Tuesdays With Fatboy

To say Fatboy has a penchant for drama is like saying Hrithik Roshan is not crazy about defeat. He actively pursues opportunities for unleashing said histrionic tendencies too, which is why I hadn't been looking forward to Fatboy's impending visit. But he seems pensive somehow, almost distracted. "You want to tell me about your hand, bro?" I ask, finally.

Fatboy looks down absently. His thumb is in a cast that appears to have been modelled on one of those foam fingers you see American sports fans waving at whatever they call that game that's actually just cricket in baseball jerseys. "Oh this," he says, "Tinder-thumb." Like that's a totally real thing. I suppress the urge to comment that it's only his right hand that seems to have been affected.

Miley Cyrus famously raising awareness about Tinder-thumb. 

"I heard you quit your job," I try again. "Oh that, yeah," he scratches his chin, "I have an idea for an app. Look, you want to talk about what happened or not?" Here comes the pain. "There's nothing to talk about bro," I say, "she and I went out, we broke up, and you and I are not talking about it." Fatboy crosses his legs and assumes position. "I mean, she could have broken up with me in person," I say. Fatboy nods encouragingly. "She says she's been writing me this email to explain everything," I continue, "she'd never have just stopped answering my calls otherwise. Or texts. Or the door."

I watch Fatboy as he shifts in his seat. Something is up with the guy, and it's not my love life. "Not that," he says, "what I texted you about." He's kidding. There's no way in hell... He raises a hand, presumably to stop my train of thought but it just looks like his thumb is giving me a giant go-ahead. "I understand your moral reservation, I do," he says, "which is why I think you should start small. Among an intimate circle of friends, perhaps? Maybe you could even start with just me." The bastard. "You want me to send you nudes of my ex?" I ask, just to make sure. He nods sagely, and departs to the loo.

I flip through the pictures on my phone. She and I, at Monkey Bar. The three of us, that night we ended up at HUDCO park after some gig or the other. How long does it take to type a bloody email, anyway? Picture after picture, grotesquely shiny tableaux of what never was. I hover over one particularly fond memory, and hit 'Share'. Seconds later, a "whoop" emanates from the loo that can only be the guttural liberation of forbidden lust. Revenge porn. This is my lowest moment, yet.  

Fatboy steps out of the loo and buckles his belt pointedly, Tinder-thumb and all. "You did the right thing," he says. I shrug off the hand he places on my shoulder and take a sip of my beer: "You liked that did you, Tinderella?" Fatboy bows theatrically. "Congratulations," I say, "you're the first man to jerk off to a picture of my butt."

Icy Highs's Video Reco: #DefeatDefeat (Hrithik Roashan)

Hrithik Roshan hates defeat so much he will defeat it. 

What would Fatboy do?

Fat Jesus: Turns water into chocolate shake

Fatboy is always telling me to go easy on myself. And cigarettes. And coke. 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 forgive yourself, man" or "dude, if you must 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.

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.

I started as soon as Fatboy sat down with his beer.
"Coaster dude," I said.
"Kosher?"
"No,use a coaster," I said, "What is this, a hotel?"
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.
"It's just Kristy, man," he said, "she has me all confused."
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.
"Oh it's the ex again, isn't it?" I said.

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. Usually.

"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 Zooey Deschanel in bed, you panic. And you immediately assume it makes the ex some kind of sex-God."
"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."
"I've said this before," I replied, "and I'll say it again: There's NO such thing as nineteen-odd. Nineteen is odd."
"Ok fine," he said, "it is the ex. But it's not what you think."
"See, if you had said twenty-odd, that would have made sense."
"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."
"And you rightly feel intimidated," I nodded, "well, he is rich."
"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."

"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."
"I just think maybe I'd rather be shown a good time than be pressurized to put one on for somebody."
"That's great, but you're NOT gay!"
"I could be gay."
"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."
"Hey, Michael Douglas is an inspiration," he started, "anyway, I just think I should give it a shot."

This was my opportunity. Stick it in. Twist it. Make him bleed.  
"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 face, man. You'd just end up as some banker's booty call."
"Jesus, how do you sleep at night?" he said.
It's finally happened. He's broken now. I'm sorry, Fatboy. It had to be done.
"Quite comfortably, thank you," I managed, "And if you'd just given up on me when you should have..."
"No, turn around man," he said, "that's actually Jesus, right behind you."

So I turned around, and what do you know, there's ol' JC, large as life, and not Caucasian in the least.
"Oh, so you've decided you're not too good for my little corner of the world, have you?" I asked.
Jesus shrugged. "Fatboy needed me", he said.
I turned around again and sure enough, Fatboy lay spread-eagled on the couch, out like a light and snoring up a gentle storm.
"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."
"He won't remember?" I was furious, "do you know how hard it was for me to go all Old Testament on him?"
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.

The Curious Incident Of The Bro In The Night

Not everybody gets bro hugs.

Never ones for conformity, Fatboy and I have had our own version of Christmas (or bridal shower, depending on how you look at it) ever since Sara Markose cruelly and publicly unrequited both our advances one summer afternoon in high school many years ago. We had our first drinks together that sultry evening, our first hangovers the next morning, and everything that happened in between is just about as blurry as the line dividing Robin Thicke and violent sex offenders. Cathartic as our juvenile misdemeanors were, what we hadn't realized at the time was that we had set in motion one of the great traditions of modern bromance: the Bros' Night Out. Rules would be made, they would consequently be broken, and our little tradition would evolve over time into the cultural behemoth it is today: a night of unabashed debauchery unlike our usual trysts with the bottle, one -unlike Christmas- that can only be partaken of in the aftermath of the two greatest tragedies known to the 21st century Beta Male- heartbreak or cancellation of a beloved TV show.

Naturally, I wasn't surprised in the least when Fatboy announced a Bros' Night Out last night. I was still healing, after all, and if it hadn't been for our severely hectic schedules -he had extended his holiday in Thailand by about four weeks after hooking up with an air hostess en route, and I was juggling shedding copious tears into my Chealsea FC pillow and stalking the muse to my misery on Facebook- we would have done this long ago. I almost felt guilty about how much I was looking forward to the night as I pressed the buzzer on his door- this was the first I had felt anything resembling a will to live in weeks.

A bottle of JDF in each hand, I bowed with all the theatricality I could muster when he opened the door. "I come bearing gifts," I uttered our customary greeting, and gave him a hug, "thanks, man. I really needed this." Fatboy thumped me on the back, and said quietly, "no bro, the world needed this. Come in." So enter his old lair I did, our first time back in his childhood home since 2004. "I'm so glad you're back in Kerala," I said, as I took in the once-familiar surroundings. The place had undergone a serious make-over- there were African prints on the wall, a pair of bongo-drums served as a kind of Japanese-height coffee table, and... "dude, I think you've got bugs!". I put a finger to my lips and perked my ears- "sshh, listen. Dude, you have crickets in your house, can't you hear them?" -but Fatboy had retreated into the Tardis-styled cardboard box in the middle of the room. Thank God his mom hadn't destroyed ol' Tardis. Or the mini-fridge it housed. He came out a few seconds later, a beer in each hand.

After a long sip and that universal loving sigh that accompanies the first-sip-of-beer-of-the-night in all parts of the world, he said: "I've gone to great lengths to throw together the perfect evening, broheim. We've got authentic spirits, I've got a dart pen filled with tranqs that we may or may not use on unsuspecting neighbours knocking on our doors to turn down the vibe, I've borrowed Dad's projector to watch some amazing videographic action, and I've even designed this kickass tattoo I think we should both get. Remember, you always wanted to get brottoos? Well, tonight's the night, B-Man. Tonight, we dine in hell." It was perfect. I'd probably have choked up if I weren't so cried out of late.

"Dude, this is awesome," I managed, "Thanks man, I really apprecia..."  
"The world," he interrupted, "the world will appreciate this. We're live on Youtube as we speak."
"Those stupid spy-pens finally came in handy huh," I said, "bit overboard, you think?"
"Hey, tranq the negativity, will you?" he said, "Come here, check out the tattoo I drew."

"What do you think?" he asked, after I'd inspected his artwork for what felt like an eternity spent waiting for Somebody to get her damn make-up on, and still failed to produce a sound. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know what the hell he had drawn.
"It's a ....word, right?"
"What? Yeah, of course it's a word: Madiba.Well it's a proper noun, if that makes you happy. But what do you think? Of the message?"
"Is it some kind of code? "Madiba"? It sounds familiar, but.."
Before I knew it, Fatboy was off like a flash, switching off spy-pens installed at what seemed like completely random spots in the room.
"Are you fucking kidding me," he muttered as he ran about robbing millions of Youtubers of hours of potential manfoolery, "you're fucking kidding me."
"Dude, I'm sorry," I said, "it rings a bell, but it's kind of a distant ringing, it's not really audible, so.."
And then he switched off the lights.

"Is that really necessary?" I started, but he had turned on the projector. I turned my attention to the screen, praying to all the Gods I'd heard of that it wasn't footage he'd shot in Thailand. I had no reason to worry. For on the giant screen was Matt Damon's familiar face, crinkling in and out of focus. Well, at least it looked like Matt Damon. He seemed to have some sort of BDSM contraption in his mouth, and when he wasn't huffing and puffing, he was shouting distinctly un-Damonish inanities in a distinctly un-American accent. Oh wait, it's a game, there's a Matt Damon-ish looking bloke on the TV running up and down a football field. Just as the opposition appeared to be gearing up for a tackle, the screen froze.

"Is that bell loud enough for you?" asked Fatboy.
"What? Dude, those crickets are getting louder man, I think they're about to attack."
Fatboy hit play, then paused again. This time the screen froze with a close-up of a cheering Morgan Freeman in the stands. That's when it hit me. Madiba.
"Dude, is this a video of Invictus?"
"Oh that, you get."
"Ok, I'm going to ask you this one time, Fatass," I said, "those crickets. Is that coming from the speakers? Are you playing a recording of crickets fucking as some crazy-ass mourning thing for Nelson Mandela?"
"The world needs this, dude."
"No, you need help. Dude, this is fucking racist. And why is everybody pretending they used to call Mandela "Madiba"? I'd never even heard of the name till he died!"
"So maybe I erred on the side of propriety, a little. It's been a difficult couple of weeks."
"That's because you were ass-deep in cocaine and air hostess vag in Bangkok!"
"We all mourn differently."
"You weren't mourning. I bet you don't even know what Madiba means. I bet you just saw the name on your Twitter feed. And I thought you were doing this for me. Where's my fucking Bro's Night Out?"
"Oh, please. You and Girlfriend? You're so getting back together."
"Really? You think so? Wait, no, I will not play your mind-games, you bastard. And STOP checking your phone when I'm talking...Why are you shaking, man? What happened?"
"Oh, the humanity. What a terrible year. What a terrible, fucked up year. First Sachin Tendulkar retires, then Madi.. Mandela, now this."
"Dude, sit down. What happened? Is it bad news?"
"Oh I can't even..." he broke off, and handed me the phone, "you will not beliebe what just happened."

           Icy Highs's Music Recco: Those Darlins - Waste Away

 

 


       

A Revolution That Will Not Be Televised

                                                                     (For Igirit)

Every fight club needs its poster boy.

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 that familiar summer conviction in the air, 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.

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.

"I'm not really sure," mumbled KD, after some time, "I'm waiting for my girlfriend to text back."
"Me too," chimed in Leo, "and mine's in a meeting till six."
I felt devastated, violated.
"What the fuck guys," I said, "it's only four. Let's go get a beer."
"Oh come on dude," K retorted, "you do the same thing."

And that's when it hit me. It was true. Girlfriend 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.

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 Fatboy.

"The tyranny of the tongue," declared Fatboy, stroking his double chin, "literary emasculation."
"What the fuck, dude?" That was probably all three of us.
"Nicknames," he explained, "drugs don't emasculate men, nicknames emasculate men."
We looked at each other. None of our girlfriends had given us nicknames. We had all been called names, but not ones you'd utter in front of your mom. Fatboy was finally wrong about something.

"This is worse than I thought,"said Fatboy, shaking his head on seeing our blank faces.
"Oh fuck you," I said, "just admit you're wrong."
"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?"
"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."
"Eighteen years," said Fatboy, still shaking his head, "eighteen years we fought tooth and nail to get rid of that disgusting, insulting, belittling label. 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."
"I want whatever this guy's having," said KD. In a flash, Fatboy had him by the collar.
"Dude calm down," I said, "you were getting a little emotional there."

"You want to know why your women make all your decisions, bro?" sneered Fatboy.
"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?"
Maybe he did know what he was talking about. "Why?" I humoured his rhetoric.
"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, and them, as cunts."
"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..."
"Not 'cunt', you idiot," I said, and pretended to have followed all along though I'd only just gotten it, "it's ba..."
"Don't say it," said Fatboy, and looked furtively around, "you'll get us all killed."

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.
"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."
"They just respond to breasts," said Fatboy.  

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.

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.

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.
 "What's wrong, baby?" I asked, a little less sure about raising hell.
She looked up. "I just had a bad day at work," she said, dabbing at her face, "can you give me a hug?"

And suddenly, I realized it had always been a two-way street. The revolution would just have to wait.


                                       Icy Highs's Music Recco: Vienna- Billy Joel 

                                                                                   

This blogpost is part of a series called The Girlfriend Chronicles - which went on to form the crux of my second novel Mornings After (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy it here on Amazon. 

      

In which Fatboy gives it those ones

Fatboy 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.

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.

"So what's happening, broheim? It's been ages!" I said.
"Yeah, real good, man, you gain a little weight?"
"A touch. Haven't been getting a lot of exercise lately. Well, except in the bedroom, if you know what I mean."
"Dude, I always know what you mean."
"And the couch, too," I said.
"What?"
"I was just saying. It's not just the bedroom, you know, there's the couch, the kitchen, the.."
"Cool. Hey, game's starting."

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.

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.

"Dude," I said, "are you breaking up with me?"
"What?"
"Nothing," I said as I choked back a tear, "that was selfish of me. What is it, bro? Cancer?"
"I think it might be the celibacy," he said, "your celibacy."
"What?"
He leaned forward, sniffed, and breathed in a noseful.
"Two weeks and some," he said expertly, "rough patch?"
"Three," I admitted, "I can't believe you caught that. How did you know?"

"Irrelevant," he said as he stood up, "I'm here to help."
"It's just a phase," I said, "she's been really busy, and I have put on some weight, and.."
"Yeah, loose the promise-paunch," he interrupted.
"The what?"
"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."
"That's not a thing," I said, "and anyway... fuck you, a 'promise-paunch' is not a thing."

He shrugged. "Porno," he looked around, "you told her about your porno, didn't you?"
"How did you know that?"
"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 specific titilatory needs probably knows how to keep himself happy, even if they don't bother."
"Girls don't care about the quality of their porno?"
"Have you ever heard one admit it?"
"No."
"Exactly."

I began to panic. "What else?" I asked.
"Who tidied up this room?"
"I did."
"Where'd you pick up the cushions and the..." he was clearly struggling with the word, "the soft bedsheet type thing on the couch?"
"It gets cold in here sometimes and we like to cuddle," I said, "and it's a bolster, not a cush...FUCK!"
"Oh, you're in deep, my friend. You've been friendzoned."
"She's my girlfriend!"
"I know. That's the worst kind of friend zone."

"What do I do?"
"Loose all the gay shit. Loose the fucking chocolates in the fridge. What's the straight man's rule of chocolate consumption, bro?"
"Fuck off."
"What.is.the.straight.man's.rule.of.chocolate.consumption, BRO?"
"Only when you get the munchies, and only spontaneously. Never because you've stocked them at home."
"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."
"But where are we going?"
He looked away for a second, then turned around.
"Get your tightest leather pants on," he said, "we're going to reclaim your balls."

                                                                   
                                Icy Highs's Music Recco: 'Highwayman' - Johnny Cash

The Breakfast of Champions

The heroin of the 21st century is a tad less rock 'n' roll.

No man likes getting caught tip toeing across a girl's living room at seven in the morning. It's an exercise in great  inner turmoil- a mandatory walk of shame that must be undertaken before your induction into some sort of one-night-stand hall of fame. The surreptitious sweep of her bedroom door as it closes shut behind you; those tentative, Huxley-esque steps through domestic purgatory, hoping you don't step on her cat or- God forbid- the remote control on your way to the Other Side; and finally, finally, the operatic symphony of upper floor  flush tanks flushing and air conditioners air-conditioning seeping in through the ceiling as you pause (and all men pause at this point) in the hallway, safely outside her apartment. Of course, you tend to look back at the moment with some degree of pride if the woman whose apartment you're attempting to sneak out of isn't your girlfriend of several months.

Fatboy, still sprawled out on the couch as we had left him the previous night, caught me in mid-tiptoe.

"Dude," he says, "crazy night last night, huh? Good times."
"SShhhh!" I tell him and mime my way closer.
"Where's Girlfriend?" he wants to know, "I said I'd make breakfast."

I gesture wildly for silence as I collect his jeans and shoes, roll them into a ball and deposit them on his lap.

"Let's go," I whisper, "now."
"What, why?" And then he panics. "Fuck, did you do some weird shit last night? Is Girlfriend hanging from the ceiling with a crown of thorns around her head? I'll never understand your Jesus fetish."
"Worse," I say, "she's got the Grumps."

"The 'Grumps'?" he asks, "what's that, like a that-time-of-the-month scenario? Water turning to wine?"
"Ok one, you're going to hell," I say, "and secondly, no. It's her time of the day."
"Oh come on," he dismisses the notion,"she's not a morning person; big deal."
"SSSSSHHHHHHH!!" I shush, but I know the damage has already been done.

"Listen," I say and cock my ear bedroom-wards for signs of danger, "don't ever use that word around here."
"What, "morning"?" he says, "seriously, you're such a drama quee..."

The room changes before he can even complete the cliche. The smoke and the flatulence and the waft of leftover Peking Duck that permeated the atmosphere till moments ago have all made way for a terrifying, uncharacteristic wintry cold. There is a draft in the room, originating from under her bedroom door as far as I can tell. There are sounds of unrest, of bedsheets being flung in frustration, of thunder making its way up Girlfriend's body and quickly gaining momentum.

I look Fatboy in the eye and tell him I'm sorry I snogged Sara Markose in tenth grade.
"I knew you were into her," I say, "that was unsavory of me."

The draft has become a force of nature; there are icicles on top of the television, hail stones rain down from the ceiling. Her bedroom door appears to be vibrating on its hinges, threatening to be blown away. "SAVE YOURSELF, FATBOY!" I scream as I jump over the couch and rush to her door as fast as I can. Holding on to the door knob with all my strength, I fumble around in my pockets for the key. Fatboy, equally scared but  just as loyal, jams a chair under the knob. I find the key, lock the door and collapse on the floor, exhausted. "Thanks bro," I say, "you're a good friend. Now, go."

Girlfriend has left the bed. We can hear her coming. Her footsteps echo down the hall and across children's parks and hospitals around Bombay, sending pigeons and Catholic nuns into defeatist rapture. Their wails (and coo-roo-ctoo-coos) of despair come boomeranging back to meet her footsteps, through the open window and into the living room, but timidly stopping short at her door, bouncing off her Warhol-tinted works of art like tweens at a #Belieber tweet-off.

"This is the end," I say as the room turns on its side. The chair Fatboy had jammed under the door hurtles forward and catches him in the jaw, sending him reeling. "FAAATBOOOY!" I scream as I push out a leg for him to grab on to, my hands still firmly wrapped around the door knob. "There must be something we can do," he sobs, "have you tried garlic? Or a stake through the heart?" I weep as I remember attempts past- padlocks and chainsaws and sugar donuts- all fated to failure. And pain. Oh, the pain.

"Go," I say, "just go."
"I can't, bro," he tells me, "I'm not leaving you behind."
There is a sarcastic knock on the door, almost a taunt, and a body crashes against it with a force that sends me flying across the room. "Run, Fatboy," I yell, "I didn't just kiss Sara Markose. I got some cheeky sideboob action too." "You BASTARD," he says and kicks me on his way out.

When I come to, it's midday-bright. I can hear Girlfriend in the bedroom, going about her business, humming an old song. "Girlfriend," I call out, "baby, are you okay?" "Yes," she shouts back, "open the door." I find a Cosmo magazine on the floor and slip it under her door, the key pressed between an article on what men want and an inforgraphic on the dangers of pandering to their needs. I take my spot on the couch, and await judgment.

"Is Fatboy gone?" asks Girlfriend as she steps out, all pinstriped and corporate-sexy and ready for work.  
"Yes," I say, "and I don't feel good about this at all."
"Oh don't be a baby," says Girlfriend, and ruffles my hair, "you know this was the only way. He can't boil an egg to save his life."

Icy High's Music Recco: "Wake Up Everybody"- John Legend & The Roots 

 Image (up top) artwork: Black Betty 

  

This blogpost is part of a series called The Girlfriend Chronicles - which went on to form the crux of my second novel Mornings After (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy it here on Amazon.  

The Forbidden Gadget

There are few sights more beautiful on a lazy morning than sleeping Girlfriend's visage. Aah who am I kidding, it's my favourite sight of all time: those few minutes of bliss before Girlfriend wakes up and becomes...well, herself, again.A vision so tranquil that I regularly douse her morning coffee with whiskey just to see those curtains come down again, however temporarily. Not that I'm some kind of compulsive coffee-spiking psychopath. Sometimes, I just pepper her pasta with finely powdered Paracetamol. One particularly lovelorn afternoon, I knocked her out with a rolling pin. Those tightly shut eyes, those gently cascading eyelashes, are the promises, the visions, all relationships are built on- the promise of calm and quiet, the hope that those sleep-gooey lips will not always chastise or criticize or order you to stop smoking during meals.

Since we started seeing each other regularly, I have always made sure I wake up a good five minutes before she does just to get a glimpse of those non-judgmental eyes. It wasn't easy in the beginning, what with my predilection for sleeping in, and Girlfriend's demanding job that requires her to don pinstripes and create PDFs or pour through Excel sheets or whatever it is real adults do for a living as early as 9 in the AM. But when you want something strongly enough, you're all sorts of resourceful. The solution to my little conundrum, I discovered, was fairly simple: I'd just have to wait for Girlfriend to fall asleep at night, and reset her alarm to a later time. Must be love.

Imagine my surprise then, when a few days ago, I woke up to find Girlfriend not just awake, but not even in  sight. I shut my eyes, telling myself it was just a dream, that I'd wake up any second now. I was jolted back to reality by the sound of the bathroom door opening, and out peeped Girlfriend's head. It banged shut again almost immediately, Girlfriend's head retreating like that of a startled turtle the moment she caught my eye.

"Girlfriend," I call out, "you ok?"
"Yes," comes her voice, cautious but steady.
"Did you forget to flush again?" I ask.
"I told you that was the cat!" she shouts back.
"I forgot. So what's wrong, baby?"

The door opens again, and out steps suddenly-nonchalant Girlfriend, clad in boxers and tee, her laptop in her hand. "Nothing" she says, defiantly. She places the laptop on the dresser, and busies herself in front of the mirror. "Baby," I say, "were you using your laptop in the loo?"

"What if I was?"
"It's a little...weird, no?"
"There's an entire stack of your magazines by the pot."
"I know, but they're paper. A dump is not traditionally a technology-friendly activity."
"A tech-friendly activity? Why is everything so complicated with you?"
"It's a slippery slope, that's all. Next thing you know, you'll be texting at the cinema, and playing fruit-chucker on your tablet."
"It's called 'Fruit Ninja'."
"Oh my god."
"What?"
"How do you know that? You don't know any sixteen year olds."

Aah, the calm before the storm. The lull before Techocalypse. That guilty-flirty look Eve gave Adam while biting into Apple.

"I got an iPad, ok?"
"What? But we're against mass-produced consumer goods."
"No, you are."
"But they cut off the poor little Chinese kids' fingers after they assemble those things."
"They build computers, not the Taj Mahal."
"But.. when did you get it?"
"Two weeks ago."

Modern life is rubbish. 

"Where is it? How have I not seen it yet?"
"Coz I knew how you'd react. I keep it at work. And in the car, sometimes."
"You've never brought it home?"
"Only..just on that night you were out with Fatboy."
"Is it bigger than me?"
"What?"
"Sorry, I anthropomorphized my fear of being displaced by technology. It's a guy thing."
"No it's not. It's a you thing."
"How would you know?"
"There's an app for it."

Icy Highs's Music Recco: Video Killed The Radio Star by Buggles, The Age of Plastic (1979)

This blogpost is part of a series called The Girlfriend Chronicles - which went on to form the crux of my second novel Mornings After (2016, Bloomsbury India). You can buy it here on Amazon. 

       

Of Mother, And Other Women

I’m not great at keeping in touch. This is not a new thing, or a trait I picked up in my later years, but my parents are convinced that said character flaw reared its ugly head around the time I made  friends with Fatboy. This is patently untrue. Fatboy and I just happened to become friends roughly around the same time as when I ran out of things to talk about with my family. I let him take the fall for it, of course, in the same way we’ve both pointed fingers at each other every time one of us was caught in possession of pot or porn or –on one deplorable occasion- a Pussycat Dolls CD. He still refutes the Pussycat pop allegation. I will plead innocent till death on that count.

Having established my indifference to the occasional phone call or email, I’d like to tell you a little story of how the best intentions sometimes blow up in your face. And spit on your grave while doing the Gangnam Style. I was in Kodaikanal over the Diwali holidays, and slightly more in sync with the Oneness of the universe and the sentience of the collective human experience and all that other hippie bullshit you buy into when you’re on a diet of magic mushrooms and Kingfishers. Having risen earlier than the sun on one of those days, I decided to give the Ol’ Maternal a call. You know, just because. 

“Hi Ma,” I say, “how are you?”
“Older,” she says, “roughly about a year older as of yesterday.”
Fuck. 20 seconds. That’s how long it takes to realize why social telephony is not a good idea, especially if you’re not the type to remember birthdays and anniversaries and names of the fast expanding brood of the Jimani clan.

“Happy birthday Ma,” I say.

 “I didn’t forget,” I assure her stony silence.

“Everybody called but you, you know,” she says, “even Fatboy.”

SonofaBITCH.   

“Yeah but talk is cheap, right Ma?”, I say, “you’ll never guess what I got you.”

Now tendency to one-up each other notwithstanding, Fatboy will always be my go-to man in times of trouble- and me, his- no matter what. So it was that a half hour of recriminatory stop-start conversation later, I found myself calling The Obese One himself for counsel.  

“That was low man, calling my Mom,” I say, “I’m impressed.”

“I thought you might appreciate it,” he says, “even set up an iReminder and all.”

“Fuck you Fatass, you fucking Apple fanboy fuck,” I say, “sorry.”

“Pleasure. How’d it go?”

“Not too bad, I  guess. I’m royally screwed,” I say.

“What’s up? Jesus, you’ve got to add Sam on Facebook. Girl’s all grown up.”

“Skinny Sam? Really? Fuck Sam, Fatass. Fuck you, you fucking Facebooking fuck. Hear me out, I’m fucked.”

“Do tell.”

“So Mom was all pissed I forgot her birthday, right? Stop laughing, you bastard. So anyway, I ended up telling her I’ve written this kick-ass thank you note and dedicated my novel to her.”

“’Snot so bad.”

“What? Dude, you don’t understand. This is my one and possibly only novel. It’s all I’ve got.”

“So?”

“So I also told my ex I’d dedicate it to her.”

“Well, it is pretty much about her. I don’t see a moral dilemma. Do the right thing.”

“But my Mom’s not sounded this happy in years, man.”

“Wait a second. This is not about your Mom. You’re not that nice. What’s going on?”

“I may have…also given my girlfriend the impression the book’s dedicated to her.”

“Seriously, what is with you and dedicating everything to everybody? You’ve only been seeing her a couple of months.”

“I was weak, ok? It was the only way she’d let me… enter through the gift shop.”

“Ohh.”

“Yeaahh.”

“Sorry ex-girlfriend, whose life you plagiarized. Sorry Mothership, with the womb and all.”

“It’s the right thing to do, right?”

“Your Dad would be so proud.”

Icy Highs's Music Recco: Just Because - Jane's Addiction  

The dude abides not

Icyhighs and Fatboy, back in the day

Two weeks of being back at my parents' house, and I've already fallen down the rabbit hole and straight into my teenage garb somehow. I have to constantly remind myself that I'm now an adult, that I can probably look my Dad in the eye and speak as I would to another adult, that I don't have to tiptoe around the house to avoid getting in trouble. Being here has somehow reversed time and cast me back in the role of Awkward Teenager. Take last night for instance.

It's a little past midnight, I'm down a few, and bored out of my skull in my room, and I suddenly remember Fatboy has a friend-who-smokes somewhere in this area. If you smoke, you'll know that a friend-who-smokes is a generic term that can apply to just about anybody-who-smokes whose existence you're vaguely aware of. If you're a smoker and you're new in town, or if you don't know where you can score some quality pot, you're within your rights to call the friend-who-smokes. The friend-who-smokes WILL comply. It's a thing.

I call Fatboy. But Fatboy doesn't want to hook me up. He has Stuff on his mind. Girl-stuff. It's boring, and we've gone over this a hundred times but I will comply. It's a bro thing.

"I swear nothing happened. I met her for like five hours. She took a shower, we had a drink in her room and she hurried back to the airport for her flight."
"It's not that I don't trust you. You know that, yeah? I don't trust her. I know she was into you."
"She was not into me. She was seeing you for fuck's sake. Besides, who cares, you dumped her ages ago."
"Yeah but you know what it's like. Imagine if-"
"Lalalallalalalalallalalala don't want to hear it."
"What?"
"I don't want to hear it. I forbid you from completing that sentence."
"What do you think I'm going to say?"
"I know what you're going to say. Don't say it."
"It's not what you think I'm going to say."
"How do you know what I think you're going to say?"

CLICK!


"What the hell was that?"
"Dad? Dad, I'm on the phone, if you're there. Just give me two minutes ok?"
"He's not on the phone, man. What are you, twelve?"
"Yeah, he wouldn't do that right? I'm almost thirty."
"Of course not. He'd probably think we're being a bit silly if he did hear us though."
"I guess. Anyway, nothing happened between us, you've got nothing to worry about-"
"But IMAGINEIFISLEPTWITH-"
"Oh my God, why the hell would you say that? Great, I can't get the image out of my head now. FUCK!"
"You broke up three years ago. Let it go. But now you understand yeah, why I keep asking you about-"
"FUCK you man, I fucked her, I fucked your chick you fat fuck."
"I knew it. That bitch. You bitch."
"Oh relax, I'm only messing."
"Oh. I knew....what the fuck? Did you just hear someone giggle?"
"What? It's Dad! DAD! Can you please get off the phone? Come on!"
"Mr. Highs.
WE.CAN.STILL.HEAR.YOU.GIGGLING.PLEASE.STEP.AWAY.FROM.THE.PHONE.SIR"
"Why're you doing that?"
"What?"
"The funny voice. He's my Dad, not a bank robber. Dad, can you please get off.... I think he's gone."
"Good. Listen, how do you know she wasn't into you? I don't care, I just want to know why you think that."
"Jesus, Fatboy. I don't know man, there was this invisible signboard: no sexual attraction lives in this town."
"This is what freaks me out. You think everybody wants to sleep with you. You said Sam's gran gave you a vibe! And you're telling me my absolute fucking whore of an ex didn't? You slept with her didn't you?"
"Oh, look, not this again. She had ZERO interest in me. I swear. It's something she said, that's how I know."
"What? What did she say?"
"It's embarassing. Not something she said exactly, something she called me."
"What? What did she call you?"
"It's embarassing. She said it ok? She said the word, so I know there was nothing going on."
"Oh my God, she didn't?"
"What?"
"She called you-"
"She called me 'dude' ok? She kept calling me 'dude'. Lke five times a minute. And we both know, 'dude' is just a less-brutal version of 'bro'. Girls don't call you 'dude' if they're planning on sleeping with you. Chicks get stoned with dudes. They don't fuck dudes."

That's when it happened. Have you ever jumped out of your skin because somebody just started talking behind you when you thought you were all alone? Something like that.

"Both of you," boomed my Dad's voice, "are idiots. I have never heard a more vaginal conversation, EVER. Your mother and sister speak about more interesting things than you two. And you have no respect for women. Stop running up the phone bill, and go to bed. Icy, you're going jogging with me tomorrow."
CLICK.

"Dude, I can't believe your Dad just did that. My Dad would never do that."
"Oh fuck off, your Dad is gay."
"Your Dad is gay. My Dad would kick your Dad's ass if he didn't enjoy it so much."

"GOTHEHELLTOSLEEP!"

"Sorry Dad, bye man."
"Bye man, bye Mr. Highs."