Cough Syrup Surrealism

By Tharun James Jimani

“ Charlie's not a depressive. He's certainly not suicidal; the boy's too big a coward to even cut himself while shaving. He may be delusional, he may sincerely wish that he were depressed, but he's certainly not a depressive.” That's Mao; nobody listens to him. But that's probably because he's a figment of Charlie's imagination. An unwitting Charlie rudely interrupted in the middle of typing out his umpteenth suicide note is hurled into a brave new world of addiction, rock music and debauchery in this tale of growing up and going down. From rolling joints to rolling in drug money, from backing out of life to fronting somebody else's rock band, he's in for a bumpy ride. Charlie divides his time between being in love with Paloma and hating himself, between living out Nineties music video fantasies and wishing he were someone else. The problem is it's 2006 and MTV is not Music Television anymore. Mixtapes are passé , self-loathing is cliché and Charlie's world is fast deteriorating into caricature. At the end, Charlie is forced to figure out which one of his many lives he really wants for himself.

Question: you can take a boy out of the Nineties, but can you take the Nineties out of him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9789358561326

Book preview

To icy highs and bitter lows.

Charlie Mathews GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD!

That’s when she said: Excuse me. I looked up. And fell in love. She waved a hand in front of my face and smiled. Can I sit? she asked. She continued to smile as she eased into a chair right next to me. So close, we almost touched.

Holy shit! We ARE touching.

She put her hand on my knee and said, So? I continued staring. Nose ring, earrings, lipstick, blink, light eyes, eyelashes, hair, teeth, twitch, slight dimple, short hair, streak of red in it, there was so much to take in. She waited a few seconds. I counted six rings in total—five on her ears and one on her nose.

Listen, Charlie, she whispered, Rish sent me.

Goddamn, she knows my name!

Her hand slid further up my leg. Just this one time, please? It’s for a friend; I promised her.

She thinks I’m someone else. A case of mistaken identity. Could happen to anyone. Except I’m in love with her! Oh well, no big deal, I’ll just tell her she’s got the wrong guy, and she can get on with her life, and I can go kill myself.

Umm . . . I think you’ve made a mistake, I said. I don’t know anybody named Rish . . . Say it, just say it. Say WHAT? . . . but if you know what course he’s doing, maybe I could help you find him or something . . .

She continued smiling. Her hand didn’t move either. Charlie, please, last time, I promise. Next week, we’ll have the cash. She was almost pleading now. And breaking my heart. I wondered if she could take her hand off my leg, much as I loved it, for a second, so I could figure out just what the hell was going on.

How about we go to your place? Spark up, chill out a bit . . . she trailed off. Ohmygodshewantstocometomyplace! But I need to go to the loo first. I’ll meet you at the main gate, okay?

I watched her walk away. Green top, dark jeans, average height. Slender, almost tomboyish from behind. She turned around and waved conspiratorially from the hallway, and then she was gone.

I shut my laptop, put it in my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and took off to the gate in one Olympic flourish. I had never moved so fast in my entire life. There was nobody there but the watchman, and I was happy to get some think-time.

Maybe, I shouldn’t kill myself.

Five minutes later, she hadn’t shown up.

Big deal, I’ve waited all my life for her.

Five minutes became ten, and I wondered if she had changed her mind. Still five minutes later, I was sure of it.

Maybe it was a prank, and those bastards, whoever they are, are probably laughing at me right now. With the love of my life.

Hey, I ran into an old friend. Sorry. She’s real! Auto, right? I heard about Venky crashing your car. You should never have given that bastard your car, she continued talking as she flagged down an auto-rickshaw.

"Boss, Haddows Road polama?" I asked the driver. She somehow bargained and flirted and pleaded and bullied him into whittling the proposed fare down to twenty rupees.

She’d make a great wife. She’s beautiful, AND economical.

We got into the auto, me first, and we were off.

Holy shit, her leg’s touching mine again. Is she doing this on purpose?

She rummaged around in her bag and fished out a packet of cigarettes. She offered me one, but I declined on impulse, and instantly regretted the ramifications of my action on my Coolness Quotient.

Maybe I should say something. The cigarette burns like I do for you.

I looked at her again. She seemed quite content to smoke in silence, and I decided to let things be. Making conversation was not one of my strong points. Not with people, at any rate.

The elevator was broken as always, so we took the stairs. I dreaded what was coming; it was already playing out in my mind like a horror movie. Right about now, Zag would be on the couch, in his boxers, watching television, probably soft porn. Rohit and Viraz would be smoking pot on the balcony, red-eyed and weak-kneed. Sandy would still be at work, thank God.

I would walk in with the most beautiful girl in the world, and all hell would break loose. Viraz would hit on her, Rohit would playfully try to push me over the balcony, and Zag would ask me what my name was as if he really didn’t know it—this annoying new gag he’d recently cooked up in my honour. I wondered if it was too late to pray.

Why the hell would God listen to you when nobody else does?

I took a deep breath and hit the buzzer. My landlord must have been waiting, for his door immediately opened and he came out in a flash, wearing only his pyjamas and his patented paedophile smile. The theme tune to Kaun Banega Crorepati followed him into the corridor.

Aah, Charlie! he said. Always a pleasure to see you. Haha.

Haha, you bastard.

This must be one of the boys’ girlfriends, yes? Haha haha, he continued, and very routinely reached out and pinched my butt. "Lock kiya jaaye, boomed Amitabh Bachchan’s voice from inside his seedy lair. I winced. Okay, must get going. You people have fun, okay?" As he made his way back inside, I pressed the buzzer again.

Zag opened the door, yelling, Where the fuck are your keys? He would probably have continued in that vein if I were alone. I was never not alone. And definitely not not alone because of a girl. But he actually behaved remarkably well: just held the door open and kept a straight face. I waited for him to come out with something vicious, but he just said, What? You’re not coming in? So we did.

I shut the door behind me, and mumbled the necessary introductions.

Umm . . . Zag . . . this is my friend . . . Shit, what’s her name?

Paloma, she cut in (I LOVE your name), and shook his hand. I thought he held it a second longer than necessary, but I couldn’t be sure.

The door to the balcony was open. I could smell the marijuana from the living room, but Rohit and Viraz didn’t bother coming in. Chances were they hadn’t heard the buzzer, even though the porno wasn’t on very loud. I was disappointed. I hadn’t realised till then that a part of me desperately wanted for them to meet her, for me to be seen with her. That’s probably why I said sure when she asked me if I wanted to smoke a quick joint. I led her to the balcony, followed closely by Zag, and asked the guys if they minded us joining them. Rohit and Viraz just stared. We waited, and they stared some more. Paloma extended a practiced hand, and said, Hi, I’m Paloma. They started laughing.

A few joints later, Rohit and Viraz had exhausted their stock, and I felt distinctively queasy. I had only smoked weed a couple of times previously, never in any seriousness and certainly not more than a few half-hearted drags under social duress. I wondered if I would pass out on the floor. I definitely didn’t have the strength to get up and go to my room.

Zag just sat leaning against the railing and seemed to be watching me, intrigued. I had never noticed before how big his eyes were. Dude, you look like a goldfish, I said. That set the guys off, and soon, we were all rolling around on the floor, holding our stomachs, and laughing tears. Paloma just looked outside for a while, serious and contemplative. Then she opened her bag and brought out a crumpled ball of yellow paper. Carefully, she unwrapped it and placed it on the floor, in the middle. Who wants to smoke some more? she said, and her smile was back. I felt ridiculously grateful.

Much later, we were still on the balcony, just the two of us. Technically, anyway. Zag was sprawled out on one side, comatose, and we were kind of using his legs to support our heads as we lay on our backs, watching the evening sky. Much to my surprise, I had managed to stay awake although my head felt unusually clear and fuzzy at the same time.

Meanwhile, Rohit and Viraz played on the PlayStation II, which had appeared out of nowhere a couple of days ago. We could hear the machine-gun fire loud and clear, even though the door to the balcony was closed. Chennai FM was playing Pinch Me by the Barenaked Ladies, but the racket from the damn video game was ruining the song for me. She didn’t seem to mind though, and, on concentrating hard, I found that it was like two different stations with separate headphones for each, really. I could just listen to one and block out the other with my mind, or inner ear, or whatever it is that you use to block out simulated video game machine-gun fire so as to be able to listen to one of your favourite bands who just happen to be playing alongside. I wondered how Paloma was doing, but somehow even turning my head towards her was too much of an effort, and asking her would have killed the tranquillity of the moment. So she just lay there, serene and beautiful (probably), and I lay by her side, content just to be there (definitely).

I woke up with a cramp in my neck. The first thing I saw was Paloma, facing the other way, leaning against the railings and smoking.

You should really cut down on the cigarettes, you know, I said.

She turned around, a look of genuine relief on her face.

Fuck, I thought you were out for the night, Charlie, she said, smiling.

Where’s everybody? I grogged.

"Well, first, Zag woke up and started blabbering some crap about how he had to go to the gym, ’cause he’s working on his twelve packs." She paused for a drag. That sounds like Zag. Twelve packs. Fucking moron! Then Rohit and Viraz came out and Rohit asked me if I’ve ever had a threesome. I said no, and they picked up Zag and carried him out the door and never came back, she said, and threw her head back and started laughing hysterically. I could have sworn she cackled at some point.

For some reason, every time I look back, I keep pausing at that moment, her wholehearted laugh and the night sky behind her frozen in frame, like a photograph shot on mind camera, and I tell myself that moment made all the difference. I could have looked her straight in the eye and told her she was talking to the wrong Charlie, that I was the nerdy, loser prototype, the alter-ego she would never even have known existed if she hadn’t mistaken me for somebody else, that I’d understand if she didn’t want to ever see me again, that pot was not my cup of herbal tea, that a joint would never be my point of confluence with anyone. Or I could have at least made a mental note to keep my distance from this beauty-school dropout who laughed with all the charm of a little less-possessed Chucky. A million roads diverged in that purple haze on that mid-summer evening and I took the bumpy one. I laughed with her. And a little later, we kissed.

It happened like this: We were in front of the TV, restlessly flipping through channels, and before I knew it I was sitting with my arm around her, her head on my chest and I wondered if she could hear my heart beat. I bravely touched her hair, awkward little pats on her head at first, then slowly, more assuredly, gentle strokes for no discernible reason. Why do people stroke other people’s hair?

I was struck by the smallness of her head. There was almost an adolescent-like quality to everything about her—the way her almost-womanly body curled up into this cushy, cuddly little being; her childish contempt for news channels; the smell of her hair. Even her feet looked like they wore baby shoes. I loved the way her jeans were frayed at the ends, a sort of challenge to the world, as though applying make-up and shampooing her hair had been such a compromise that she just couldn’t care enough to make sure her denims weren’t ripped. There was a child-like innocence, an incredible warmth, in her touch, in the way her body fit perfectly under my arm. I breathed her in with almost big-brotherly affection. I kissed the top of her head lightly, and she looked up, a slight smile playing on her lips, almost shy.

This was uncharted territory. The dynamics had shifted, the spotlight was on me—she was looking at me now; I was the child, the amateur. I was nervous, shaking. I didn’t know what to do, what the protocol was; I just knew I wanted very much to do something. I wanted to do everything.

I bent down to touch her lips with mine, our first kiss, my first kiss with this beautiful girl-child with her nose-ring and her slight hips, heart-break in every footstep. Her lips parted, and her tongue caressed mine, wet and warm and slippery. I wondered how anyone could smoke two packets of Wills Navy Cut in five hours and still taste like the best taste on earth. I pulled her closer and ran a shaky hand up the side of her midriff. She pulled away.

SHIT.

Think, Charlie, think! Say something! Anything!

She eased herself onto her arm of the couch and ran a hand through her hair. She stood up, slowly, and faced me.

Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. I love you.

The girl-child from moments ago had disappeared completely and in her place stood Paloma the girl-woman, the modern-day Medusa, hair aflame and eyes ablaze. She must have read the surprise in my eyes. She smiled, semi-shy. Then she looked straight into my eyes and said the most preposterous thing I had ever heard.

I want some Charlie, she said.

I sat there, a little numb, and watched her walk out the door.

You’re certain ‘Charlie’ means cocaine? I asked Viraz again.

Fuck that, he said. "You kissed her? Seriously? You kissed her?"

Hey, keep it down, man. Only you know, so shut the fuck up, I pleaded, wondering why I ever told him in the first place. Viraz was the kind of guy who didn’t easily like anyone, at least not without specific material gain from the person, and I knew for a fact that he didn’t like me very much. But Viraz could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. And I really, really wanted to tell someone. So I did.

Well, she kissed me actually, I said. I was just asking her for the remote, and she kinda leaned over and kissed me . . .

"She kissed you?"

"Yeah, she kissed me. Why’s that so hard to believe? Okay, I know, it’s hard to believe, but it just happened. We were watching TV and she just sort of turned around and kissed me, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there, and then she stopped kissing me, and said, ‘Can we go back to the other room now, please?’"

You said ‘leaned over’ earlier.

What?

You said she leaned over and kissed you first.

"Yes, she leaned over and kissed me."

So Paloma’s a junkie? Sweet. Viraz liked the whole affair, I could tell. He had an unbridled fascination for anything to do with drugs. He wasn’t actually on anything regularly as far as I knew; he was just genuinely interested in drug culture. I’d never seen him read anything except Irvine Welsh, he had at least a hundred stoner movies on his hard drive which he would constantly refer to in conversations, and anything and everything to do with drugs became instantly cool in his books.

I lit a cigarette and didn’t say anything. I just hoped Zag and Rohit wouldn’t wake up too soon. Viraz was always the first one up, mainly because he was perennially constipated and prone to hour-long shits in the morning. It made things easier for everyone if he was finished a good half-hour before anybody else wanted to use the facilities. Sandy hadn’t returned last night, and I wanted some time to think before Dumb and Dumber entered the ring.

"Hey, hey, and when did you start smoking?" Unpleasant, annoying Viraz was back.

Just . . . helps me relax, I guess. Weak.

Well, buy your own fags then, he said, and plucked the cigarette right out of my mouth, and ambled off to the toilet, scratching his nether regions. Bastard.

So what do you think I should do? I asked through the bathroom door.

"Bone . . . herrr . . ."

His voice sounded strained—with rectal discomfort, no doubt—and I pictured him, red and sweaty, eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched, directing all his energy, his chi into pushing the last remnants of the previous night’s ghee rice and chicken curry out of his body, and talking at the same time, syllable by painful syllable. I photoshopped the image in my head, animating his face, flushing it till sweat poured down his sideburns like rain and a bright white light shot out of his ears, the skin on his face melting like plastic and peeling off, dripping down his face in watery chunks.

This was a daily practice, my only way of getting back at him for all the practical jokes and insults he would subject me to through the course of the day. This was the image I would summon to my head every time he said something spiteful. I knew there were pins and needles in his anus every time he crapped, and that talking through it was murder. But he had too much pride to not reply when I sought his advice, even if it was in the middle of his ablutions.

I knew because I had heard him talk to Zag about it one day: Christ, I’m shitting blood these days, Zag. It hurts like a bitch, man. And talking makes it like a gazillion times more painful. So stop asking me shit when I’m taking a dump, ok? I think I must have ulcers or something in my ass. That is fucking gross, dude was all Zag could say. And that’s how it had been ever since. Every day, Viraz and I, on opposite sides of the bathroom door. Like star-crossed lovers. Our 7:30 a.m. rendezvous. But I was in no mood for private pleasures that day. I had to make a decision. Fast. I decided to go for a walk.

Not that I had turned flâneur overnight; just that the pollution and the hustle and bustle of Nungambakkam always lent my thought processes a refreshing clarity. The morning traffic was not in full flow yet, and I set off at a steady pace, wanting to get back before the city streets, life brimming over in every corner, really pissed off the weekday sun. I must have still been pretty slow, because a steady stream of office-goers, with their mobile phones and their briefcases, hurriedly pushed past me as I turned towards the main road.

I stopped at the potti kadai at the corner. It was one of those multi-purpose all-you-can-possibly-want shops that stacked everything from condoms to freshly strung garlands of malligai poo. Zag had cautioned me to not go there a few days ago because Viraz and he owed Muthu, the proprietor, about one thousand rupees on their tabs, but I didn’t see why that should lay siege to my morning ritual.

Muthu smiled his usual toothy smile and held out The Hindu.

Today you late, he said.

"Oru packet Wills, Muthu," I said, ever the conversationalist.

One. Moment. Please, he enunciated, unable to hide his glee at the financial ramifications of this apparent new indulgence. As I turned to leave, he called out, "Your friend, no? Viraz? Serippa adichiduve, (slap with my slipper)." I was familiar with the sentiment.

She’s a junkie, huh? Rohit asked, not looking up from his phone. He loved playing Snake.

We were seated on the balcony, Viraz rolling their morning joint, my mind elsewhere.

She’s not a junkie. For some reason she thinks I can get her some cocaine, I sighed.

"What’s she gonna do with it? Draw a kolam? Of course she’s a junkie," Rohit said.

Thank you,