Oct 3, 2010

A Moo(t) Point


A great man once spoke, "The toughest thing to do every morning is getting up". Trust me, after having taken the wrong side in an argument that threatened to diss the libido of many a man the previous night, it really is. And on an unrelated note, there was one consensus that Namitha is no competition to Ajith Kumar when it comes to waistlines. Ah, that was real funny.

I woke up groggily and my vision was instantly impaired with a hairy thigh that lay across my torso. Disgusted, I pinched it. It slowly moved away as the owner turned swearing silently in his sleep. I intuitively knew I was late. I quickly got ready for office and waved goodbye to seven gentlemen who were busy in dreamland wooing the Tamilian Circes. Weirdly, one of them was still arguing about Nietzsche with great passion to nobody in particular.The situation was tempting and I yielded.

I stole my friend's only bike keys with the dexterity of an MRTS bus making a three-point turn. Dirty deed done, I scrambled downstairs to the bike and stood next to it, befuddled. At this juncture it is extremely important to note that my grandfather always used to tell me I never knew my own strength. I still did not. I wasted a couple of more minutes on ruminating that and absentmindedly straddled the pulsar. I did the easiest thing first - inserted the key. Once done, I huffed/puffed and whaled the bike off its stand, easing it right into the foliage next to the gate. After fighting off a dozen bees and an enraged mummy Cuckoo, I emerged none the wiser. This time flinging a prayer to Newton, I adjudicated maneuvering over balancing. I finally exited backwards out of the house onto the road. As I slid down the slope feeling like a bit like Felipe Massa driving a tractor, I felt a small bump.

The bump in itself was minor, the reason was not. As I turned to check, all my gallantry scooted. The huge creature stared at me like I had just jumped out of the Voyager in a golden bikini.

It was a cow - a massive specimen at that. She slowly ambled up with reddened eyes and mouth slurping nauseatingly. I screamed, weirdly in Spanish, "El Mojito al cabana intermilano, cow!" and tried to take to my heels and found my progress hindered by a Bajaj Pulsar between my legs. I started to wheel it away. I might as well have been pushing a bulldozer with a Singapore Shoppe hairpin. It moved inches, the cow moving metres.

I yelled for help and awoke the whole neighborhood including the landlord and his daughter/yet-to-be-my-wife. Help did not come, but panic did. I seemed to be missing something big as I threatened by brain with a nervous machete. Finally, the grey cells hit a home run. Mentally thanking the kinky engineers at Bajaj, I button-started the bike. The bike roared to life with the sound of the Tungabhadra dam developing a leak and figuratively threw me off my seat. I opened the throttle and escaped the area in a blur of smoke that could have easily and permanently blotted many a fair skin.

On the upside, it was exhilarating to know what a bullfighter feels like. Quote cow-fighter unquote. I congratulated thine-self and dreamed of the landlord's daughter shooing cows all over Mount Road on a pulsar.


A great bovine once spoke, "The toughest thing to do every morning is eating". Trust me, after having been adopted into a motley herd of a couple of malnourished goats, three bitching hens and two bulls it always is. Add to that a master who likes his drink hotter than his wife; life is not all just a river of milk - there is occasional dung thrown in for good measure. After a rather hectic morning of my drunken master milking me dry, I was famished. My not-so-better halves were better off dozing and I had to make good time quickly. I gave my master plan the green signal.

The genesis of The Plan is a great story. You could write an epic on it. But since, in all probability you are dull-headed if you are reading this, you wont. Following that rather brilliant logic, I will just highlight the well, highlights. A passing fly had mentioned on the fly, the presence of new juicy grass blades in the vicinity. After swatting the fly dead with my tail, I started thinking and came up with The Plan. The plan was complex, tough and required all my female cunning to pull off. That would be the genesis. The Exodus and Job come after it.

After following the directions that the fly had so bravely given in its dying moments, I came across an alley lined with derelict houses. I could smell the shrubbery. I kept walking, trying to convert the fire in my belly to hope. I walked and walked and walked and with every step, the gnawing thought that the fly might have consummated me, hypertrophied. After an hour of pursuit I gave up and flopped in front of a gate.

My pondering on the philosophical thoughts of Martin Udder was rudely interrupted by a sharp pain in my tail. As I stood up to unleash my wrath on whoever the jackass was, I saw a clump of the lovely grass stuck to the jackass' machine. There was a human sitting on it, who looked like he was shitting bricks. My eyes went green and I stumbled forward thanking Nandi for the fly's honesty. The human panicked and suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke. I swore and turned to the now ajar gate. My eyes fell on the foliage.

It was a feast I tell you. I congratulated thine-self and dreamed of Amsterdam with their wonderful grass.

Oh, it is a moo(t) point there.