Rear ended

           The alarm blares from my phone, as I sleepily roll out of my bedsheets. I waddle to the balcony and open the door, letting the glorious sunlight pervade my room. I yawn expansively and stretch my limbs, rubbing the drowsiness out of them. A lovely carnatic song plays in the background and calm fills my heart, as I look forward to the day. The smell of fresh morning air fills my lungs, accompanied by the fragrance of flowers and the sweet sound of birds, chirping. Encouraging thoughts run through my mind, as I arm myself with my toothbrush and tongue-cleaner and march off towards the bathroom; a spring in every step and totally carefree. And then suddenly, out of the violet, like an empty bus at Adyar bus stop.... I go blind.
           Imagine three bare bodies in trousers that are too loose to hold themselves up, bending over the sinks, flossing away. What do you expect? Zigackly. An amazing, literally breathtaking array of, yup: huge, deep, hairy butt cracks.
           I go to the bathroom every morning (including government holidays) and right there in front of me is that sight; disgusting enough to make Rakhi Sawant look the pride and honour of Indian beauty. The first time I felt like gouging my myopic eyes out. The owners are not exactly Baywatch rejects to drool at, anyway. Nor are they in any way related to them, to even have a remote chance of being stared at. They are more like those comedy sequence stand-ins for hard core Telugu movies. Only worse.
           In due course, I had learnt to avoid the temporary impairment of vision. However, on certain days when my razor sharp alertness fails, I resemble a burnt transformer for a few hours. One day, out of part curiosity, part revolt, part concern, part jealousy and part core competency value ignorance, I committed the cardinal sin of asking one of them butt-contestants, the reason for their behind-the-scene previews. I immediately regretted it and mentally drowned myself in the Sabarmati.
           One of them says, "It's the heat, dude".
           "Hmmm... Eh...?" I say, absolutely and completely confused. How can anybody attribute their obviously voluntary, display of bottomed geometry to the outside world without having the slightest pity on the poor beholders? Even if they are from the most arid bowels of Tamil Nadu, somewhere around Andipatti, with a thick Indo-Australian accent that is more fake than Veerappan's moustache?
           The next five minutes is dedicated to the brain damage of Chimp by the weirdest logical reasoning ever. Weirder than Da Vinci's alleged, illegal relationship* with Mona Lisa's husband. The pseudo-Aussie tries to clarify his point and says, "Machan, listen. This damned city is damned hot. I damn cannot afford to roast my damned genitals without them seeing the light of the damnable day, at least once in their demmed lifetime. So what do you expect me to damn do, mate...? I have to crash sans my damned Vikings and damned Frenchies and damned Crystals. I am saving it for somebody, you see. Damn them! ". And he winks conspiratorially. Urgh. I slide away, nodding and grinning, like it made amazing reason and absolute sense. It apparently did not. And never will. Even to Michael Jackson's lawyer.
           I still manage to brush my teeth, trying my level best to avoid those bodyline deliveries. Occasionally, when they are in a real good mood I am treated to them nature's aberrations with great fanfare. But I am not ungrateful. I know I can be worse off.
Like them, for example.

* "His story was my inspiration for Brokeback Mountain. Brokeback was supposed to be an anagram of Leonardo. But it is not." -Excerpt from Ang Lee's unwritten autobiography.