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."
The heroin of the 21st century is a tad less rock 'n' roll.
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
This blogpost is
part of a series calledThe Girlfriend
Chronicles - which went on to form the crux of
my second novelMornings After (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy
it here onAmazon.
The consensus was clear: neither of us were big on Days. We were united by our common disenfranchisement with the consumerist practice of hyping up dates into ‘days’, and were destined to live happily –if frugally- ever after. Except I was lying through my teeth. It was one of those white lies you say when you’re still trying to get into someone’s pants (“Birthdays? Oh, who gives a fuck, right?”), but it had somehow mothballed into a philosophy. Besides how many men readily accept they’re suckers for romance?
Which is why this conversation with my boss would be especially difficult. After fretting for weeks about how to bring up the topic of doing something special for Valentine’s Day, I found out a few hours before Cinderella-time that Girlfriend is in fact on suspension for the next couple of days for picketing her employer’s annual ball. The placard she held up outside the venue seemed to indicate that she thought a 25th anniversary bash for a multi-million dollar company was a tad bourgeois. Or as she worded it, succinctly as always: “DIE, CAPITALIST CUNTS!”
“So why do you want leave the next couple of days again?” asks my boss.
“Well my girlfriend’s some sort of political ninja, and it’s Valentine’s Day and…”
“I see,” he says, “so?”
I look at him for signs of smugness, of bastardry, but he appears genuinely puzzled. Fuck, I realize with a shock, Boss-man is a true blue alpha male. He really doesn't get Valentine's Day! He's who I pretend to be to get laid! I man up and try to explain.
"See Boss-man," I say, "when a man loves a woman..."
"Yes?"
"Well, sometimes when a man loves a woman, you pick up... infections."
"Like an STD?" he grimaces.
"Yeah. It's Girlfriend. I think she's cheating on me."
"Wow," he says, "what a bitch."
HEY! Enough is enough. NObody calls Girlfriend a bitch.
"No, no," I say, "it's not her fault. I think I might suck a little in bed."
"Well that makes sense," he says, "she didn't seem the type."
"Yeah," I say, and take in the scene again.
"Boss-man," I say, "why's your finger on the intercom?"
Guffaws and laughter and hoots from across the office erupt through the intercom and fill Boss-man's cubicle as he says, smugly, bastardly, "There are two things you never admit to as a man: not making your woman happy in bed, and..." -the smug bastard is laughing so hard he can't even complete the sentence- "celebrating Valentine's Day."
Two days paid leave in hand, I go to Girlfriend's place to lick my wounds and die a slow, unmanly death. But Girlfriend is in no mood for inactivity. "Come on to the terrace," she says, "let's fire up a joint and chill." I slip into my sickday pajamas and trundle over to the terrace. I'm shocked and awed. Girlfriend has strung up the Christmas lights we never used. There's a table and two chairs in the middle, candlelight, a bottle of wine and what looks suspiciously like the tub of mango ice cream she had had delivered home last week to help me get over Crazy, Stupid Love. Damn Ryan Gosling and his bedroom eyes.
"You thought I forgot, didn't you?" she says quietly.
"Forgot what?" I say.
"Today's Valentine's Day, silly," she says and nuzzles me under my chin.
I'm touched. I'm loved up and mushy and.. try as I might, just can't seem to stop myself from bursting her bubble.
"Baby," I say, "this is very sweet but Valentine's Day is tomorrow. The 14th of February."
"Fuck you, baby" she says, "it's today, the 13th. That's why it's an unlucky number."
"You think Valentine's Day falls on the 13th coz it's traditionally an unlucky number?"
"Doh," she says, "the 'number of the beast' and all."
I'm speechless. The number of the beast?
"You don't like?" she says, dipping a spoon into the ice cream.
I can't bear to break this to her. I decide Dates don't matter after all.
"I love it," I say earnestly, " I love you. This is the best Valentine's Day ever."
Icy Highs's Music Recco: The Franklys - Imaginarium
This blogpost is part of a series called The Girlfriend Chronicles - which went on to form the crux of my second novel Mornings After (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy it here on Amazon.
Kids, the summer of 2012 was a very special time. The world was still an apocalyptic wasteland, and I was convinced life as we knew it was really just one big Zuckerberg simulation. While all of humanity clamoured for Mayan interventions and the Silicon Valley supply line appeared to have finally run out of minimalist Messiahs, your father was one of the few men to look reality in the eye and accept things as they were: we were all well and truly fucked. Like I say, it was a magical time.
Your father was in his prime, still compulsively spewing vitriol like any self-respecting writer should, still rocking his Chuck Taylors on weekends. Unfortunately, in the summer of 2012, your father wasn't a self-respecting writer. Not even a self-loathing one, which is the commoner kind. He was a professional, a clean shirt. Your father still harboured dreams of getting back into the literary game of course; back because he had already written his first novel, six years ago- it was a crusty old thing, languishing unread, amputated and hidden away in pieces in godforsaken corners of his inbox.
There were 3 Chucks in your father's life: Norris, and the Taylor twins.
Your father was biding his time, hoping- and believing- that his flirtation with corporate life was an infatuation, that he would roll up his sleeves and bin the flashy suits and ditch the rat race for the solemn static of uninspired graphite touching paper, for the desperate longing of lonely symphonies typed out on disinterested keyboards. And then one excessively inebriated night at Clarke Quay in Singapore, he snapped. Ever the Grand Gesture merchant, he threw his smartphone over the serendipitously named Read Bridge, left his boss a voicemail of questionable propriety and embraced the Dream.
Much as this little note sounds like a big ol' circle-jerk, I do have actual news to deliver, unlike the douchebag from the sitcom I'm parodying for whatever reason. A lot has happened since that stormy night on Clarke Quay. I've spent the last few months bumming around India, not because I wanted to find myself but because the Motherland is the one place that does not place immigration restrictions on my brown ass.I made new friends, got into fights, found a publisher for my novel, blogged and tweeted and facebooked like a crazy person, moved to Bombay, fell in love.
But tonight, I am racked with all sorts of anxiety because tomorrow I finally join the ranks of 'published writers'. One of my short stories 'An Absurd Romance' has been published by the good folks at Scholastic Nova in their anthology 'Music of the Stars and Other Love Stories' which releases tomorrow at the annual New Delhi World Book Fair 2013 in New Delhi. Starting tomorrow, I can no longer hide in the shade of euphemisms; my work will be available to all to read and judge and love or loathe.
It's liberating and intimidating in equal measure, and the future being so unpredictable, I'm now slowly making my peace with the dawning realization that it's okay to be scared when you're going after something you love. I hope I don't, in the process, leave you a legacy of failure and not-good-enough; I hope tomorrow heralds the start of something magical, something special, like the Summer of 2012. But if that doesn't happen, if the wannabe-writer shtick blows up in my face, I'd like for you to know that it's been one hell of a ride.
'Music of the Stars and other Love Stories', Scholastic India (2013)
