Mating Habits of the Bonobo Monkey

I

Love comes to the University in the spring of 2012. Lust has been there for the past sixty-odd years, making the beds a little warmer and the nights a little colder, but love can lay claim to enough seedy places of ill-repute without needing another gathering of hormonal nitwits in its repertoire.

Love comes to the University anyway. There is a grand parade in its perpetual dishonour, and the incumbent students' union sends in a fleet of white Innovas to attract a crowd.
Everybody sees the shining white cars roaring up University Avenue and decides to stay at home.
You end up going nevertheless because you have long believed love to be a socio-political construct invented for the sole purpose of acting as a deterrent to the overburdened cause of Feminism.
I go because I am currently the wrong degree of coolness to do drugs and there is nothing good on TV.

Would you look at that, you declaim without inflection. Such a gross display of chauvinism and testosterone.
A carload of unionists skid past on a bike and a half.
You remark that you've never seen anybody grosser and in more urgent need of emasculation.
I introduce myself to you.
You ignore my existence.

We are passed by the motorcade proper. The first two cars contain random dignitaries and one-fourths of a momo stand. The third car contains love for real.
It's got a heady odour, you observe.
I was expecting someone taller, I confess.

The big car is followed by half a dozen smaller ones and a man leading a fulmination of marmots on leashes.
Then there is a bunch of wattle-necked ladies chasing inexpensive fur coats.
Then the road is empty.

There's that, I say.
What a cheap and degenerative display of Capitalist pedagogy, you say.
You wanna grab a bite, I say.
Only if you don't expect me to pay for you.

II

Things go great for the first three months. They also go to hell in two weeks flat.
There is too much milk in this coffee, you say as I pour out espresso shots from our stolen coffeemaker. There isn't enough milk in this paneer kulcha. I learn that cottage cheese is a dairy product.
Three-fourths of a momo stand opens in our locality. There are dumplings but no steam. The boiler plates have been requisitioned by the Students' Union.

We take a long walk spread over dozens of evenings. We bicker incessantly over the splitting of cafe bills. We watch poorly-hidden wrinkles spread over poorly-interpreted scripts playing out on poorly-observed silver screens. I write about our burgeoning romance in a poorly-thought out idiom.
We make out every chance we get but there is nothing poor about that.

We measure rainfall in hours rather than centimeters. We cross a road together.
There are bad bits too, of course.

I complain that you do not give me enough time. You blame me of sabotaging your bi-weekly assessment preparations, your political career, India's chances in the T20 World Cup (though I contend it is all that damn Tendulkar's fault for making us complacent), and your plans for breakfast with an ever-growing roster of attractive male underwear models.

I call you beautiful on a morning when you're at your ugliest. You read a story by me and fail to make the appropriate sort of noise (which, in case you are wondering, is halfway between an indignant oink and the post-coital clicking of a dolphin).

Things come to a head when a perfectly-serviceable joke is allowed to accelerate constantly at a rate of nine-point-eight-meters-per-second-squared until it reaches the floor.
We watch the joke falling and know it represents both the general quality of writing currently produced by our generation (read: me) and the arc of our relationship.

We decide to move in together.

III

The end begins at the midway point of our first night in the new flat.
There is something about the moonlight that inspires-
Did you remember to get the vegetables for breakfast, you ask.
Yes. But there is something about the moonlight-
Because one of us will have to get some milk for the tea and I'm not a morning person, you insist.
I'll do it. There's just something-
You should get your own sheets by the end of the week, you add.
Screw it, I concede, and spend the rest of the night trying to cut off the oxygen supply to my brain with a borrowed loop of blanket.

The tenant before last drops by the following morning to ask after his coffeemaker. We serve him tepid tea and make regretful noises in time with his story. We also crack him over the head with an inside joke and try not to laugh as it runs down his face.

After he leaves we make our penultimate set of espresso shots and chuckle a lot. There is some sloppy kissing in the kitchen that leaves two Tupperware boxes bruised but is still deeply satisfying. Halfway through our third quarter of tonsil hockey you stop and ask me when we'd last been this happy together.

I try to signal the end of your time-out but the Tupperware boxes seem to be squinting reproachfully up at me. Your uncanny knack for being correct continues to infuriate.

This isn't working out, you say.
Don't say that, I say.
I'm bad at sugarcoating stuff, you say.
The secret is to preheat the oven at one-five-oh degrees for thirty minutes, I say.
You don't necessarily have to make this harder, you say.
I love you, I say.
You shake your head and say nothing at all. Your eyes follow my rapid strides and clumsy fumble with the doorknob, but you still say nothing.
Silence begins to leak out of the windows and the neighbours come around to complain that they cannot hear their televisions.

By the time I return with three packets of skimmed milk you've locked yourself into the balcony and refuse to leave while I'm still in the flat.

IV

Love departs the University at the beginning of the monsoon. There isn't enough of it to go around at the House of Commons and the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting feels it would be deliciously ironic on their part to recommend love being a mandatory presence in Parliament.
The demand for camera-phones amongst senior party officials quadruples overnight. So does the viewcount of racy 'party' videos on YouTube.

There is a grand farewell followed by a horrible squall of rain. People who'd earlier been looking forward to the meeting of separate glances see no interesting strangers in the street.

There are a lot of Dear John emails written, sent, and then discarded from Inboxes without being read.

Here we are, I say.
Here we are, you say.
The last car in the procession passes us again.
I suppose we gave it our best, you say.
It's all that damned Tendulkar's fault for making us complacent, I say.
I suppose I could laugh at that, you say.
Don't leave me, I say.
Thank God we're handling this like mature and sensible individuals, you say.
I'll make it all up to you, I say.
It goes without saying that we'll still be friends, you say.
I'll write something terrific about you, I say.
Don't do that, you say. Write about something interesting instead. Like the mating habits of the Bonobo monkey, which seldom forms permanent monogamous relationships with an individual partner.
I don't know anything about your monkeys, I say.
Something people would want to read, you know?
I mutter something about wikipedia while you get yourself a rickshaw.
You have a good thing going. Don't fuck it up, you say.

That's all the goodbye I am going to get.
I contemplate my slightly-tragic moment as I stand in the last of the summer sunshine. I am still standing there when the rains proper hit the sidewalk.

This is the lowest point of my existence, I say.

Then a freak meteor strike decimates humanity in December.

Orpheus & Friends

Orpheus at Home

Orpheus takes off one sneaker and then the other. He tosses one northwards, across the room.

He tosses the other one southwards, across the room.

He trudges shamefacedly to the toilet to retrieve his second sneaker from inside the bowl.

Then Orpheus sits down on his bed and watches the fan revolve in a counterclockwise motion.

After a few minutes Orpheus types Hi on his phone and sends it to his ex.

After a few more minutes Orpheus types in Help I'm Slipping Again and sends it to his three or four best friends.

Orpheus is about to give up and go fix himself a sandwich when the phone vibrates upon his thigh.

The next half an hour is broken down into long intervals of tortured waiting followed by frantic text messages typed and sent in less than thirty seconds.

The first of his friends replies to his text after half an hour but by then Orpheus has already convinced his ex to let him call her.

The beginning of the text is read (Worst Idea Ever, Buttface) and peremptorily discarded.

His ex picks up the phone with the sole intention of setting the record straight but Orpheus cuts her off.

Listen, Orpheus says.

He strikes up the first chords to a mournful melody on his synthesizer.

It is self-composed, Orpheus offers by way of explanation.

Orpheus segues into the melody proper and clears his throat.

The universe cocks its ear in anticipation.

First Drunken Interlude

Worst idea ever, man

Oh, come on it's not like you've never acted on instinct yourself

Yeah, instinct of self-preservation maybe

You stay out of this you can't even keep track of your footwear

Worst idea ever, man

Come on, dude you could show some enthusiasm for once

Yaay our friend just committed ritual disempowerment on his lovelife

I think you mean disembowelment

Worst idea ever, man

Orpheus in High School

... The fifth and final event of the academic calendar was the Ad Lib competition, conducted in the first week of September (2/9/11). Four teams of four people each put together an advertisement in the given timespan.

The first prize was awarded to the Argon team, who performed a short skit promoting an energy drink. A protest was lodged by the other teams since only three members of Argon acted in the skit - the fourth member, Orpheus, remained on stage strumming a guitar and singing. The judges, however, lauded this as a 'groundbreaking display of innovation'. The Argon team was the only one to receive a standing ovation from the crowds - the noise of which was later blotted out by Orpheus hitting his crescendo.

The second and third places went to Krypton and Xenon, who presented advertisements for a shaving gel and omniscient pen, respectively...

Second Drunken Interlude

Just outta curiosity what song did you sing her

I am betting it was something gay

Began with an original melody followed by Nobody Home

Like something by the Backstreet Boys

Seriously, Floyd to a girl you're trying to get back

I wasn't trying to get her back I just wanted to sing it to her once

Before they tried to clean up their act with Never Gone I mean

But you did get her back

Yes yes as a matter of fact I did

Was it As Long As You Love Me

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn

Orpheus in Happier Times

This just feels right, Orpheus says to his girl. Doesn't it feel just right?

Don't push your luck, she retorts.

They lapse back into silence. Orpheus takes her fingers in his hand and she lets him. Orpheus correctly interprets this to be a good sign.

You need to stay away from the tall grass, Orpheus cautions his girl.

Why?

Because there could be snakes? Orpheus wonders why he is compelled to lameness from time to time. He hurries a little to catch up.

The Hauz Khas monument is ethereal in the encroaching evening. Orpheus stares up at its mottled walls and jagged silhouette and feels a million strings vibrate inside him.

This is one of the few times when he feels completely at peace with himself.

Orpheus cannot find his girl anywhere. He follows her into the tall grass, peering into the dusk like a cormorant in pursuit of some eel.

He turns a corner and finally comes upon her sitting in the grass. She has taken her shoes off and is probably enjoying the sensation of coolness beneath her feet.

Orpheus sees her smile and comes forward, wanting to share the moment with her.

She sees him.

He sees the phone in her hand.

One minute, she mouths, and Orpheus nods. He waits in the grass for a while and then wanders off to lean against the mottled wall of the monument.

A pleasant scent of moisture emanates from the wall behind him.

Her clear, sonorous laugh fills his head with a phantom music that leaves him vaguely dissatisfied.

Orpheus puts on his earphones.

He begins to rummage through his playlist for the right song to play.

Final Drunken Interlude

So was it unconditional

What

Guys I'm hallucinating

Somebody shut him up

Your return or her return or whatever this is

As in

Guys seriously I'm seeing things here

We're trying to have a conversation dude shut up

As in did she lay down any conditions because it got ugly last time

Guys the frigging walls are on fire

Just the one dude get your hands off me

But the walls are on fire

What was it

I had to promise I'd never

Guys I don't wanna die here

Oh for fuck's sake shut up now tell me what

I'd never

Looking Back

Orpheus doesn't go all the way.

He promises himself he won't make his move until they reach his door. But halfway up the first flight he realizes the landlord's door is locked and his flatmate has left for Goa already.

Orpheus puts his hand on her waist and turns her around. She is surprised but receptive. They kiss as he half-walks, half-carries her up the next two flights.

This wasn't such a bad night after all, she breathes, and Orpheus grins although a jarring note has been hit. He had been under the impression that it wasn't a bad night to begin with.

They reach the front door. Orpheus has to try thrice before he manages to get the door open without letting go of her. Everything comes back in a rush and his fingers move along familiar paths, touching innocent squares of skin but still setting all synapses haywire. Her breathing becomes more laboured.

What happened, Orpheus asks as she breaks momentarily away. She snorts by way of explanation, her shoulders shrug beneath his palms, and in that one moment they are in perfect synchronicity with each other.

I mean what happened last month, Orpheus says. His own breaths are erratic now. His thoughts more and more diffused. She stiffens.

You promised, she says.

I did. But I think I have a right to know.

Orpheus can articulate again. He does not particularly enjoy the sensation.

I mean we are together now. Again. And it is only fair that we remain honest with each other. About everything.

Yes. She starts to disengage from him. Her bracelet catches on the zipper of his jacket.

Yes, she repeats. It is only fair. But it is the one thing I asked of you. The only thing I asked of you.

But I was just asking, Orpheus starts, aware the moment now lies shattered on the floor around them. He does not like the cleanness of his flat, the smoothness of its empty surfaces. He'd cleaned up the place specifically for this.

The only thing, she repeats. And you were doing so well.

The bracelet refuses to yield. She pulls. He gets a sudden vision of her walking out amidst a shower of beads.

But-

No, she says.

No, she says again. I am not doing this anymore.

She slips her hand through the bracelet, leaving it hanging on his jacket like some strange new sort of decoration.

Goodbye, she mouths. Or maybe it is a trick of the light.

Orpheus watches her trudge down the stairs. He knows he can follow her down or maybe shout entreaties at her receding back.

He also knows it would all be futile.

A few minutes later he finally notices the bracelet and cups a hand under it.

Christmas comes earlier each year, he says. The wisecrack does not help him feel any better.

Orpheus goes back inside.

He shuts the door behind him.