To say Fatboy has a penchant for drama is like saying Hrithik Roshan is not crazy about defeat. He actively pursues opportunities for unleashing said histrionic tendencies too, which is why I hadn't been looking forward to Fatboy's impending visit. But he seems pensive somehow, almost distracted. "You want to tell me about your hand, bro?" I ask, finally.
Fatboy looks down absently. His thumb is in a cast that appears to have been modelled on one of those foam fingers you see American sports fans waving at whatever they call that game that's actually just cricket in baseball jerseys. "Oh this," he says, "Tinder-thumb." Like that's a totally real thing. I suppress the urge to comment that it's only his right hand that seems to have been affected.
Miley Cyrus famously raising awareness about Tinder-thumb.
"I heard you quit your job," I try again. "Oh that, yeah," he scratches his chin, "I have an idea for an app. Look, you want to talk about what happened or not?" Here comes the pain. "There's nothing to talk about bro," I say, "she and I went out, we broke up, and you and I are not talking about it." Fatboy crosses his legs and assumes position. "I mean, she could have broken up with me in person," I say. Fatboy nods encouragingly. "She says she's been writing me this email to explain everything," I continue, "she'd never have just stopped answering my calls otherwise. Or texts. Or the door."
I watch Fatboy as he shifts in his seat. Something is up with the guy, and it's not my love life. "Not that," he says, "what I texted you about." He's kidding. There's no way in hell... He raises a hand, presumably to stop my train of thought but it just looks like his thumb is giving me a giant go-ahead. "I understand your moral reservation, I do," he says, "which is why I think you should start small. Among an intimate circle of friends, perhaps? Maybe you could even start with just me." The bastard. "You want me to send you nudes of my ex?" I ask, just to make sure. He nods sagely, and departs to the loo.
I flip through the pictures on my phone. She and I, at Monkey Bar. The three of us, that night we ended up at HUDCO park after some gig or the other. How long does it take to type a bloody email, anyway? Picture after picture, grotesquely shiny tableaux of what never was. I hover over one particularly fond memory, and hit 'Share'. Seconds later, a "whoop" emanates from the loo that can only be the guttural liberation of forbidden lust. Revenge porn. This is my lowest moment, yet.
Fatboy steps out of the loo and buckles his belt pointedly, Tinder-thumb and all. "You did the right thing," he says. I shrug off the hand he places on my shoulder and take a sip of my beer: "You liked that did you, Tinderella?" Fatboy bows theatrically. "Congratulations," I say, "you're the first man to jerk off to a picture of my butt."
Icy Highs's Video Reco: #DefeatDefeat (Hrithik Roashan)
Hrithik Roshan hates defeat so much he will defeat it.
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 STOPchecking 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
We both know, that if last night had happened a few weeks ago, or days even, maybe, I would not be bent over my laptop right now, coaxing words out of keys that don't love me anymore. No, I'd probably still be asleep, to put it charitably- 'unconscious' is how they described it when they found me last time, remember? Remember the rants, the uncontrollable anger? Remember me taking off down the road in the middle of the night that one time, shirtless, barefoot? The incessant calls, the begging, the blackmailing, the pleading.
It isn't ideal, we had both agreed, that kind of behavior. A change is in order. It's time I picked up my naked heart from my sleeve, you told me, put your heart back where it belongs, safe behind bars like everybody else's, where the heart cannot stir up any more trouble. It's time I retired it, or put the old thing down, you told me, I'm too old to have heart. Get a job instead, you said.
I got by, instead. I learnt to rein it in instead of letting it all out, to text before calling, to ask before taking. To iron shirts for the morrow, and look up destinations on Google Maps before setting out. To talk boring but practical, rather than flowery and unrealistic. To listen, to listen and not respond, when you come to me with a conundrum, though I still have to fight off the urge to tell you it's no so bad instead, to tell you things will get better, or to suggest a way out. It's what I'd want. Still.
So I suppose, that in a way, this is growth. Laid out around me, cluttered but not in disarray, are things- real, tangible, physical things that will attest to my growth. There's a mug of coffee you would be proud of, and no rings under it either (though I forgot the coaster). There are three sharpened pencils, markers, nicorex, post-its, a brand new thesaurus, and- you won't believe this- a watch on my wrist. Zadie Smith's NW and Hanif Kureishi's Midnight All Day lie open, spreadeagled, next to each other, their pages a blur of marginalia and annotations, awaiting judgment, like lovers after a performance. I will not budge from my chair till their reviews are up on Pop Culture Namaha.
When you asked me, last night, why I don't sound like I love you anymore. When you cried into the phone because I didn't care enough to say no, that's not the case. When you hung up distraught because I wouldn't rise to the bait. Those, darling, like my Things and my Growth, are your creations too. The silence and the calm come with the sobriety and the solitude. I've even been waking up early to do those breathing exercises for my Asthma. I'm happier than I used to be, though not nearly as happy as we used to be.
Last night was a revelation, in that, uncharacteristically for you, you were caught wishing some of the Madness had grown back. You picked at and prodded, shook and squeezed, brought to your face and held against the light. You danced around my little heart-shaped box, rattled its cage, batted eyelids at and threw pennies in, teasing, provoking, willing it to come out and play, if only for a while, only to have it retreat deeper into its kindly new abode, collapse a little deeper into itself.
It enjoys the clinical click of the lock behind it less than you do, hates the hospital-smell of its walls more than you do. It tries to think of the numbness as a dietary compromise during a course of life-saving antibiotics. It's not pleasant, it's certainly not fun, but it persists, like a junkie in a program, willing it to run its course, to outrun its maker and nature and come back a better being, a nicer soul, a kinder brother, a better lover, a gentler friend, a good son, an honest man. It's a work in progress. It will take time, and there will be casualties, but we -us- will not be one of them. Time, maybe; youth, perhaps, or what's left of it; maybe you, and maybe, just maybe, maybe even lovelorn, addicted, me. Not Us. Not the two of us Together, not what we had and what we used to be- that we'll always have.
Icy Highs's Music Recco: Summertime Sadness, Lana Del Ray
You know what's fantastic? I'm a cynic. But you knew that. I'm the kind of person who can be indifferent to all sorts of things. You knew that too. Everything except you. And the fact that you still have that kind of hold on me, what two years after, that's awesome, that's incredible. You're a witch, a sorceress. And I'm bewitched. And I'm clearly still in love with you. Just pretend you love me. Pretend I mean something. Lie to me. C'mon.
The toughest thing about a breakup is almost always the logistics. That summer vacation you foolishly booked months in advance, the house you moved into together, the city you adopted as home, the friends you kindly shared, the phone bill, the internet connection, the Ikea shoe-rack. These things somehow take precedence over the gaping emotional abyss you're plunging headfirst into because you think the details will dull the drama. And they do, to a certain extent.
When you're still in love with the person you're pushing away, when he's still your best friend and she's still your's, the equation is a little different. When neither of you can think of any rational reason to not be together anymore except "this just isn't working", when there's no definitive rhythm or reason to the pain you're inviting in, you tend to act in fits and starts. You think you can phase it out, instead of cutting loose. You use terms like 'space' and 'break' and 'time', all of which really only mean that neither of you has the courage to leave.
We played this game for almost half a year, without ever really realizing it. We decided to separate one stormy January night, and somehow put off moving out till summer naughtily reminded us of the life outside our walls. I spent most nights on the couch, half-asleep and half-afraid of the darkness, the cold. Sometimes, we'd drink a little, get along a little and make the disillusioned trip back to what used to be our bedroom. Sometimes, we'd fight and argue and shout, and collapse all tangled up in each other on the couch, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. Doomed couplings, all.
I'd stare hollowly into her eyes, or cling pleadingly to the past.
She'd berate me for what was lost, or tell me she was never there.
I'd push her off midway, or stand up and walk away.
She'd tell me sorry but can we stop? I'd ask her if she was ever there.
Lies, all.
It was never going to be me who would leave. I can still see us there, in that very same house, years and years later, our tattered robes and disheveled selves, more acquisitions to numb the numbness - a bigger TV, a colder refrigerator, a couple of children conceived in hope, raised in despair. She saw it too. It terrified her, but she had to make sure I'd be alright. So one summer morning, on our way to the station, on our way to board trains that would take us to work and blessed, temporary escape from it all, she said she might visit her parents over the weekend. I said that'd be fine. And it was.
It's been a hard year, I know. We haven’t spent much time together. The telephone waves we burnt up and the internet camaraderie we shared mean zilch in the real world. In the real world, love doesn’t have the shelter of distances. Love is always tested by proximity, by lack of space.
Neverthless, you amaze me. You’ve managed to hold on to so much of me in your absence. I shudder at the thought of what your presence might do to me. Turn me into a mad man, perhaps, sick with longing and disillusionment, like other couples we know. Or a boring man maybe, brimming with tales of the latest antics of his irrationally doted-upon toddlers; imagine, Yamini and Thoma would flee for their dear lives at the sound of my footsteps.
Except for the odd moment of desperation, I haven’t wronged you in thought, even. Tomorrow this time, your complete annexure-in-absence of one year of my time, affections and attention will be complete. For all practical purposes, you have been my master and commander, subtle and wise, your suggestions so strong they seemed to me my own. Yet, in some unlit alcove of my mind, I know. I have always known.
Darling, this is not working for me. Darling, this is working so well, it’s threatening to take me over, and I can’t have that. I can’t be boring or mad, you know that. I need always to be attractive for us to work. And us- this- working will render me unattractive. It’s like one of those algebraic conundrums you find so exhilarating to work out. Or from your perspective, it’s classical irony, the kind I can only aspire to create in my work.
My coffee has gone cold. It’s been a year since I had a good cup of coffee in the morning. Technically, I should have grown used to the taste of too much or too little coffee powder, or sugar or water or milk. Incredibly, I haven’t. On every one of those three hundred and more days, I've taken that first sip and sighed. More than anything, it's the sigh that gives me away. That sigh is my desire for all things you; the unspoken faith that tomorrow, things will be better; tomorrow, you'll wake me up with a towel around your long damp hair, the sight of newly exfoliated skin and the smell of freshly-brewed coffee jerking my senses into over-drive. Every morning, I wake up and sigh for you.
I miss sighing for me. I miss sauntering through the…
She idled her mouse over DELETE for a second, and clicked. She watched the window collapse on itself as her inbox skipped merrily along to the next email. David’s words made their presence felt immediately- like a rush of blood to the head, or the magic of a long-awaited first kiss, the excitement of everything new.
'Ello babes! We’re meeting at eight right? Not 7. Right? See ya.
- Davey.
She picked up her mug of coffee, tucked the laptop under her other arm, and shuffled across to the mirror. There, she looked deep into her eyes, and watched silently as her heart brimmed over. She couldn't help smiling. For here was this year’s love.
When it finally happened,it was a bit of an anti-climax. It wasn't brought on by one of us walking in on the other in the shower with a stranger, or the sudden discovery of a criminal alter-ego. No love-child hidden away under the basement, no re-kindling of flames past. What brought the cards tumbling down was the gentle (or not-so-gentle, if you want her opinion) sound of my contented sleep. And all I wanted was a passionate, fiery, dramatic break-up.
I looked it up: the love-doctors can’t even converge on a collective, all-encompassing medical term for it. It doesn’t even have a name! You'd think after three years of spending every waking moment together (if not physically, then at least emotionally- on skype, facebook, g-talk!) I could come up with something more poignant than snoring to cause a loved one sleepless nights. That's a treacherous blow to your self-worth. You stood strong; you were her rock, her pillar, while everybody around you seemingly plumbed new depths of moral depravity. You stayed up nights to help her prepare for bar exams in a language you don't speak, you feigned weekly relish after meals of badly boiled cabbage and poorly pastry. After all that, surely the least she could have done was cop off with your best friend?
I wonder if we all go through relationships in the hope of a spectacular severance. Do you nourish and nurture your relationship like an unreasonable plant that blooms only once? Do you fantasize daily of the grand finale - do you wonder every day what will set it off? Do you plan furtively to ensure it's everything you hope for? Do you sow seeds of jealousy, sprinkle opportunities for self-doubt in your partner to ensure it’s must-see TV? Do you rush through the main-meal in a tearing hurry to get to the dessert, the piece de resistance?
I invested three years in that woman - she had it all, everything your philosophy and your literature will tell you guarantees just that. I had a novel riding on that woman - my'Love In The Time Of Cholera', my homage to the great romances. And what does she do? She throws it away on something as mundane and un-spectacular as sleep pattern. See, the average German woman sleeps 7.1 hours a day. Leni approximates that my snoring wakes her up once every fifty-five minutes. It takes her between twelve and sixteen minutes -to roll me over, wake me up and roll me over, or scream into my ear and leave the room - each time. Considering we spend roughly seven to eight hours between “good night “ and “good morning”, that doth not a very productive day make for a working woman. So what does she do? She dumps me. But let’s start at the beginning.
We fell asleep on the phone like old times. Or I did like I used to. I imagine her disconnecting the call, rolling over to turn off the bedside lamp (though its still daytime where she lives), checking the phone again to make sure. I remagine the feel of her checked pyjamas on my skin (though she told me she's in her lawyer attire).
I sit up and pray I didn't spend more than I can afford. There's a gaping hole in my recollection of last night. I don't remember leaving my local. There's a barstamp on my wrist that seems to think I spent some time -and money- at the Butter Factory. I don't remember calling her, but I remember talking. There's a fully-clothed stranger in my bed I don't remember bringing home.
She's waking up, slowly. I watch her take in the strange ceiling, the unfamiliar quilt, me. "The couch was too small", she says, "I hope you don't mind." I think about this and decide I don't. I wonder about the possibility of sex. "No," she says. "You must have found me attractive at some point," I argue.
"That was before you left me watching tv to talk to your ex," she smiles, "I should probably be mad."
"I should probably be sorry-" I begin.
"-But you don't remember," she finishes for me.
She doesn't want coffee or toast, but she'd like to use my computer to check her mail. Her Blackberry is out, she explains. I wonder again about the possibility of sex. "No," she says, typing away. I feel cheated, and hung over. And cheated. "I'm sorry about last night," I say. I insist I only get like that when I'm really drunk, that I almost never get that drunk, that I dumped her, not she me. I will lie in a church if it houses the possibility of sex. "Let me buy you a drink sometime," I say.
She explains why that may not be a good idea. She will however still help out with finding a job in publishing. I don't remember this thread of conversation. I take her card. She is In Recruitment. I wonder if she isn't kind of giving me her number. "No," she smiles. My brain refuses to process this information. There's blood and hope aplenty in my nethers.
I decide I should save her number on my phone before the card is stripped for roaches. I have a text from the aborter of our maybe-babies. "I want you to know," she wants me to know, "that you don't need me anymore." Yeah well, I want you to know that you're not going to convince me of that by quoting our fucking breakup song.
