Monday, September 14, 2009

First Time, Second Time, Over and Over Again

This weekend a lot of us (I and some friends) did something for the first time. Apparently it is great if you can do something for the first time every time in your life. (Remember that corny ad – 'when was the last time you did something for the first time'?). Obviously as you grow old, doing something new every time becomes increasingly difficult. And when you are as old as me and as lazy as my friends, doing something new is a strenuously disorganised bureaucratic hustle. Often such ambitious attempts result in permanent damage in relationships built over gallons of alcohol and years at the best and all crew sitting and sulking at home at the least.

So we were thrilled to bits as we did something for the first time together and quite amiably too. Everybody agreed and no one fought. We all went to Godzi's house for a party!!! Now people, who know us and know Godzi, will think - “what's the big deal about going to Godzi's for a party?” this I will explain later. People who do not know us and do not know Godzi will think - “who is Godzi?” I will explain this first.

Godzi is a human friend of mine. In some cultures when you love someone too much you have to shorten, disfigure or mutilate the names given to them by establishments like family or/and christen them into completely new ones. A guy I know called Pratishyam is now called Po-te. From Protishyam to Potassium to Pota to Po-te to sometimes even Pot. A friend who teaches in a college is Profu. From Professor to Prof to Profu. Godzila is a name given to him by his friends and by now you must have guessed – for his physical amplitude. However with time, as his friends’ love for him grew, even Godzila sounded too formal. He is now called Godzi or Godz. The younger lot calls him Godzi Da* with respect. So Godzi is a human being who has a normal name given by his parents. But to protect his identity, I am not telling you his real name here.

*Da is what you call elder brothers in Assamese. Like Vuti in Zulu and Bhaisaab in Urdu.

Now that I have told this, even the one's who do not know us and Godzila will ask the same question as the ones who know us and know Godzila - “what's the big deal in going to Godzi's for a party?” True, we have been to Godzi's for many years. Single handedly Godzila has kept alive many people's sexual-social life in conservative Guwahati by allowing people to meet and mate at his place. We have all cooked, eaten, drunk, partied, got laid or vomited in Godzi's house innumerable times. But why this was a first time for all of us is that this time he invited us. He actually called each and every one of his friends and asked them to come over! Now coming from Godzila, that was a first time. For us and for Godzila.

Godzi has been living on his own, in a house provided by his parents in Guwahati since he has grown pubic hair. In 'Indian' societies that is quite something isn't it? I mean which parents would actually give their son a house in the same city and let him live there with his friends? Even his neighbours thought this was against culture. Of course the amount of noise that came out of his house every night contributed to the way they thought. But all in all Godzi has lived a life of admiring sortedness. Bike, babes, booze and bandhu (friends) has been his without having to do much for it. I mean, unless of course you consider being born and having to eat, drink and get laid – doing. But alas! Nothing in life is permanent. Even elephants get stuck in mud, even great people's boats sink (old Assamese saying). Even Godzila's life has been rocked. And not by no Iron Maiden ho!

One day his parents told him they want to breakdown the old house (the one Godzila lived in) and build a new one. For some of us who are naturally inclined towards nastiness, it was cause for much jealousy. Not only have his parents given him a house, now they are building him a new one! True the old house was getting a bit out of fashion. What with all those puke, paan and other not-mentionable stains all over. Single bedroom house was a bit tedious since you have to take turns using the bed for sex. The sofas in the living room were a bit too small for that too. So jealous howmuchever we were, Godzi was getting a new house and we would be able to fornicate in different beds, in different rooms. The kitchen will get equipped and the bathroom cleaned. So we waited patiently for months. His old house got broken down. He started living in one room from a whole house. From at least having a separate room to shag, we were reduced to eight people in one bed. And eat and drink there too. It might give you images of wild orgies like the Roman royals, but let me tell, it was not always nice. Not especially when you’re getting nudged in the middle of your sleep by some other people getting it on. Not when you could hear people frantically ripping condom packets and had to stop yourself from telling them to be careful in your regular blind drunk state. But we held patiently. Not for once did we swear at Godzila for not having the house ready or at his father for not hurrying up with the construction. Whatever we said, obliquely about building contractors and labourers being lazy these days, were constructive support. And the new house was ready one day. ‘The fruit of patience is always sweet’. Bullshit!!! Here you could say, 'who is Patience hey?' Well, she is a friend of mine but I digress. The fitting thing to write here would be this piece of valuable advice I got from a friend, 'never trust your parents. They can betray you anytime'.

For, just when the house got ready and our miseries were coming to an end, when we had planned the big couches that would be ideal for all those stretching positions described in my Chinese erotica booklet and the dim lights that would enhance the mood just right, his mother announced that they are going to move in and live with him!!! Whoa, whoa! Such cruelty towards your own umbilical connections! Such utter stabbing on the back since what was that guys name too?! But yes, that's what happens. That's how elephants' boats sink and great people get mud baths in Maldives.

Godzila, begged, brawled and boozed. He even tried talking to his mother. But no, mother remained straight and stable. Like the leaning tower of Piza. And finally when Godzila cried, his mother melted. I mean, who can see a big man like Godzila cry? Not even his own mother. So like a great Indian mamta-(love, particularly motherly love I think)-filled mother she said, 'only on one condition. You have to get married.'

And true like any Indian mother (they are the epitome of truth and honesty etc I hear, though I can't really vouch for my own mother on that), she has moved in and has been living in the house we had so meticulously planned on getting dirty for the past couple of months. Not only that, she has done up the house, in flowery silk curtains and frilly fridge covers. All Godzila needs is to get married. Even the condoms and lubes for his suhag raat (first night) are kept in his bedside drawer. All he needs is to find a girl and get married. And we will be able to move back into his house and party again. We have of course stopped visiting him ever since the ominous presence of his parents in the house. I personally do not like parents and their presence around me for more than a couple of minutes at a time. I keep on going to the loo or the fridge or to my room in their house to avoid sharing contaminated space with my parents lest I get conservatigo or something. So, what Godzila has caught in the past months from his parents, his livers only know. We have tried finding a girl for him to marry but that is not working out very well either. We have not found a cool enough girl who will marry Godzila and leave us all be. In his house, with or without her. Mostly without.

So for the first time in few months his parents were going back to their own house. For 2 days. And for the first time in his life Godzila invited us to his house for a party. For the first time in his life he cooked for us. Actually his plan of making friends cook like other times failed and he fooled around with onion garlic and chicken for half the night. Sometimes he would mistake his whiskey for onion, sometimes for garlic, sometimes chicken and sometimes for other people's drinks. He would then try to keep his own drink in a proper place and lose the onions, garlic, chicken and drinks. Then he would look for these things everywhere and find his own drink and get more drunk. If he found other people's drinks he would drink them. If he found any stuff that needed cooking he would ask somebody else to please cook. Eventually when all the children fell asleep hungry, all the women were getting cranky and all the men were making plans to move to the 24 hour dhaba on the highway, somebody decided to take over and turned the chicken into korma (yummy Muslim curry). But in all this Godzila actually looked very busy and like he was cooking. Which itself was another first timer. We could not believe, in his house, you could actually ask him where the water was and he could tell you it's in the fridge. That's because his mom always keeps things in their proper places.

There was another first timer in the party. A lot of our macho men friends who do not always bring their wives to parties got them along. That's because Godzila called the wives and girlfriends and invited them too. The men could not lie about where they were going anymore. When the guitar playing got good, all the girls started singing and dancing and there was random exchanges of good vibes between wives and the girlfriends and the husbands/boyfriends' friends. This naturally made the husbands and boyfriends a little sleepy. So for the first time, in this party, the husbands wanted to go home and the wives said, -' just a few minutes. I will have my last drink and we go.' And for another almost first time in our lives, we could not finish all the alcohol. People raised their hands up, said no the offer of the last one for the road if they could talk, otherwise quietly stumbled out of the house not disturbing the neighbours who have not been able to sleep all along anyway. And for the second time in our lives we felt like teenagers in a house party while the parents are out visiting grand mother in the hospital. As they say, 'amongst ducks, the fox is the king'. Or is it a wrong maxim I am using?