Of Mother, And Other Women

I’m not great at keeping in touch. This is not a new thing, or a trait I picked up in my later years, but my parents are convinced that said character flaw reared its ugly head around the time I made  friends with Fatboy. This is patently untrue. Fatboy and I just happened to become friends roughly around the same time as when I ran out of things to talk about with my family. I let him take the fall for it, of course, in the same way we’ve both pointed fingers at each other every time one of us was caught in possession of pot or porn or –on one deplorable occasion- a Pussycat Dolls CD. He still refutes the Pussycat pop allegation. I will plead innocent till death on that count.

Having established my indifference to the occasional phone call or email, I’d like to tell you a little story of how the best intentions sometimes blow up in your face. And spit on your grave while doing the Gangnam Style. I was in Kodaikanal over the Diwali holidays, and slightly more in sync with the Oneness of the universe and the sentience of the collective human experience and all that other hippie bullshit you buy into when you’re on a diet of magic mushrooms and Kingfishers. Having risen earlier than the sun on one of those days, I decided to give the Ol’ Maternal a call. You know, just because. 

“Hi Ma,” I say, “how are you?”
“Older,” she says, “roughly about a year older as of yesterday.”
Fuck. 20 seconds. That’s how long it takes to realize why social telephony is not a good idea, especially if you’re not the type to remember birthdays and anniversaries and names of the fast expanding brood of the Jimani clan.

“Happy birthday Ma,” I say.

 “I didn’t forget,” I assure her stony silence.

“Everybody called but you, you know,” she says, “even Fatboy.”

SonofaBITCH.   

“Yeah but talk is cheap, right Ma?”, I say, “you’ll never guess what I got you.”

Now tendency to one-up each other notwithstanding, Fatboy will always be my go-to man in times of trouble- and me, his- no matter what. So it was that a half hour of recriminatory stop-start conversation later, I found myself calling The Obese One himself for counsel.  

“That was low man, calling my Mom,” I say, “I’m impressed.”

“I thought you might appreciate it,” he says, “even set up an iReminder and all.”

“Fuck you Fatass, you fucking Apple fanboy fuck,” I say, “sorry.”

“Pleasure. How’d it go?”

“Not too bad, I  guess. I’m royally screwed,” I say.

“What’s up? Jesus, you’ve got to add Sam on Facebook. Girl’s all grown up.”

“Skinny Sam? Really? Fuck Sam, Fatass. Fuck you, you fucking Facebooking fuck. Hear me out, I’m fucked.”

“Do tell.”

“So Mom was all pissed I forgot her birthday, right? Stop laughing, you bastard. So anyway, I ended up telling her I’ve written this kick-ass thank you note and dedicated my novel to her.”

“’Snot so bad.”

“What? Dude, you don’t understand. This is my one and possibly only novel. It’s all I’ve got.”

“So?”

“So I also told my ex I’d dedicate it to her.”

“Well, it is pretty much about her. I don’t see a moral dilemma. Do the right thing.”

“But my Mom’s not sounded this happy in years, man.”

“Wait a second. This is not about your Mom. You’re not that nice. What’s going on?”

“I may have…also given my girlfriend the impression the book’s dedicated to her.”

“Seriously, what is with you and dedicating everything to everybody? You’ve only been seeing her a couple of months.”

“I was weak, ok? It was the only way she’d let me… enter through the gift shop.”

“Ohh.”

“Yeaahh.”

“Sorry ex-girlfriend, whose life you plagiarized. Sorry Mothership, with the womb and all.”

“It’s the right thing to do, right?”

“Your Dad would be so proud.”

Icy Highs's Music Recco: Just Because - Jane's Addiction  

What they don't teach you at art school

When I first met Anjali, our biggest concerns revolved around who got the longest go on the Nintendo perched proudly atop their imported larger-than-anybody-else’s Sony television. The television itself was a curiosity of sorts. It was like gravity, appearing to dictate the relative positioning of every other object in Anjali’s living room, from the plush black leather couch we liked to launch our virtual armies from to the hastily drawn stick figures that inexplicably adorned the walls of the room. Neither of us shared Anjali’s mother’s appreciation for what she called the ‘arts’, but we agreed we could have probably drawn more convincing pictures of scrawny men grappling with equally emaciated women.

Ours was a curious friendship, strangely formless in its make-up, bereft of any solid definition. We’d bump into each other at school, or at Ambrosia, where our respective cliques spent Saturday afternoons munching on burgers and guzzling milkshakes in a grotesque parody of American life, a third world trait that is just about endearing in adolescents. Anjali and I wouldn’t so much as acknowledge each other’s existences during those accidental bumpings-into’s. Come Saturday night however, and we operated on a different dynamic- our families would congregate in one of our houses, and Anjali and I would spend the night exchanging insider information on our peers and telling anecdotes of such potent situational comedy that they could only have occurred in our own imaginations.

The years wore on, we moved cities and countries, and- save for the occasional bout of Facebook-stalking and congratulatory ‘liking’ of each other’s status updates- we remained largely incommunicado. I can’t say I missed her in any real sense of the word; and if that were the case, I was certainly not aware of it. My parents would update me on her whereabouts every now and then, or ask me if the two of us had talked lately, and I would shrug non-committedly on both counts- a conversational trait my parents somehow interpreted as meaning: matrimonial dynamite. So it was that Anjali and I came to be downing rum-and-cokes (her: diet; me: not) under our assigned table at the Renaissance Hotel, Cochin, fourteen years after we last met.

Arranged marriage is no less an archaic concept to me than it is to your average twenty eight year old urbanite. Having said that, the prospect of arranged marriage has always hung over me like the sword of Damocles; the most probable outcome if I didn’t find a partner to settle down with and ease myself into a well-paying but secure job by whatever age is deemed appropriate. I knew it was a possibility. I just hadn’t known I had hit rock bottom yet. My parents had finally given up on all hope of a woman ever being attracted to me and wanting to spend her life with me off her own volition. And after due consideration, had decided that it would be less embarrassing to be rejected by friends of the family, rather than strangers.

The plan was to have both Anjali and I meet without inhibition, catch up on old times, all under the watchful chaperonage of the rest of our families seated a few tables away, and later hit us over the head with Life-long Commitment when we were isolated. Truly ingenuous. Except Anjali had overheard her parents talking, and found out just a little more than even my parents knew, and was more than happy to make me privy to the skinny on our doomed alliance. Just like old times. Once finding out my parents were trying to fix me up with a woman established a permanent but distinguished dent on my self-esteem, there was no looking back. I wanted to know much more. About everybody. Divorced under duress, rumors of tumor, semblance to senility, patronage of the parish priest, I wanted to know it all.

But the information rampage would have to wait. Because Anjali has just made a shocking revelation, and it’s kicked my fallen ego in the face. The shared feeling of superiority of being a step ahead of our parents, the  excitement of buffering fourteen years of disconnect without missing a beat, had all gone out like a light and in their place was a simmering dark disquiet. Maybe I had misheard.

“What do you mean your parents wouldn’t want me to marry you anyway?”, I ask.

“You’re a freeloader,” she says.

“A freelancer,” I say.

“Same thing,” she says with a laugh, “you’re not arranged marriage- material.”

“That’s a relief,” I say, meaning exactly the opposite.

“Liar,” she laughs, “what kind of work do you do?”

“I write mostly,” I say, “but what I really want to do is draw full time.”

“What, like Mom’s stick figure paintings?” she says.

“Exactly like your Mom’s stick figures,” I smile. 

Coffee and Cigarettes. And PMS.

I knew this wouldn't end well when you suggested meeting at Gloria Jeans. I mean seriously, when's the last time we met up at a coffeeshop? Is that even normal? I heard the rumours- just like everybody else- but I've tried my best to remain unaffected. You're my bro, my oldest friend, and I'm not going to buy into the nonsense that has been doing the rounds about you. I'm here and waiting, and you're ten minutes late and you won't answer your phone, but I'm counting on you to show up and tell me the coffeeshop thing was a joke and take us to some crazy new bar you've discovered and end the night scoring eckies off some random in the Red Light District or some such. Rock out with our cocks out, etc. Don't let me down, broheim.

You're wearing a pink shirt. You tell me it's not pink, that it's salmon, that the 'l' in salmon is silent because it originates from the French 'saumon'. I just want to have a drink. I want you to shave off that ridiculous hipster beard, and ditch the man-bag, and insist the barista top up our cappuccinos with a sprinkling of Ketamine. I want to go back in time to an age when you would never use the word 'sprinkling'. It'll have to wait. Because you want to wait for your girlfriend, whom you're so excited for me to meet. So she's Frankenstein. I don't like her already.

She's not unattractive. She's actually quite nice. She's interested in my novel, she reels off football stats like a pro, and chases her espresso with a smoke and pokes indulgently at your nicotine patch. I think I like her a little bit, but then I notice you're wearing suede loafers. Did she do this to you? Does she do your shopping now? Would you like me to take her out, Liam Neeson-style? I've got your back, bro. Just say the words.

She's going to the loo. And she's taking your man-bag with her. So it's her bag. I'm sorry I'm such a superficial bastard but I'm so glad it's her's. So glad, that I'm going to ignore the fact that you lug around your girlfriend's bag. Holy fuck, you have a new tattoo. I love that you didn't post pictures of it on Facebook or show it off to me the moment you walked in. That's the cool motherfucker I used to know. I wish your tattoo weren't of a Puerto Riccan Parrot, though. I get that it's an endangered species, but I don't know if a tattoo of it on your neck is going to help them live long and prosper.      

Fuck, my stomach is cramping up again. Fuuuucccccck. Fucking fuckitty motherfucking fuckbiscuit. FUCK. Oh great, now my nipples are sore. I knew I shouldn't have worn my stupid polyester Chelsea jersey. God, it chaffs so bad. Who thought making replica football jerseys for scrawny men with all the upper body strength of an 8-year old was a good idea? Why the fuck did I ever think buying it was a good idea? I'm so susceptible to male wish-fulfillment. I'm every advertiser's dream consumer. God, men can be so stupid sometimes.

She wants to go to Totos for a drink. It's just past one in the afternoon. What a couple of alcoholics. I just want some chocolate. All I want is to sit around at home in my boxers, order that pork thing with the black bean sauce from that Chinese take-out place, and watch that Sandra Bullock movie I've been saving for just this kind of day. But I'm never going to tell anybody that. Unless my stomach starts cramping again. Oh fuck, it's cramping again. I hope a bus runs me over the moment we step out.

"Dude, you look like you're going to pass out. You ok?", you want to know.
"Oh, finally you noticed?" I find myself saying, and realize immediately how mean that sounds.
"What? You don't like her or something?", you whisper, though she's in the loo again.
"I'm sorry man, it's just... that time of the month again," I say. And die a little inside.
"What time?", you say.
"You know, that time. The whole... menstrual thing." Why do men always pretend like they don't know? 
"But you're a dude", you say, as if the universe really is that cut and dry.
"It's my girlfriend, man. She's getting her thing. I'm getting them sympathy-cramps. You know."

You're silent. You're doing that thing men do. Please don't do that thing, we're bros. I stood guard while you took a drunken shit on your ex-girlfriend's car when you found out she was cheating on you. Don't do this to me.

"Did you just say sympathy cramps?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, don't go on like you don't know. Everybody gets them."
"You get cramps when your girlfriend's PMS-ing?"
"Yes. Everybody does."
"No they don't."
"Yes, they do. It's a thing."
"It's not a thing. But do you need meds or something?"
"I don't needs meds, alright? Who even says 'meds'? Why can't you just say 'medicine' like normal people? God, I can't even stand to look at you. Why are you wearing a fucking pink shirt?"
"It's salmon."
"It's not. It's PINK."
"Whatever, man."
"I'm sorry. You make it work. Salmon is good on you."
"Really? Lisa picked it up for me. I wasn't too sure about it."
"It's beautiful. It really brings out your eyes. I love you, man. I'm sorry."
"It's alright, bro. Just don't mention the sympathy-cramps things around her, ok? I don't get those."
"Yeah, sure you don't. Ooh, cupcakes! You want one?"