Page 1 of 12 Years
Prologue
Mumbai is a vibrant city full of options. However, it offers limited choices when it comes to committing suicide. You can do the usual—slit your wrists, hang from a ceiling fan or pop a handful of sleeping pills—but none of these have the essence of Mumbai in them. These options are also somewhat lame. Nobody would even notice. She wouldn’t notice. And neither would her parents.
I wanted to go out with a bang, literally. I wanted her to see how she had wrecked, shredded, ground and crushed my heart when she left.
Maybe the Bandra–Worli Sea Link? That’s dramatic enough to make the headlines: ‘Saket Khurana, thirty-four-year-old struggling stand-up comedian jumps off the Bandra–Worli Sea Link after getting dumped.’
She will care then, won’t she?
Except that the stupid Sea Link isn’t high enough. What if I don’t die? What if I fall those fifty-odd feet into the sea, and the Koli fishermen who live nearby rescue me? Then they wouldbecome the heroes of the story instead: ‘Koli fishermen save failed stand-up comedian, unsuccessful in his marriage, career, love and suicide attempt.’
No, that wouldn’t work. She’d probably become even more convinced that dumping me was the right decision.
PART I
MUMBAI
‘No, Mudit, my brother, please. Next weekend. I promise,’ I said, folding my hands.
We were backstage at the Crayon Club, and I had three minutes left before going on stage.
Mudit, my best friend and the owner of the club, remained unmoved. His thin, wiry frame belied his strong, authoritative tone. ‘No, Saket. Listen to me. You go on stage. Now,’ he said.
‘Bro, listen—’ I said, sweat breaking out from every pore of my body.
‘Go!’ Mudit said, cutting me off and pointing at the stage.
I froze.
‘You’ve told me a million times that this is your passion. You left everything for this,’ Mudit said.
I looked at him, still unable to move.
‘Come on, Saket. You’re nearly six feet tall. Look at these biceps and these abs. Andyouare scared to crack a few jokes?’
‘Our next act, ladies and gentlemen’—I heard the emcee’s voice from the stage—‘is someone new. Well, he’s not exactly new on this planet. He’s thirty-three. This means, in the normal world, he’s middle-aged. But in the world of stand-up comics, he’s a senior citizen. So let’s all pay our respects
with a big round of applause for our newest and oldest comic today, Saket Khurana.’
I whispered a silent prayer and slow-jogged to the stage. The Crayon Club has a small, intimate auditorium, no larger than a college lecture hall, meant for shows like mine. An audience of about seventy people had their eyes on me. I took a deep breath.
Come on, Saket, you got this.
‘Hello, Mumbai.’ I opened my act.
Nothing in response. An eerie silence, equivalent to death for a stand-up comedian.
‘I know what you all are thinking. When did bouncers become stand-up comics, huh?’ I said, pointing to my muscular biceps. ‘Well, the management here is cool. The club owner said he no longer needed a bodyguard, so I could take a shot at the stage here.’
A few chuckles in the room. Okay, okay, not bad, keep going.
‘You know, talking of the stage, I was that guy in school who always got picked for the same role in the school plays: Bheem.’
A few laughs. Good, go on.
‘Did you guys ever take part in school plays?’
Some nods in the audience.
