They called themselves Funky Ink and played grunge. They covered Pearl Jam, but the irony was that they were the ones stereotyping, stigmatizing, lampooning, disgracing and degrading the misfits, the loners, the gays and the mentally ill in class.
‘Jeremy spoke in class because of you motherfuckers!’ I felt like screaming but bottled up my angst.
They had a lousy bassist who suffered from Bipolar Disorder. He was the only one given privileged status, but thinking back, I wonder just how ‘Bipolar’ he was. He was a conformist, a criminally insane, fucked-up, toad-faced, arse kisser who ran around the corridors in college kissing random girls in spurts of lewd mania.
His name was Tanmay, and he was as classist as they come. There was this time when he slapped a girl publicly because he considered her daft. It’s a good thing metoo# wasn’t trending then. But here’s the strange part: She kissed his arse a few days later, and they were all pally and shit.
They eventually kicked him out of the band and replaced him with another lousy bassist. And don’t get me started on the lead singer! Suneeth brayed and thought he was as good as Layne Stayley. But the truth was, he wasn’t even a fisherman’s Layne. He was a goat masquerading as a front man. ‘Puurrrple Haaaaze…baaah…puurrrple haaaaze…baaah!’ Fuck how did I endure it!
Anyhow that band’s dead, but Tanmay still moons with his trousers at his ankles. But nobody wants that arse son. It doesn’t have the mythical qualities he ascribes to it. It’s just a slightly askew butt crack that will give a black man in prison a lot of trouble. Lube might work though. A lot of it.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)