tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46580893996789035652024-03-08T17:03:54.050+05:30Icy Highs The Life and Times Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-90451075643111778052015-10-09T11:58:00.002+05:302015-10-09T11:58:42.748+05:30KERALA HOTEL<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s a
waiter at Kerala Hotel, tallish, fair, thick of moustache, forever not so much
rubbing as lovingly caressing his considerable belly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Greets me
with the broadest smile of acknowledgement, even if he’s in the middle of
taking an order, almost as though he’s been expecting me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slows down
ever so slightly on his way to place his order, rolls off the day’s specials,
rounds them off with a “what will it be today?”, and he’s off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Comes
tearing back from the kitchen holding up four, sometimes five, fingers in the
air- one for each day since my last visit. “Decided?” Almost a challenge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I ask him
what’s good. He chooses from a variety of digressions. “You smell like a bar!”
“Should’ve seen the group of girls here for lunch!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I say I’ll
have <i>dosa</i> with prawn curry, or <i>parotta</i> and beef roast. “Good choice,”
he says, “why do we make anything else?” Ambles away, hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mid-meal, he
wants me to know there’s someone traveling to Kerala the next day. Do I need to
send anything home?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s another
gentleman making his way here from Kerala if I’d like anything sent this side?
Pickle? Chips? One can never have too many chips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He goes to
great lengths to establish these friendly mules as men of great character, as
though I might be in the business of gold or spices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And if the
Samaritan happens to be a woman: “do I need say anything else?” This is said
with a pointed shrug of the shoulders; checkmate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I brought
this up one day –the hushed tones and the declarations of faith- and he told
me, “you shouldn’t just let anybody into your home”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I tell him
today I’m having trouble finding a flatmate. “A Malayalee would be best,” he
says, almost to himself, “I know just the guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He affects
one last roguish grin at a young woman sat across the room –“Used to be a nun.
Now training to be a nurse.”- and turns to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll let
you know about the boy,” he says, and hands me the bill, “you’re on Whatsapp?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nicest
Nepalese man I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-7951506071938856632015-06-25T09:59:00.001+05:302016-09-05T16:03:38.266+05:30Birthday It's your special day,<br />
and I am<br />
at best,<br />
an unpleasant memory.<br />
<br />
So I remembered,<br />
then reminded<br />
myself to put away,<br />
all the wonderful things I wish for you,<br />
and bought myself a little something<br />
to help me Forget.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-62673991518161424222015-02-17T13:52:00.000+05:302015-02-17T13:59:45.674+05:30Tuesdays With Fatboy To say Fatboy has a penchant for drama is like saying <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqiABPHh1sA">Hrithik Roshan is not crazy about defeat</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjww-RkLZAri2r4OGtfY-WTvWS8oirrV4YX7Rgwt8QYRfImAqULbu8RqBHDDzGOifNhgTSCfcHMvdDrk-bSQS1810oZ4-YJmEK0hKml6So0dpso1JysoEyoMo6SnWsjM4L1L-zvls2Fso4/s1600/mc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjww-RkLZAri2r4OGtfY-WTvWS8oirrV4YX7Rgwt8QYRfImAqULbu8RqBHDDzGOifNhgTSCfcHMvdDrk-bSQS1810oZ4-YJmEK0hKml6So0dpso1JysoEyoMo6SnWsjM4L1L-zvls2Fso4/s1600/mc.jpg" height="400" width="346" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miley Cyrus famously raising awareness about Tinder-thumb. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"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?" <i>Here comes the pain. </i>"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 <i>could</i> 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."<br />
<br />
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." <i>He's kidding. There's no way in hell</i>... 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." <i>The bastard.</i> "You want me to send you nudes of my ex?" I ask, just to make sure. He nods sagely, and departs to the loo.<br />
<br />
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. <i>How long does it take to type a bloody email, anyway?</i> 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. <i>Revenge porn. This is my lowest moment, yet. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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." <br />
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Icy Highs's Video Reco: #<i>DefeatDefeat</i> (Hrithik Roashan)</b></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Hrithik Roshan hates defeat so much he will defeat it. </div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-76416024254245663072015-01-14T13:54:00.002+05:302015-01-14T14:31:54.831+05:30Network <br />
<br />
I look around, and pause again to take them all in, as I have done numerous times on this trip. We're all here, the original gang of four, chilling like it's 1999, like numerous summer vacations spent lounging under rubber trees in our paternal home playing made-up games and swapping made-up stories of bravado and discovery. We don't have to fib about body hair or school yard heroics any more; the pube-counter has been abandoned years ago, and we're not as fascinated by Bruce Lee movies or Steven Segal fight sequences as we used to be. Of course, not having to fib and doing it anyway are two different things- the playground may have changed but the games remain the same.<br />
<br />
We're alike in ways only brothers can be: the dip of our shoulders, the chicken legs, the predilection for deep-fried-anything, mouths arched in permanent readiness for a good laugh. We like to have a good time, and we're good people who like to believe we're good people. My brothers have all brought women with them- life partners in various stages of permanence. They point out more distinguishing features of the group: the eagerness to be liked, the lack of get-up-and-go, the mishmash of good intentions and inertia. But they say this with affection, with almost-motherly indulgence, and we are perhaps more pleased than we should be.<br />
<br />
Back in the long-ago, when we were still children, we used to have this tradition of prolonging every game of Donkey till the last possible second. Come end of summer, we'd all go our different ways from our grandparents' home, driven away to the closest railway station or airport by some accommodating relative or the other. This meant picking up the deck of cards from our usual spot on the veranda and carrying the hand in play all the way up to the top of the slope where the ancestral Ambassador car lay in wait, honking impatiently, glinting ominously in the sun. The end has come early, abruptly, this holiday. We're still splashing about in the little creek we found; still waiting for another joint to be rolled. We're still upholding tradition, still playing till we absolutely have to leave, till the taxi turns up, because it's the only way we know to deal with parting. But we're trying out a new game. It's called "Waiting For Grandma To Die".<br />
<br />
Thank God she fell ill-er last night, when we had already moved to Agonda Beach blessed with signals our phones can intercept and a secure 3G line over which tickets can be booked at the last minute. Thank God she didn't steal away in the middle of the night when we were still on wind-swept, grid-less Cola Beach, chosen painstakingly to liberate us from emails and Whatsapp and con-calls, if only for a couple of nights. Because when you reach a certain age, when the pube-counter makes way for the grey-counter or the baldness quotient, it's all you can do to assuage the guilt of not-being-reachable. The grandparents who were always in touch somehow throughout our childhood with promises of <i>kappa-irachi</i> and Alphonsa mangoes the next time we visit would never forgive us if we didn't show up to say goodbye because we had no <i>network</i>.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-31612489648864611242014-04-07T15:08:00.001+05:302014-04-07T15:08:27.257+05:30Something Corporate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLscLpJx8BjugYkvEeqVv_i20rEuxNH3UR5aqm1Dhn1BQboPEhcYnv5WhmfD6O_CoH9TgYoHk8Y9mJEUp46V1zMwQvLfpZ7L4tTVbUGyDtv7aKupSMpZ7O8BexUU7EbftYZDl7gPsd22Y/s1600/pop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLscLpJx8BjugYkvEeqVv_i20rEuxNH3UR5aqm1Dhn1BQboPEhcYnv5WhmfD6O_CoH9TgYoHk8Y9mJEUp46V1zMwQvLfpZ7L4tTVbUGyDtv7aKupSMpZ7O8BexUU7EbftYZDl7gPsd22Y/s1600/pop.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
When I first watched<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0095765/"> Cinema Paradiso</a> as a ten year old boy, this much was clear: much like the chosen savior of a clan here, a princess there in the many martial arts movies that populated my VHS collection, I would have to save Cinema. Not in terms of making good cinema or acting in one, but in the <i>presentation. </i>It probably says something about me that even at that age, I was more enamored by Alfredo the projectionist's love for cinema than by the six year old Toto's sense of adventure; Alfredo's contentment in worshiping the art and making it accessible to as wide an audience as possible as opposed to Toto's ambitious experiments with his home movie camera. <br />
<br />
Consequently, it was never enough for me to just watch a film. I had to experience the<i> journey</i>. And because Alfredo waged his war against censorship and a philistine government in post-World War II Italy while I lived in comfortably middle class, culturally vibrant 90s Trivandrum, I would often have to create my own excitement: I would accompany our driver on his designated Friday evening trip to the cinema hall to score us tickets for the latest blockbuster. My father's secretary would have called ahead to make the reservations, but I'd make believe we were on a race against time: the fate of all pop culture lay in the automated arms of the next traffic signal. And once at the ticket stall, getting pushed and pulled along by the suffocating long lines of Trivandrum's ardent film-goers, or better still, jumping headfirst into a crowd of Mohanlal fans getting lathi-charged by policemen, I could finally feel like I was part of a movement.<br />
<br />
In time, I would make my peace with the fact that cinema, at least in Kerala, was in no grave danger I could rescue it from, but until well past high school, I would draw umpteen models of what my Archie comics-inspired drive-in cinema would like and plot impromptu screenings of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mok43U9zy4s">If Lucy Fell</a> projected on the walls of my house for the benefit of our neighbor, an American-returned girl who was a couple of years older than me and hopelessly out of sorts with the world and was also named Lucy. So while growing up perhaps took the romance out of cinema, cinema certainly put the romance in me- a sense of right and wrong, of some imagined utopia in which bureaucrats and their minions alike could escape from the tedium of real life for a while and roll up their sleeves and laugh heartily at <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2VnCpK_gsM">Jagathy's mishaps</a> or shed copious tears at the fate of star-crossed lovers on screen.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to thirteen years later:<br />
<br />
I'm raging. I'm hemorrhaging internally from all the rage because <a href="http://www.pvrcinemas.com/">PVR Cinemas</a> in Cochin has just short-changed me. Despite the fact that it's in a mall and everybody dresses like they're at a club, I'm here because tickets only cost an almost-reasonable hundred bucks, and thanks to the juggernaut-like growth of multiplexes, the grand tradition of independent cinema houses is in its last days. The last ones standing survive on regional blockbusters and sheer will power; they're certainly not going to screen <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OSaJE2rqxU">Noah</a> in 3D. Besides, PVR offers unlimited refills on Pepsi and we happen to be in ownership of a bottle of rum that will no doubt be consumed furtively and in full over the course of the movie with generous helpings of Pepsi. I'm not even drinking, but it feels like a victory. <br />
<br />
Till this moron stepped up to the Pepsi counter a few seconds ago.<br />
"What do you mean "no more re-fills"?", I say, "It says "unlimited re-fills" on the sign behind your head!"<br />
"Yes, but the sign made a mistake," he tells me, "no re-fill today."<br />
"The <i>sign</i> made a...Look, the movie's going to start in a minute; I don't have time for this nonsense."<br />
"Sir, I will have to ask you to watch your language."<br />
"Ok I was out of line. Please top up my drink like your sign promises you will, so I can go watch my movie."<br />
"No."<br />
"What? <i>Why</i>? Look, is there someone else I can talk to?"<br />
"Sir, if you continue to behave in this fashion, I will be forced to call the manager."<br />
"Why do you talk like a textbook? But yes, that'd be great. Please call your manager."<br />
"That was not an empty threat, sir. I <i>will</i> call my manager."<br />
"Yes, please call your manager. You understand he's not also <i>my </i>manager, right?"<br />
"I'm warning you: The manager will not be pleased to be interrupted in the middle of dinner."<br />
"Oh great. Your manager's at home while he lets you robots run the show here? Fine, call him."<br />
"No, the manager is eating his dinner at the food court on the next floor."<br />
<br />
At this point, my friend tells me the movie is only a couple of seconds from starting. "This is not over," I tell the Pepsi guy as I turn to leave, "I'll be back." "I look forward to it," he replies, "perhaps next time, I can introduce you to our loyalty programs." <br />
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Icy Highs's Music Recco : Asaf Avidan- One day we'll be old </b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-90000311805532535032014-03-16T17:57:00.000+05:302014-03-16T18:03:54.531+05:30I Fought The Law (And The Law Won)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
Usually at this hour, we'd be bouncing over by-roads and ghosting through residential lanes. Not today though. Today, I'm sober- and consequently, the designated driver- so we're taking the high road, both moral and physical. I'm quite looking forward to being stopped by one of the many policemen stationed on Cochin's roads to stop drunk drivers. It's not everyday I get to drive away from a cop without considerably lightening my wallet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The guys have been drinking all evening, and are just as excited as I am. I encourage them to act as riotously as they please; for a change, we have the law on our side. We haven't been on MG Road five minutes when predictably, a couple of cops wave us down. I slow down, pull over to the side, and watch one of them approach my car in the mirror. He clocks the number plate, and visibly brightens up. I can't wait to wipe the grin off his face. I've been waiting for this moment for so long. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I roll down my window and smile. The cop looks right through me, and inside the car: the usual suspects. By now, one of us would usually have stepped out of the car, muttering apologies and dropping names, pressing a five hundred rupee note into his palm. I can see he's a little shaken by our apparent stoicism. "Have you been drinking?" he asks. I want to answer calmly, gracefully, but my hand goes up like a first-bencher in school with all the answers. "I haven't been drinking, " I announce. "Suck-up," says one of the guys in the back and I admit to myself that he's probably right. A night without drink, and my inner nerd is in full swing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You won't mind a breathalyzer test then," he says and gestures to the cop behind us. "Not at all," I say and struggle to keep the class-monitor out of my voice. I watch the other cop in the mirror; I haven't dealt with him before. He has a slow, meaningful gait, an almost-strut, and somehow inspires flashes of that old terror of the law in my mind as he plants heavy feet wide apart and comes to a standstill outside my window. He has some kind of apparatus strapped to his crotch, with a tube-like contraption sticking out of it like a surprised penis. "Blow it," he orders, and the guys cheer, despite themselves, like hypnotized <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hindi_Belt">Heartlanders</a> at a Salman Khan movie. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I don't think you understand," I say, "I haven't been drinking. You can put that thing away now." The guys are really getting into the flow of things. "Blow it! Blow it!", they chant. "If you haven't been drinking, you won't have a problem," says the cop, "blow." Now sexual innuendos aside, I have a genuine problem with<strike> intimacy</strike> hygiene. Drunk driving is policed so comprehensively in Cochin that even by the most conservative of estimates, that apparatus must have kissed at least fifty mouths tonight. I can't even shake hands with strangers. There's no way that thing is going anywhere near my mouth. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You know what," I say, "I <i>have</i> been drinking. I'm really sorry, and I'll just pay whatever-"</div>
<div>
But the guys have other plans. This is their moment too. "BLOW IT! BLOW IT!" they chant. "What are you waiting for?" yells one, "show them!" The old Us versus Them. I've been a man long enough to know that you can't back down in an Us versus Them situation. It's just not an option. I reach in the general direction of the apparatus and wipe its head clean. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Do it already!" mutters the first cop. So headlights in my eyes, the guys chanting pornographic war cries in my ears, I lower my face onto the cop's crotch and blow. Passing, less anarchic cars honk in approval. I think I can taste vomit, smell cigarettes and alcohol. I pull back and come up for air just as I realize the cop's hand is actually stroking my head in approval. The guys cheer and applaud. I don't wait for the policeman to check the meter. I roll up my window and drive straight home to wash my mouth clean of the sweet taste of victory. </div>
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<b>Icy Highs's Music Recco: The Drunken Whaler- Copilot</b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com13Kochi, Kerala, India9.9312328 76.2673041000000479.8061053 76.105942600000049 10.0563603 76.428665600000045tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-77826814020069292112014-03-05T10:00:00.000+05:302014-03-05T21:13:13.249+05:30Bringing Up Uncle <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">I’ve always taken my
<a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/uncling%20101">uncling</a> responsibilities seriously. Even before my little nephew was born, this
much was clear to me: growing up, I didn’t have an elder male figure I could
depend on to bail me out of trouble, or even to show me the ropes to basic
adult stuff like shaving in a hurry or sleeping with women without falling in
love with them, and this sort of deprival lasts a lifetime. I would not
let my nephew grow up a fuzzy-chinned romantic fool.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My approach to uncling
my little niece however, is a little different. Having played <s>easily
manipulated filler </s>middle sibling to the estrogen sandwich with extra
cheese and evil that was my two sisters all through my blunder years, I was
trained early on –despite the lack of formal education- to be terrified of all
women under legal drinking age. It doesn’t help that my niece is the spitting
image of her mother at the same age. What little niece wants, little niece
gets. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Having said that, I’m
quite fond of this gig I have going as the <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/niblings">niblings</a>’ only maternal uncle, and
the unofficial “fun uncle” by a mile. As my sis never tires of pointing out,
mine is a kingdom founded entirely on the great institution of the
uncle-in-transit. I’ve never lived in the same city, or even the same state as
the niblings till I moved recently to Cochin, so I’ve never had to unplug the
X-box just as the nephew was approaching his top score or take a U-turn and
head right back into the city after a long day at work because I forgot to pick
up glitter pens for the niece’s ‘art’ project. I come bearing gifts, and when
I’m visiting no household item can not be converted into a plaything. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So when my sister
announced recently that she and her husband would be out of town for a
night, I jumped at the chance to re-write a little history. When Fun
Uncle was on the throne, the niblings would look back and remember, bliss was
it in that dawn to be alive. Not only would the fun never set on his empire,
but the subjects would also eat their five greens with relish, shower without
complaint and scoot off to bed in orderly fashion at quarter to ten. It was
only a matter of a few hours before I would be inducted into the pantheon of
all time greats- Uncles </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqSiUJJ1XyI"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bun</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BG-Enu9W6Vk"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Charlie</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> and …err.. </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Gjx-ZQuQ_Y"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kracker</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first evening, a
Sunday, passed uneventfully enough. I reached their place around five with a
party-planner’s diary worth of things-to-do only to find that the agenda had
not just been set, but that it was cast in stone: a trip to Donut Factory,
followed by a visit to Crossword bookstore, both conveniently located almost
across the road from each other in Panampilly Nagar where they stay. Fair
enough, I thought, especially since my own game plan would have taken us on a
criss-cross road trip across the heart and whatever soul is left of
commerce-heavy Cochin. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The outdoor seating
arrangement at Donut Factory did however tear a significant hole in my comfort
zone. My nephew, who takes great pleasure in reading out- and consequently
inquiring as to the meaning of- just about any road/shop/other sign he can
find, pointed a questioning finger at the poster behind us: “A hole looks
better on a donut than on your lungs”.
The words were accompanied by a picture of the universal circle around a
cigarette with a line running across it. “It means you shouldn’t smoke,” I
said, “because smoking pokes holes in your chest.” “But shouldn’t that be your <i>choice</i>?”
he asked immediately, with all the privileged disdain for authority of his
particular breed of Cochin’s private school populace. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0qMUILP6dgDpQcYzV3Z03aLHHLbgM9VM0FCqGIwOo6rj-lUB2kjJBJQrRHj8knTdsCiF3k_dWzjA_EnhWq6bGsDCJs09suxe_LsWAv4WEy29DfXXdxCbb_TTfhHrV2x7t-PidsUb8K4/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0qMUILP6dgDpQcYzV3Z03aLHHLbgM9VM0FCqGIwOo6rj-lUB2kjJBJQrRHj8knTdsCiF3k_dWzjA_EnhWq6bGsDCJs09suxe_LsWAv4WEy29DfXXdxCbb_TTfhHrV2x7t-PidsUb8K4/s1600/002.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">If they can sell
cigarettes, and tax cigarettes, then of course it should be your choice, I
wanted to tell him. Screw choice, <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/smoking">smoking</a> is just awesome, I wanted to say. But
one look at his comically revolutionary face, and a quick flashback of him
running circles around me in his Messi jersey as I lunged about gasping for
breath during our impromptu football game a few minutes earlier, and I turned
into my dad. “You’re seven,” I barked, “you have no choice.” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My niece plays games
of a subtler kind. At Crossword bookstore a little later, after explaining to
me the literary merits of <a href="http://www.wimpykid.com/">the many numerous diaries maintained by a kid whodescribes himself as “wimpy” </a>with a sense of irony I suspected was lost on her,
she asked me: “So how much can I spend?” I quickly scanned the price tags on
the shelf in front of me, and said: “you can both pick up a book each.” “No”
she declared, “tell me how much we can spend, that’s what we always do.” As I
tried to remember if I even understood the concept of spending power at her
age, she added, “our other uncle always lets us spend five hundred each.” I
nodded in the affirmative, and prayed to all the Gods I’d heard of that she
didn’t grow up to be a politician or a banker. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of course the real
test came the morning after. My niece woke me up at six to make her a poster
for her campaign; she was running for Class Monitor and her pitch was “I will
increase lunch hour by one hour”. “More glitter, <i>dude</i>,” she sighed
exasperatedly every time she walked past in various stages of undress until the
maid finally scooped her up and stationed her under the shower. I think she
actually flicked my ear one time, but that may also have been my brain
exploding. Only when the early morning wind did a little jig around my face as
she waved goodbye from her bus did I fully realize the absurdity of the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_of_the_Flies">Goldingesque nightmare</a> I had woken up to. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My nephew had
courteously decided to exit his royal chambers when I returned, at least
physically if not in spirit. I walked in on the sight of the maid flying
spoon-aeroplanes of sliced <i>idlis</i> into his open mouth as he stood in
front of the television, his hand operating the video game console out of sheer
muscular memory even as his head drooped to one side, his eyes tighter shut
than Kerala’s shops on a <i>hartal</i>. The kid was half-naked and asleep on
his feet as a middle-aged woman spoon-fed him breakfast, as the streets of some
ghetto or the other rose up in flames on the TV screen to electronic punk rock!
The world hadn’t witnessed such decadence since the Romans. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;">His
eyes remained shut as I helped the maid plant one of his legs after the other
into freshly ironed shorts, tucked in his shirt, converted the signature quiff
of his hair into a side parting just to spite him a little and deposited him on
the bus next to a cute girl who looked around his age. I made my way back to
the flat in a daze. I must have dozed off on the couch because the next thing I
knew, the phone was ringing in the vague vicinity of my ear. It was my sister.
“You okay?” she asked. “Oh I really hope I can’t have kids,” I told her. “We’ll
be back before noon,” she laughed. “You should,” I said, “they grow up so
fast.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Icy Highs's Music Recco: Four Times and Once After - The Superfuzz/ Indigo Children</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/TaVzpBRlInQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;">This piece was originally published in <a href="http://helterskelter.in/2014/03/bringing-up-uncle/">Helter Skelter </a>magazine on 03-03-14</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-407815770656363522014-01-29T21:03:00.000+05:302014-02-03T13:05:08.769+05:30What would Fatboy do? <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhp6vcisgHlUd5lhXL_32q08-kvC5jBI0ikADgbzxe1fqc8GRSNd0ybIeJjl9__QIM7hyphenhyphenpT08A6Zv7_MPJw3rA3Xk8jg8wSbkZD1MlRf36u6k440R50EEPXdtOgbJlLBC5s_-bSOcldg/s1600/fat+jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhp6vcisgHlUd5lhXL_32q08-kvC5jBI0ikADgbzxe1fqc8GRSNd0ybIeJjl9__QIM7hyphenhyphenpT08A6Zv7_MPJw3rA3Xk8jg8wSbkZD1MlRf36u6k440R50EEPXdtOgbJlLBC5s_-bSOcldg/s1600/fat+jesus.jpg" height="400" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fat Jesus: Turns water into chocolate shake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fatboy is always telling me to go easy on myself. <strike>And cigarettes. And coke.</strike> He's also the only person in the world who has consistently and blindly held onto the notion that there is some amount- however small- of goodness in me. Anyway, because Fatboy is always chanting self-help platitudes around my person - "you gotta learn to <i>forgive</i> yourself, man" or "dude, if you <i>must</i> cut yourself, at least use a blade that's not all rusty!"- I'm always looking for ways to prove him wrong. I mean I've managed to wriggle free of 29 years-worth of pent up expectations of everyone that matters- family, friends, lovers- burnt every bridge possible and walked away in spectacular slow-mo with the flames licking the sky behind me, only to find that my best friend still has faith in me. Clearly, I haven't done a very good job of the only thing I've been repeatedly assured I have a natural talent for.<br />
<br />
So when Fatboy came over the other day, out of sorts and clearly in need of bro-time, I decided to put a little theory of mine to test. My theory is a vague conviction that Fatboy only thinks I can forgive myself because he can. Other than not showing up to a movie on time (or forgetting about it altogether), Fatboy and I have had few occasions to disagree. We're both self-loathing, egoistic, lonely man-children; we're so good together it amazes me that we haven't given it a shot in bed (we've certainly been fucked up often enough to not know an arsehole from a nail clipper). So if I were to do something that Fatboy couldn't forgive, went my line of reasoning, it'd be unlikely he'd keep insisting that I learn to love myself or pleasure myself to the psychedelic sounds of the Humpback Whale or whatever. <br />
<br />
I started as soon as Fatboy sat down with his beer.<br />
"Coaster dude," I said.<br />
"Kosher?"<br />
"No,use a <i>coaster</i>," I said, "What is this, a hotel?"<br />
Fatboy shrugged and deposited his beer on a copy of RSJ magazine he found under the sofa. My heart nearly broke. This must be what Abraham felt like, I thought. "So what's up," I said.<br />
"It's just Kristy, man," he said, "she has me all confused."<br />
Kristy was Fatboy's new girlfriend and his longest relationship to date, clocking in at a solid three and a half weeks and several hours of sexting.<br />
"Oh it's the ex again, isn't it?" I said.<br />
<br />
Kristy had a clingy ex. He was only clingy to the extent that Kristy seemed to cling right back at whatever sordid little relationship they were in for many many more years than either Fatboy or I were in any position to offer any woman, but we unanimously agreed that it was his fault. <i>Usually</i>. <br />
<br />
"What is it with you and exes, dude?" I found myself saying, "you're a hypocrite, you know that? You want 'em to dress and talk like Courtney Love but if they're anything more than a <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/2012/01/honey-i-hate-kids.html">Zooey Deschanel</a> in bed, you panic. And you immediately assume it makes the ex some kind of sex-God."<br />
"Ok first of all," said Fatboy, "that's you. Secondly, you're way too old for that many pop culture references in the space of nineteen-odd words. And thirdly, it's not the ex."<br />
"I've said this before," I replied, "and I'll say it again: There's NO such thing as nineteen-odd. Nineteen <i>is</i> odd."<br />
"Ok fine," he said, "it is the ex. But it's not what you think."<br />
"See, if you had said <i>twenty</i>-odd, that would have made sense."<br />
"You know I'm always stalking him on Facebook. And Twitter. The dude has a Pinterest, but that was too low, even for me," he paused, "Anyway, I see all these pictures of them when they were together, you know, hosting parties and traveling and having conversations and watching fucking dolphins somewhere, and it's clear I can never be that guy."<br />
"And you rightly feel intimidated," I nodded, "well, he <i>is</i> rich."<br />
"Well no," he said, "I was thinking to myself that I'd really like to have all that stuff they had, you know? And it's clear none of those things are really in my skill set, so I asked myself: well, how can I have that? Anyway, long story short, I think I'm kind of attracted to him."<br />
<br />
"OK what?" I said, "Dude, I was kidding. He's a douchebag. I've seen him put people in a coma deeper in a coma. He drains the life out of every single conversation he's involved in. They call him the coma patient-whisperer."<br />
"I just think maybe I'd rather be shown a good time than be pressurized to put one on for somebody."<br />
"That's great, but you're NOT gay!"<br />
"I could be gay."<br />
"Look, no, you're gay if you're gay. You can't just switch sides because your girlfriend can drink you under the table and doesn't cry watching the Golden Globes."<br />
"<a href="http://www.eonline.com/news/498504/michael-douglas-thanks-wife-catherine-zeta-jones-at-golden-globes-calls-matt-damon-the-bravest-actor-he-s-worked-with">Hey, Michael Douglas is an <i>inspiration</i></a>," he started, "anyway, I just think I should give it a shot."<br />
<br />
This was my opportunity. <i>Stick it in. Twist it. Make him bleed. </i><br />
"They'll smoke you out, man," I said, "it's all pastels and salads out there. And besides, if one of us was going to be gay, it'd have to be me. I'm the face of this thing we have going. Gay people are all about the <i>face</i>, man. You'd just end up as some banker's booty call."<br />
"Jesus, how <i>do</i> you sleep at night?" he said.<br />
<i>It's finally happened. He's broken now. I'm sorry, Fatboy. It had to be done.</i><br />
"Quite comfortably, thank you," I managed, "And if you'd just given up on me when you should have..."<br />
"No, turn around man," he said, "that's actually Jesus, right behind you."<br />
<br />
So I turned around, and what do you know, there's ol' JC, large as life, and not Caucasian in the least.<br />
"Oh, so you've decided you're not too good for my little corner of the world, have you?" I asked.<br />
Jesus shrugged. "Fatboy needed me", he said.<br />
I turned around again and sure enough, Fatboy lay spread-eagled on the couch, out like a light and snoring up a gentle storm.<br />
"He just needs a little nap," said Jesus, "he'll wake up with no recollection of this evening and the two of you boys will be just fine."<br />
"He won't remember?" I was furious, "do you know how hard it was for me to go all Old Testament on him?"<br />
Jesus smiled, and helped himself to a sip of Fatboy's beer. "And you take it easy on yourself, young man," was all he would say.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-48432912887386156902013-12-26T23:52:00.000+05:302013-12-27T00:07:07.653+05:30The Curious Incident Of The Bro In The Night <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOTnYQJLOPuVT6cfnPG-J-8PvPkLHpplnh45C3BWJern9ZXA-g3xdkor0b9u3pwhf4YSCREeN_7R_yqglbf9y88_VHhccmDZUDbGS-i2m5kbKkqm7i0iOJw-UprUTGRCp8YzcTcKOJpk/s1600/gay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOTnYQJLOPuVT6cfnPG-J-8PvPkLHpplnh45C3BWJern9ZXA-g3xdkor0b9u3pwhf4YSCREeN_7R_yqglbf9y88_VHhccmDZUDbGS-i2m5kbKkqm7i0iOJw-UprUTGRCp8YzcTcKOJpk/s400/gay.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not everybody gets bro hugs.</td></tr>
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Never ones for conformity, <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/fatboy">Fatboy and I </a>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 <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/dec/20/robin-thicke-named-sexist-of-the-year">Robin Thicke</a> 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 <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/bromance">bromance</a>: 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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/facebook">Facebook</a>- 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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>world</i> 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 <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/kerala">Kerala</a>," 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Dude, this is awesome," I managed, "Thanks man, I really apprecia..." <br />
"The <i>world</i>," he interrupted, "the world will appreciate this. We're live on Youtube as we speak."<br />
"Those stupid spy-pens finally came in handy huh," I said, "bit overboard, you think?"<br />
"Hey, tranq the negativity, will you?" he said, "Come here, check out the tattoo I drew."<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
"It's a ....<i>word,</i> right?"<br />
"What? Yeah, of course it's a word: <i>Madiba</i>.Well it's a proper noun, if that makes you happy. But what do you think? Of the <i>message?</i>"<br />
"Is it some kind of code? "<i>Madiba</i>"? It sounds familiar, but.."<br />
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.<br />
"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."<br />
"Dude, I'm sorry," I said, "it rings a bell, but it's kind of a distant ringing, it's not really audible, so.."<br />
And then he switched off the lights.<br />
<br />
"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 <i>looked</i> 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.<br />
<br />
"Is that bell loud enough for you?" asked Fatboy.<br />
"What? Dude, those crickets are getting louder man, I think they're about to attack."<br />
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. <i>Madiba</i>.<br />
"Dude, is this a video of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1057500/">Invictus</a></i>?" <br />
"Oh <i>that</i>, you get."<br />
"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?"<br />
"The world needs this, dude."<br />
"No, <i>you</i> 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!"<br />
"So maybe I erred on the side of propriety, a little. It's been a difficult couple of weeks."<br />
"That's because you were ass-deep in cocaine and air hostess vag in Bangkok!"<br />
"We all mourn differently."<br />
"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?"<br />
"Oh, please. You and <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/girlfriend">Girlfriend</a>? You're so getting back together."<br />
"Really? You think so? Wait, <i>no</i>, I will not play your mind-games, you bastard. And STOP<i> </i>checking your phone when I'm talking...Why are you shaking, man? What happened?"<br />
"Oh, the humanity. What a terrible year. What a terrible, fucked up year. First Sachin Tendulkar retires, then Madi.. Mandela, now <i>this.</i>"<br />
"Dude, sit down. What happened? Is it bad news?"<br />
"Oh I can't even..." he broke off, and handed me the phone, "you will not <i><a href="http://www.gossipcop.com/justin-bieber-officially-retiring-tweet-retired-christmas-eve-announcement-twitter-tweets-retire/">beliebe</a></i> what just happened." <br />
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<b> Icy Highs's Music Recco: Those Darlins - Waste Away</b><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-8536706652569009392013-11-27T00:32:00.000+05:302013-11-27T00:38:36.210+05:30BRO'S YOUR DADDY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvIxsawnFO1lufGSMNbVg5AlWGtvAyE3yVoEWac6Bc0isxrfDY3gFynXVYxmN1yeMBk9EQ4ckzNBSKB3kL11t5HVBiIDYSIWcSH5mfSsFPlPWFnsFTcNxOrbqjJDNGGdks7jRMwflS3M/s1600/bart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvIxsawnFO1lufGSMNbVg5AlWGtvAyE3yVoEWac6Bc0isxrfDY3gFynXVYxmN1yeMBk9EQ4ckzNBSKB3kL11t5HVBiIDYSIWcSH5mfSsFPlPWFnsFTcNxOrbqjJDNGGdks7jRMwflS3M/s1600/bart.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever a sucker for a good old-fashioned <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/bollywood">Bollywood</a> romance, I was
probably more thrilled than the newly-weds themselves when my childhood friend
and his college girlfriend pulled off the star-crossed wedding of the century.
Parents were threatened with suicide and fasts-unto-death and chronic
spinsterhood, names were called, motives questioned, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZLWPEXXwd8">even a stray pistol or two fired in the air</a> before the two would eventually immerse themselves in the
masochist waters of holy matrimony. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since we moved to different cities- and later, countries- after
school, I was unable to play my dream role of Friend & Facilitator (I never
get to facilitate anything; stuff just<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>happens</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>to me) while all the drama was going
down, but I always felt part of the proceedings, thanks in no small part to my
friend's email updates at every stage of the relationship. But before last
weekend, I'd waited some six years to finally meet this woman who had launched
a thousand auto-rickshaws, and finally made an honest man of my
brotha-from-'notha-motha. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As we all know, the woman of your bro-from-'notha-maw (there
should really be an abbreviation for that) is as off-limits as it gets. No
matter how short a while you've known her, she's automatically a girl-bro:
someone you can go shopping with and whine to about woman-trouble and generally
just be one-of-the-girls with without actually going under the knife. And my
bro sure picked a winner- I liked her immediately, and we all got along like a happy
house on fire, sipping our brewskis and reminiscing about school days while
Green Day moaned tepidly about tattoos and memories on a CD none of us would
admit to having plopped on the stereo. <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/nineties%20child">Nineties kids, all.</a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd never had a girl-bro before, so I was really excited to see
how far I could push the boundaries of propriety. An off-colour joke here, an
MD anecdote there, hell I even squeezed in a racist joke about <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/hindi%20people">Hindi People</a>.
She didn't seem to mind at all. I'd finally found my Gro. That's when my
friend's parents dropped in, balked at me for a second as though experiencing a
particularly nasty bout of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>deja
vu</i>, and quickly departed after dropping off his 2-year old son with us.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The kid was a real people-pleaser, going round our circle handing
out head massages like an overweight teenager with low self-esteem hosting her
first house party. I was just settling into one-more-and-lunch? mode, when
things took an unexpected turn. My friend, who had disappeared into the kitchen
with the baby, reappeared wearing a distinctly dour expression I remembered
–but couldn’t place- from our kindergarten days. “What’s wrong, buddy?” I
asked. “Oh, nothing,” he muttered, and stole a glance at Wifey. Holy Miley,
they were doing that weird transference thing couples do and in a couple of seconds
she wore the exact same expression as him! Suddenly, looking at the two of them
and their toddler who had just sauntered in naked, trailing a stray diaper and
the definitive waft of poo behind him, I <i>knew</i>.
<i>Oh shit, </i>this<i> is what happens to people after they have babies. </i>The words were
out of my mouth before I knew it: “bro, did you just poop your pants?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He hadn’t, of course. Turned out his son had a habit of swallowing
assorted non-edible objects, and my friend had just found the key to his gym
locker in the latest poop bouquet he had been presented with. Which in his
shock and horror he had subsequently dropped in the pot of <i>biryani</i> that was
supposed to be our lunch. “I’m sorry I accused you of hiding the key,” he said
and gave Wifey a hug. “Why would you think she’d do that?” I asked, “and go
boil your hand in acid or something.” I pricked my ears for the sound of water
running as he went back inside. “Oh he’s got it into his head that I don’t let
him have any alone-time out of some kind of new-mommy spite,” Wifey explained cheerfully, and patted
her son’s bottom, “look, why don’t you go through the menu and we’ll order in some
Chinese?” I wasn’t sure if I could eat for a couple of days yet. “Your problems
are so different from mine,” I said, “AND WHO THE HELL CHANGES DIAPERS IN THE
KITCHEN?” Wifey smiled patiently. “Relax, <i>bro</i>,”
she said, “<i>everything</i>
you’ve touched in this house has been pissed, pooped or puked on. Repeatedly. Now
order some fucking Chinese before I make him swallow your balls.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Icy Highs's Video Recco: Justin Bieber vs. Slipknot - Psychosocial Baby</span></b></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-52044735334581050392013-11-19T22:58:00.001+05:302014-03-22T19:04:45.569+05:30Man, Interrupted <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Sandra Bullock has confirmed she will not appear in Speed 3. </td></tr>
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It was probably my fault. In a moment of weakness, brought on by a severely late night that I could have avoided and sheer physical inability to face the day before the sun had started its mournful descend down the clock, I found myself boarding a KSRTC Super Fast Passenger bus from Trivandrum to Cochin last Saturday. A journey I usually make in under five hours from behind the air-conditioned comfort of my steering wheel. I can do this, I told myself, I can middle class it one weekend.<br />
<br />
My suspicion that the bus service was named by a clinically optimistic mid-level bureaucrat on a sleepy Friday afternoon many sleepy afternoons ago was confirmed almost as soon as we left the suburbs and hit the highway. "Why won't a <i>Super </i>Fast overtake autorickshaws?" inquired fellow-passengers, "I could have paid 50 bucks less and taken the Fast Passenger instead!" Aah the joys, and fleeting entitlement, we derive from public sector nomenclature. <br />
<br />
I was still mulling over excuses to give my Mom on showing up a couple of days late for her sixtieth birthday when we stopped at the Kayamkulam bus station: a fifteen minute snack break, announced the conductor cheerfully. Desperate for a cigarette and having heard horror stories about how strictly the anti-smoking laws are enforced in Kerala, I made my way to the washroom while mapping out a Bourne-style mental lay of the land- here a cop, there a "No Smoking" sign, etc.<br />
<br />
The washroom was a study in the famed Mallu eye for a quick buck. Under the cover of a desk that men in urgent need of bladder relief threw mandatory 1-rupee coins on before making their hasty way to the urinal, was a thriving cigarette business! See, the cops needed their nictonie fix too. So rather than let the law be flouted across the bus stand, they had quietly convened all lawlessness to a corner, where men could urinate and suck on phallus-shaped cancer sticks without detracting from the status quo. How empowering, how communal, to bum a light off a policeman to spark up a cigarette in a No-Smoking zone!<br />
<br />
But if the washroom already evokes images of an Oscar Wilde-designed utopia, let's bear in mind that every revolution has a Dick That Takes It Too Far. So there I was, my body as far as possible from the urinal to avoid splashage, encouraging the little man to do maximum damage in lieu of the many hours of travel ahead, when I <i>sensed</i> this presence, this<i> intrusion</i> into the most private of men's worlds- the space between urinal walls.<br />
<br />
I looked up, and sure enough, there's this middle-aged guy at the adjacent stall, his dhoti hitched up around his waist and neither hand on deck, <i>peeking. </i>I stood rooted to the spot in fear and embarrassment, unable to take my eyes off his face, as he continued to stare right at my cock and appeared to be shaking himself clean a little too vehemently.<br />
<br />
<i>It's my fault.</i><br />
These shorts <i>are</i> a little too tight.<br />
I<i> am</i> showing a little more leg than what may be considered savory. <br />
Fuck this, I'm the Victim here!<br />
<br />
"Seen enough?" I asked, in a voice calculated to imply manly, gym shower-indifference and the casual nature of having one's privates ogled at. That's when the Middle-Aged Masturbator looked up, calmly lifted a hand from underneath his dhoti, and proceeded to gently box my ear. "What'd you say?" he asked.<br />
He hadn't even considered punching me, the patronly pervert, he thought it fitting to punish my bringing down the fourth wall with a clip of my ear! <br />
<br />
Now say what you will of the Straight Man and his propensity to attribute all kinds of terror to the Unknown, but it arises out of a Fear that is both recurring and real: that of Another Man's Penis. It's a nightmare that twitches threateningly in the back of our minds, one that snakes its way without invitation into a multitude of our orifices from nostril to asshole on any given day of the week. Not that I didn't think I could take him in an altercation, but somehow the nature of his perversion filled me with images of him using his Penis as a weapon. I looked around the otherwise-empty washroom and decided I may very well end up in a <i>Borat</i>-style battle of the brosephs if I were to pick a fight. So I lowered my gaze, furious at myself for having backed down, zipped myself up as quickly as I could while the Middle-Aged Masturbator continued to have his merry way with my johnson in his mind.<br />
<br />
I did manage a parting blow though, even if it was in flight. Business unsatisfactorily concluded (on my end, at any rate), I stepped back and kicked the guy right in the middle of his back. I didn't stay to bask in the glory of my legwork though few sounds have pleased my ear more than the sickening splash of all the collected urine in his pot as he helplessly lowered his hand in it to brace himself. Outside, I decided I could risk missing my bus to catch a glimpse of my tormentor's walk of shame. And if any political party promises to arm women (and... ahem.. boyishly good-looking men) using public transport in India with switchblades and guns, they have my vote. <br />
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<b>Icy Highs's Video Recco: The Smoking Area clip from the always brilliant <i>The IT Crowd</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-73809610189392277962013-11-03T14:08:00.001+05:302013-11-20T04:39:06.288+05:30Going 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 <i>you</i>. 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 <a href="http://bookendyourweekend.blogspot.in/2013/10/a-night-at-kochi-international-fashion.html">Kochi Fashion Week Afterparty</a>, those two crazy weekends in Chennai and Bangalore after, the music festival in Ooty. What can I say? I just can't sleep anymore. <br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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 <i>me</i> 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.<br />
<br />
So log on to Facebook I did today morning, and typed out the following status update:<br />
"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!"<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-19795002664220010112013-10-30T19:25:00.001+05:302013-10-31T12:15:15.173+05:30Riding In Cars With Boys Few things intimidate me like the sight of a blank page. That probably sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect a writer to say. But that's not the sort of thing I'm talking about: I'm literally terrified of blank pages. I keep thinking they'll rise up from the spines of books and the backs of type writers and computer screens and swallow me whole or suffocate me to death. Kind of like a scary, literate and reluctant-to-show-it, Casper.<br />
<br />
This means I scribble incessantly and compulsively on any blank sheet within my reach. That sounds rather grand but it doesn't have to be anything legible or even meaningful- an X or a pair of boobs will do. I go looking for canvas-of-life metaphors and deeper significance but my sister- who's a good 7 years older than I am, and quite the success story- narrowed it down to a more obvious (some might say "vicious"- ha, you've just been incepted!) possibility recently. She said- and I quote- "you've been babied by too many grown-ass women all your life. Go play with somebody half your age.". <br />
<br />
On the face of it, this may just be a little sibling rivalry at work (though best of friends we are) based on the Mothership's well-documented partiality towards me. Or maybe it was my trail of broken relationships- wonderful, kind, women who figured out sooner or later that they deserved better- and how badly I'd been dealing with my latest heartbreak. It may also have been the fact that it was 9 AM on a Sunday. I'd just dropped in at her's after a night out with some old friends, and was badly in need of coffee. She, on the other hand, had been up since 6, had brushed, showered and packed off the niblings to Abacus classes, prepared breakfast for the clan, and was getting dressed to go to church. The implication was clear: I needed to grow up and do a little babying of my own. Or maybe it was finding a doodle of our childhood Ambassador car -replete with big round headlights, and the registration plate- on Page 1 of a 145-page report she shad typed up over the weekend on "Why Grown Men Don't Grow The Fuck Up and Leave Home". I kid. The report was on something far less serious, something to do with intellectual property law. Unfortunately, the drawing had left an imprint on at least the next 60-odd pages.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, Chech," I say, "I'll get it printed out again."<br />
"It's not about the damn print outs," she tells me, "it's everything. This<i> thing</i> you're doing. You want more sugar?"<br />
"No," I say, and gratefully accept the mug of coffee she offers. Tastes like home. And hangover.<br />
"Look Chech," I try another tact, "why don't you head out, go to church if you must, and a movie or a spa or something after, and I'll pick up the kids and make sure things go smoothly here, what say?"<br />
"Make this about me and I'll hang you by your toes," she says.<br />
She's got her back to me but I can tell she's smiling. <br />
"The kids finish at 10," she says, as I kick back on the couch and wave goodbye.<br />
<br />
"GET OUT!"<br />
"GET THE- go to your room- GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"<br />
<i>Oh God, it's real. This is no nightmare, I've done something terrible. Again.</i><br />
I wake up to see the niblings march their patented walk of reluctance to their rooms. They get in, leave their doors open just a tad, and settle in to watch. Further north of my eyeline is a familiar pair of hands on hips, and further up, a Very Pissed Off Chech. Scratch what I said about blank pages earlier; nothing intimidates me more than Very Pissed Off Chech.<br />
<br />
"<i>One</i> thing," she says, "I didn't even ask you; you<i> offered</i> to pick up the kids. You couldn't do that for me."<br />
"I passed out," I say, "I was exhausted. I'm sorry."<br />
"Yeah well I'm sure sorry would have worked just fine if they'd been kidnapped too!"<br />
"But they haven't been..." I stop, "I'm sorry. I'll leave."<br />
As shameful as it is, this is an old trick. Offer to leave when I screw up, and she'd ask me to stay. Upsets the momentum of her fury.<br />
"And don't come back till you've learnt to be responsible," she says, "I won't let you let my kids down too."<br />
<br />
Sis safely fuming in her room, the niblings quietly make their way towards me.<br />
"Hey guys," I say, "We were just playing a little joke."<br />
"I'm ten next May," says my niece, "I can tell when a joke's not funny anymore."<br />
I look up from tying my laces, and give her a hug.<br />
"You stink," she tells me, "but don't go."<br />
"I'm just going to give her some time," I say, "Sorry I didn't pick you guys up."<br />
"It's ok," she says and goes back to her room.<br />
<br />
"Hey buddy," I turn to my nephew and offer him a high five, "you've been a bit of a brat, haven't you?"<br />
"I'm sorry," he says, and the severity of his apology, the solemnity of his voice, makes me want to kill whoever deemed it inappropriate to doodle on corporate documents.<br />
"Hey, you draw pretty well," I tell him, "just not on anybody else's stuff ok?"<br />
"Yeah," he promises, "I didn't realize."<br />
"I know," I give him a stinky hug, "where'd you get the registration number? Nice detail on the front end too, great job."<br />
"Mom's always talking about how Grandpa used to take you on roadtrips as kids," he says, "we just get driven to school."<br />
"Hey, I had to <i>walk </i>to school," I tell him, "and we used to fight non-stop on those trips. And those trips only happened coz our Grandpa lived far away. We'd drive down to spend Christmas with him. You got your Grandpa right in your city!"<br />
"I wish our whole family lived in different countries!" he declares, "except maybe you."<br />
"Me too, Nephew," I say, "Get your shoes on. Let's go get you some drawing pencils."<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-48874862897250493212013-09-17T21:55:00.003+05:302014-03-22T18:54:19.755+05:30The Language Of Privilege <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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 <i>The Hindu</i>, 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!"</div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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!".<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPvu3EEcBoM">Life is like a box of chocolates</a>." He won't so much as go to the bathroom without announcing, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgPePk3kGZk">I'll be back</a>". 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. "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l1B1_jQnlFk">Help me help you</a>," he said. I promptly rushed back to Bru World and posted an ad for a new cook. <br />
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<b><u> Icy Highs's Music Recco: Brahama- My Sleeping Karma </u></b><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-53366181744387496222013-08-26T15:14:00.001+05:302013-08-26T21:38:06.225+05:30Of Selfies And Cellphones. And 8-Year Olds. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XnuBzTlFsQFQj50WZYG0t13Dg_rmbHXDbI5qeQD4cHtjNURDk8Nv4ezGGf4aMbgOJ0w9muPoKka2HdRpyo5LgF5-fsyr4Pm8zYV1fXTDJN-azgIkvl8xoMwbafB_fcEg7EwZq_-yU-o/s1600/Mona-Lisa-Smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XnuBzTlFsQFQj50WZYG0t13Dg_rmbHXDbI5qeQD4cHtjNURDk8Nv4ezGGf4aMbgOJ0w9muPoKka2HdRpyo5LgF5-fsyr4Pm8zYV1fXTDJN-azgIkvl8xoMwbafB_fcEg7EwZq_-yU-o/s320/Mona-Lisa-Smile.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Mona Lisa had a bit of a reputation for selfies. </td></tr>
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"I'm leaving in a few hours," I say, "Nothing you want to ask me, buddy?"<br />
"There is this one thing," he says.<br />
<br />
<i>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. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"It's about <i>selfies</i>," he says, "Are you any good at selfies?"<br />
My brain takes a couple of seconds to digest this information, and promptly denounce all bloody supply. I decide to clarify.<br />
"And by <i>selfie</i>, you mean," I ask, "like a...self-administered...<i>handy</i>?" <br />
"Way to dork things up," he says, "yeah, I guess. I just want to know if there's a recommended hand for maximum satisfaction."<br />
<i>Oh Karma, you son of a bitch. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Well, selfies <i>are</i> besties," I say, "the important thing is that you use <i>your</i> hand. And with practice...just how long have you been..selfing... yourself?"<br />
"I owe it to you really," he says, "ever since you gave me your iPhone! I can upload my selfies in seconds."<br />
<i>Oh God. Oh God, I have turned my eight year old nephew into an inadvertent self-pornographer. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Ok, don't panic, Little Nephew," I say, "but you need to show me which sites they're on, ok?"<br />
"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."<br />
<i>No surprises, there. His physique must be genetic too, after all. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Hey, don't let anyone tell you it's the frequency that matters," I say, "you'll only set yourself up for a fall."<br />
"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."<br />
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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. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-3217533461060222992013-08-17T10:59:00.001+05:302014-03-22T18:36:07.517+05:30Hey there, Delilah.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfE8T2oln1FvBf9W2pqPAgFm52DqhTYCqpqfYmY9sfo3OOMqcLHMysPZWOVqFrDJQduViDOPIw3O9C0jw2Qg8xtmtmrm9EZvgV3yDPNym9sYlK75LUb_zjAKQobjhJdTZIbXURCX2w2aU/s1600/samson_and_delilah_by_Devildevious.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfE8T2oln1FvBf9W2pqPAgFm52DqhTYCqpqfYmY9sfo3OOMqcLHMysPZWOVqFrDJQduViDOPIw3O9C0jw2Qg8xtmtmrm9EZvgV3yDPNym9sYlK75LUb_zjAKQobjhJdTZIbXURCX2w2aU/s1600/samson_and_delilah_by_Devildevious.png" height="320" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork: Phinnist</td></tr>
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>NW </i>and Hanif Kureishi's <i>Midnight All Day</i> 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 <a href="http://bookendyourweekend.blogspot.in/">Pop Culture Namaha</a>.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
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<b>Icy Highs's Music Recco: Summertime Sadness, Lana Del Ray </b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-84037706937404572222013-08-05T17:03:00.001+05:302013-08-05T19:05:45.208+05:30Fear and Loathing. And Hindi People. The Mothership, hardcore <i>Mallu</i> that she is, has a tendency to assume the worst about North Indians- or as we call them in private, 'Hindi people'. Her definition of 'Hindi people' is a wide, sweeping, arc that covers just about every inch of the country north of Bangalore. Naturally, she wasn't thrilled when I moved to Bombay last year. Till recently though, I was under the impression that I had finally converted the Mothership, that I could take comfort in knowing that I'd transformed one bigoted soul forever. <br />
<br />
Not having spent much time in the North myself, I was thrilled when I got the opportunity to spend a few days in Delhi last month to promote my novel<i>. </i>To nobody's surprise, those 'few days' in the capital have somehow stretched into a couple of weeks now, partly because I was down with some stomach trouble, and mostly because it meant I 'd have that much longer before getting back to the daily grind. The Mothership- bless her- fired off two warning texts to my phone before finally calling. <br />
<br />
"Tharun," she says, "what do they want?"<br />
"Who, Ma?" I ask, because it's 7 in the morning and I've just returned to the friend's home I'm crashing at from a party with seven hungover strangers.<br />
"The Hindi People," she says, "what will it take to get you out of there?"<br />
"What?" I try to clear my head, "Mom, I just got held up with book stuff here. I'll head back soon."<br />
"Son," she whispers, "I don't know who they are or what they want, but you tell them your Ma's got <i>skills</i>, you hear? You tell them if they don't let you go, your Mommy <i>will</i> look for them, that I <i>will</i> find them, and I <i>will</i> kill them. You hear?"<br />
<br />
I consider letting my Mother think I've been kidnapped by Hindi People for just a little longer; it'd be easier than telling her I've been putting off getting back to real life because breakups are hard and I'm in possession of half a brick of primo hashish that needs smoking before I can board a flight without fear of getting an anal probe. <br />
<br />
"Ma," I say, "I'm not being kept here against my will. My stomach's all screwed. I think I've got Delhi Belly."<br />
"That's good," she says, "speak only in code. "Delhi Belly"! Ha, I bet they're going crazy trying to figure that out!" <br />
"No Ma, 'Delhi Belly' is a real thing," I say, "It's a stomach infection you get from drinking Delhi water or something."<br />
"Good. Now keep using code, but what can you tell me about your location? I'm sure they blindfolded you, but did you happen to hear a train or a plane in the background?"<br />
"The entire city is connected by train, Ma," I say, "and besides, I've not been kidnapped! I can't believe you've never heard of Delhi Belly. Google it. Aamir Khan even made a movie about it. You <i>know</i> it must be contemporary and traumatic and capable of reducing housewives across India to tears if Aamir Khan makes a movie about it." <br />
<br />
The Mothership falls silent. Aamir Khan is one of the few Bollywood actors to hold his own in our household, partly because he made a couple of decent movies ten years ago and mainly because, as my mother put it, "I think his people have suffered enough, don't you?" She knows I wouldn't use the Khan's name in vain.<br />
<br />
"So you're actually staying longer in Delhi off your own free will?" she asks.<br />
"Bye, Ma," I say, "I love you."<br />
<br />
Now as any man will tell you, you can't really look people in the eye after they've just heard you tell your mother you love her. So I put down the phone, make a face, and plant my gaze on a speck on the wall that's a good foot above the tallest person in the little group assembled around me. Though we've boarded up the windows, we can hear the day breaking outside, an angry milkman here, a furious automobile honk there. We haven't slept a wink all night but we've been in Delhi long enough to know we can't afford to waste daylight. <br />
<br />
"Right, people," I say, "you know the drill. We're all hungry and this is part of the cultural experience, so no whining. And pick up anything you see that can be concealed in your clothes and can be used as a weapon."<br />
<br />
There is a collective nod, and no audible Oedipus jokes. Deciding it's still early, I collect just the assault rifles from the corner and pass them around. <br />
<br />
"Ok on the count of three," I say, "ladies, grab your pepper spray and tasers, and other assorted anti-rape devices. Guys, you've got your guns; lock and load. Let's go get some breakfast."<br />
<br />
<b>Icy Highs's Music Recco: Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose,<i> Delhi Belly</i> (2011)</b><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-61305146847798774982013-07-28T17:34:00.000+05:302013-08-05T17:13:59.350+05:30How Karan Johar brought back the Raj Civilized as we are, there's always a certain pride in beating the System. Whether it's returning a not-subtle-enough wine at a classy restaurant or paying somebody an extra hundred bucks to <i>tatkal</i> your ass to whatever last minute destination, nobody says no to a chance to pull one over the System. What the System itself is comprised of - the government? the capitalists? the <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/Mothership">Mothership</a>?- has never been particularly clear but one thing is for certain: it is not a very nice establishment.<br />
<br />
Being a writer -or so I was told- comes with its own set of prescribed ideological affectations. Of which being staunchly anti-System, I gathered, is the most crucial one. A stickler for pretensions myself, I decided many years ago that I would jump on the bandwagon the minute <a href="http://www.uread.com/book/Cough%20Syrup%20Surrealism/9788172344528">my first novel</a> got published. That happened a little over a month ago. Like any Indian <i>babu</i> worth his salt, I decided to fight the System by first doing a Case Study. What better role models, I thought, than all the <i>firang</i>s on Himachal's famed hippie trail? They're White, they're right and let's be honest, tie-dye never really looks as good on those of tropical complexion.<br />
<br />
If anybody can teach me to ditch the 9-5, to live on my own terms and for my own enlightenment, it's these gentle White folk who've abandoned the comfort of microwave pizzas and afternoons at the Gap to bum around them Himalayas. I'm happy to report my instincts weren't so wrong after all. Deliverance came in the shape of an overhead snippet of conversation from a table adjacent to mine at a little cafe in Leh. The French guy at the table had been exhorting the virtues of budget travel and backpacking to a newbie British girl for the better part of my breakfast, and just as I was losing interest....<br />
<br />
"But Pierre, how do you keep going without an income? What do you do when the money runs out?"<br />
<br />
This was it, the mother lode, the moment that four weeks of painstaking research and analysis had been leading upto. How does one survive without a job? How does one <i>truly</i> beat the System? Pierre would know.<br />
<br />
"I'm broke now," declared Pierre proudly, "so I'm off to Bombay. I hear there's a place that pays you 200 rupees just to show up."<br />
<br />
Must be an underground moment, I thought, some kind of counter culture organization. Like minds, I thought, brothers in arms. Of <i>course </i>they would pay me 200 rupees just to show up, they <i>get</i> me! I leaned in closer to gather more information on the whereabouts of the Promised Land.<br />
<br />
"It's at this cafe in Colaba in Bombay," said Pierre, "they don't want experience, talent, nothing. As long as you're White, they'll hire you as extra dancers in Bollywood movies."<br />
<br />
And on hearing that ladies and gents, I spat out my coffee and calmly walked out the door, resolving never to pay for breakfast again. Take a bow, Karan Johar and Bollywood; not only have you broken the System, but you've brought back the old one. I'd stay and chat but I've got job applications to fill in.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-62474039153327907232013-07-05T15:24:00.001+05:302017-02-14T12:28:18.000+05:30Fair Weather Girlfriend <div class="MsoNormal">
This time, I’m mad. I’ve had enough. This would be the third
guy in just the last couple of hours. And they were all a certain type, too:
skin like leather, <i>topi</i>s so colourful
they could be flags, a lilt in their tones that evoked in the listener’s mind
images of story-tellers and wanderlust. In short: completely unremarkable <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pahari_people" target="_blank">Pahadi</a> </i>men of average height and less
than taxable incomes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well if <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/girlfriend" target="_blank">Girlfriend</a> thinks I’ll just stand around pillaresque
while she chats up every working class hero in <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/kasol" target="_blank">Kasol</a>, she’s wrong. I didn’t
mind so much earlier the last few times because the resentment was only
building, and I was distracted by all the blinking lights in this stupid café.
But this time, I’m mad. This time, she’s gone too far, luring him over with the
packet of Bourbons she knows perfectly well I was holding as contingency for
midnight munchies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I step up and into the middle of their little conversation,
and immediately feel guilty about interrupting the ebb and flow of the babbling
brook that is his voice. Jesus, it’s a bit like getting a really rough handjob,
I think to myself, as his tongue caresses every syllable of his tale while his
eyes reprimand me for interrupting all the vocal love-making. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Baby</i>,” I
side-mouth to Girlfriend, “stop asking every native guy you see if it’s going
to rain tomorrow!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” she asks, totes flying in the face of our
all-sidemouths-should-be-responded-to-in-kind rule. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because it’s racist!” I semi-side-mouth and smile broadly
at Pahadi Dude, so he doesn’t realize we’re talking about him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why are you grinning like that?” asks Girlfriend, “you’re
freaking him out!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“At least he doesn’t know we’re talking about him,” I say,
“look, just because he’s from here doesn’t mean he can predict the weather!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course he can’t,” says Girlfriend, “I’m just asking if
it’ll rain...oh, I see what you mean.<i>
Shit</i>, give him some money!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really? You don’t think I should wait till you’ve given him
a tour of the gas chamber?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Fine</i>,” hisses
Girlfriend, “You tell me what we should do then.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“WE?,” I whisper a scream, “<i>we</i> don’t need to do anything. Just tell him you’ll add him on
Facebook or something and let’s get the fuck out of here.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-81018939871596190352013-06-29T14:15:00.002+05:302013-07-05T15:36:59.867+05:30Middle-Classin' it in the Himalayas<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
Countless years ago, on a fairly mundane but ominous-in-retrospect Thursday evening on the eve of my seventh birthday, my father had The Conversation that all <i>Mallu</i> Dads must at some point, usually on the eve of their son’s seventh birthday, have with their male progeny. “Son,” he told me, “I know you have friends from all over the country in your school, and they’re all lovely children. But… you’re different. You’re not<i>bad</i>-different, just… Special.” The <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/Mothership" target="_blank">Mothership</a>’s meticulously indexed library of family photographs (Ref: <i>Aug-Oct, 1991;, pre-measles, post C- in Fingerpainting</i>) will show I arched my eyebrows like the best in the business, suitably impressed by the enormity of the occasion. “Son,” my <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/Dad" target="_blank">Dad </a>continued, looking away from the thunder and lightning and the late Monsoons that dutifully lashed against our living room window, “you’re a middle-class <i>Mallu</i> man.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US">He told me how, as a<i> Mallu </i>man, I was blessed with superior qualities other races just weren’t privy to, how life had been handed to me on a silver banana leaf by virtue of my lineage alone. I would have to deal with the good looks, the charm, the terrible terrible popularity with the ladies, he said. I’d also have to put my superior <i>Mallu</i> brains to good use, he said. I would grow up to become a computer engineer in the Silicon Valley, he said, or a dentist in some posh English county like all the nieghbours’ kids. “<a href="http://www.the-nri.com/index.php/2012/07/the-reluctant-malayalee/" target="_blank">It’s part of our <i>culture</i></a>,” he explained. Some of those predictions were proven wrong over time. Some, like “not too long before you start sporting a thick moustache like mine!”, over a little less time. But I’ll always remember what he told me while tucking me into bed that night: “There’s always a choice, son. You can either spend your life under-achieving to compensate for your natural awesomeness, or you can light up the world with it. Just don’t, <i>ever</i>, be Evil.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US">Nearly twenty two years later, staring right through the eyes and into the soul of a little <i><a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/pahadi" target="_blank">Pahadi</a></i> man in the foothills of the Himalayas, those words came back to haunt me. Girlfriend and I had come across the <i>native </i>while struggling up the deathtrap that is the trek from Barsheni, a tiny little town in Himachal Pradesh, to Kalga which would be our basecamp for our trek to Kheer Ganga. We were tired, we were starving, and we were cold. We had been walking almost twenty minutes in the wintry chill of June. It was either him or us. To his credit, the native showed no signs of fear, the little tyke. I told <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/girlfriend" target="_blank">Girlfriend</a>, gently: “darling, we have no choice. It’s the human thing to do. You’re struggling, too.” “I wouldn’t be if you’d just carry your own damn suitcase,” she muttered, “who brings a suitcase to a trek, Boyfriend, <i>who</i>?” The poor thing was losing it. I had called dibs on being Navigator days ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US">But even as she borrowed desperately from the last of her moral reserves, even as she stumbled over the last few centimeters she would spend as a righteous woman, I knew: the madness had to end. The natural order would prevail. But we weren’t <i>like</i> that, Girlfriend and I. Girlfriend had read <i>Roots</i> six times, and retweeted <a href="http://bookendyourweekend.blogspot.in/search/label/toni%20morrison" target="_blank">Toni Morrison</a> Quotes religiously. I had only watched <i>Django Unchained</i> a few days ago. Far be it from either one of us to take advantage of a historically and economically disadvantaged community for personal gain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<span lang="EN-US">I looked up one more time through my polarized Ray Bans at our destination- Kheer Ganga, home to the holy. This mission was the culmination of the work of a lifetime, and it <i>would </i>involve collateral. We would have to make a judgment call, and we would have to live with it the rest of our lives. It was Time. We’d have to middle-class it, or run the risk of never making the climb. “Native,” I said purposefully, as I looked him in the eye, “five hundred bucks to carry our stuff all the way up and lead the way. An extra hundred if you don’t crumple my casual-yet-elegant cardigan. We cool?” </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-36361469109635756542013-06-22T20:16:00.000+05:302017-02-14T12:29:05.712+05:30OM SHANTI OM<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMO24FBmZ2SVyaJwAFf5O8Tc8k8yeB_xBom_XvwaZjOhzfu_tum4fVVfHWVVw32QfUsqnk3cZdWizpqEauS0Uu49akknitwFPR-NWZlJwYaOE3VVEoMNw1tQK6N0xJ5CcZVzaA4wks5Q/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMO24FBmZ2SVyaJwAFf5O8Tc8k8yeB_xBom_XvwaZjOhzfu_tum4fVVfHWVVw32QfUsqnk3cZdWizpqEauS0Uu49akknitwFPR-NWZlJwYaOE3VVEoMNw1tQK6N0xJ5CcZVzaA4wks5Q/s1600/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Gayle discovers marijuana, denounces hair care. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When Girlfriend and I
set off on a trek around Kasol a day after my<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.200200120134199.1073741830.190439571110254&type=1" target="_blank"> book launc</a>h, the rules were
clear: personal hygiene would be a personal choice. No judgments would be made,
no snide comments would be passed and we would spend our days in sun-soaked,
rain-drenched Himalayan hermitage in blissful quest for the muse. We were
damned if we couldn’t squeeze some literary juice out of a month in the hills,
what with Girlfriend having quit gainful employment and yours truly never
really joining the ranks of the big boys in the taxman’s scheme of things. We
were, therefore we’d write.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For those who don’t
know (I say that grandly, but I hadn’t heard of the place till <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/girlfriend" target="_blank">Girlfriend </a>drew
out the itinerary and circled our stops in idiot-proof red on Google Maps on
her tab), Kasol is apparently where half the Israelis in their early 20s come
to let their hair down and generally bum around after two (for women, four for men) compulsory years of military service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seriously, I’ve learnt more Hebrew from shop signs here than I did in
twelve traumatic years of catechism classes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Generally
marijuana-friendly and devoted to the<i> thaandav</i>-doing, chillum-toting Hindu
stoner deity Shiva, the town is a pint-sized cross section of little gullies
and one winding main road by the banks of the River Parvati, whose valleys
produce some of the best hashish in India. Once the stronghold of Hindu
pilgrims and <i>baba</i>s, Kasol now boats of a vibrant multi-cultural hippie
populace, from suitably unarmed Israeli forces to backpackers from Europe and
America, dreadloacks and tie-dye everywhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The <i>baba</i> is the
collective- if curious- patron saint of the movement. Armed with nothing but
chillums and a Beatles-worthy catalogue of variants of the same song, they
stomp up and down these mountains in valiant search of the self, pausing only
at the Hot Springs atop Kheer Ganga for some TLC. Our own plan was a little
less<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deepak Chopra, but the destination
was the same. We’ve been here a few days now and we haven’t made the 4-hour
trek to Kheer Ganga yet, but encouragingly, the <i>baba</i>s don’t appear to be in any
great hurry either. You can find them holding court in several of Kasol’s
cafes, surrounded by awe-struck <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/2012/03/rent-boy.html" target="_blank">millennials</a> and spouting platitudes to Shiva
while smoking (and graciously passing around) the holy herb. We haven’t gotten
much writing done, but all is, as the Israelis would say,<i> sababa</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> Icy Highs's Music Recco: Kula Shaker- Govinda </b></span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-69208697958183953022013-06-05T13:58:00.000+05:302013-06-05T19:53:20.646+05:30'Cough Syrup Surrealism' Book Launch & Party<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
So I've been threatening to publish my novel, <i><a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/cough%20syrup%20surrealism" target="_blank">Cough Syrup Surrealism</a></i>, 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:</div>
<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism" mce_href="https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism">https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
The book is already available for pre-order on Flipkart and uRead, but the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/468301403245924/" target="_blank">official launch</a> (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.</div>
<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism" mce_href="https://www.facebook.com/CoughSyrupSurrealism"></a>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 <a href="http://igirit.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Igirit</a>. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">
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! </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-33017104648789759162013-04-25T17:12:00.000+05:302017-02-14T12:31:30.083+05:30When a little longing goes a long way <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pulling into Kakori: seriously, who names a town after a kebab?</td></tr>
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"No, of course I'm not bored," I assured her, "just thought you may want to try something new. You're what, 25? Live a little!" </div>
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''Oh I know it's not like there's nothing left to try," she said, "I even have a list. It's not that. I'm just not that interested in theatre or... shopping or... I don't know.. freebasing." </div>
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''Freebasing's overrated anyway,'' I told her. </div>
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''So you agree?'' she asked. </div>
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I looked at her. </div>
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''I guess so,'' I said, ''summer's almost over. You should leave. That was the plan.'' </div>
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''That was my plan,'' she said, ''you have a better idea?''</div>
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I scoured her face for sarcasm. She looked as sincere as she sounded.</div>
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"Look," I said, "I'm getting the feeling I'm a little out of my depth here. When I asked you if you'd like to try something new, I just meant try the kakori kebabs. They have a new chef here and the kebabs are on an introductory half price deal." </div>
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<b>Icy Highs's Music Recco: A little longing goes away - The Books, Lost And Safe (2005)</b> </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-51528506492924474272013-04-13T19:43:00.000+05:302017-02-14T12:22:45.409+05:30A Revolution That Will Not Be Televised <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(For <a href="http://www.igirit.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Igirit</a>)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTummM3O8doJfjnnb6Zc3-irAJaCC2oLnjzFXk3zBGhudGUFfGSHkjVGhHBXTbHnmtOP1IFRIBqxXqNw4g1W4dbFnP_WQTmt1Ok18sWUN0SpiXZm7izCu_n3vK-9QWB1I1Pd8Fwu2ZTgI/s1600/pitt+crazy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTummM3O8doJfjnnb6Zc3-irAJaCC2oLnjzFXk3zBGhudGUFfGSHkjVGhHBXTbHnmtOP1IFRIBqxXqNw4g1W4dbFnP_WQTmt1Ok18sWUN0SpiXZm7izCu_n3vK-9QWB1I1Pd8Fwu2ZTgI/s1600/pitt+crazy.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every fight club needs its poster boy.</td></tr>
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So the other day, a few of us had an early reprieve from work and were standing around outside, hungrily breathing in daylight like men fresh out of solitary. There was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaBVLhcHcc0" target="_blank">that familiar summer conviction in the air</a>, that feeling that life was starting anew and promising to be phenomenal. In less than a minute however, our band of merry men had diminished to three, the others departing on a slew of errands that appeared to have reared their heads out of nowhere.<br />
<br />
I was surprised. I was planning to make the best of our early finish, and get some midweek drinking action going. "What about you guys?" I asked, "got plans too?" Suddenly, pockets were rummaged, hair re-coiffed, sunglasses readjusted. Basically, anything but look me in the eye. <br />
<br />
"I'm not really sure," mumbled KD, after some time, "I'm waiting for my girlfriend to text back."<br />
"Me too," chimed in Leo, "and mine's in a meeting till six."<br />
I felt devastated, violated.<br />
"What the fuck guys," I said, "it's only four. Let's go get a beer."<br />
"Oh come on dude," K retorted, "you do the same thing."<br />
<br />
And that's when it hit me. It was true. <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/girlfriend" target="_blank">Girlfriend</a> was out of town so I had no conflict of interests that afternoon, but make frantic calls to Girlfriend was the first thing I did on most days after work. She would pick a place for dinner, or assign some kind of grocery responsibility to me, or tell me how many hours I had to myself till we met for dinner. Girlfriend scheduled my non-working hours with an iron fist, and I hadn't even realized it.<br />
<br />
I insisted the guys buy some time for themselves and herded them over to the nearest bar. "Guys," I said, "we're adults. We should be able to come up with a plan on a free fucking evening without bringing our women into it." The guys showed their support by ordering another round of drinks. "I mean how did this even happen?" I said, "When's the last time we picked a movie or a bar? When did we lose all control?" The guys nodded enthusiastically but I could see we weren't making much progress. These guys needed something more raw, more visceral, to shake them out of their slumber. So I called <a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/fatboy" target="_blank">Fatboy</a>.<br />
<br />
"The tyranny of the tongue," declared Fatboy, stroking his double chin, "literary emasculation."<br />
"What the fuck, dude?" That was probably all three of us.<br />
"<i>Nickname</i>s," he explained, "drugs don't emasculate men, nicknames emasculate men."<br />
We looked at each other. None of our girlfriends had given us nicknames. We had all been <i>called </i>names, but not ones you'd utter in front of your mom. Fatboy was finally wrong about something.<br />
<br />
"This is worse than I thought,"said Fatboy, shaking his head on seeing our blank faces.<br />
"Oh fuck you," I said, "just admit you're wrong."<br />
"It's not nicknames with you lot," he said sadly, "it's just as I suspected. You morons didn't even get the gateway treatment, you just let them stick it right up your asses. Do you realize what you've done?"<br />
"Dude, stop shaking," I tried to calm him, "look you're upsetting poor Leo here. He's a graphic designer. That's almost like a real artist. He's really sensitive."<br />
"Eighteen years," said Fatboy, still shaking his head, "eighteen years we fought tooth and nail to get rid of that disgusting, insulting, belittling <i>label</i>. A few years of freedom, of independence, of self-respect, and what do you do? You stupid, middle class, Westward looking idiots. You flushed it all down the toilet and then took a shit on the seat."<br />
"I want whatever this guy's having," said KD. In a flash, Fatboy had him by the collar.<br />
"Dude calm down," I said, "you <i>were </i>getting a little emotional there."<br />
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"You want to know why your women make all your decisions, bro?" sneered Fatboy.<br />
"You want to know why you don't know what to do with your spare time?" he asked, "why everytime your women are busy, you feel a bit like a little boy lost in a supermarket?"<br />
Maybe he did know what he was talking about. "Why?" I humoured his rhetoric.<br />
"Because," he said, "you've gone and reclaimed the Label. You've niggerized it, throwing it around, giving it fancy little flourishes, and suddenly you've made it mainstream, blurred the lines. You can't fault the oppressor for calling you a cunt, if you refer to yourselves, <i>and</i> them, as cunts."<br />
"Assuming my girlfriend is who you're delicately referring to as the 'oppressor'," Leao started, "I can assure you she's never called me a..."<br />
"Not 'cunt', you idiot," I said, and pretended to have followed all along though I'd only just gotten it, "it's ba..."<br />
"Don't say it," said Fatboy, and looked furtively around, "you'll get us all killed."<br />
<br />
I looked around. We were at Gopalkrishna's, a shady little bar next to Dadar station, a place run strictly for the barely salaried slave to wet his beak before the long commute home. The three of us- writers, artists, struggling all- had never done a day's work compared to these guys. They would eat us alive.<br />
"It's 'baby', you guys," I whispered, "they had us at 'baby'. Call someone a baby long enough, and suddenly they're sporting goatees and drinking tofu beer because babies are not fit to make their own decisions."<br />
"They just respond to breasts," said Fatboy. <br />
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I woke up the next morning, ready for war. The Tyranny of the Tongue had had its time. It was time to restore the natural order of things, re-establish control. Unfortunately, Girlfriend would have to head straight to her office from the airport, so I just texted her saying I'd see her at night. Oh, I'll see her at night, all right, I thought, get ready for Alpha Man, baby.<br />
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Girlfriend was already home when I got back at night. The bedroom door was open, there was some French popstar trying to cross over to the more respected Vauxwagen-jingle genre of music, and I thought I smelled Thai chicken curry on the stove. "Tonight we dine in hell," I thought as I walked in.<br />
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Girlfriend was a mess. A blur of mascara and snot and Kleenex and tears and estrogen, all in a Girlfriend-shaped mess in our bed. I was ambushed.<br />
"What's wrong, baby?" I asked, a little less sure about raising hell.<br />
She looked up. "I just had a bad day at work," she said, dabbing at her face, "can you give me a hug?"<br />
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And suddenly, I realized it had always been a two-way street. The revolution would just have to wait.<br />
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<b> <u> Icy Highs's Music Recco: Vienna- Billy Joel </u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This blogpost is
part of a series called<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><i>The Girlfriend
Chronicles</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> - which went on to form the crux of
my second novel<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><b>Mornings After</b><span class="apple-converted-space"> (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy
it here on<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.in/Mornings-After-Tharun-James-Jimani/dp/9385436465" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Amazon</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00606857660947384949noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4658089399678903565.post-9624081496260476112013-03-22T22:02:00.000+05:302013-03-23T09:48:46.232+05:30In which Fatboy gives it those ones <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://renaissancehippy.blogspot.in/search/label/fatboy" target="_blank">Fatboy</a> has a spookishly accurate radar for detecting sexual activity and frequency. He once scampered around our old flat for ten whole minutes, scratching at the door, sniffing the air, ears doing a Spock, till he finally put a finger to his lips, mouthed "follow me" and stealthed his way up the stairs to the roof. I followed him, not entirely thrilled at playing Moneypenny to his Private Dick. But follow him I did and sure enough, in the middle of the terrace stood the unfortunately named Postman Patrick, postman-pants in a puddle around his feet, a hand resting comfortably on the satellite dish, the other gently goading the head of Born Again Mary from flat #10 who was on her knees in front of him offering prayers in distinctively non-Catholic fashion.<br />
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When Fatboy came around to watch the game last week, I decided to put him through the paces for old times' sake. I would throw him off the scent, I decided, with some signature Super Sly. He hadn't visited in a while, so I gave the ol' mancave a thorough make-over: binned all my porno, a little air freshener action to clear the masturbatory fug in the living room, not a single paper towel in sight. As customary, I welcomed him with open arms and an open Kingfisher beer in each hand. "Faaatboy!" I said, genuinely excited, as we hugged. He took a sip of his beer, gave my back a friendly pat and pottered over to the couch. It's like taking candy from a big fat baby, I thought.<br />
<br />
"So what's happening, broheim? It's been ages!" I said.<br />
"Yeah, real good, man, you gain a little weight?"<br />
"A touch. Haven't been getting a lot of exercise lately. Well, except in the <i>bedroom</i>, if you know what I mean."<br />
"Dude, I always know what you mean."<br />
"And the couch, too," I said.<br />
"What?"<br />
"I was just saying. It's not just the bedroom, you know, there's the couch, the kitchen, the.."<br />
"Cool. Hey, game's starting."<br />
<br />
No high five, no "sweeeeet!", just "cool". Something was wrong. Come to think of it, he hadn't even got his Chelsea jersey on. "Dude," I said, "see that ashtray to your right on the floor? Can you pass that to me, please?" "There's one on your lap," he said, eyes still on the TV. "Just get it, ok? New game ritual," I improvised. I had opened up a tiny window of opportunity. It would take all my investigative mojo, but it was doable. The moment he bent over to pick up the ashtray, I swung into action. With the lithest of wrists, I lifted his teeshirt, just a pinch, and there it was: proof- the treacherous flash of white around his waist. Fatboy wasn't wearing his lucky boxers for the game. Something was definitely wrong.<br />
<br />
By half-time, I was a wreck. I decided I couldn't wait anymore to find out. But Fatboy could be strangely closed up at times. I would have to play this with some degree of subtlety, lull the poor bastard into a false sense of security before I confronted him. He wouldn't even know what hit him.<br />
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"Dude," I said, "are you breaking up with me?"<br />
"What?"<br />
"Nothing," I said as I choked back a tear, "that was selfish of me. What is it, bro? Cancer?"<br />
"I think it might be the celibacy," he said, "<i>your</i> celibacy."<br />
"What?"<br />
He leaned forward, sniffed, and breathed in a noseful.<br />
"Two weeks and some," he said expertly, "rough patch?"<br />
"Three," I admitted, "I can't believe you caught that. How did you know?"<br />
<br />
"Irrelevant," he said as he stood up, "I'm here to help."<br />
"It's just a phase," I said, "she's been really busy, and I have put on some weight, and.."<br />
"Yeah, loose the promise-paunch," he interrupted.<br />
"The what?"<br />
"The 'promise-paunch'," he repeated, "it's the adult version of the promise-ring. You get one every time you're comfortable in a relationship. Loose it."<br />
"That's not a <i>thing</i>," I said, "and anyway... fuck you, a 'promise-paunch' is not a thing."<br />
<br />
He shrugged. "Porno," he looked around, "you told her about your porno, didn't you?"<br />
"How did you know that?"<br />
"Dude, there are some things that are just sacred. One of them is a man's porno. You NEVER tell your girlfriend about your taste in porno. It's not healthy. They figure a man with such <i>specific </i>titilatory needs probably knows how to keep himself happy, even if they don't bother."<br />
"Girls don't care about the quality of their porno?"<br />
"Have you ever heard one admit it?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Exactly."<br />
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I began to panic. "What else?" I asked.<br />
"Who tidied up this room?"<br />
"I did."<br />
"Where'd you pick up the cushions and the..." he was clearly struggling with the word, "the soft bedsheet type thing on the couch?"<br />
"It gets cold in here sometimes and we like to cuddle," I said, "and it's a <i>bolster</i>, not a cush...FUCK!"<br />
"Oh, you're in deep, my friend. You've been friendzoned."<br />
"She's my girlfriend!"<br />
"I know. That's the worst kind of friend zone."<br />
<br />
"What do I do?"<br />
"Loose all the gay shit. Loose the fucking chocolates in the fridge. What's the straight man's rule of chocolate consumption, bro?"<br />
"Fuck off."<br />
"What.is.the.straight.man's.rule.of.chocolate.consumption, BRO?"<br />
"<i>Only </i>when you get the munchies, and <i>only </i>spontaneously. <i>Never </i>because you've stocked them at home."<br />
"Thank you. We don't have a lot of time. Half-time's almost over. Send Girlfriend a text, tell her you're going out with the boys tonight, don't tell her where and switch off your phone."<br />
"But where are we going?"<br />
He looked away for a second, then turned around.<br />
"Get your tightest leather pants on," he said, "we're going to reclaim your balls."<br />
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<b> Icy Highs's Music Recco: 'Highwayman' - Johnny Cash</b><br />
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