we can spend, that’s what we always do.” As I tried to remember if I even understood the concept of spending power at her age, she added, “our other uncle always lets us spend five hundred each.” I nodded in the affirmative, and prayed to all the Gods I’d heard of that she didn’t grow up to be a politician or a banker.
Of course the real test came the morning after. My niece woke me up at six to make her a poster for her campaign; she was running for Class Monitor and her pitch was “I will increase lunch hour by one hour”. “More glitter, dude,” she sighed exasperatedly every time she walked past in various stages of undress until the maid finally scooped her up and stationed her under the shower. I think she actually flicked my ear one time, but that may also have been my brain exploding. Only when the early morning wind did a little jig around my face as she waved goodbye from her bus did I fully realize the absurdity of the Goldingesque nightmare I had woken up to.
My nephew had courteously decided to exit his royal chambers when I returned, at least physically if not in spirit. I walked in on the sight of the maid flying spoon-aeroplanes of sliced idlis into his open mouth as he stood in front of the television, his hand operating the video game console out of sheer muscular memory even as his head drooped to one side, his eyes tighter shut than Kerala’s shops on a hartal. The kid was half-naked and asleep on his feet as a middle-aged woman spoon-fed him breakfast, as the streets of some ghetto or the other rose up in flames on the TV screen to electronic punk rock! The world hadn’t witnessed such decadence since the Romans.
His eyes remained shut as I helped the maid plant one of his legs after the other into freshly ironed shorts, tucked in his shirt, converted the signature quiff of his hair into a side parting just to spite him a little and deposited him on the bus next to a cute girl who looked around his age. I made my way back to the flat in a daze. I must have dozed off on the couch because the next thing I knew, the phone was ringing in the vague vicinity of my ear. It was my sister. “You okay?” she asked. “Oh I really hope I can’t have kids,” I told her. “We’ll be back before noon,” she laughed. “You should,” I said, “they grow up so fast.”
Icy Highs's Music Recco: Four Times and Once After - The Superfuzz/ Indigo Children
This piece was originally published in Helter Skelter magazine on 03-03-14
29 Jan 2014
|Fat Jesus: Turns water into chocolate shake|
So when Fatboy came over the other day, out of sorts and clearly in need of bro-time, I decided to put a little theory of mine to test. My theory is a vague conviction that Fatboy only thinks I can forgive myself because he can. Other than not showing up to a movie on time (or forgetting about it altogether), Fatboy and I have had few occasions to disagree. We're both self-loathing, egoistic, lonely man-children; we're so good together it amazes me that we haven't given it a shot in bed (we've certainly been fucked up often enough to not know an arsehole from a nail clipper). So if I were to do something that Fatboy couldn't forgive, went my line of reasoning, it'd be unlikely he'd keep insisting that I learn to love myself or pleasure myself to the psychedelic sounds of the Humpback Whale or whatever.
I started as soon as Fatboy sat down with his beer.
"Coaster dude," I said.
"No,use a coaster," I said, "What is this, a hotel?"
Fatboy shrugged and deposited his beer on a copy of RSJ magazine he found under the sofa. My heart nearly broke. This must be what Abraham felt like, I thought. "So what's up," I said.
"It's just Kristy, man," he said, "she has me all confused."
Kristy was Fatboy's new girlfriend and his longest relationship to date, clocking in at a solid three and a half weeks and several hours of sexting.
"Oh it's the ex again, isn't it?" I said.
Kristy had a clingy ex. He was only clingy to the extent that Kristy seemed to cling right back at whatever sordid little relationship they were in for many many more years than either Fatboy or I were in any position to offer any woman, but we unanimously agreed that it was his fault. Usually.
"What is it with you and exes, dude?" I found myself saying, "you're a hypocrite, you know that? You want 'em to dress and talk like Courtney Love but if they're anything more than a Zooey Deschanel in bed, you panic. And you immediately assume it makes the ex some kind of sex-God."
"Ok first of all," said Fatboy, "that's you. Secondly, you're way too old for that many pop culture references in the space of nineteen-odd words. And thirdly, it's not the ex."
"I've said this before," I replied, "and I'll say it again: There's NO such thing as nineteen-odd. Nineteen is odd."
"Ok fine," he said, "it is the ex. But it's not what you think."
"See, if you had said twenty-odd, that would have made sense."
"You know I'm always stalking him on Facebook. And Twitter. The dude has a Pinterest, but that was too low, even for me," he paused, "Anyway, I see all these pictures of them when they were together, you know, hosting parties and traveling and having conversations and watching fucking dolphins somewhere, and it's clear I can never be that guy."
"And you rightly feel intimidated," I nodded, "well, he is rich."
"Well no," he said, "I was thinking to myself that I'd really like to have all that stuff they had, you know? And it's clear none of those things are really in my skill set, so I asked myself: well, how can I have that? Anyway, long story short, I think I'm kind of attracted to him."
"OK what?" I said, "Dude, I was kidding. He's a douchebag. I've seen him put people in a coma deeper in a coma. He drains the life out of every single conversation he's involved in. They call him the coma patient-whisperer."
"I just think maybe I'd rather be shown a good time than be pressurized to put one on for somebody."
"That's great, but you're NOT gay!"
"I could be gay."
"Look, no, you're gay if you're gay. You can't just switch sides because your girlfriend can drink you under the table and doesn't cry watching the Golden Globes."
"Hey, Michael Douglas is an inspiration," he started, "anyway, I just think I should give it a shot."
This was my opportunity. Stick it in. Twist it. Make him bleed.
"They'll smoke you out, man," I said, "it's all pastels and salads out there. And besides, if one of us was going to be gay, it'd have to be me. I'm the face of this thing we have going. Gay people are all about the face, man. You'd just end up as some banker's booty call."
"Jesus, how do you sleep at night?" he said.
It's finally happened. He's broken now. I'm sorry, Fatboy. It had to be done.
"Quite comfortably, thank you," I managed, "And if you'd just given up on me when you should have..."
"No, turn around man," he said, "that's actually Jesus, right behind you."
So I turned around, and what do you know, there's ol' JC, large as life, and not Caucasian in the least.
"Oh, so you've decided you're not too good for my little corner of the world, have you?" I asked.
Jesus shrugged. "Fatboy needed me", he said.
I turned around again and sure enough, Fatboy lay spread-eagled on the couch, out like a light and snoring up a gentle storm.
"He just needs a little nap," said Jesus, "he'll wake up with no recollection of this evening and the two of you boys will be just fine."
"He won't remember?" I was furious, "do you know how hard it was for me to go all Old Testament on him?"
Jesus smiled, and helped himself to a sip of Fatboy's beer. "And you take it easy on yourself, young man," was all he would say.
26 Dec 2013
|Not everybody gets bro hugs.|
Never ones for conformity, Fatboy and I have had our own version of Christmas (or bridal shower, depending on how you look at it) ever since Sara Markose cruelly and publicly unrequited both our advances one summer afternoon in high school many years ago. We had our first drinks together that sultry evening, our first hangovers the next morning, and everything that happened in between is just about as blurry as the line dividing Robin Thicke and violent sex offenders. Cathartic as our juvenile misdemeanors were, what we hadn't realized at the time was that we had set in motion one of the great traditions of modern bromance: the Bros' Night Out. Rules would be made, they would consequently be broken, and our little tradition would evolve over time into the cultural behemoth it is today: a night of unabashed debauchery unlike our usual trysts with the bottle, one -unlike Christmas- that can only be partaken of in the aftermath of the two greatest tragedies known to the 21st century Beta Male- heartbreak or cancellation of a beloved TV show.
Naturally, I wasn't surprised in the least when Fatboy announced a Bros' Night Out last night. I was still healing, after all, and if it hadn't been for our severely hectic schedules -he had extended his holiday in Thailand by about four weeks after hooking up with an air hostess en route, and I was juggling shedding copious tears into my Chealsea FC pillow and stalking the muse to my misery on Facebook- we would have done this long ago. I almost felt guilty about how much I was looking forward to the night as I pressed the buzzer on his door- this was the first I had felt anything resembling a will to live in weeks.
A bottle of JDF in each hand, I bowed with all the theatricality I could muster when he opened the door. "I come bearing gifts," I uttered our customary greeting, and gave him a hug, "thanks, man. I really needed this." Fatboy thumped me on the back, and said quietly, "no bro, the world needed this. Come in." So enter his old lair I did, our first time back in his childhood home since 2004. "I'm so glad you're back in Kerala," I said, as I took in the once-familiar surroundings. The place had undergone a serious make-over- there were African prints on the wall, a pair of bongo-drums served as a kind of Japanese-height coffee table, and... "dude, I think you've got bugs!". I put a finger to my lips and perked my ears- "sshh, listen. Dude, you have crickets in your house, can't you hear them?" -but Fatboy had retreated into the Tardis-styled cardboard box in the middle of the room. Thank God his mom hadn't destroyed ol' Tardis. Or the mini-fridge it housed. He came out a few seconds later, a beer in each hand.
After a long sip and that universal loving sigh that accompanies the first-sip-of-beer-of-the-night in all parts of the world, he said: "I've gone to great lengths to throw together the perfect evening, broheim. We've got authentic spirits, I've got a dart pen filled with tranqs that we may or may not use on unsuspecting neighbours knocking on our doors to turn down the vibe, I've borrowed Dad's projector to watch some amazing videographic action, and I've even designed this kickass tattoo I think we should both get. Remember, you always wanted to get brottoos? Well, tonight's the night, B-Man. Tonight, we dine in hell." It was perfect. I'd probably have choked up if I weren't so cried out of late.
"Dude, this is awesome," I managed, "Thanks man, I really apprecia..."
"The world," he interrupted, "the world will appreciate this. We're live on Youtube as we speak."
"Those stupid spy-pens finally came in handy huh," I said, "bit overboard, you think?"
"Hey, tranq the negativity, will you?" he said, "Come here, check out the tattoo I drew."
"What do you think?" he asked, after I'd inspected his artwork for what felt like an eternity spent waiting for Somebody to get her damn make-up on, and still failed to produce a sound. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know what the hell he had drawn.
"It's a ....word, right?"
"What? Yeah, of course it's a word: Madiba.Well it's a proper noun, if that makes you happy. But what do you think? Of the message?"
"Is it some kind of code? "Madiba"? It sounds familiar, but.."
Before I knew it, Fatboy was off like a flash, switching off spy-pens installed at what seemed like completely random spots in the room.
"Are you fucking kidding me," he muttered as he ran about robbing millions of Youtubers of hours of potential manfoolery, "you're fucking kidding me."
"Dude, I'm sorry," I said, "it rings a bell, but it's kind of a distant ringing, it's not really audible, so.."
And then he switched off the lights.
"Is that really necessary?" I started, but he had turned on the projector. I turned my attention to the screen, praying to all the Gods I'd heard of that it wasn't footage he'd shot in Thailand. I had no reason to worry. For on the giant screen was Matt Damon's familiar face, crinkling in and out of focus. Well, at least it looked like Matt Damon. He seemed to have some sort of BDSM contraption in his mouth, and when he wasn't huffing and puffing, he was shouting distinctly un-Damonish inanities in a distinctly un-American accent. Oh wait, it's a game, there's a Matt Damon-ish looking bloke on the TV running up and down a football field. Just as the opposition appeared to be gearing up for a tackle, the screen froze.
"Is that bell loud enough for you?" asked Fatboy.
"What? Dude, those crickets are getting louder man, I think they're about to attack."
Fatboy hit play, then paused again. This time the screen froze with a close-up of a cheering Morgan Freeman in the stands. That's when it hit me. Madiba.
"Dude, is this a video of Invictus?"
"Oh that, you get."
"Ok, I'm going to ask you this one time, Fatass," I said, "those crickets. Is that coming from the speakers? Are you playing a recording of crickets fucking as some crazy-ass mourning thing for Nelson Mandela?"
"The world needs this, dude."
"No, you need help. Dude, this is fucking racist. And why is everybody pretending they used to call Mandela "Madiba"? I'd never even heard of the name till he died!"
"So maybe I erred on the side of propriety, a little. It's been a difficult couple of weeks."
"That's because you were ass-deep in cocaine and air hostess vag in Bangkok!"
"We all mourn differently."
"You weren't mourning. I bet you don't even know what Madiba means. I bet you just saw the name on your Twitter feed. And I thought you were doing this for me. Where's my fucking Bro's Night Out?"
"Oh, please. You and Girlfriend? You're so getting back together."
"Really? You think so? Wait, no, I will not play your mind-games, you bastard. And STOP checking your phone when I'm talking...Why are you shaking, man? What happened?"
"Oh, the humanity. What a terrible year. What a terrible, fucked up year. First Sachin Tendulkar retires, then Madi.. Mandela, now this."
"Dude, sit down. What happened? Is it bad news?"
"Oh I can't even..." he broke off, and handed me the phone, "you will not beliebe what just happened."
Icy Highs's Music Recco: Those Darlins - Waste Away
27 Nov 2013
Ever a sucker for a good old-fashioned Bollywood romance, I was probably more thrilled than the newly-weds themselves when my childhood friend and his college girlfriend pulled off the star-crossed wedding of the century. Parents were threatened with suicide and fasts-unto-death and chronic spinsterhood, names were called, motives questioned, even a stray pistol or two fired in the air before the two would eventually immerse themselves in the masochist waters of holy matrimony.
Since we moved to different cities- and later, countries- after school, I was unable to play my dream role of Friend & Facilitator (I never get to facilitate anything; stuff just happens to me) while all the drama was going down, but I always felt part of the proceedings, thanks in no small part to my friend's email updates at every stage of the relationship. But before last weekend, I'd waited some six years to finally meet this woman who had launched a thousand auto-rickshaws, and finally made an honest man of my brotha-from-'notha-motha.
As we all know, the woman of your bro-from-'notha-maw (there should really be an abbreviation for that) is as off-limits as it gets. No matter how short a while you've known her, she's automatically a girl-bro: someone you can go shopping with and whine to about woman-trouble and generally just be one-of-the-girls with without actually going under the knife. And my bro sure picked a winner- I liked her immediately, and we all got along like a happy house on fire, sipping our brewskis and reminiscing about school days while Green Day moaned tepidly about tattoos and memories on a CD none of us would admit to having plopped on the stereo. Nineties kids, all.
I'd never had a girl-bro before, so I was really excited to see how far I could push the boundaries of propriety. An off-colour joke here, an MD anecdote there, hell I even squeezed in a racist joke about Hindi People. She didn't seem to mind at all. I'd finally found my Gro. That's when my friend's parents dropped in, balked at me for a second as though experiencing a particularly nasty bout of deja vu, and quickly departed after dropping off his 2-year old son with us.
The kid was a real people-pleaser, going round our circle handing out head massages like an overweight teenager with low self-esteem hosting her first house party. I was just settling into one-more-and-lunch? mode, when things took an unexpected turn. My friend, who had disappeared into the kitchen with the baby, reappeared wearing a distinctly dour expression I remembered –but couldn’t place- from our kindergarten days. “What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked. “Oh, nothing,” he muttered, and stole a glance at Wifey. Holy Miley, they were doing that weird transference thing couples do and in a couple of seconds she wore the exact same expression as him! Suddenly, looking at the two of them and their toddler who had just sauntered in naked, trailing a stray diaper and the definitive waft of poo behind him, I knew. Oh shit, this is what happens to people after they have babies. The words were out of my mouth before I knew it: “bro, did you just poop your pants?”
He hadn’t, of course. Turned out his son had a habit of swallowing assorted non-edible objects, and my friend had just found the key to his gym locker in the latest poop bouquet he had been presented with. Which in his shock and horror he had subsequently dropped in the pot of biryani that was supposed to be our lunch. “I’m sorry I accused you of hiding the key,” he said and gave Wifey a hug. “Why would you think she’d do that?” I asked, “and go boil your hand in acid or something.” I pricked my ears for the sound of water running as he went back inside. “Oh he’s got it into his head that I don’t let him have any alone-time out of some kind of new-mommy spite,” Wifey explained cheerfully, and patted her son’s bottom, “look, why don’t you go through the menu and we’ll order in some Chinese?” I wasn’t sure if I could eat for a couple of days yet. “Your problems are so different from mine,” I said, “AND WHO THE HELL CHANGES DIAPERS IN THE KITCHEN?” Wifey smiled patiently. “Relax, bro,” she said, “everything you’ve touched in this house has been pissed, pooped or puked on. Repeatedly. Now order some fucking Chinese before I make him swallow your balls.”
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