Time passed by again, as it is wont to.
______________________________________
The White Tiger was sentient with yellow lights and mellow drinks and ruddy faces. Avish felt an agreeable wave of nausea and reception wash over him.
His head ached like a dick after masturbation. God, what did Preeti think of herself. That bitch. He couldn't even smoke - nothing else, just smoke a fag (well, maybe with the occasional sip, but so what?) - in his own house. "Unhealthy atmosphere" for Radha, his wife said. Well, it was his fucking house and his fucking choice if he wanted to keep a "healthy" atmosphere for his daughter or not.
'Screw your wife,' he said to himself as he walked into the pub.
Now this is the kind of atmosphere I call healthy.
He wended his way to the counter, letting the cigarette in his hand fall to the linoleum floor. It sure as heck was crowded here today. Women in revealing clothing and men in even more revealing clothing - close to naked than Nirvana, that was the saying here (complete nudity was a big no-no, even in a place like The White Tiger) - sauntered about the place, bitching. Avish soon forgot all about his wife and daughter.
This was hangover time, baby.
He muttered 'Screw your wife' once more under his breath, and well-neigh danced his way over to the counter.
'Hey, watch out mister-'
'You're stepping on my foot, dickward-!'
'Watch where you're going, handsome-'
At last, squirming his way through the crazy throng - crazy but me crowd, he called them - he finally reached his destination and became a recipient of what was likely the hundredth smile of the day from Norman the Barman. His real name was Risharb, but that was deigned too uncool for his job.
'Hey, man,' Avish greeted, rubbing his temples as he took a stool.
'Hey ho, Mr. Tired-of-my-wife,' Norman the Barman said ebulliently. 'What may I serve you with today, sire?'
Avish raised his eyebrow at the guy. 'What do you think I would like, Risharb?'
Norman looked around at his other customers, keeping his charming smile pasted. Then he bent over and said in a low tone: 'Alright, I'll get you the usual, I was just joking. Just don't call me by my actual name, Mr. Tired-of-my-wife.'
'Then don't call me that.'
'Don't call you what, sir?'
Avish opened his mouth and made as if to say 'Risha-' and Norman gestured with his hands to pacify him. 'Sorry, sir. I was just trying to lighten the mood.'
'And you've done a wonderful job so far, Norman,' Avish said sarcastically.
'Aren't you a little too cynical today, sir? Another big argument with the Mrs.?'
'Don't invoke her name.' Avish gave him the stare. Norman bustled with an efficiency only bartenders and doctors - and maybe barbers - can exhibit. He slammed a bottle of gin on the counter and began to actively pour into a glass. 'Don't,' Avish said, and snatched the bottle itself from his hands. Drained it half in one giant gulp.
'Are we in a mood today?' Norman merrily chirped.
'Leave 'im alone, Norman,' a very distinctive voice said, followed by a hiccup. 'Our Avish boy don't like no troubles when he's-' hiccup '-pissed.'
Avish looked over at the speaker, who was a burly giant disguised as a human wearing "Jesus is black" boxers and sleeveless "Get Woke" tight-fit uppers, showing off his tremendous musculature.
'I'm not pissed, Giri,' Avish told the guy. 'I'm a filthy screw-up.'
Another voice, a very squeaky high-pitched voice that surprisingly belonged to a man - albeit a very thin, stick-like man - spoke up: 'That sounds about right.'
'Shut up, Picasso,' Avish said to the stick-figure who liked to call himself Picasso. Wouldn't tell anyone his real name "for all the pussy in the world," as he liked to put it.
'Yeah, you fuck off, too, Hubby-hub,' Picasso snapped, making crude gesticulations.
'I didn't even say fuck, I said shut up,' Avish said, annoyed. Still, this was better than Preeti lecturing him at home. 'Well, that too, I guess. And you know those aren't your middle-fingers you're pointing at me, right?'
'When Picasso get drunk,' a highly accented voice spoke up, 'he don't know the difference between his finger and his Weiner.'
Avish looked over his shoulder at Shitty - well, that was the name he donned whenever he stepped into The White Tiger - an albino who had spent much of his life in Italy, hence the enunciated accent. 'Hey man,' and Shitty shook hands firmly with Avish, Giri and Picasso, exclusively in that order.
'Well, how 'bout that.' Norman clapped together his hands like the proper professional he was. 'All of the party, together. So, what will you all gentlemen be having today? Anything special I can bring you?'
Their lot was pretty famous here at the pub, the four of them. All regular customers. Spent time taking respites from their respective humiliatingly boring lives and share cheers and stories with each other. The White Tiger was a place built for such broken men.
'I'll have what Avish boy is having,' Giri ordered.
'I have what Giri here have,' Shitty the albino politely said. Avish didn't think it was possible to sound rude with that accent.
'And I will have what all of them are having, times two-hundred,' Picasso said, who already had a shot in his hand.
'So, gin for all?' Norman grinned. 'Marvelous.'
And he scuttled away, dexterously pouring drinks for them all.
'That man slick,' Shitty remarked, staring admiringly at Norman.
'Yeah, then marry him,' Picasso jested.
'You marry him, you're a girl, with that voice of yours,' Giri said to Picasso, and high-fived Shitty in his noble defense.
Picasso laughed a hysterical sarcastic laugh. 'Ha-ha, laugh at the guy with the loud voice.'
'I wouldn't exactly call your voice loud,' Avish said. 'That'd be taking it a bit too far.'
'As for the marrying part,' Picasso said, almost tripping off his stool in his drunk daze and looking at Normal in pretend love. 'I do love that guy. What's his name again?'
Avish, Giri and Shitty all shouted in unison: 'Risharb!'
Norman the Barman looked up instinctively with a furrowed face. 'Who said that?'
The lot laughed heartily at their little banter, and Avish suddenly felt at home. Out of the grey bushes, he remembered his childhood group. The nerdy geek with the specs - Deep, oh yes, had been his name - and Roy and that other giant kid and the pretty girl he'd had a crush on. How could he forget her name? After all, he had named his daughter after her. Radha. Of course, when he looked at the kid he could see not a wad of his school-crush but . . . still. It was a link of his past he wanted to hold on to. Which was saying something, because for the most part, he wanted to have to do nothing with his sullen past, thank you very much.
Radha had not just been his crush. She was the only one who had tried her level-best to stay in contact with Avish. He still remembered the accident which had killed his mother
(not the accident you killed her)
-which ached numbly in his chest. After that, God knows what had happened and he'd tried a suicide - oh, how could he forget that - and he had fallen down the balcony of his grandma's house as far as he remembered. But come next day, he was as hale as a whale. Turned out, he had fallen on the wrong side of the railing. Wimpy kid can't even commit suicide properly.
But to Avish that hadn't seemed quite right. He distinctly remembered the sheer dread of falling from such height, but somehow he hadn't jumped at all. That was what Antra said. Maybe someone grabbed him from mid-air and saved him?
Who, Jesus? Superman?
(Bhoo the man in black he was there you remember don't deny it)
I'd rather be saved by Wonder Woman.
(Bhoo saved you you have to be great but here you are a fucking fucker fucking his wifey)
Anyway, Radha was the only one who had supported him after Mom had died. Grandma's business residues had kept him and Antra feeding until he grew into an earning man. Point being, Radha was someone he could not just forget.
Shit in God's beard, his brain exclaimed. You haven't thought of all that in years.
Well, owing to this drunken party of his, he now did. He felt good. Then his wife's image popped up in his brain. So much so for your "healthy atmosphere", bitch.
Shitty was the observant one amongst them, and must've discerned Avish's thoughts. 'You can tell us, man,' he said. 'We all fuck-ups here.'
Avish blinked in reminiscence at Shitty. 'First you tell us where you got that ludicrous name.'
Shitty shrugged. 'I have not idea. My friends give me name. I keep it. I know where Picasso get his name, though.'
'Where?' Avish and Giri asked together.
'The artist Picasso was a sworn celibate. And our Picasso here is still a virgin, so.'
Giri started cackling. For a guy that tough-looking on the outside, he sure was a teddy-bear. 'Jeez!' he said. 'You still a virgin?'
Meanwhile, Picasso grumbled. 'That's not a-true. I am not a virgin. I have fooked more gals than you have seen, Shitty man. And that Picasso was not a celibate . . . was he?'
Now Avish joined Giri with his reluctant chuckles. Thinking of the olden days always blew a fuse in him.
Shitty sang 'Picasso is a virgin! Picasso is a virgin!' like a high-school Italian kid before coming back to the track and tapping Avish on the shoulder.
'So, you gonna tell us or what?'
Avish rolled his eyes, but actually he did want to let it out. That was why he came here. 'Well, whatever. My wife's a bigger bitch than life.'
'Whoops,' Picasso commented. 'Biggie-biggie. All wives are bitches. Why do y'all s'ppose I never married?''
'Shut up, virgins don't have a say in the matter,' Giri said. 'Besides-' hiccup '-you stink.'
Picasso kept a hand in front of his mouth, checked his breath. Then smelled his armpits and grimaced. 'Can't deny that.'
'You continue-' hiccup '- Avish boy,' Giri urged.
'Yeah, never mind shitwall virgins,' Shitty joked. ('Take a look at your name first,' Picasso shot back.)
Avish shrugged, feeling somewhat guilty at nitpicking his wife's flaw. Everyone has some. 'It's really nothing, guys. She's just . . . sometimes she doesn't get what I want.'
'Just now you say she a bitch,' Shitty said.
'Yeah, well, I get mad. She just pushes me outta the limits, you know. She thinks she's the only one that cares about our daughter. I do, too. I just . . . don't know how to show my love.'
'Well-' hiccup from Giri '-that's a bummer.'
'She's not a bitch, I dunno why I said that. Sorry, I guess.'
'No apologies between friends, eh, Avish boy?'
'Yeah.' He finally let out a smile. 'Yeah, thanks, Giri. Thanks, everyone, even virgins. But you don't have to listen to my weepy-ass tale.'
'Oh, we love your tales,' Picasso said. 'Or how'd we give you that name. Mr. Tired-of-my-wife. Isn't that right, Risharb?'
Norman the Barman sighed. 'I have to insist, kind sirs, do not call me by that name. Now, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, and sire-' directly to Avish '-why did you marry in the first place if you didn't want to go through all this unnecessary pain? I mean, I have a wife and kids and we go along fairly well, sir. Touchwood. Not to condescend or anything. Just a little curious.'
Avish gulped, perspiring. 'Well, you see, Norman. I loved my Preeti. To be honest, I still do. It isn't like I don't wanna a be a good husband, a perfect father, it's just that . . . I can't. You dig it? I try. I strive to be better and then something happens and then I lose it and end up back here, getting served by you and selling my sad story. I look forward to a day when I don't come here and instead stay at my home and be a model for my daughter, but that day just doesn't come. Damn.'
Giri hiccupped. Picasso drank. Shitty was perplexed.
Norman the Barman did his zippy clap. 'Well, sire, I am glad, for one. Why, you are one good customer. What would we do if you stopped coming to The White Tiger?'
____________________________________
Preeti looked at her cell. Twelve 'o' damn clock.
'Happy new day to you too,' she said to self.
Not all that happy, if it's going to be more of the same.
She had put Radha, their eleven-year-old daughter, to sleep two whole hours ago. Radha. Avish had come up with the name, and she had instantly agreed. Naïve her. Not knowing most of her marriage would be like that - Avish doing whatever he wanted, and her abiding.
She had made dinner for him, but she didn't think he'd be needing that. He hardly did. Was getting thin as a cyprinid fish. This time he'd stormed out of the house showing her the finger because she had told him to not smoke in front of Radha.
She opened her laptop and began to type all about her day. She ended with: I mean, is that even a reason to pick a fight?
-Preeti out.
By the time she shut the damn device, it was one 'o' clock. And her husband was still not home.
______________________________________
One in the morning. And Avish was just getting started. Tangled in the vines of one of his little dark anecdotes. An appreciable amount of people - paunchy males and enticing females - had gathered to listen.
'So, you know, I see this man in black every fuckin' where I go. Like, I don't know if I recall this correctly, but there was this one time I think he may even have followed me to the bathroom. And guess what? I wasn't shitting or peeing at the time.'
An encouraging "oohoo" from the listeners. 'That's my-' hiccup '-boy right there!' Giri claimed. 'Masturbating in the restroom like a champ.'
'With an imaginary creepy dude watching him,' Picasso said.
'You got to give it to him,' Shitty said. 'He's a damn good storyteller.'
'Hell-' hiccup '-yeah!'
'Tell us more, Avish,' Shitty pressed. 'How did he look? Your imaginary friend?'
'Uhm, well, okay. He wore this, like, titfer hat, you know. The kind that magicians wear. No, kinda different. Like, a squat, flat one, you know, the kind that-'
'Move on from the hat!' some chick from the crowd yelled.
'Yeah, sure. And he had this . . . That guy back there!' Avish pointed out a tall, dark man standing at the far end of the bar, where the light was suspiciously low. 'He looked exactly like that guy!'
Heads turned. No one could see the man.
'What do mean, you can't see him? He's right there. Sir!' Avish called out. 'Will you please come here?'
The mysterious stranger did not move.
'Avish, my boy-' hiccup '-I think you're too drunk. You're hallucinating.'
'No, I swear!'
And then it hit Avish. He looked at the man, a long-forgotten fear clogging his chest, and he started wheezing like an asthma patient.
'Hey, man, are you fine?' Shitty asked.
Avish did not respond. He kept staring at the man in black.
No one else can see him. But . . . shit, how can it be him?
Abruptly, the lights in the pub started flickering. All of them, simultaneously.
'What the hell?' Picasso swore.
When the lights came on for good, the man was gone.
Avish pushed his drinking-buddies aside and belched loudly. He then proceeded to puke. It was painful and disgusting.
(just like that truck driver back then)
'Story over, guys!' Shitty beckoned the listeners to leave.
Just then Avish noticed, there were blood dregs in his vomit. And not those broke-a-tooth-dribbled-a-little dregs.
Actual, solid blood.
What in the-?
He did not heed much attention to it at the moment. He had so much more on his mind.
Okay?
Okay.
Okay, okay.
I know this one's . . . rather strange. But it will all come together soon enough.