Jungle juice

The Little Martian helps himself to another solo cup of jungle juice. He tilts the canister till the cup almost overflows, licks his lips, eyes a little blurry.

“You know that shit’s full of sugar, right?”

“Alcohol? Yes. It’s 90% ethanol, you silly sapien.”

“No, the jungle juice. It’s got like four different kinds of juice in it.”

“The juicier the junglier,” giggles the Martian, taking a noisy slurp.

He staggers a bit. I catch him, gently pry the cup from his sticky fingers, and guide him to the dining table.

“Have a sam.”

“I’d prefer a Mary, thanks.”

“A samosa, you idiot!”

“I know, I meant a Bloody Mary.”

I shake my head and begin piling a plate with snacks. I gather an assortment of cold, oily samosas, breadsticks, hummus, and a tiny kachori-like contraption—curating a sort of Marwari charcuterie board for my little extraterrestrial friend.

“Eat.”

The Martian picks up a samosa, smashes it against his cheek, and it falls to the floor—a mass of mushy aloo masala blurring into the brand-new rug beneath us. I look up, but the Little Martian has disappeared. The jungle juice canister seems to have mysteriously vanished as well…

—

It’s 3:17 when I find the Little Martian retching over a toilet bowl, his Hawaiian shirt rumpled, his little chain askew. The Martian’s Bandra party-boy era doesn’t seem to be suiting him.

—

I drop the Martian home in staggered silence. We stop for kebabs on the way. He orders two plates and watches the waiter with intense concentration.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, daring to break his Matilda-esque focus on the waiter’s back.

“About what?” he slurs.

“Whatever it is that has you drinking eight litres of jungle juice."

The Martian flushes, his green skin turning a silly shade of coral for a split second before returning to its ivy hue.

“I don’t want to tal—”

“You have to, LM. It’s obviously eating at you.”

The Martian looks uncomfortable. He eyes the waiter some more, realises I’m not going to stop asking until he talks, and then shrugs.

“Just some stuff with a friend of mine…”

“Vladimir?” I ask, and his eyes shoot up with pain. The end of a friendship is always tough.It doesn’t matter which planet its  happening on. Gravity—or the number of eyes on your head—doesn’t really change the fundamental ickiness of losing someone while they’re still very much alive.

“I guess I just miss him,” the Martian mumbles, and my heart breaks for him.  “I keep seeing funny jokes I want to send to him, and thinking of weird stories to tell him. I dont know who to call now when my chest gets all tight at sunset, and - fuck I sound gay!” 

“It’s okay to grieve, LM. Friendships are sometimes harder to get over than all that romantic crap.”

The Martian just sniffles.

“It’s not over…” His eyes dart up to mine, naked with terror. “Is it?”

I think back to the last conversation I overheard between Vladimir and LM—the accusations, the turntable arguments, the winding dialogue that sputtered and exploded, the slamming phone, and the Martian’s expletive farewell. I try to remain positive, for the Little Martian’s sake.

“I wouldn’t say it’s over, Little Martian…”

The Martian nods for me to go on.

“But I wouldn’t say things are okay just yet.”

He lets a tear splatter, and it hits his empty plate.

“Where are my fucking chicken tikkas?” he laughs, swiping angrily at the traitorous tear.

“These things just take time, LM. This is just a speed bump of sorts, a stop sign. You have to let time and silence do the talking—let the vacuum heal the rift. And then maybe you both will come back to each other.”

The Martian spears his tardy tikka and snorts.

“And until then? What do I do? Just frolic in the bloody vacuum?”

I laugh, despite myself.

“No, LM. You fill the vacuum with new people.”

The martian shoves another tikka in his mouth and chews on the meat, the idea, my thoughts and the crap in between. 

"you know the good thing about a vaccum?" Mutters the little martian

"What?"

"No oxygen , no fire."

I nod.

The martian spears another chicken tikka with his fork and I ask the waiter for the cheque.

Bridges burn sometimes