Benetton Inc.

It was a white T-Shirt. Pure and virginistic. I simply looked marvelous in it. Without it, even better. But let us not get into the genesis or the implications of the underwritten eleventh wonder of the world. I walked around with an air of handsome-ness and hot-ity. I felt the T-shirt bring out something that only my girlfriend and a few Miss World rejects manage to twitch. In plain Greek, I was in love with my T-shirt.        Imagine a paling sunset, with the beach shining; golden soft. A couple. Lost in love and in each other's eyes, as they try to look for and answer questions that God had somehow forgotten in his huge plan of perpetuating species. Hands held, thoughts locked and lips inviting. The two are oblivious to everything. To even a fully grown grizzly bear, stinking of dead rats and Musharraf's breath, that enters the scene somehow, with a blood- curdling howl that would send microscules of crap running to your bowels. The hairy bear, sprints into the scene, lifts the female and plants a loud, wet, loving kiss on her cheek. Imagine her confusion; her feelings and that of the helpless male as he watches his beloved, handled like an old transistor.        That was how I felt. As I was pacing my steps towards the mess, in a complex Venusian dance move, hands grew out of nowhere and tugged at my shirt. Dirty, rainbow-colored hands. It was all over in a few seconds. My T-shirt went down in tatters. My soul was damaged beyond any repair and it started blowing a requiem. And that was not all. The same hands bore me up and I started floating in air as the foliage above me, shifted rapidly. Suddenly, sunlight broke out and punctured my eyes. I shielded them and gravity hit me with a sledgehammer. I plummeted six feet. Down. Down.        Into a tub of colored water. The water was grimy and tasted of chola puri. I rose from the depths, waters cascading down rippling muscles and an angry expression, looking like Clint Eastwood with bad skin problems, as my ears shuddered in pain caused by a shout that even bats will not have a problem hearing.. "HOLI HAI, CHIMPY BOY!"        From there onwards, it was a Shakespearean tragedy. I was mauled and beaten alive, as I battled my way through the levels. Yes, there were levels. The Tub was Level 1. Level 2 was me being thrown in the air and ejaculating oohs and aahs from the feminine crowd as my pink underwear, made even pinker by the colors, was made public. I was being literally, visibly stripped. And then came Level 3.        Somehow, everybody got to know that I was not that heavy, in spite of my rather menacing and calm demeanour. Both boys and girls bore me up. By this time, I had swallowed enough water to irrigate the Sahara and all my breath had taken a vacation. I was too tired to struggle. Level 3 hit me full on the face and body parts. It was brown and smelt of damp earth.        It WAS damp earth. It was a bloody mud pit. I was rolled and rolled on it like a chappati. Suddenly, it was all over and the thudding stopped. There was a new victim. I stood up. Damp, dirty, stinking and my pants in threads. I looked around and saw the new victim being ambushed. I waited to find out the people responsible. They were three of them who were doing this. Instantly, I wanted vengeance. It boiled my blood. The three guys were carrying the poor guy to The Tub. I swiftly scanned the surroundings with my ultra sensory perceptive sight and it came to rest on my poor T- shirt. Seeing the T-Shirt, gave me more strength and an idea. I picked it up and wetted it thoroughly. Then walked purposefully, to the three perpetrators of crime, who were now harassing the poor fellow, drowning him in that insipid water.        I stood a meter behind and pulled back my T-shirt taut. It was aimed splendidly at the first fellow's backside. I let go. The T-Shirt flew and perfectly flicked his behind. A howl split the air and filled my ears with music. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't done it. The fellow turned, surrounded by the other three. And more behind the three. I gave up. The process was repeated. Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3. Again. And again. And again. Five times. They made sure that Hamam will owe 13% of its business to me. But, as the proverb goes: When you are getting raped, you might as well enjoy it. And I did. To the fullest extent.

The Day I Tried To....

It was around eleven thirty when I got off my computer and walked up to the balcony to get a whiff of cool, fresh air; it was hot and stank of used socks. I swore. My spine was hurting like a millipede had gone trekking on it with spiked boots. I stretched, chasing the knots out of my muscles and leaned over the rails to get a look. It felt nice - the non-existent breeze floating across my face.        Suddenly, the moon came out and I could make out a couple walking across the lawns, holding hands. Something gave me the opinion that I knew them from somewhere. I racked my brains, fiddling around the intellectual crap with a pitchfork. My sub-conscious told me I had known them all my life. They were too familiar.        I ran inside the room, took hold of my broken specs that was entangled in a towel and put them on hurriedly. I rushed back outside, with the towel hanging to the frame of my spectacles, looking like a Turkish bride, and focused my vision on the part of the lawn that these two people were traversing swiftly.        Yeah, yeah. Of course, they were my parents. I had to give some buildup. I owe it to them. Fact is, they had come over to Ahmedabad; my Dad had a conference. From the minute they landed, they were not too impressed by mine effects. I had tried my level best though. They remained stubborn and refused to treat me as a grownup individual, who can take care of a paunch. That was one thing I had never been able to explain away. My Dad pointedly asked, "Oye, Sirpy. That's a paunch man...!" "Yeah, I think it is..." "You boozing...?"... Doubt creeping in. "Appa...! This is a dry state, remember...??". This is me being defensive throwing in some simple strategy. "Hmmmm....".        My Dad was not completely convinced, as he gave me a cynical glare and pushed off to complain to my Mom, who was busy inspecting my wardrobe and was throwing out all my stuff, trying to find some evidence to incriminate me. But she always neatly folded them back in just to placate me, saying that she was just trying to clean up the room. I never complain. My room always looked like goblins had a fancy dress party and had belched clothes all over.        Anyway, I stood staring, as the lovers-past-prime made their way across the sub-pass towards the cricket ground. My brain worked involuntarily and I mentally followed the most probable course that they would take in their walk. And then a plan diabolique struck me.        I ran inside, called up DFock and ordered, rationalized, begged, pleaded and finally bartered my pink underwear to brainwash him to come to the basketball court. Fifteen minutes later, I huffed and puffed my way to the court. DFock was thumping the ball away, here and there, throwing expert hoops. Fear grasped my intestine and made a pretzel. But I knew I had to do it to save my image. I entered the arena and waited.        As per my calculations, my parents had to come around the corner in exactly twenty five minutes. They showed up an hour later. By then, DFock was royally pissed, as he did not see any of his incentives materializing.        Never mind him.        The second my parents came into the picture, I ran yelling war whoops, into the court. I could actually hear my parents talk, Dad: "Is that our son...?" Mom: "Eh...? He's too tall and too fair to be lazy." Dad: "No. No. That is the sweeper. I meant one of the guys in the basketball court..." Mom: "Hmmm... Wait. Something's wrong. He does look like our offspring, but basketball...????!!" Dad: "Exactly. Let's go check him out." Mom: "Oui."        And then it was disaster. Three simple things. Three simple things that I had forgotten. 1) My spectacles were still hanging to my towel back in the room. 2) I can never ring the doorbell of every house. 3) I still had the paunch.        Both my parents had the laugh of their lives, as I pirouetted, waltzed and gracefully curved my way around the ball in a zillion ways, never touching it. I was in deep disgrace.        Later, my Mom patted my back for the effort and said she was proud of me. A pat. For all that toil in planning and executing. A pat.        Sheesh.

Wired and weird

And finally I have been tagged. It is an honor and I consider it my esteemed blah.. blah.. blah... My emotions surmount vehicles of blah.. blah.. and more blahs... I thank Ziah from the bottom of my blah.. blah.. blah.. Having done all that let me get the facts right. The tag, essentially forced me to list out five, nothing more nothing less, weird stuff about myself, however grouse they are, whatever species of living organism it may concern etc.. etc..       So I took a paper and pen and sat down to list out five weird facts about myself. I sat and thought and thought. I thought so much that I made Plato and Socrates look like mentally retarded dolts. But nothing fell out of that voluminous, mass of cerebral condominium. I knew I was perfect, but this was taking it too far. I pressed, prodded, poked; did everything within my power. Other than the fact that I managed to dislodge quite a number of hair follicles and increased the surface area of my face, nothing happened. My nerve broke.       And then I remembered my Mom.      I was a genius. If there was any person, other than my girlfriend who would know more about the enigma that I am than me, it would be my Mother. I decided to call her up. But before calling, I suddenly went into flashback mode. Accompanied by dull, throbbing music my face faded to reveal a 18 year old Chimp, sitting cross-legged in front of the idiot box in rapt attention while the better half of the manufacturer of this unique product sat by his side, feeding him sambhar rice and lentil curry. He mechanically opened his mouth and shut it at regular intervals, unaware of what went into that gaping, bottomless pit. The reason was obvious. 1. I love Ayesha Takia       Before getting into the mechanics of why I love Ayesha Takia, let me state a few ground rules that are essential to prove the authenticity of my statements. a) Ayesha Takia is hot. b) Ayesha Takia is hot c) Ayesha Takia is hot.       Now the mechanics. Well, in effect there aren't any. Most of them are obviously obvious. I involuntarily used to wallow in my own drool the second I saw her on TV. My heart would break long jump records, my nerves- speed records and my hands - my grandfather's old records. The way she moves her hip, the way she smiles, her perfect set of white teeth, her smooth hip, her slender, pudgy fingers, the way she sucks at a Popsicle. I fell hook, line and sinker. I used to fantasize me and her, eating masala dosai and thengai chutney at Saravana Bhavan. My mom stuffed my mouth, as I drooled. 2. I love JETIX       I was forced to change the channel. I did not want my Mom getting suspicious about my clandestine love life. I liked playing spy. Anyway, I switched to my next favourite one. JETIX!!!! JETIX!!!! JETIX!!!!       The second and the third ones are echoes, added for effect. The reason why I loved this usually, ridiculed channel was because, all the series that they telecast were dubbed in Tamil. The dubbing was too hilarious and the storyline even more ridiculous than the translation. I used to laugh both my rear cheeks off. My mom thought otherwise and took me to a psychiatrist. She was in for a shock. The psychiatrist loved Jetix. There you go. Now that you have professional reassurance; I bideth thee, the multitudes, to go watcheth Jetix and spreadeth the word to all the four corners of the Earth aplenty. And let be there be power rangers, forever..! 3. Old women tickle my libido       Yup. I will stop here. I am not elaborating any further. I don't want my Mom blundering her way here and finding out the reason why her son went out with his 69-year old neighbor for frequent walks of 0.3 kilometers, everyday. 4. I am a hard core, heartless, ruthless, spineless, lochness torturer       I continued eating, still changing channels when this missile landed on my thigh. It had immediately penetrated deep, on landing and was meticulously sucking. I waited as my master had taught me. He was the perfect assassin, when he was in his prime. He told me how the villain bends his proboscis and slowly inserts it into the skin. Ignorant people blindly swat. Actually, you have to wait. Once the villain has his proboscis stuck inside, he cannot escape. And then you slap your thigh and yell in pain. But success is guaranteed. I was. I caught the struggling mosquito and held it to the light examining it.       It struggled. My eyes glinted with glee. Yup. I did it. I first tore out its legs, one by one. Then its belly and squeezed it to release my blood. I finally crushed the head.       I am ruthless. When it comes to mosquitoes, that is. 5. The bane of humankind       And then I puked. My mom looked at me guiltily. I stared at her for some time and then at the plate, where the hot rice was swimming in sambhar. Finally, I saw them. In numbers, beyond the scope of counting, even by an i-Calculator. My Mom sweetly apologized, saying that her hand slipped. Otherwise there would not have been so many. I felt sorry and kissed her. I gave it another look and puked all over again.       Mustard screws me up.     Flashback over, I called up my Mom. I talked for an hour, reminiscing about her feeding me. I wanted her to feed me again.     She called me a weirdo. The irony of it all.

Scootylicious!

She started it. I was not hungry at all. She called me up and threatened to do un-printable severing actions with my un-printable assets. I was not intimidated and hinted quite obviously, that she could jump off the Kanchenjunga sans parachute, than try seduce me to come with her for lunch. But she, Chai, the direct descendant of Attila the Dun(ce), came right up to my room, armed with a Swiss army knife and knocked on my door.       I had just come back from a refreshing bath and was flirting with myself, flexing my muscles standing in front of the mirror when there was this knock on the door. I hurriedly wrapped up myself in a towel and unsuspectingly opened the door. There she was standing, brandishing her puny, sharp knife at me with a murderous glare and poor me, guarding my lineage with a flimsy, cotton towel. I immediately agreed to whatever was that that she wanted without even thinking. There was no need to. It was a foregone conclusion. Like a Farah Khan movie.       Ten minutes made history, I was roaming the streets of Ahmedabad on my Scooty in search of a restaurant that she told me she knew exactly where it was and had conveniently forgotten. Smoke literally billowed out of my ears as I fumed beneath my pink shirt. The sun bore down on upon us and my temper was slowly losing its bearings. Then disaster struck. 1. Smoking is injurious to health. 2. It leads to partial amnesia. 3. I am eternally broke.       All these led to my vehicle sputtering and dying in a rather dramatic manner, right at a traffic signal. It stubbornly refused to start. We stood there like fools, kicking away, like a couple of morons trying to demonstrate the art of cycling to mules. After the traffic policeman came to us and ostentatiously requested the 'saar' and his 'missers' to get off the road, we pulled off the road and parked the vehicle right next to a building. Only after a crow pooped on my shirt and I looked up to swear at the crow did I notice.... Holy Hypermetropic Hannibals of Hungary! We had come to the very place, the very restaurant which she had told she knew exactly where it was and had conveniently forgotten! We had found it!       We did a jig on the pavement, that made the Aborigine death dance look distinctly civilized, and entered the restaurant which she had said she knew exactly where it was but had conveniently forgotten. We sat, we ordered a pukka Tamil Nadu meals replete with more kozhambu, vadai, bisi bela bath, payasam with extra ghee and sunk into the felt. The food came and we ate, chattering about my ingenuity.       After an hour of constant munching and swallowing sounds that reverberated around the restaurant, two people burped loudly, apparently contented. We were so full that if Kubrick made a movie on us he would have named it, "Full Glutton Jacket". Bad Joke. Anyway, I smiled at Chai. She too smiled back, very satisfied. And then the bill came.       Nothing happened for ten minutes. We sat staring at the bill, waiting. It did not dawn on us for quite a long time. We kept on waiting. So did the waiter, looking at us despondently, as if there was only one last beedi on earth and his attaining the antique, depended on the tip we were going to give him. Then it hit us. The inevitable had happened. The oft-told tale of misunderstanding and confusion. The one which we dreaded that we would never dread about. There was nothing wrong with the bill.        I, because of my past financial connections (condition number 3 included), had come to the evident conclusion that she was going to pay and vice versa.      The situation was desperate. We had to think of something quick. I took out my mobile phone and answered nobody, slyly excusing myself. I walked out of the restaurant nonchalantly, shouting and gesturing loudly in Tamil, into the phone. My phone was literally covered with two liters of spit. I had to do it; for the dramatic effects. The second I was out of the doors, I broke into a run.       Seconds later, Chai joined me. We ran and ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. We kept on running. And then we remembered my Scooty.

Bleaaarggghhh...!!

A single word. Don't.

The Zound Of Muzic

The zimpleness of it all zuggezted an ill-concealed notion of complacence. I admired her. She was very careful and decidedly clever. Amidst the background sounds of a semi-nude female, tearing out her lungs exprezzing her undying love, she had almost disguised it. But I knew and gave her a patronizing smile. She smiled back confusingly. I patted her hand and murmured, "I know, my dear. Don't worry, I wont tell anyone". I whipped out my handkerchief and inconzpicuouzly blocked my nazal apertures, just to show her that I meant what I zaid.        She turned, apparently befuddled and continued to watch the movie. But I knew. Let me take you through my inferential procezz. Step 1: It was Pungin who suggested that we go for a movie. Me, Dorky, and Saastha unzuccezzfully objected, vehemently. She stood on her nut and refused to budge. She even gave us a lewd wink and that apparently did the damage. Dorky keeled over, like a pile of uneaten dog biscuits and it was three against one. Saastha was smitten by Dorky, you see. Step 2: It was Pungin again, who pranced out of the auto, her co-ordinates set on a decrepit pani-puri stall that seemed to be constructed out of broomsticks and smelt like the Coovum; only worse. The shop owner looked greasy as did his nails. My masticated lunch roze to my throat, which I zupprezzed with a cough, a hiccough and a hiccup. Step 3: Me, Saastha, a group of gawking locals and a rabid dog watched Pungin and Dorky polish off puri after puri after puri. I could hear Dorky's pant buckles trying to zwear and groan at the same time. Pungin was wearing zynthetic zweat pantz and they must have been quite flexible to accomodate her cud. Step 4: The zecond we entered the multiplex, Sastha and Pungin suddenly disappeared and reappeared ten minutes later, looking a bit too flushed and relieved for comfort. My grey zells kicked my brain's butt and both of them started their ruminations. Step 5: My Biology Sir's credentials, when he taught me the mechanizms of the lower abdomen were pretty good. In spite of the fact that his daughter eloped with his cook instead of his driver. Consequentially, I had to shell out fifty rupeez having lost the bet. Step 6: The primary goal of every hand-driven cartwallah in Ahmedabad, is to add potatoes to everything that they coddle and are mostly the banes of the human inteztine. Step 7: The movie began. I was sitting in between Saastha and Pungin. Dorky was on the other side of Saastha and znored through most of the movie. Pungin occasionally squirmed in her seat, at regular intervals. My doubt train chugged away.        Zeconds before the interval, I heard it. It was very muffled. But my ears, as my ENT zpecializt would say, were too good and instantly picked up the sonic waves. Burnt cotton fumes, pervaded the circumference of my body's circle of authority.        It was a fart.        A shrewdly released fart at that. It did not take me long to add 1 and 1 and come up with 84.72. It had to be Pungin. I turned and smiled at her, assuring her. She waz a bit miffed, that I knew her secret. But nevertheless, once again Chimp had proved his mettle and he gave himself a well-deserved pat.      An hour later, we were travelling in the auto back to the institute. Being the youngest and the smallezt, I was forced to perch myself on Pungin while Dorky travelled, snoring on Saastha's shoulder. The wind froze my vitals and I pulled myself closer, with Saastha's cotton dupatta. Cotton dupatta?? Lightning burnt my neuronz and instantly everything fell in place. Saastha was wearing a cotton salwar. She did not eat the pani-puri because she had eaten at the mess. The menu had aloo mutter today.       I slapped my forehead and curzed. I had been blind and foolish. It was not too late now. I squeezed Saastha's hand, told her I knew, muttered a zorry to Pungin who by now had decided that I was a potential threat to the sane community while I gave myself the selfsame well-deserved pat. Elation filled my innards. Chimp's deductionz are never questioned. Never.        And then, Dorky farted in his sleep.

Lava-licious!

I had to do it. It was too sensational to resist. I am still recovering from aching ribs. The worst part was, I saw it the minute after I read the following headlines off an old copy of The Times of India, "VIRGIN STRIP FOR T-20 CLASH". My lecherous thoughts were betrayed their share.       Anyway, here is what I actually saw. :D