I’M Not Being Funny: A Novel

By Syen

Akul Sachdev, author of three romance novels, is ready to bid his career a fond adieu. Yearning for the kind of change that comes after achieving success, Akul joins forces with a rollicking team of comedians and begins traveling the country in search of technique and inspiration for his fourth book. His heart, however, is somewhere else as life strangely begins to imitate one of his romantic tales.

As he severs ties to his past, Akul must now focus on what he considers himself bound to dobring the art of making people laugh to paper. But as alcohol, heartache, and the comedians shenanigans prove to be crippling distractions, Akul begins to doubt himself and his abilities. When catharsis threatens to steer him off course and away from perilous waters, Akul must somehow find the strength from within to determine what it is that he really wants from lifeand himself.

Im Not Being Funny shares the tale of a romance authors quest to fulfill his purpose and find happiness after he reaches the pinnacle of success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Dec 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482887242

Syen

no ata

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Syen.

ISBN:   Hardcover      978-1-4828-8726-6

             Softcover        978-1-4828-8725-9

             eBook              978-1-4828-8724-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

CONTENTS

- I -

- II -

- III -

- IV - Pune

- V - Nashik

- VI - Mumbai

- VII - Vadodara

- VIII - Junagadh

- IX - Diu

- X - Ahmedabad

- XI - Jaisalmer

- XII - Chandigarh

- XIII - Dehradun

- XIV - Mussoorie

- XV - Lucknow

- XVI - Delhi

- XVII -

EPILOGUE

To Narendra,

who tried really hard to believe in me.

I have gathered a garland of other men’s flowers,

and nothing is mine but the cord that binds them.

—Montaigne (1533–1592)

I’ve been stealing material from dead comedians.

—George Miller (1941–2003)

- I -

‘What a dick,’ a bored Akul muttered, as he waited in the reception area of Jatin Kohli’s swanky office. Jatin, JK to the tight-sphinctered publishing world, was an obnoxious man. His elaborately pimped out office interiors, expensive books that had never been read on his shelves, his voluptuous secretary who had got the job based on her oral skills more than anything else, all added to Akul’s harsh opinion. According to him, Jatin wasn’t one of those agents who wanted to leave a mark in the venerated halls of literature. He was an agent out to milk the scarce money made from selling books, and Akul Sachdev was one of his many cows.

‘Mr K will see you now,’ the secretary cooed.

‘About time,’ Akul grunted in return, and walked into the swish cabin. ‘Mr K’ was on the phone. He genially pointed to the couch, and Akul took a seat. The agent was in the middle of a very animated conversation with, Akul guessed, one of his premium clients. This man never seemed to run out of lines like ‘that can be arranged’, ‘you got it’, and an old favorite, ‘piece o’cake’.

‘So what brings you to my neck of the woods, Aks?’ JK asked, addressing Akul with his nickname after awkwardly bumping fists and toying with some small talk.

‘Jatin, I’ve known you for years now,’ the writer started. ‘You launched my career. Without you, I would still be trolling the Internet and writing smutty stories for a living.’

JK laughed—a conniving businessman with a smile that could make a hooker throw in a freebie.

‘My man, are you trying to break up with me?’ he asked, chuckling and pouring whiskey into glasses at two in the afternoon. Akul, declining the drink, as he had to drive back, continued.

‘No, I’m not. But I’ve made a decision. I’ve given this a lot of thought and’, the writer paused. ‘I’m going to bid my career, writing romantic novels, a fond adieu.’

Silence. A sip. Akul had come prepared for an instant retaliation, but he didn’t know what to make of such a cold-shouldered reaction.

JK finally spoke gently and with a warm expression. ‘This is a good thing. I’m glad that we’re looking to forge ahead.’

Pleasantly surprised, but not letting his guard down, Akul asked, ‘So you think it’ll fly?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think it is a good idea to make this transition in genre?’ He knew that this conversation was imminent and wanted to get it over with.

JK swirled his drink for a while, giving the impression that the ice would melt and reveal his opinion.

‘Akul Sachdev, author of three books, books with extremely romantic themes. Books, which are widely read by girls who still believe in the magic of falling in love, and by boys who are looking for pointers to hook up with that very female demographic.’

His smile suddenly vanished and the tone turned sombre. ‘You’re making money, Aks. And an established writer is always typecast. The Shobhaa Des and the Teesta Setalvads cannot swap places for that very reason. Any change in the direction of your work in the future would only put your career at risk. If you are fine with that, go right ahead.’

‘I have taken a little more than four years to write those books, and frankly, they are getting on my nerves now. Every one of them has more or less the same plot. Two primary characters, a serendipitous encounter, a smattering of one-dimensional sidekicks, cliché ridden lines, an unfortunate twist, a melodramatic epiphany, and a dramatic ending, which would make Mills & Boon writers squirm in agony.’

‘Nothing wrong with spreading joy, Aks,’ JK said, now twiddling with his Blackberry. ‘MnB books are renowned for that reason.’

‘Joy, Jatin, doesn’t have to be synthesized for kids who are on the verge of entering a world filled with gloom, poverty, and sickness.’

‘All the more reason.’

‘I don’t see why I can’t write about real people, those who go through trials and tribulations. It needn’t even be sullen.’

‘We have people who write that stuff. They are known as journalists.’

‘A journalist typically writes articles, cover stories, occasional columns. I want to write a book. About those who, in all seriousness, are trying to make a difference.’

Akul sounded like a preacher, and JK looked like a guy attending mass only for the sake of communion wine.

‘Go ahead. You seem to have given this some thought. What interests you so much?’

‘My next story will be about the men and women who are funny for a living despite the seriousness that clouds their lives. A story about a stand-up comic. How ‘bout that?’ Even before he could finish, Akul knew that a long winding response was in order. The writer resented his agent for a reason. He could handle bitter medicine. It was the sugar-coated pills he hated.

‘It’s a very interesting subject, although I fail to see how they are making a difference. Stand-up comics themselves would agree with me when I say that comedy is dead, and I’m talking about its state in countries that gave us Jerry Seinfeld and Rowan Atkinson. You’re from India. A joke isn’t funny here unless it’s accompanied with a goofy double take and quirky sound effects.’

JK could see that Akul wasn’t about to let this one go so easily, so he continued with a smile, mellow and warm.

‘I’m not one of those agents who has overused the let’s put a pin in it phrase. Why don’t you treat this like a side project? We could put it up on our blog,’ ending with a pat on Akul’s back.

‘I don’t think I made myself clear Jatin,’ Akul said, starting to look a little red. ‘I’m not feeding that literary poison to teenagers. My mind is made, so don’t buddy me into changing my decision.’

JK laughed. ‘Aks, you crack me up. What’s with the angry young man approach? You want me to be afraid, don’t you? Here, I’m petrified,’ he said, taking a sarcastic jab. Akul had known, coming in, that he would be put to simmer, and he wasn’t disappointed.

‘So what’s the plan now? Ready for my gala tonight?’

‘Going to meet some friends for drinks. Congratulations by the way. Fifty clients, impressive.’

‘Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without you, mate.’

‘You got that right,’ Akul said, as he walked toward the door. ‘I contribute to that magical figure, don’t I?’

He could hear JK get to his next call before the door shut behind him. Agents!

Akul pulled into a parking space near a choco dip softie machine and crossed the road to enter a building. B-11 was a pub located on the third floor of that building in Jayanagar 4th Block, middle-class Bangalore’s shopping hub. It didn’t attract a lot of crowd; leave alone the birds. Too smoky, music too loud, crapper in the restroom too small to function as one, but this pub, with its chimney-like air vents running across the ceiling, had character. It lay in the realm of Akul’s stomping ground. He and his friends had been regulars here for almost a decade. He had conceived most of the plots for his books in B-11, having gone on to write considerable portions sitting in his usual spot by the tinted glass window, frequently watching people walk up and down the street below, and wondering if they knew that they were just pixels appearing for an instant on an eternally whirring film reel. This sorry excuse for a pub had a friendly working staff, not to mention the great happy hour deals.

As he reached the door, after climbing three flights of stairs that faintly smelt of grime, the doorman ushered Akul in with, ‘Your friends are already here.’ He found Sam, Naren, Jai, and a girl unfamiliar to him seated in the inner lounge.

‘Why are you ladies seated in the lounge?’ he asked, plopping himself on a beanbag and lighting a smoke. ‘The music is muffled within this section of the pub.’

‘We thought that perhaps it’s better to have some quiet, as we celebrate Nycil’s birthday,’ Sameer said, belching as he spoke. It was always beer for Sam. He never touched another drink.

‘Who is Nycil?’ Akul quipped. ‘Jai’s imaginary girlfriend?’

Jai hastily made the introduction, fearing that Akul might go overboard.

‘Akul, meet Nycil, she works at my office. Nycil, this is Akul Sachdev, the so-called writer.’

Naren, earlier on the phone with his wife, now joined the conversation.

‘From what Nycil has told us, she sounds like a big fan of your work, Sachdev.’

She spoke and Akul sighed with disdain, for the next few words out of her mouth were quite frequently thrown at him. ‘Really nice to meet you, I so enjoy your writing mainly because it is so original.’

‘Nice to meet you too,’ the writer responded with a thinly veiled scoff. ‘Although I’m not sure how you find it original, seeing that all I do is plagiarise Jackie Collins, merely setting her stories in suitable context. And you can call me Aks.’

‘Where’s the restroom?’ Nycil asked, turning to Jai.

‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’ fumed Jai after Nycil had excused herself. ‘I’ve been trying to get her to go out since the Y2K scare. She finally agrees to celebrate her birthday with me after I promised to have you here, and you act like a dumbass.’

‘You brought this upon yourself,’ Akul said. ‘You know how much I loathe people who read the shit that I churn out. And you were in school during Y2K, don’t exaggerate.’

‘Be that as it may’, Naren said, casually chewing on a toothpick that had once sat on top of a cocktail along with a cherry, ‘behaviour like this gets you nowhere but down. And you owe these people your medium-sized car and one-bedroom apartment.’

Akul felt about three points flashing in his brain that could counter this statement, but he saw that Naren made sense. Akul Sachdev considered himself a mediocre writer, and mediocrity has few takers as it is.

Naren had always been the sensible one in the group, Sam the party animal, Jai the Aks antithesis who hadn’t read a book since college, and the writer himself had been the geeky bibliophile. Nothing had changed over time. So Akul just changed the subject, a technique learnt courtesy JK.

‘How are things at home, Naren?’ he asked with superficial concern.

Nycil, walking back to their table, prevented Naren from being more forthcoming, although he did manage to flippantly remark. ‘You don’t want to know unless you’re writing a book about a married couple who have an Indo-Pak closeness.’

Jai, in a desperate bid to impress Nycil with wit, quipped, ‘But India and Pakistan are neighboring countries. How much closer can you get?’

No one is impressed with such a dud. The other three friends waited for a moment with stony expressions until Akul broke the silence with an announcement used to mark the entry of an American talk show host.

‘Jaiiiiiii, Leno, ladies and gentlemen.’

Nycil looked confused. They laughed.

‘God, I hate Jay.’

‘But why do you hate Jai?’ she asked.

‘You said it, man. He’s an irritating chap.’

‘No, he isn’t. Jai is nice,’ she defended.

‘They aren’t talking about me, Nycil. It’s Jay, not Jai.’

‘Of course we are. We hate Jai and Jay. Look at that. You sound like a law firm.’

‘Who’s Jay?’

‘A supersized chin.’

This went on for some time. Jai’s nerves were reduced to shreds, and a respectable comic was unnecessarily bad-mouthed by the time everyone calmed down. Akul felt sorry for having misbehaved, and, making a mental note to use more topical references next time, turned his attention to Nycil.

‘So what do you do for a living, m’lady?’

‘I work in Human Resources. I have a question for you.’

The two sentences came with a gap of no more than half a second between them; thus, preventing Akul from steering the conversation away from his books.

‘Sure, go right ahead,’ he said, sipping his drink, and secretly wishing that Jai would get a virulent strain of herpes through this very girl.

‘In your second book, you have gone into great depth regarding the tragic romance between a British nurse and an American soldier. How do you come up with a plot like that?’

Akul stared at a chipped glass on the table, trying to push the words ringing in his ears down. He then blurted, ‘Maybe you should do some real reading, hon,’ and rising from his seat, started walking toward the exit. Jai caught up with him.

‘Look, Aks, you don’t have to sweet talk the girl. That’s my job. Just slap a smile on your face, stick around, have some cake, and leave.

‘Jai, dude, I love you. But this girl won’t shut up about books. I could have survived it, but she knows nothing about them. British nurse and American soldier, that’s Hemingway 101. Critics crucified me for that impudence on my part. I really tried for your sake, man.’

‘Not everyone loves reading Hemingway and Steinbeck like you,’ Jai said with a scowl, and then handed him a tissue. ‘At least give her an autograph, do that for me.’

Akul scribbled hastily and walked out. Jai took one look at what he had written and grimly returned to the table, crumpling the tissue, and pushing it down his pocket. It had read, ‘To the best talcum powder out there. Best, Aks.’

Home, an apartment on the outskirts of the city. One of Akul’s teachers in school had had a reproachful opinion about apartments. ‘Your floor is someone else’s ceiling, and your ceiling is someone else’s floor.’ The rebel that he was, Akul made it one of his goals to own an apartment. He had taken out a loan and bought one immediately after publishing his second novel—the one Nycil had brought up. It had sold well, that book.

A work desk was set up by the window overlooking a lake that had been dry for a long time. Word was certain builders regularly filled the lake bed with debris, at the same time, bribing the government officials to sanction an apartment complex on that spot—one more phallic structure of steel, brick, and glass to diminish the once effeminate contours of ‘Pensioner’s Paradise’.

Akul’s apartment didn’t have a kitchen—not a working one anyway. Instead, he had used the space to store books he owned and notes he had prepared. He was pretty sure that these notes contained enough material to put together a collection of short stories. JK, on the other hand, always insisted on novels. ‘Short stories make tip change, and you can find them in abundance on the Internet for free.’

But Akul had made up his mind. No more selling out. It was time for redemption. He opened the drawer, pulled out a fresh notepad, and mumbling to himself, began to write.

Standing Up

I’m not being funny. I never try to be. I just say things that come to mind, and pray to God, ‘Please, please, big guy,’ that they get laughs. A lot of times, they don’t. Sometimes, it’s just one drunk guy at the back of the group; and even then, his laugh is suspiciously sarcastic. But there are those extremely occasional cases when the joke lands.

A few members of the audience catch the drift instantly and start chuckling, followed by a bigger response from the dim-witted ones. And at times, pretty sure it’s not the joke, but the situation when these two waves of laughter converge. Such a convergence, rare if you aren’t cocky, results in a resonance of frenzy and spins rib-tickling hell into what once sadly promised to be a blue night. That’s the reaction every stand-up comic, good or bad, dreams of in life and pines for on the deathbed. Although, believe me, it’s not easy to find an audience these days. To expect them to log out of their digital shackles, and get the fuck out of their homes. The very thought of enticing them into attending shows makes me want to snort coke. So we go on stage and bring a few smiles, fewer laughs, hoping that they come back with their friends.

That’s right. Stand-up comedy is an industry not unlike that pizza place with the bell near its exit. Lay some money on the table for undervalued material, and give our balls a grateful tug if satisfied on the way out.

I don’t use my real name, although that’s the one and only thing absolutely hilarious about me. But I do have a few things to tell if you can stand to read further. They call me Stryder. And this is my steaming turd of a story.

Akul reread the first page then continued to write for some more hours before he put the pen down. He had written without a break, only stopping to peer through the window, observing some trucks dumping more dirt into the lake. Looking at the watch, he decided to edit and type his work so far after returning from JK’s gala. The sun was setting, and he could see the traffic jam grow long and loud.

‘Little birdies flying back to their nests with worms in their beaks,’ he murmured to himself. Akul always spoke to himself when he was alone—a habit that had helped him cope with loneliness when he first moved out of his parents’ place in Mysore.

Taking a quick shower and shave, he looked at himself in the mirror and smiled, knowing fully well that the worn jeans would not go well with Jatin. Then, squinting at his reflection, and observing that he no longer had the looks from three years ago, Akul sighed.

‘Open bar.’

One thing was evident. Jatin Kohli was, along with being obnoxious, a rich man. The party was at a watering hole for the elite. Akul had a twinge of inferiority complex when he pulled into the driveway lined with expensive cars. The condescending sneer from the valet didn’t help either. He remembered his time working as a part-time parking attendant during college. Never forgetting the attitude he had to bear with, Akul always made it a point to treat them with dignity that he would have once appreciated. Resisting the temptation to make an exception in this case, he tipped the man and went inside. The celebrations were underway by the pool, and he noticed some press photographers.

‘Hell, no,’ Akul said to himself. He hated a picture in the page three section of the papers—he never photographed well, sober or drunk. What he wouldn’t have done a few years ago to get this kind of exposure. Now, he could barely get himself to warm up to such a gathering without wanting to head home, kick back with a drink and an Hrishikesh Mukherjee film.

Noticing Naren seated unusually far from the bar counter, he walked briskly and sat beside him.

‘I’m sorry. That seat is taken,’ Naren said, barely looking at Akul, but knowing fully well that it was him.

‘Did you get Bindu along?’ Akul asked.

‘She never lets me go by myself anywhere there’s free liquor.’

‘What about today afternoon in B-11 then?’

‘That never happened,’ Naren yelped, suddenly sitting straight. ‘And I’ll have you strung up by your balls if she finds out.’

‘Strong words coming from a guy without any of his own. Where is she?’

‘Restroom. Help me fill the tank before she returns, will ya?’

‘Say no more,’ he said, and then addressed the cocktail waitress. ‘Good lady, would you care so much as to hook us up with some Extra Añejo tequila? Cheers. And keep them shots coming.’

‘English, Akul, you pompous ass!’

‘Shut it, and drink up before the ball and chain returns.’

‘Any progress on your upcoming book?’

‘Started this evening. Need you to review the beginning for me. See if there’s any juice in it.’

Naren was an assistant editor for one of the publishing houses. That is how he had made his acquaintance with JK. He knew Akul since their early days as failed playwrights.

‘Do you have any idea about the consequence of your foray into avant-garde writing, Akul? It’s not easy for a writer to achieve even a single success, Richard Bachman and Robert Galbraith be damned. You were lucky, and to your credit, talented too. But to expect the same kind of success more than once is like asking for a second helping of your late Grandma’s cookies.’

‘Firstly, I never said that I’m going unconventional,’ Akul, sipping an energy drink and perusing the crowd. ‘Secondly, I hated my grandma’s cookies. They tasted like bread toasted in sweetened fat that stubbornly clings to the teeth.’

‘You are a stubbornly clung bread toasted in sweetened fat,’ Naren said, shifting to an indifferent tone. Some people, he had come to believe, would only learn from their very own mistakes. Right now, Akul needed all the support he could get. ‘Anyway, here’s to you, Aks.’

‘And to my steaming turd of a story. That’s a line from the book. Like it?’

‘With that winning description, what’s not to like?’

‘You’re a good friend, Naren. Sarcastic as fuck, but a good friend. Now act sober, your missus comes hither.’

Bindu was altogether a pleasant woman, but she ruled Naren with a vice-like grip. Perhaps prejudiced due to her being older than her husband, Akul always thought that they were a mismatch. Naren was a man of intellect; Bindu hardly read a book. But much to Akul’s surprise, they made it work.

‘So the home wrecker is here,’ she announced in Kannada, a comment targeting Akul.

‘Maybe this man takes to the bottle because of his lovely nag of a wife,’ Akul swiftly retaliated.

She quickly turned her sight to face Naren, finding her husband in the midst of a sizeable shot glass collection.

‘Aks had most of these, sweetie,’ Naren said in defence, his eyes pleading with Akul to fall on the impending grenade.

‘Sure.’ Akul concurred for a fleeting moment, and then added with cheer, ‘But not the ones we downed a few minutes ago. Those glasses were cleared off the counter at Naren’s behest. He’s out of control, this guy. Hey, there’s JK! See you both later, if you’re still together, that is.’

He winked at his visibly hurt and helpless consigliere then proceeded to walk toward his agent.

Jatin Kohli was making frenetic hand movements, as he spoke to three elderly gentlemen who were momentarily blocking the view of what when she finally appeared, made the writer’s mind shriek, one lightning bolt in an elegant dress. His sights locked on her, Akul had to, under the pretext of adjusting a button, place one hand on his chest to keep his heart from bounding out. He had seen many women, been with a few, but none of them had been as titillating as this one. She was not a page, but an entire chapter out of his deepest fantasies.

‘Like my coffee,’ he would say in a tone he considered a homogenised blend of Humphrey Bogart and Kabir Bedi when asked about his version of an ideal girl. ‘Hot, dark, and stimulating.’

But this one was more than that. You could add a whole shot of Irish cream to his metaphorical coffee, and maybe that would bring you closer to describing her. Maybe. Intoxication with every step he took toward her, Akul had to rectify his direction a couple of times just so he would walk up to Jatin and not her. Suddenly in his mind, his gait seemed awkward, his hands seemed clumsy, and he was pretty sure his zipper was undone, although he didn’t dare check. His heart beating hard, he found himself standing next to JK, staring blankly from one snobbish face to another.

‘Aks, my main man,’ Jatin Kohli announced like a herald. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my most beloved client, nay friend, Akul Sachdev.’

‘I’m sure Jatin says that to every single one of them,’ Akul retorted, wondering why some statements sound great only when they are in your head.

‘Always has something to say,’ Jatin was telling the others with a laugh. ‘Aks is working on his fourth book.’

Trying hard not to stare at the girl, nay goddess, Akul congratulated JK on his fiftieth client, broke away from the casual banter, and walked up to the bar.

Noticing that the girl was walking up to the bar too, he quickly grabbed a seat by the counter.

‘Quite a party, huh?’ he cried out using a drawl in his accent that was supposed to somehow provide a sophisticated illusion. ‘Hey, my name is Aks.’

‘I know your name. JK introduced you to us about a minute ago, remember?’ Turning away, she leaned on the counter and ordered a margarita.

‘Yes, that’s right. I didn’t quite catch your name.’

‘That’s because no one mentioned it.’

Akul didn’t quite know how to respond to that, but she turned out to be forgiving in nature.

‘I’m Farrah. Farrah Bose.’

Her tone was casual and aloof. Akul felt snubbed, but she didn’t seem uninterested either. Her attitude reminded him of warm gentle rains that are pleasing to such an extent that you don’t mind the faint discomfort of getting a little drenched. At that moment of foolish courage, he decided to go for broke.

‘Farrah, huh? You were great in Charlie’s Angels.’

Silence. A bewildered expression spread across her face and blood drained from his. The writer wondered if he could salvage something by referring to another namesake—a yesteryear Bollywood actress. JK’s voice broke the tormenting silence before further damage was done.

‘He is referring to Farrah Fawcett, the late 1970’s heartthrob who starred in Charlie’s Angels, the TV show,’ he said, laughing hard. Farrah laughed too. A cool breeze of relief washed the sweat off Akul. Her laughter didn’t seem to have a humiliating intent. If anything, Akul perceived it as evidence of her vivacious spirit. And for the rest of the gala, he found himself somehow finding an excuse just to be with her.

She had a charming personality, and a buxom body that can’t be described without toeing the boundaries of chivalry. They shared their respective background with each other. Farrah told Akul that she was born and raised in Kolkata during its leftist heydays. Both her parents worked in the public sector. A Bimal Roy fan, she had moved to Delhi for her graduation, and now worked in its hotel industry. It wasn’t a great paying profession according to her, although it involved glamour and required hospitable qualities—something she claimed to be good at.

It was a great party, leaving aside the argument between a very drunk JK and Aks.

‘Strider? Why would you rip-off Lord Of The Rings?’

‘I spell it with a Y. And it’s just a fuckin’ name, Jatin. In that case, every word uttered has been ripped off someone.’

‘You’re so conceited.’

‘And you’re such a jackass.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said this is a nice party!’

When it was time to leave, Akul awkwardly pretended to bump into Farrah, and asked her if she needed a ride. She declined, stating that someone had booked a service apartment for her in the vicinity. Too drunk to be dejected and too drunk to drive, he hitched a ride with Naren and Bindu, husband sleeping on the back seat of their MUV and wife behind the wheel. This arrangement looked like a typical marriage to Akul, and it amused him to no end. Having managed to stumble into his apartment, Akul slapped his forehead and cursed. He hadn’t asked Farrah for her phone number. The last thing he remembered was falling into his bed, a humming in his ears.

Akul awoke with a mild throbbing head the next morning. He pulled up his window shades, and let some fresh air into his pad. It was a bright day, the neighbourhood drenched with what must have been an early drizzle. He tuned into an online radio, and gave himself a scalding hot scrub, hoping to wash away the hangover. Whipping up a breakfast of two-minute noodles, omelet, and coffee, he wondered if that girl from yesterday had left town.

‘They come and they go, old bean,’ he said to himself, a little egg on his face. ‘Focus on work for now, lest you want to listen to Naren and JK go on about how they were correct in trying to dissuade you.’

It appeared to be a perfect day for writing, and deciding to make the best of it, Akul put pen to paper.

‘It wasn’t the best of nights. It wasn’t the worst of nights.’ That was inspired by Charles Dickens, in case his publisher is in the mood to sue someone. I was in one of those small town nightclubs, laying down joke after joke just to see that the audience is warmed up for the greatly anticipated performance in which the most prominent nipples get the maximum points. I wasn’t enjoying the gig, but a stand-up comedian’s career is similar to the situation of a student applying for admission to universities—you need to collect points. The more points you have, the better are your chances of getting into popular and lucrative clubs. Come to think of it, a stand-up comedian can also be compared to a wet T-shirt contestant.

So here I was, trying to break into the comedy scene. Gallivanting with drunken women who were trying to make a fast buck was just a perk that came with the job. Still, not all the liquor or women in the world could make me forego the desire of having people come in to see me perform. Hopefully that performance wouldn’t involve me being in a wet T-shirt.

For now, I was just trying to make the best of it.

‘So my mom says to me, she says, Get a job, or get the hell outta my house. Now, you aren’t picturing her right if you aren’t imagining a large woman screaming at the top of her lungs, a menacing frying pan in one hand.

‘I reply in kind, This ain’t your house, Ma. Pa left it when he died.

Left it for me, she retorts.

Why not? For all the times you threatened to kill each other, I’m sure he did. Which is probably why when I returned home stoned that night, I found my stuff on the street, and the house bolted shut from inside.’

In truth, I had run out of material by now, and was trying to ad-lib my way through the rest of the allotted time.

‘And that’s how I came to be in this state,’ I continued, hoping that the performing artists would appear before the male audience, premature out of habit that they were, started hurling projectiles at me.

‘Penniless, homeless, and if you fine ladies wouldn’t mind me saying, pussyless.’ Light laughter. Taking a chance, I prodded. ‘So any of you ladies care to help a guy out?’ Some laughed, and some looked horrified at the very idea. I expected that kind of response, but I was surprised when a woman at the back shouted, ‘Sure.’

I couldn’t help myself and decided to improvise. Like a preacher in mass, I spoke into the microphone, ‘We have a philanthropist in our midst, brothers and sisters. Praise the Lord everybodey, praise the Lord almaeetey! Would she care to come forward?’

A slender woman in her late twenties walked up to the stage. Her skin was sun-kissed with make-up smudged after apparently spending most of her night on the town. I instantly took a liking to her.

‘Why don’t you enter your number in my phone? Let’s see if you’re a man of your word, although personally, I’d prefer if you’re a woman.’

She threw her head back, and laughed ruffling her sweat-soaked bangs, took my outstretched phone, and amidst wild catcalls and whoops from the rest of the crowd, handed the phone back to me. She waved at the