at college, a few gained popularity while the many suffered it. to name a few, there was prick, ace debater and national level swimmer, neil, thespian, wild child and overall sex god and clipper, writer, prankster and head of close to a dozen spurious inconsequential societies.
shortly after, prick went to oxford, won presidentship of the union by the highest majority in oxonion history and was later dismissed for his skin being too brown, neil went to new york and joined juliard, the world's best acting school, to pursue a course in future unemployment and clipper went to saket for a snack, after a late night in office.
the major part of his evening spent in writing headlines that would get the brands he wrote them for no attention at all, clipper bit into his chicken hot dog and spilt the mayo and cheese on his silk cravat.
at a distance, he saw a couple sitting under a tree smoking. he thought it horrible that two could mutually consent to such a mass destruction of lungs (four in total). he also thought it quite cool.
he also wanted to smoke, but didn't for health reasons. however, because of the nascent urge, he bought an expensive blue clipper that he used to light in his darker moments. that's where he got his name.
destroyed, at the random mutilation of the cravat, he reflected amidst a set of cultivated profanities (damn, bugger all, shite) on how life had fallen to shreds. it was close to 1 am and he was supposed to be in rural botswana, managing an infant rehydration programme, not recuperating after an evening of professional mediocrity.
lamenting the loss of aestheticism, he went back in to ask for a napkin, wondering throught the haze of memory what he had to do with the boy sitting with the girl smoking under a tree. he appeared closer, in memoriam, holding out his hand.
it's all gone pete tong, he muttered to himself, completely unaware the missing plastic rectangle in his right trouser packet.
the lights blind him.
'can i wear sunglasses?'
'sure', goes jay leno, 'can i get you something cold to drink, thums up, limca, musammi ka joos?'
jay leno's face falls off to reveal a very mongolian renu, with the rejoinder,, 'jaldi shaab, peeche line hai, line.'
desh moves forward slow. this is his dinosaur syndrome, with no hallucinogenic at all. he is slow. one of his feet is shorter than the other. etc. etc.
he moves disconsolately moves to a table that gives him, call centre grade 1 at inoks, a kingly view.
this is breakfast, after the night shift that begins 2 in the night. this is his life, monday to friday. he can't sleep weekends. he lives alone at the top of an asphalt tower (barsaati otherwise, it's probably on the fifth floor). he has no friends except his books and this chick he's hitting on over the internet. the mass hypnosis of sex has a stranglehold over him. film posters, ads on his second hand onida, spaghetti tops, sweat on white female skin, all join in a frightful chorus saying 'fuck, fuck, fuck.'
after jacking off, he amuses himself with notions of literary fame, when he will have millions around the world discussing his work, be, at once, the toast at oprah, new york and the playboy mansion, where he will be snorting coke off a b-movie actress' ass (here he considers going to jack off again).
he does this on weekends, when he isn't sleeping. he is a daysleeper.
weekend nights, he also goes to city squares that wake where he smokes and waits to warm his eyes on white female flesh.
as he smokes, under a tree, he notices her reefer go off. she is high. she also has the face of an angel.
maybe we could get talking he thinks to himself, he contemplates true love for a few minutes. he leaves her with his lighter, a souveneir of perhaps the only unadulterated love on the planet.
it's monday tomorrow.
on the jay leno show, she's in the front row. she's there for him.
stoned, after her morning sulk that lasts the afternoon and through half the night, she wanders down to the 24-7 at the cinema square. the air is cold and her t-shirt and shorts leave her naked, she has visions of a red brassiere hanging on the insides of her bathroom drawer where her roommate is, while sitting on a closed toilet seat fellating the ball of acne, fat and cum she calls Boyfriend.
she sits there, as the light on the reefer twiddles to nothing, she holds it down and looks at it for a few minutes, taking in the fact that the light won't come back on, that the grades on her last semester papers won't change (could she fuck her way through...what about the women, damn, too many women), that there's a bunch of school kids looking at her like she's a slut.
'light', says a voice next to her. she turns to see that it is a gargoyle, misshapen, holding up a lighter in a hand with an extra thumb.
'thanks', she says, and lights her baby.
she has visions of him on her with his pants down, moving in hard and clumsy fits. it is moist there. she'd do it for the sheer hurt of it.
as she recovers, she notices he is gone.
his lighter, still in her hand, says clipper in a cheap blue plastic case.