The Expac

Shit! The little green blob next to my username says I'm still online. She's seen me, I know she's seen me and I can't sign off now without congratulating her. That would break our Ex-lover Pact of Civility A.K.A The Expac. I thought it would be less pathetic if it sounded like the name of a wrestler at Royal Rumble circa 1998. She thought it was ironically just the kind of thing that led her to break up with me.

"Hello, you bride-to-be-you, you!" I type in.
"Hello Mr. lost-in-translation" she types back.
"I saw the FB update. Congratulations."
"Thanks, he's a doctor."
"Oh that's a relief, I thought his name actually ended with M.D. I was wondering if it's pronounced how it's spelled."

G-talk says she's typing. And deleting what she typed apparently. And starting over. This is giving me too much time to think. Stop thinking! 

"What do you mean  "hello mr. lost-in-translation" ?"
"Well, you know..."
"Not really, no."
"Coz you're never really here nor there."

G-talk probably told her I was typing. And sputtering indignantly. And deleting. And starting over.

"Meaning what exactly?"
"Well you say you want to be a writer. Then you join uni to study Economics. You work for a few years and quit coz you want to be a writer. Then you go off and work in China for a few months. Now you're back and you want to go to uni again? That's neither here nor there."
"I'd have taken the short answer."
"Well, there ya go."

"So everybody should be a doctor? Do we even have that many diseases?"
"This is not about Him, M.D. It's about you not knowing what you want to do with your life."
"I don't want to do anything! Why dont ppl get that? I want 2 do NOTHING. Why do v all have to do stuff?"
"Seven years ago, I'd have thought that was troubled and sexy. Now I just feel sorry for your parents."
"Oh fuck you."
"Very mature. Bye."

"Ok, ok I'm sorry. Wait, you started this."
"I didn't. You realize our fights are all fights you pick with yourself?"
"That's kind of a hot thing to say. What're u wearing?"
"You're pathetic."
"C'mon, you never think about me anymore?"
"Only if I'm trying not to cum."
"That's something, isn't it?"
"No, bye. I have a deadline to hit, and you have an ocean of self pity to wallow in, I'm sure."
"Oh yeah the waves are fantastic this time of the year. You should visit."

G-talk says she's signed out. But what does G-talk know? She's probably hiding out, typing me a lengthy, apologetic email. It's all laid out clearly in the Expac.

You can read more excerpts from my novel Exes and Sevens here . And here.  And here. 

"Exes and Sevens": excerpt (yes, lucky you!)

So here's another excerpt from that novel I'm writing, Exes and Sevens. I've been unable to do any writing these last few days because life has been fairly kind to yours truly. Isn't that silly? Writing is the only thing that makes me happy, and I can only write when I'm this close to reaching for the exit-pills. For those who didn't know, I'm writing another novel because the first one was such a roaring success. Not. You can read more excerpts here and here. Go on, you know you want to. 

We took a train to Upton Park as directed by Hafiz, the landlord. We had arrived in London over a week ago and were staying at a hotel in Westminister at the time, overlooking Hyde park. The sun was out and the streets overflowed with bicyclists and tourists and cameras and mini-skirts and beautiful people. It wasn't ideal preparation for East London. It was altogether a different country, a different culture. The station was only a few metres from Boleyn Ground, home of West Ham Football Club. We could see the flags and hoardings from where we stood. The ticket-checker advised us that we would find taxis by the stadium if we didn't fancy walking the quarter-mile to what we soon come to call home.

The streets were filled with supporters of the club, but it wasn't their maroon jerseys or their alcohol-fueled outbursts that caught our attention. It was the shops. The shops were all little stand-alone stalls, selling vegetables and mobile phones and nick-knacks, all run by people of Asian or African origin. They stood outside their shopfronts, on the pavement, inviting us to go in, offering us bargains and discounts, in foreign tongues and stranger accents. The air was a mixture of smells and sounds- spices and laments, fried chicken wings and motor oil and running engines and urine. “This is like walking around in Egypt,” said well-traveled, semi-amused Leni. I thought to myself that it wasn't much unlike Anna Bazaar or Parys in Chennai.

The difference, I thought, was in the tone, the texture of poverty. The duty-free shops in Parys for instance sold pirated DVD's and contraband deodorants much like these shops. But in Chennai, there was a clear demarcation between the casual shopper and the people who lived and died on those streets, the men and women who cleaned toilets and stole from shop windows and sold their bodies. You could always make out who belonged where – the rich kids who swung by in their air-conditioned hatchbacks to rifle through stacks of ten rupee-pornography would leave as soon as it was dark. They weren't from there and they never would be. Even the locals -the poor bastards who lived there- had a tangible urgency. They weren't defeated, resigned-to-their-lot ghosts of their pasts; they believed they were fighting a class-war, one they would win by hook or by crook, if not for themselves then at least for their children. 

In Upton Park however, there was no way to make such differentiations simply because they all belonged just where they were. This was the best it would ever be for them, this was better than anything they had ever had before. It wasn't so much the dirty, unplanned outskirts of a metropolitan city as it was a township, an area and law all unto itself, much like the forsaken rural blindspots in India where everybody knew everybody and nobody had ever ventured farther than the next village or gone to college. This was not the London I had dreamed of. This, I worried, was another third world ghetto in a white man's country where my degree or intellectual pretensions  would be drowned out by the  parenthetical, unifying echo of the colour of my skin. To Them, I thought, I may as well be another political refugee or economic immigrant from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or Pakistan or Sudan, somebody who had come to their country to escape the impossible misery of where I was from. This, to Them, these streets, this jamboree of sights and smells, was their gift to me, my redemption. And I wanted so much more. 

This year's love

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.

*Originally posted here on 25 September, 2006 

*Image courtesy Oliver J. Ash 

        This year's love - David Gray (Also on The Girl Next Door OST)

Sleeping with the frenemy

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.

*Prologue to Exes and Sevens. More excerpts here.

Exes and Sevens

*Excerpt from my novel-in-progress (ahem!) "Exes and Sevens"* 

Phil knew I hated being left alone at the bar. Especially after last-call, when the place was practically empty.  He couldn’t help it; he would never make it all the way to his bedsit in Clapham if he didn’t empty his bladder before we left. I went looking for him on our first time out, concerned after waiting twenty minutes at the bar. I found him hunched over the urinal, one hand propped weakly against the wall, the other shaking, cajoling, stroking. He was perpetually worried he hadn’t got rid of it all, that some of it was still only trickling its way down from his epiglottis in an O. Henry-twist.

My thoughts turned to the reason for my discomfort in sitting there: our curmudgeonly bartender, Marty.  It was just her and me again; the two of us and her sullen, implied misanthropy. Just like every other night. I shifted in my seat and watched her work. She emptied the beer trays, polished the counter, dried a fresh batch of glasses from the dishwasher - anything but acknowledge my existence. And I was a regular; we went there everyday. Not for the first time, I wondered why we didn’t just find a different pub. 

“Do you need some help?” I asked. She didn’t seem to have heard.

“You know I’ve always wanted to work in a bar?” I tried again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been to university.” 

It was a question and a statement. I knew what was coming. I tried to suppress the swell of pride, to adapt a tone that signaled ‘I know I could do better, but it’s one of those things..’

“Yeah, why?”  I said. Nonchalance is key.

“Did you study bartending at Uni?”

“Umm, no but a few of my mates used to work part-time at the union bar and…oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that anybody can just swoop in and do your job. You probably need a specific set of skills that…You’ve probably been to Uni too for all I know – not that it would be a surprise or anything. Maybe you just chose to work here. Right? I mean why should someone with a degree not work in a bar? I think they should make it mandatory that all bartenders have some kind of formal education. I mean, what can you really do with a degree these days? Do you like Margaret Atwood?”

“Never read any. You think I’ll like her?”

I looked at her. Then I turned and fixed my gaze on the television. Marty was like the Sun. I couldn’t look her in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. 

“Oh yeah, she’s great.” This is a trap. I’m walking into a trap.

“No, why do you think I would like her?”

 “Coz what’s not to like, I mean..”

“Coz I’m gay? Coz I have tattoos on my arms and a ring on my clit? Does that make me a feminist?”

Chip, you’ve met Shoulder, haven’t you? Oh that’s right, you live there. 

Marty crouched down to get something from under the counter. A cleaning cloth maybe, or her glasses. Whatever it was, she seemed to have misplaced it. I watched the top of her head move from one corner of the counter to the other and back again, searching, cursing, impatient. It was a comical sequence of bobs and dips and expectant ups and downs, reminding me of a hen pecking grains off the ground. Or a blowjob. A cartoon-hen performing fellatio.The image made me smile.

“Well, I don’t know that Atwood would approve of the term ‘feminist’,” I said grandly, “besides, feminists probably think tattoos are too conformist. These days, anyway. I mean, Cheryl Cole has a tattoo. Victoria Beckham has a few. Everybody’s got one.”

She stood up. I duly trained my eyes on my glass, and rattled the last of my drink.

“Oh so now I’m sheep. Part of the unthinking, unblinking, brainwashed collective.”

There was that question/statement thing again. I wondered if she wanted me to disagree. She would probably disagree if I disagreed.

“I was just trying to make conversation,” I said.

“It’s not in your skill set. Will your mate have another drink?”

“No, I think we’re done.”

“Ok, goodnight. I’ll let him know you’re outside.”

I lit up a cigarette and waited on the pavement. The night was wet and miserable. It made me feel better. Phil eventually walked out holding two cans of Stella. “For the road,” he said, holding them up. “She has a ring on her clit,” I informed him dutifully. 

*Want more Exes and Sevens? Excerpts here and here.