The Curious Incident Of The Bro In The Night

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

 

 


       

Going Viral

Without the necessary precautions, it's the sort of thing that could happen to anybody, but you somehow never imagine it could happen to you. Blissfully in denial, I ignored the obvious symptoms for the first couple of days: the tell-tale sting, the burning sensation, the constant itching. It's true I've been playing it a little fast and loose with the 'socializing' over the last few weeks- the Kochi Fashion Week Afterparty, those two crazy weekends in Chennai and Bangalore after, the music festival in Ooty. What can I say? I just can't sleep anymore.

Still. I could have been more careful, in hindsight. I'm probably too old to blame my parents for not telling me about this stuff, but isn't there some kind of vaccination against these things? After much internal conflict, I phoned the family doctor. He's guided me through asthma and faux wisdom teeth, addiction and depression, but this was a new low, even for me. "Yes, you're definitely infected," he confirmed, "you'd better warn everybody you've been with in the last few weeks."

Where do I begin? I didn't even remember the names of some of them. Definitely didn't have phone numbers, or email. And am I not entitled to a little indignation of my own? Maybe it had already been going around, and they- the lot of them- had given it to me. I certainly didn't harvest it in my ball sack. They should be calling me to apologize! Judging by the time frame though, it was pretty clear whom I'd contracted it from: that colleague my sister had set me up with. She's been off work for "personal reasons" ever since, my sister reported. I'd have to do the decent thing.

So log on to Facebook I did today morning, and typed out the following status update:
"It's come to my attention that I'm now the inadvertent incubator of a particularly virulent disease. Those of you who spent the last few weeks in my company, please get yourself to a doctor asap and get yourself checked for Chicken Pox. Apologies to all, and a pox on your family, Sister's Colleague!"


      

 

The Language Of Privilege

In an austerity bid that would have made Chidambaram proud, I cut down on some frills last month and cancelled cable, internet, my subscription to The Hindu, and pretty much all social commitments that involved leaving the house. The last part naturally necessitated some maneuvering, so as to avoid hurting the feelings of certain grown-ass men and women who -in my totally unbiased opinion- set too much store by what they do and who with on their birthdays. Still, maneuver I did, and expertly at that, by simply hijacking all birthday/anniversary/other-assorted-event celebrations on the horizon with a simple text sent out every Monday morning to pretty much all my contacts: "This is a big one for you-know-who, guys; party at my place all wknd. BYOD!"

The first couple of weeks were fun, with people inevitably crashing for a few more days, calling friends over, ordering enough take-out to spare me the trouble, setting up wi-fi hotspots, poker tournaments, the works. But the novelty wore off when I started having to field phone calls from concerned spouses, parents and even somebody's boss. Not to mention the realization that there would always be demand for anything-goes bachelor pads in Bombay; that there would always be suffocated spouses, pill peddlers and psychopaths who celebrate two birthdays a year, looking for a place to get their twerk on. I'd have to choose between having a life and staying alive.

Tramps evicted, trash bagged, and sanity restored, I decided I needed some sort of project to keep from crashing. Which is how I decided to turn Raju, our Bihari cook, on to a different kind of drug, one that greater men than I had been burnt, consumed and immolated by: the English language. I had noticed him trying to speak to my friends in broken English, struggling but never shy, and it seemed as worthy a reason as any to withdraw from society: I'd play Jesus to his Disciple, and on the third day (or whenever my book advance shows up) I'd rise again and presumably hover a few feet above Totos for a little facetime with Bandra before descending straight down for a pint.    

Oh it was all fun and games at first. I drew little posters full of apples and tomatoes and oranges that all looked like bananas, I underlined words on tetra-packs and shampoo bottles for him to memorize, I even promised to introduce him to the miracle that is "Facebooks". But the initial excitement can only take you so far: three days, to be exact. To keep Raju's thirst for knowledge satiated, I realized, would take commitment, selflessness, dedication. Hey, you try making meaningful, easy-to-understand sentences with every random word a  non-speaker of the language throws at you. "Conditioner!", he'd yell, and "Pasteurized!". "Dandruff!". "Deodorant!". "Refrigerated!".

In my desperation to help, and my aversion to putting too much effort into it, I had myself a little "What would Jesus do?" moment. And then I knew. The solution had been staring at me in the face- a medium that will continue to introduce Raju to new material without danger of him losing interest, without my having to exercise my brain or mind; the baby-food of English 101: Hollywood. Without further ado, I popped into Bru World next door, googled and copy-pasted five A4s worth of "famous lines from Hollywood movies" and dropped the printouts on his lap.

The household is certainly richer for Raju's penchant for practice- he never lets slip an opportunity to use one of the lines in conversation. When I wake him up these days with a bout of midnight munchies, he doesn't grumble or feign sleep. He hurries to the kitchen instead, returns with a bowl of cocoa-puffs and cold milk or a packet of Bourbons, and declares, "Life is like a box of chocolates." He won't so much as go to the bathroom without announcing, "I'll be back". Things have been going so well in fact that I got quite the shock today when I asked him to tidy up the living room. He held my gaze for a second, surveyed the mess around us, and secure in the knowledge that the English-speaking world is full of hopeless romantics and idealists and vigilantes- a world that he is now part of- made his first foray into the land of the empowered. "Help me help you," he said. I promptly rushed back to Bru World and posted an ad for a new cook.
  
                                Icy Highs's Music Recco: Brahama- My Sleeping Karma 

     

Of Selfies And Cellphones. And 8-Year Olds.

 Mona Lisa had a bit of a reputation for selfies.   

See my little nephew and I, we're practically peas in a pod. The little guy is all me, it must be like genetic or something- and I don't mean manic depressive or creepily-silent-around-women. I mean the curiosity, the wonder, the non-stop questions, the frequency of hair gel-induced disasters: that's exactly what I was like at his age.

Whenever we get a little time together, he makes it a point to ask me the stuff they can't teach you at school, real life stuff- for a middle-class kid his age, it's like striking the mother-lode, if you know what I mean. Naturally, I was fully prepared for a week's worth of existential discourses of the adolescent kind when I got here last Tuesday. To my disappointment, the boy has been silent, reclusive, locked up in his room.

"I'm leaving in a few hours," I say, "Nothing you want to ask me, buddy?"
"There is this one thing," he says.

There's never only been one thing before. This must be huge. The meaning of life, or why hasn't Morgan Freeman recorded a Bible audiobook, yet?- something massive. 

"It's about selfies," he says, "Are you any good at selfies?"
My brain takes a couple of seconds to digest this information, and promptly denounce all bloody supply. I decide to clarify.
"And by selfie, you mean," I ask, "like a...self-administered...handy?"
"Way to dork things up," he says, "yeah, I guess. I just want to know if there's a recommended hand for maximum satisfaction."
Oh Karma, you son of a bitch. 

"Well, selfies are besties," I say, "the important thing is that you use your hand. And with practice...just how long have you been..selfing... yourself?"
"I owe it to you really," he says, "ever since you gave me your iPhone! I can upload my selfies in seconds."
Oh God. Oh God, I have turned my eight year old nephew into an inadvertent self-pornographer. 

"Ok, don't panic, Little Nephew," I say, "but you need to show me which sites they're on, ok?"
"Oh just on a Facebook group for like-minded selfie enthusiasts," he says, "I've put up so many I'm practically a legend to those guys."
No surprises, there. His physique must be genetic too, after all. 

"Hey, don't let anyone tell you it's the frequency that matters," I say, "you'll only set yourself up for a fall."
"Oh I know," he says, "it's not that. I go the extra mile, and these guys appreciate it. I accessorize, you know? Sometimes I clip on a moustache, or wear a wig, or hey I even plopped on your Aviators once."

Naturally, I had to take it up with his parents. I couldn't confiscate his phone, he'd hate me forever. And I sure as hell couldn't explain it to him, it'd be like gifting Adam his first fig leaf. I suppose his parents were afraid of the same thing. Which is why on my advice, we did the responsible, adult, decent, thing- in the middle of the night, like particularly clumsy cat-burglars; I think my brother-in-law actually sat on my little nephew's face for a split second- we stole his iPhone. His parents thought it best that I hold on to it. And assuming I have my way, that phone will never take a call again.

Fair Weather Girlfriend

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'Cough Syrup Surrealism' Book Launch & Party

So I've been threatening to publish my novel, Cough Syrup Surrealism, for a while now. I'm glad to tell you my baby's finally got a face, and a release date. And a Facebook page, because nothing screams AUTHENTIC more than a Facebook page, right? The cover's below, and here's the link to the page:

https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism

The book is already available for pre-order on Flipkart and uRead, but the official launch (Translation: PARTY!) is on 10 June, Monday night at 7:30pm at The Den, Bandra in Bombay. It's a Nineties-themed night, with plenty of booze, books and banter, and of course a kickass 90s playlist. If you're in Bombay at the time, please drop in, say hello, help yourself to a few happy-making beverages and pick up a copy of the book.

Please check out the Facebook page and like/share/tweet/comment/mailmeyourpanties and show me some love, you guys! Launch party, and other details are all up on the page (because noone takes anything seriously unless Facebook tells them to), as well as some incredible artwork by resident aesthetician Igirit. 

I'm on @icyhighs if you'd like to drop me a line on Twitter. Thanks in advance, and fare thee well ye merry lot. Your support's meant the world to me, and will always do. I'll be back to blogging (and hopefully lose the writerly airs- yes, I KNOW how I sound!) in a couple of weeks. Hope to see you all at the launch! 

Keeping It Real

The first prince of street cred: Ali G

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."

Icy Highs's Music Recco: 'Shopping' - The Jam 

  

An Absurd Romance

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) 

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?"  

Sins of the Father

Cucumbercalypse now 

There comes a time in everybody's life when you finally just shrug, shake your head and mutter, "I'm too old for this shit." As made famous by Danny Glover as Roger Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon. And later, paid homage to by Ted in How I Met Your Mother. The idea being, once hit by this profound realization, you drop whatever time travelling device you're holding, and immediately start acting your age. That's right; step away from the Ed Hardy tee shirt rack, old man. There's no excuse for Ed Hardy tee shirts, not even on young people.

Unfortunately, my Dad didn't get the brief. What makes it more painful is that he's one of those people who were never that young to begin with. I don't mean he was boring; just that his interests were always more serious than other kids' Dads'. So while my friends dozed off in school after staying up all night watching the World Cup play offs with their Dads, I'd scribble furiously into my journal my impressions of Tolstoy and Dickens because they were the nominated topics of dinner conversation that week.

Since I moved back in, my Dad has asked thrice that I accompany him to the barber shop. I obliged once. Throughout his haircut, he made the barber stop repeatedly in the middle of his craft to ask me if he should maybe keep a portion long, or part it in a different way, or adopt a quiff. He once wondered aloud if the barber could do anything about the grey hairs on his body.

My Dad also decided that I would be his conduit to the E-niverse. In the last couple of months, I have introduced him to the computer, created his email account and set up a webcam so he can Skype with my sister's kids. He is still unable to fully grasp the concept of googling stuff -he thinks all things have allotted residences of their own on the web, and keeps asking me for the "address" for this and that. I think he's worried that it's somehow impolite to access a website through a search engine, and not directly by typing in the web address. I can't convince him that it's not the same as Uncle Chaz dropping in unannounced.

On the whole though, he has made steady progress. The other day, he asked me if he should change his shirt in preparation for a bout of Skyping with Legs Gracy, an old friend of my parents'. Legs had a bit of a reputation in their college for wearing short skirts. I figured any reason was good enough to rid him off the shirt he was wearing- it was fluorescent green and tight, and clung to his paunch like a drowning man to floatsam. He promptly strutted back in wearing a Che Guevera teeshirt and a beret. Mom spilled her coffee on my knee, but the court is yet to prove intentional harm.

Happy as I am to help Dad through whatever issues are leading him to buy CDs of One Direction -I haven't gotten round to teaching him about file sharing yet- I determined to save him and my niblings any embarrassment by warning them about his propensity to midlife. It was a phase, and it would probably be over soon, but it would do no harm for the niblings to be prepared. I survived the first one on my own; I would guide them through the second coming. I was Uncle Cool, and I would have The Chat with them. Their parents could thank me later.

"So what I'm basically saying," I say, "is that Grandpa might do things that embarrass you and make the other kids give you hurtful nicknames that scar you for life, but it's only because he's old and mental."

They look nonplussed. The poor things haven't grasped the seriousness of the situation. They don't know about "your Dad smells like old socks." They were born after the Sideburns, and the Vespa; long after the disappointment of the Seventies passing him by in his youth had been atoned for during mine in the Nineties.

"Guys, this is serious," I tell them, "he will reference movies that you should never admit you like. He will frame participation certificates from cricket camp in the living room. He will crush your spirit, and bulldoze your self-respect, but don't let him see you cry. Ok? Cry only when you're alone, not in front of him. Don't let him win."

My nephew looks up from his iPad. I'm finally getting through. "Rita says you embarrass her all the time," he says, pointing at his sister. I laugh. I'll let Rita take this one; tell the little fella he's mistaken. "It's not all the time," says a flushed little Rita.

My world comes tumbling down; folding in on itself. Their words echo off my eardrums as though from a great distance.

"Yesterday," says a voice that sounds a lot like my Rita's, "you liked your own status update on Facebook."
"Shelley's mother," says the voice, "told my teacher you send her strange texts at night."
"You lifted me up by the ankles in the car park and all the boys saw my underpants," says the voice.
Oh God, there's more. She's only getting warmed up. 
"You keep retweeting your own tweets," she says.
"And you're always cheating at Uno," adds a lower tenor.
Et tu, nephew? 

Later that evening at the barbershop, Dad and I are seated in adjacent chairs, hair being tended to while we watch the news.
"So what made you come with me to the hairdresser's?" my Dad wants to know.
""You promised to call it "barbershop"," I remonstrate, "and I needed a haircut."
"Right. Did you know," says Dad, "they have this thing where they put your feet in a tank full of fish that are trained to give you a footjob?"
"Don't gay this up," I tell him, "and it's called a pedicure."
"Sorry," he says, "can you hand me the remote? Sick of the news."
"Doesn't bother me," I say, "Can't see a damn thing with these cucumber slices over my eyes."


                                           Icy Highs's Video Recco: Rocky VI Training Scene

     

Extremely loud and indelibly close

It has now been a little less than a month since I upped and left my Old Life, and re-joined the Fam. This is easily the longest I have spent with them since the Summer of Love & Detox, 2005, which was a recuperative stint post-rehab and probably doesn't count. In other words, this is the longest I have spent with my family without compulsion -or a padlock on my door- since I finished school in 2002. That was ten years ago, back when Facebook was still a gritty little chromosome in Satan's ballsack, cheering on Zuckerberg's synchronized swimmers from the stands.

I left home before my nephew and niece were born, and though we've always been in touch, we have never really spent more than a few hours together in the same room. Which is why I jumped at the chance to take responsibility for their conveyance from their home to that of my parents for their summer break. Summer-at- grandparents' is a family tradition, and plays motif to my favorite childhood memories. My cousins are all grown up and too busy now to spend an entire summer in front of TV or playing cricket under rubber trees like we used to, but growing up together -if every summer- helped create a bond that will only be nourished by age.

Many summers ago at Vagamon, Kerala with the gang

With my younger sibling soon expecting her first-born, I want to ensure these kids have something similar to look back on when they're fucked up and miserable in their late twenties. It helps. I diligently planned the twelve hour drive, penciling in educational, recreational, nutritional and excremental pit-stops. I loaded universal favorites on the MP3 player - surely, even Noughties kids would appreciate the possibly-racist but undeniably lovable durability of Sweet Home Alabama?  This was going to be our Memory; this was how they would remember their coolest uncle after his promising writing career was stopped short by alcoholism and too much hour-long nookie. Or got run over by a scooter while crossing the road from his security job at the mall.

Over the Easter weekend, I came to realize that my sister had talked me up over the years into an almost magical figure of superhero-like abilities to entertain kids. My nephew and niece had endured several hours of toilet-training, teeth-pulling, math classes and violin lessons to please their walking fun-fest of an uncle, and were -surprise!- rewarded with bicycles and skateboards and doll houses. Though they were a little disappointed that I arrived and left while they were asleep every time, they were no less thankful- and expectant of more super-fun times.

Now I'm no expert but children are not terribly reasonable creatures. I was therefore prepared to hit a few rough patches on the way, confident that we would prevail with a little compromise and understanding. What I hadn't steeled myself for was the weight of their expectations. You've never really let someone down till you let down an 8-year old. They're not very adult about this either - they don't swear and punch walls like ex- girlfriends or parents. They just accept it, albeit with a little initial reluctance. When they finally come to grips with the fact that Uncle Cool is in fact quite boring and doesn't really have that many interesting stories to tell, they just go: "oh, well." They shrug it off. They have no time or patience for disappointment.

It drives me mad. I first noticed it around a quarter of the way in. I had just confirmed to my nephew -for the third time- that Uncle Cool could neither fly our Toyota nor grow a crazy beard and populate it with bees like the freak from that program on some channel. Call me petty but this speech was met with such utter disbelief both the previous times that I was almost beginning to believe that I probably could do one of those things if I set my mind to it. I mean how hard can it be to fly a car? I waited for their pleas to try, their chants of "liar, liar!" Nothing. So I look at them in the rearview, and that's when it happens. The elder one-my niece- shrugs. It works like a slow-motion electric current. I watch her indifference move steadily from the tilt of her shoulder to the tip of my nephew's fingers in one steady flow. And suddenly, it's over. They're both staring out the window, content to gaze at cars and people rushing by as I drive them home.

I'm incensed. Not by how easily they give up the ghost of my legend, but how callously they deal with it's passing. They have just found out the truth about a man who got them through measles and exams and a junior karate championship. They have just found out that he may well have had nowt to do with them, that they may have scaled those peaks on their own. Where's the epiphany, the drama? What kind of robotic beings refute the allure of crushing disappointment, and choose instead to be strong and carry on? Cowards!

We drive in silence. My musical sensibilities have long since been decreed intolerable. I decide to never have children, constituted as they are of such fickle moral fibre. The kids know too that something is wrong. The mood is tense. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see my nephew wipe a tear from his eye. It could have been a speck of dust, or those dastardly Doritos he's been munching on all day, but adults need their legends too and I'm sticking with mine. A tear it was. We gallop over a speedbump that escaped my attention, and he lets out a smelly, resounding fart. It's potent to the point of suffocation, and we lower the windows before we even laugh. The sounds and the sights and the wind and the sun all rush in, and we're all alright with the world again, extremely loud, and incredibly, indelibly close.  

               (My absolute favorite summer song. Here comes the sun, Abbey Road - The Beatles.) 

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. 

Let's hear it for suicide

It's a shame that suicide has such a bad name, that it's considered the cowardly way out. If women and homosexuals and transgender types can all (rightfully) fight for equality and respect, why can't the suicidal? Some people are good at life, some are not. Just like some like their wine red, others white. Why the hypocrisy in accepting people as they are? I just want to leave with my held high, with the grace of one who has made an intelligent decision. I shouldn't have to up and leave without saying goodbye, to steal away in the night. 


If people can renounce gym memberships and citizenship, they should be able to cancel their subscription to Life & Co without penalty. There should of course be some sort of franchising arrangement. A nine year-old shouldn't be able to make the decision to kill himself, I agree. How about sixteen, or eighteen? If you're old enough to drive, to buy cigarettes, to give life without judgement, you're old enough to take your own in peace. I'm twenty seven, and I want nothing more than to Exit Stage. I'd like to have my family around, email my friends and acquaintances and generally have one last goodbye. I understand some of them might miss me, or mourn me, but I should be able to inform them of my decision without being forcefully institutionalized. 


What suicide needs is a good PR campaign. Create a Facebook page, a Twitter hashtag. Get corporate cheerleaders on board, and we might just see a new dawn of respect for the circumspect. The commercial possibilities are endless. McDonalds could film my last Big Mac, and put it up on Youtube.  "One for the road," I'd cheerfully declare. Or I could take a sip of my favourite beverage, put down my can, and say "ooh, this Coke is to die for" before putting a bullet in my head. It'd be a fantastic way to create awareness that the suicidal are people too. You consume, we consume. We've just consumed enough. 


It could give rise to a whole new industry in these recession-struck times. Fun ways to die! Choose a death that says something about your personality! Get shot out of a cannon, or swim with piranhas for 500 bucks. Who hasn't wanted to do that? Go one-on-one with Mike Tyson, or fly a plane into ... no wait, that one's just morbid. Vegas could prop up it's dwindling marriage market with a line of pop culture-referencing suicide options. Elvis could chop you a line laced with Anthrax, or you could email Keyser Söze and tell him the whole thing was really quite predictable. 


I hate to say this, but the easiest way to make suicide the new Normal might be to get Zooey Deschanel involved. Some of you may already be familiar with how I feel about Zooey. But why not? It's for a good cause, and Lord knows she's done enough to make zombies out of an entire generation. These kids are never getting their individuality back; the least she could do is sing a quirky suicide ditty that will inevitably go viral and give them all a way out when they need one. 


Till I can get her to pitch in, maybe the lot of you can spread the word. Promise me you'll cash your cheques when it's obvious there's no point waiting any longer. Call it quits the moment you realize there's no grand finale, no blaze of glory, that this is about as good as it gets. Let's not hang around once the party's over, that's just sad. And till you get there, have a "No Rest For The Depressed" badge on your blogs, or wear a "Suicide FTW!" teeshirt or something. Do something, you guys, or all this apathy is just going to kill you.      

Jim Carrey sings Jumper by Third Eye Blind to prevent a guy from committing suicide in Yes Man.




    

Money for nothing, chicks for free

Two years now since my contemporaries started regaling me with tales of the indescribable joy of being a home-owner. That moment you sign on the dotted line, they said. That first "honey, I'm home". Love on living room furniture.

Yesterday, I took my own tentative first step up the property ladder. Not an actual piece of land of course, not even a studio. That would be too permanent, too real. I refer to a little oyster named the world wide web, virtual estate, if you will. I bought my first computer.

Yes, my first computer. In this day and age, you mutter. Fucking hippie, you shake your head. I'm familiar with them things of course, I didn't just crawl out from under the metaphorical rock. I just happen to have lived all my adult life in 24/7 cities with 24/7 internet cafes. Chennai, then Glasgow, then London (where this blog was concieved), back to Glasgow, now Singapore. Or my flatmate had one.

I can't honestly say it was a concious decision not to own one, but I know I felt a certain pride at the disbelief in people's voices when they found out about it. The few times I've had a computer lying around at home -a girlfriend's say, or a mate's- it just meant I was more in touch with people I didn't particularly want to hear from. I mean listening to voicemails freaks me out.

Why now then? Because I've hit rock bottom, mostly. I counted, and counted again, and came to the conclusion that I have a total of about 2 real friends. One of them is my ex, so that's only going to last so long. I figure I'm too old to spend birthdays and new year's eves by my lonesome, or worse, with other equally lonely souls.

Oh, I realize emails and facebook are not going to save me from myself. No, the plan is to do stuff. And since I cannot be arsed to scale peaks or save lives -as these good folks do so well, by the way- I decided to do the only thing I really enjoy. I'm going to sit down and finish that novel. And I'm going to send umpteen unsolicited emails to publishers and print out all the rejection letters and build a life-size papier-mache cast of my cock - bit like this lovely lady here. I'll just have to recycle most of them, really.

Anyway, I didn't want to buy a PC though they're much nicer to type on. I just can't get over the 'Personal Computer' oxymoron. They're machines, for God's sakes. Someday they're all going to come alive and eat our babies. They're not personal. That's as bad as dressing up your microwave for dinner. 'Laptops' on the other hand are too literal. Yes, you mostly use them while they're perched atop your lap. Where's the imagination in that? I can't write on something that boringly-named.

So, sentimentalist that I am, I bought this thing named -endearingly- 'Notebook'. Which is nothing like a notebook of course. And the keyboard was clearly designed with the next evolutionary cycle in mind. They certainly don't accomodate human fingers. But 'Notebook', neverthless. My mate says they're a few things short of being a superior thing which means it's much slower and much less efficient than other superior thing-fitted computers. A bit like my social skills.

I leave you with this (slightly modified) quote from Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides:

"From an early age they knew what little value the world placed in books, and so didn't waste their time with them. Whereas I, even now, persist in believing that these black marks on white paper bear the greatest significance, that if I keep writing I might be able catch the rainbow of conciousness in a jar. The only trust fund I have is this story, and unlike a prudent immigrant, I'm dipping into principal, spending it all..."

                                     Money for nothing - Dire Straits

            

The People Vs. David Brent

When I'm not out there fighting the good fight, crusading against collective 21st century mediocrity and slaying boybands, I work. That's right: the cape comes off at dawn and like everybody else, I play a depressing, soul-sucking 9-5 gig Monday through Friday. While I've turned a few macabre tricks in my time, this most recent of occupations is without doubt the most heinous, mainly because its one of those professions that only came about because all the other jobs were taken and some unemployed fucker finally decided it was about time he had a proper meal.

I'm a 'conference producer'. For the uninitiated, that means I sit around googling all day looking for topics that equally underemployed people will spend a lot of money to talk about and listen to in a five star hotel somewhere in Johannesburg or Dubai or Singapore. In other words, I latch on to things that other people have declared 'hot' and 'contemporary' and 'radical' and find a few other people to talk about them and charge everybody else to attend these events because a silver-tongued salesman has cold-called and convinced them that the petroleum industry will save millions by adopting paper napkin alternatives to actually cleaning up an oil spill. Or some such.

I have no moral qualms about this. To be fair, we never really organize an event that is completely redundant. There's even a slight possibility that some people find this kind of thing useful. Besides, I'm highly suspicious of people who claim their jobs are fulfilling and meaningful. Jobs are meant to pay your bills. If you want to find  yourself, if you want to change the big bad world, go tell it on the mountain. But that's not what this is about. A large part of my working day comprises looking up people on professional networking sites like Linkedin to find a handful of people qualified to speak on whatever topic I've decided deserves an international audience in a 5-star hotel in some remote part of the world. (This is beginning to sound much more glamorous than it really is.)

See, I'd never used Linkedin before I started on this job. Its basically Facebook for CV's and bio data and resume's. So Linkedin profiles tend to be every bit as dishonest and bloated as your average CV. People lie about academic qualifications, work experience, salary, achievements, the lot. Bit like a bar conversation with a girl completely out of your league. I don't want to go on about how ridiculous some people's descriptions of themselves are but today I came across one that made my completely lose my faith in humanity. Here you go:

MURAD SALMAN MIRZA: "Committed Organizational Architect, Positive Change Driver, Unrepentant Success Addict, Rapacious Knowledge Dispenser"

Let's take this one at a time:

Committed Organizational Architect - If somebody's paying you to do something, you may as well be committed doing it right? Even if you're not, 'committed' is not an attribute you'd crow about on a CV, surely? You'd think that'd be a minimum qualification.

Positive Change Driver - I can't imagine any scenario where an employer might want you to drive negative change. Can you?

Unrepentant Success Addict - This guy is hardcore. This guy is street. He doesn't just like success, he's addicted to it. He smokes it, snorts it, dabs it on his tongue, injects it right into his veins. And he's unrepentant about it. He'll sell his babies, murder his gran-gran for that sweet stuff. And damn right he won't shed a tear. You know, coz he's unrepentant.

Rapacious Knowledge Dispenser - This one's my favourite. He's a 'knowledge dispenser'. A phrase that can only bring to mind those soap-ejaculating things in restrooms. You push the little button on his head and out plops knowledge. Big gooey chunks of knowledge. And he's rapacious about it. He'll insist on jizzing you with his knowledge. Oh yeah, you say no and he'll just ram that big bad rod of his into your ear and spurt knowledge all over the side of your cheap, slutty face. 

So basically he's a pedantic leaky tool. And he's not sorry about it. He's David Brent in disguise.

Did I mention he's a 'human relations advisor'?

Sometimes I weep for humanity. I really do. 

Small World + Big Data = Not So Great Second Date

So I was thinking (and thinking is never good): if the internet and the mobile phone and budget airlines have all made the world smaller, why is it so much more difficult now to connect?

I remember growing up in Trivandrum,   all those years ago. Those days, it seemed almost normal to make a new friend every other day. Not a friend for life admittedly, not a bro or a wingman or any of those sitcom-flavored forever-relationships. Just people, people who would calmly step into your life with a lightness of feet and clarity of purpose so transparent, you practically welcomed the intrusion. The Trivandrum Public Library was a great place to make new friends; playing cricket in the little lane we shared with the other three houses on our little residential colony was another. Strange kids would step up and ask you when you planned to return The Five Find-Outers mystery you were holding. The conversation would turn to other authors of interest or maybe a new movie, and for the rest of the summer we'd talk and eat ethakka appam in the old canteen and swap books. And every now and again, a new kid would show up with tennis ball and MRF-emblazoned bat and maybe a bottle of Pepsi and ask if he could play the next game; "I live right around the corner," he'd say," in Shanti Nagar, and I saw you guys playing yesterday and I thought I'd join in."  It seemed like the most natural thing -that somebody passing by would want to do that- and of course we'd let him, if a little proprietorially of the house rules. Because every group of children who've ever had to make do with a straight strip of cement instead of a grass-green cricket ground have their own rules - dispatching the ball into the unfriendly neighbor's house was out, you could only bowl under-arm, something or the other. But we made do. And they came knocking. And we went asking. And we played.

Its not much harder to meet people these days. But unlike then, you can't help googling (yes, it is a verb) a new acquaintance every time you make one. Inevitably, you're hit with a storm of information - confessions of bed-wetting on their blog, photographs of bad hair days on Facebook, shameless self-promotion on Linkedin- and you can't help thinking its all a little too much a little too soon. Of course its your fault for looking; but its also human nature isn't it? You don't clap a hand over your ear if you just happen to be sitting next to a loudly bickering couple at a boring conference. Why do people do this then? Why do we put ourselves on display for such intense inspection, why do we voluntarily make ourselves vulnerable to constant public character dissection? I know I'm as guilty as the next person, and the only reason I can think of is that its somehow gratifying to get a response, to be heard. And because a response -any response- is sometimes so much more gratifying than just being heard, we constantly create content that's guaranteed to do just that. Which also means a lot of those "OMG!!" moments never actually happened. Or that picture where you're "soooo drunk!" at "Pat's pad" was really just a picture you took off your own sleepy self after a boring movie marathon at Pat's pad. Or maybe Pat doesn't even exist. I don't know. It's just so frustrating when you meet someone and you meet them a second time loaded with all that detail from the internet, dying to talk all night about their passion for wildlife or a new band or cooking in the nude, only to find that it was all a carefully constructed branding exercise.

Whereas all those years ago, it was okay to find out the new kid with the great bowling arm has a disgusting habit of rubbing snot all over the ball because you've already known him for a good few weeks then. You've exchanged sweaty high-fives and smelled each other's farts and met his sociopath parents before the disturbing snot-revelation, and while its no less disgusting, it is eminently more forgivable. He had time on his side, we had something going already. Finding out on the second date that she really doesn't like the Screaming Trees all that much on the other hand is the deception of an almost-stranger. And that much more grave. It leaves her with no chance really. You already don't trust her, you already think she's a drunk or an exhibitionist or a wonk.

What's the solution then? I don't know. But if you're going to piss yourself every time you have a few mojitos, I'd rather find out after we've known each other a while. Or I could just not find out at all if that's possible; just go to the bathroom or don't get that drunk. Either way, don't let it show up on your Facebook page in the  form of a picture of a wet denim-clad crotch and a hundred thousand comments below it all touting the tune of "Oh no, not AGAIN, tee hee!". Really? We've known each other a total of three days. We've only spent three of those hours in each other's company. What am I supposed to do with that kind of information? What face do I put on tonight if you order a drink? You've only just gone and ruined my Saturday night. You silly little piss-pot.


  *Image courtesy Weheartit