Alright so this post should have come up a few days earlier, but procrastination seems to be the general trend around here. I just popped in to say that I've recently started writing a fortnightly humour column for the Hindustan Times. The first piece was published this Sunday, and you can read it here.
I don't really have much more to say now, except that this is important to me. So, loyal readers (yes I mean the two of you, plus the porn bots) please do the online equivalent of flinging your underwear on stage in appreciation, that is, check out the column and spread the word.
P.S. Also, for more frequent updates about general rubbish, follow me on http://twitter.com/stupidusmaximus
Friday, November 06, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Dance Pe Chance!
The road to mature adulthood is booby-trapped with a lot of questions. Almost 24 now, I've managed to sidestep most of the dangerous question-traps, such as 'What am I doing with my life? What is my purpose?' etc., but there are some that have found their mark. For example, I wonder if I will ever find that One True Love, who will stand by my side forever, leaving only to go fetch me more beer.
However, there are some questions I'm glad to have found answers to, such as 'Will I be able to finish the large pizza by myself?', 'What happens if I move my finger a little to the left?', and of course, the most pertinent and pressing question of them all, 'What does the inside of a dance bar look like?'
Yes, that's right. The deed is done. After years, yes, years, of being constrained by lack of money, will and testicular fortitude, I, Ashish Shakya, straight A student in school, erstwhile Hope and Pride Of The Family, have finally been to a dance bar. While doing so, I looked thirty seven different kinds of stupid, but that's something I'll discuss a little later.
Now I understand if this dance-bar revelation makes you think of me as some sleazeball who can't have a normal relationship with women because he keeps flicking money at their faces. However, that's definitely not the case, for I have many female friends and as far as I can remember, I haven't paid them a dime. Moreover, I respect women to the point of having made a supreme, gut-wrenching sacrifice for some of them - I've gone shoe-shopping. The defence rests, Your Honour.
DIGRESSION BEGINS:
Another major sacrifice one can make for a woman is to travel to Andheri to meet her. The way I see it, in relationships where the girlfriend stays at Andheri, a trip there is insurance against future misdemeanours, imaginary or otherwise. In other words, suppose you travel to Andheri once to see your girlfriend, and then cheat on her with, say, a transvestite midget, she cannot be mad at you. This isn't a formal law yet but I'm told the Supreme Court will work on it once it is done pardoning terrorists.
DIGRESSION ENDS.
So yes, dance bars. For years, I've been fascinated by the subculture, and I don't see how anyone can not be. After all, these are getaways from the real world, where the only thing louder than the music are the colours - pinks, yellows, neon - that shimmer and shine, as if to defy the darkness outside. These are palaces, no less, where money buys you queens, and where mere contact with the upholstery can give you herpes.
My imagination was fueled further by Suketu Mehta's account of Monalisa, a famous bar dancer, in his book 'Maximum City'. I imagined striding into those shady portals armed with journalistic resolve, just like Mehta had done, and effortlessly picking out a muse named after a fat Italian of indeterminate gender.
Unfortunately, things did not quite go that way.
Let's start from the beginning. My first attempt at entering a dance bar was about three months ago. A cocktail of extreme boredom and curiosity finally overpowered the wimp within, and my friends and I decided to hit the bar. We reached the area soon enough, directed on the phone by a friend who had made the pilgrimage once before. It's not like we'd be lost without directions though - the bar sits on a busy main road, bang opposite a famous supermarket (thus adding new meaning to the phrase 'bang opposite a famous supermarket'.)
This was it.
Money, balls and body hair - we had what it took to get inside. Nothing was going to stop us now.
We could see nervous laughter on each other's faces. We walked.
We could see ourselves entering the forbidden world of molls and gangsters. We walked.
We could see...some girls leaving in rickshaws?? We walked, now a bit confused.
"Arre sahib...bar band ho gaya hai. Time ho gaya na 9.30..." said a watchman, hurrying up to us. What do you mean the bar's shut, we ask him. No women inside?
"Nahin sir, ladies service nahin milega. Gents service chalu hai," he replied helpfully. (You won't get ladies service. Gents service is available though.)
'Gents service'. The phrase naturally conjured up images of men in shiny sarees, dancing to 'Saat Samundar Paar' with hair peeping out from where cleavage should be. I still get nightmares about it.
But what he meant was that the Cinderellas had left the building, thanks to evil stepbitch R.R Patil's 9:30 p.m deadline, and now it was just like a regular bar inside.
Of course, we had no idea that the rule was being enforced so strictly all over. The evening wasn't a total loss though, for the watchman turned out to be quite the orator. Seeing that we were newbies, he let flow earthy wisdom gleaned from 19 years of experience as a dance-bar watchman. The essence of the Wise Watchman's lengthy discourse is as follows:
1. Bar dancers are not dancers, not anymore than Bruce Willis is a ballerina. They are all whores. They will do it with anyone, including you. Yes, you.
2. The bar we were standing outside was a 'decent bar'. Scum like "rickshawalle aur bhajiwaale" did not come there. They went to another bar in Vashi, owned by the same 'decent bar' owner.
3. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, attempt to pick up any women in and around the bar premises, including a short path leading up to the entrance. Giving them a lift in your car parked 5 metres away is ok though, because this is a 'decent bar'.
4. If you misbehave inside the bar, the bouncers will rip you a new hole, stuff it with masala papad and charge you 250 bucks for it. Which brings us to the next point...
5. Dance bars are expensive. 250 bucks for beer, 100 for water, 170 for a soft drink. "Aur yeh toh kuch nahin hai sahab...log lakh lakh uda ke jaate hain. Yeh aisi jagah hai sahab, jahaan aadmi sirf deta hai...leke kuch nahin jaata," added the Wise Watchman, following it up with an Alok Nath-type sigh.
(This is nothing. People blow up hundreds of thousands of rupees in here. This is a place where a man only gives, and takes back nothing.)
He further implored us to not get addicted to the shindig, seeing as how we looked like "young students from decent families". And yet, in the very next breath, he asked us to drop by in the evening sometime, "just to see what it's like". We told him we'd be there. Heck, if a guy outside the bar could be so entertaining, the bar itself was a seedy film begging to be watched.
Which brings us to December.
Boredom caught up with us again, and this time we knew where we had to go. I headed over to my friend Anant's house to pick him up. As I was waiting downstairs, all pumped up and ready to enter the Bootysphere, I saw something that absolutely skewered all hopes of a great evening.
It was Anant. Wearing shorts.
Now I don't have a problem with guys wearing shorts, even if they boast of a body hair cover that little children occasionally get lost in. But Anant is the guy who was once stopped from entering a theatre showing 'The Mummy', because he didn't look old enough to watch the A-rated comic adventure. And now, on our first trip to a place populated by tough, swarthy men - the kind who had probably knifed a few people and then used the same knife to scratch their balls – my friend had decided to turn up looking like a schoolboy. We told him that if he was turned away, he would be on his own. Just this once, we would have to break the (quite literal) 'Bros before hos' rule.
However, we made it past the watchman without a hitch. Off the main path, through an entrance on the right, up a flight of stairs and there it was - the door. Standing there, I realised what Columbus must have felt when, after months of scurvy and sailor sweat, he finally came upon the first Hooters. The doorman smiled at us, shook our hands and swung open the door.
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're naked in a ridiculously inappropriate place, like a wedding, and can feel a thousand eyes upon you, not just because you're naked but also because you happen to be the groom? That's what it felt like when I walked in and saw about 20 bar girls staring at me while mentally undressing my wallet. Not used to being objectified by ladies of the night, I turned towards my friends who, judging from their line-of-sight, had developed a sudden interest in the floor tile pattern.
At this instant, for some strange reason, the strains of Dostana's 'Maa da ladla bigad gaya' started playing in my head. Of course, it was drowned out by the eardrum-raping music that filled the bar in an attempt to either titillate the men or impact the earth's rotation, I'm not sure which. This complete initial assault on our senses took about two seconds, after which we were shown to our table by about six hundred staff members, each of whom smiled and insisted on shaking hands. It was time to get down to business, and we would have done so if only we knew how.
Now at this point I should mention that the term 'dance bar' is a misnomer. The government has banned the women from dancing, so these places really should be called 'Stand-around-and-occasionally-pout-at-the-customer Bar', because that's what they do in there. Not that I have anything against pouts - in fact, I would do terrible things just to have Scarlet Johansson pout in my general direction. But instead, I found myself being eyed by a hefty middle-aged woman and it made my penis want to curl up and die.
Thankfully there were prettier specimens around, and we did what young, virile men do when given the opportunity to order women like items off a menu. That's right - we looked down at our glasses, then back at each other's faces, then back and forth, glasses to face, face to glasses, clueless and embarrassed, like Tibetan monks at a bondage convention.
Meanwhile, the other customers continued with their routine, immune to novice afflictions like embarrassment. We watched as the man seated behind us got about a hundred rupees exchanged for a stack of tenners. He then passed a couple of notes to a waiter, pointed out a dancer and hey presto - she started a striptease on his table! Ok no, not really. What happened was, she came up to the guy, spoke to him for about 20 seconds and swished away back to her spot at the centre of the room, maybe to practice her pouting. There was NO touching involved, and the man seemed quite pleased with himself for having made a 20-second conversation with (gasp!) a woman.
By now, the traitors that I call friends had decided that they were quite content with staring at their beer, and were blushing a deep shade of red that probably matched their frilly panties. It was up to me to restore the manhood of the table. I had to take the next step. So naturally, I went to the loo.
With the pee break over, I had exhausted all possible means of procrastination. So I approached a bouncer, and yelled over the din into his ear, "Yahaan kya system hai?" (What's the system here?)
He looked at me as if I'd just asked how his third nipple was doing.
"Dance bar system hai (It's a dance bar system)," he replied, slowly. Maybe the in-house music had killed all his brain cells.
I hollered again, asking him about the rates and what was and was not allowed.
Big Moose was more helpful this time. "Paisa tumhaare upar hai, kitna bhi dene ka. Ladki ko direct paisa nahin dene ka. Waiter ko dene ka. Ladki aayegi, baat karegi, baithegi nahin tumhaare saath, khaali baat karegi," he said.
(Pay whatever you want. Do not pay the girl directly. The waiter will pass on the money. The girl will only talk to you, she will not sit next to you.)
I walked back to the table, confident in the knowledge that come what may, I would end up leaving the bar looking like a douchebag. As the Grammy-nominated track, 'Teri kurti saxy lagti hai/ Kurti saxy' blared in the background, I explained to everyone the novel concept of paying a woman to talk to you. We agreed that it was a dumb and loser-like thing to do, and then forked out two hundred bucks to be exchanged for tenners.
After a few minutes of shyly casting glances at women who, technically, were supposed to be blatantly ogled at, Anant picked out one of the slightly better ones. We passed on about 20 bucks to a waiter and pointed to her. "The white one", we said, as if she were a shade in a paint catalogue. The waiter gave her the money and she turned her heavily-lined eyes towards us.
Gulp.
"Call her here," hissed my friends.
"What the fuck are we gonna say to her?" I hissed back.
"We're not going to talk. You talk. You wanted to do this. Now call her."
"Bastards"
All this while, the girl was staring at us from across the room, giving us the same look prom queens give nerds in teen movies. I looked in her direction, beckoning her with the classic raised-eyebrows-and-head-tilt gesture. At least I *think* I beckoned her. What she saw was a guy shyly raising his head, like a newlywed Indian bride from the 50s, doing something weird with his eyebrows and turning away again, all in a matter of milliseconds. Thankfully, she got the hint and started walking towards the table.
This was it - my first conversation with a being that until now had been almost mythical. As she leaned over, her tresses lingering over her face, now dangerously close to mine, the journalist within woke up (And no, that is not a sexual metaphor). I had to say something deep and engaging, something that would make her stay a while and eventually lead to insights about women living on the dark fringes of society. I took a deep breath, letting her perfume fill my senses, and said, "What is your name?"
Yes, I'm quite the Don Juan.
Her response to the tepid question was better. She put a hand to her ear and shrieked, "Kya??" (WHAT??)
My use of English had sent my friends into a tizzy. Ignoring them, I repeated the question in Hindi, "Aap ka naam kya hai?". "Sanjana," came the dour reply. She was clearly uninterested and wanted to go back to normal customers who did not scare her with words like 'aap'.
I tried again.
"Aap kab se yahaan pe kaam kar rahi ho?" (How long have you been working here?)
"Ek saal", she mumbled. (One year.)
After a moment's silence, she turned and walked back. By now, my friends had multiple hernias from holding in their laughter. I had paid to be snubbed by a bar dancer. It felt strange, almost dirty, and stupid. There was only one thing left to say, so I said it.
"Let's call another one!"
In my defence, I understood the game better now, so I wanted to play it again. My friends were perfectly fine with the idea, as long as I did all the talking (Have I used the word 'traitors' already?)
The next dancer was much prettier. She was petite, with full, maroon lips, straightened hair and a glittering sari that promised to fall off any second, if it weren't for the shiny clip on her shoulder. When I first saw her, she was flirting with a man who looked like he was a member of the 1980s Bollywood Junior Artistes Association. I wondered if he was a regular high-roller who would stab me with a fork for looking at his girl. The ten rupees he was handing over though put the high-roller notion to rest.
I went through the whole routine again - call the waiter, point out girl, hand over money, tip the waiter extra for handing over money, signal for the girl to come over using the 'shy-indian-bride-head-tilt-raised-eyebrow' method, and try to think of something clever to say.
This one had a little trouble comprehending the signal. She couldn't figure out if I was calling her over or practising Kathakali. A few twitchy eyebrows later, she mouthed the words ‘Aaoon kya’? (Should I come over?). I nodded meekly. So much for second attempts.
Determined to not look like a fool again, I opened my mouth, only to say 'Aap ka naam kya hai'? (What is your name?)
"Shama", she replied. Yeah right. And my name is Studmeister Steelcock.
"So...Shama", I ventured, "aap ke paas yahaan khade hone ke alawa aur koi bhi talents hain?"
(So Shama, do you have any other talents besides standing around?)
"Nahin," she giggled shyly, her Maharashtrian accent coming to the fore, "mere ko aur kuch nahin aata."
(No, I don’t know anything else.)
Her giggles were well-timed, rehearsed like part of a Bollywood script. She walked back, throwing us the occasional glance, as if to say that her milkshake did bring all the boys to the yard, but it wasn't her fault that the boys were cheap virgins. It was a great act; one that brought out the ‘Shama’ in a girl whose real name was probably Savitri Bajirao Thorwade. It was the same with Sullen Sanjana, and every other woman in the bar. And yet, despite the pretences, the appeal of such places is obvious. It gives many men, brought up within the confines of a regressive social structure, a taste of lust, power and yes, even love, that evades them in the real world. Or simply put, dance bars help ugly people get laid.
I wish I could tell you more - about the prize dancer with a heart of gold, about her fat stockbroker client whose wife smells of onions and about the leper pimp who has the singing voice of an angel. But there was no time to explore all that. We’d had enough of being rejected by bar dancers and were itching to get back to the real world, where we could be rejected by regular women. We called for the bill and as we hurried out, I could feel the women still staring at us, quietly laughing at our problem of ‘premature evacuation.’
However, there are some questions I'm glad to have found answers to, such as 'Will I be able to finish the large pizza by myself?', 'What happens if I move my finger a little to the left?', and of course, the most pertinent and pressing question of them all, 'What does the inside of a dance bar look like?'
Yes, that's right. The deed is done. After years, yes, years, of being constrained by lack of money, will and testicular fortitude, I, Ashish Shakya, straight A student in school, erstwhile Hope and Pride Of The Family, have finally been to a dance bar. While doing so, I looked thirty seven different kinds of stupid, but that's something I'll discuss a little later.
Now I understand if this dance-bar revelation makes you think of me as some sleazeball who can't have a normal relationship with women because he keeps flicking money at their faces. However, that's definitely not the case, for I have many female friends and as far as I can remember, I haven't paid them a dime. Moreover, I respect women to the point of having made a supreme, gut-wrenching sacrifice for some of them - I've gone shoe-shopping. The defence rests, Your Honour.
DIGRESSION BEGINS:
Another major sacrifice one can make for a woman is to travel to Andheri to meet her. The way I see it, in relationships where the girlfriend stays at Andheri, a trip there is insurance against future misdemeanours, imaginary or otherwise. In other words, suppose you travel to Andheri once to see your girlfriend, and then cheat on her with, say, a transvestite midget, she cannot be mad at you. This isn't a formal law yet but I'm told the Supreme Court will work on it once it is done pardoning terrorists.
DIGRESSION ENDS.
So yes, dance bars. For years, I've been fascinated by the subculture, and I don't see how anyone can not be. After all, these are getaways from the real world, where the only thing louder than the music are the colours - pinks, yellows, neon - that shimmer and shine, as if to defy the darkness outside. These are palaces, no less, where money buys you queens, and where mere contact with the upholstery can give you herpes.
My imagination was fueled further by Suketu Mehta's account of Monalisa, a famous bar dancer, in his book 'Maximum City'. I imagined striding into those shady portals armed with journalistic resolve, just like Mehta had done, and effortlessly picking out a muse named after a fat Italian of indeterminate gender.
Unfortunately, things did not quite go that way.
Let's start from the beginning. My first attempt at entering a dance bar was about three months ago. A cocktail of extreme boredom and curiosity finally overpowered the wimp within, and my friends and I decided to hit the bar. We reached the area soon enough, directed on the phone by a friend who had made the pilgrimage once before. It's not like we'd be lost without directions though - the bar sits on a busy main road, bang opposite a famous supermarket (thus adding new meaning to the phrase 'bang opposite a famous supermarket'.)
This was it.
Money, balls and body hair - we had what it took to get inside. Nothing was going to stop us now.
We could see nervous laughter on each other's faces. We walked.
We could see ourselves entering the forbidden world of molls and gangsters. We walked.
We could see...some girls leaving in rickshaws?? We walked, now a bit confused.
"Arre sahib...bar band ho gaya hai. Time ho gaya na 9.30..." said a watchman, hurrying up to us. What do you mean the bar's shut, we ask him. No women inside?
"Nahin sir, ladies service nahin milega. Gents service chalu hai," he replied helpfully. (You won't get ladies service. Gents service is available though.)
'Gents service'. The phrase naturally conjured up images of men in shiny sarees, dancing to 'Saat Samundar Paar' with hair peeping out from where cleavage should be. I still get nightmares about it.
But what he meant was that the Cinderellas had left the building, thanks to evil stepbitch R.R Patil's 9:30 p.m deadline, and now it was just like a regular bar inside.
Of course, we had no idea that the rule was being enforced so strictly all over. The evening wasn't a total loss though, for the watchman turned out to be quite the orator. Seeing that we were newbies, he let flow earthy wisdom gleaned from 19 years of experience as a dance-bar watchman. The essence of the Wise Watchman's lengthy discourse is as follows:
1. Bar dancers are not dancers, not anymore than Bruce Willis is a ballerina. They are all whores. They will do it with anyone, including you. Yes, you.
2. The bar we were standing outside was a 'decent bar'. Scum like "rickshawalle aur bhajiwaale" did not come there. They went to another bar in Vashi, owned by the same 'decent bar' owner.
3. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, attempt to pick up any women in and around the bar premises, including a short path leading up to the entrance. Giving them a lift in your car parked 5 metres away is ok though, because this is a 'decent bar'.
4. If you misbehave inside the bar, the bouncers will rip you a new hole, stuff it with masala papad and charge you 250 bucks for it. Which brings us to the next point...
5. Dance bars are expensive. 250 bucks for beer, 100 for water, 170 for a soft drink. "Aur yeh toh kuch nahin hai sahab...log lakh lakh uda ke jaate hain. Yeh aisi jagah hai sahab, jahaan aadmi sirf deta hai...leke kuch nahin jaata," added the Wise Watchman, following it up with an Alok Nath-type sigh.
(This is nothing. People blow up hundreds of thousands of rupees in here. This is a place where a man only gives, and takes back nothing.)
He further implored us to not get addicted to the shindig, seeing as how we looked like "young students from decent families". And yet, in the very next breath, he asked us to drop by in the evening sometime, "just to see what it's like". We told him we'd be there. Heck, if a guy outside the bar could be so entertaining, the bar itself was a seedy film begging to be watched.
Which brings us to December.
Boredom caught up with us again, and this time we knew where we had to go. I headed over to my friend Anant's house to pick him up. As I was waiting downstairs, all pumped up and ready to enter the Bootysphere, I saw something that absolutely skewered all hopes of a great evening.
It was Anant. Wearing shorts.
Now I don't have a problem with guys wearing shorts, even if they boast of a body hair cover that little children occasionally get lost in. But Anant is the guy who was once stopped from entering a theatre showing 'The Mummy', because he didn't look old enough to watch the A-rated comic adventure. And now, on our first trip to a place populated by tough, swarthy men - the kind who had probably knifed a few people and then used the same knife to scratch their balls – my friend had decided to turn up looking like a schoolboy. We told him that if he was turned away, he would be on his own. Just this once, we would have to break the (quite literal) 'Bros before hos' rule.
However, we made it past the watchman without a hitch. Off the main path, through an entrance on the right, up a flight of stairs and there it was - the door. Standing there, I realised what Columbus must have felt when, after months of scurvy and sailor sweat, he finally came upon the first Hooters. The doorman smiled at us, shook our hands and swung open the door.
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're naked in a ridiculously inappropriate place, like a wedding, and can feel a thousand eyes upon you, not just because you're naked but also because you happen to be the groom? That's what it felt like when I walked in and saw about 20 bar girls staring at me while mentally undressing my wallet. Not used to being objectified by ladies of the night, I turned towards my friends who, judging from their line-of-sight, had developed a sudden interest in the floor tile pattern.
At this instant, for some strange reason, the strains of Dostana's 'Maa da ladla bigad gaya' started playing in my head. Of course, it was drowned out by the eardrum-raping music that filled the bar in an attempt to either titillate the men or impact the earth's rotation, I'm not sure which. This complete initial assault on our senses took about two seconds, after which we were shown to our table by about six hundred staff members, each of whom smiled and insisted on shaking hands. It was time to get down to business, and we would have done so if only we knew how.
Now at this point I should mention that the term 'dance bar' is a misnomer. The government has banned the women from dancing, so these places really should be called 'Stand-around-and-occasionally-pout-at-the-customer Bar', because that's what they do in there. Not that I have anything against pouts - in fact, I would do terrible things just to have Scarlet Johansson pout in my general direction. But instead, I found myself being eyed by a hefty middle-aged woman and it made my penis want to curl up and die.
Thankfully there were prettier specimens around, and we did what young, virile men do when given the opportunity to order women like items off a menu. That's right - we looked down at our glasses, then back at each other's faces, then back and forth, glasses to face, face to glasses, clueless and embarrassed, like Tibetan monks at a bondage convention.
Meanwhile, the other customers continued with their routine, immune to novice afflictions like embarrassment. We watched as the man seated behind us got about a hundred rupees exchanged for a stack of tenners. He then passed a couple of notes to a waiter, pointed out a dancer and hey presto - she started a striptease on his table! Ok no, not really. What happened was, she came up to the guy, spoke to him for about 20 seconds and swished away back to her spot at the centre of the room, maybe to practice her pouting. There was NO touching involved, and the man seemed quite pleased with himself for having made a 20-second conversation with (gasp!) a woman.
By now, the traitors that I call friends had decided that they were quite content with staring at their beer, and were blushing a deep shade of red that probably matched their frilly panties. It was up to me to restore the manhood of the table. I had to take the next step. So naturally, I went to the loo.
With the pee break over, I had exhausted all possible means of procrastination. So I approached a bouncer, and yelled over the din into his ear, "Yahaan kya system hai?" (What's the system here?)
He looked at me as if I'd just asked how his third nipple was doing.
"Dance bar system hai (It's a dance bar system)," he replied, slowly. Maybe the in-house music had killed all his brain cells.
I hollered again, asking him about the rates and what was and was not allowed.
Big Moose was more helpful this time. "Paisa tumhaare upar hai, kitna bhi dene ka. Ladki ko direct paisa nahin dene ka. Waiter ko dene ka. Ladki aayegi, baat karegi, baithegi nahin tumhaare saath, khaali baat karegi," he said.
(Pay whatever you want. Do not pay the girl directly. The waiter will pass on the money. The girl will only talk to you, she will not sit next to you.)
I walked back to the table, confident in the knowledge that come what may, I would end up leaving the bar looking like a douchebag. As the Grammy-nominated track, 'Teri kurti saxy lagti hai/ Kurti saxy' blared in the background, I explained to everyone the novel concept of paying a woman to talk to you. We agreed that it was a dumb and loser-like thing to do, and then forked out two hundred bucks to be exchanged for tenners.
After a few minutes of shyly casting glances at women who, technically, were supposed to be blatantly ogled at, Anant picked out one of the slightly better ones. We passed on about 20 bucks to a waiter and pointed to her. "The white one", we said, as if she were a shade in a paint catalogue. The waiter gave her the money and she turned her heavily-lined eyes towards us.
Gulp.
"Call her here," hissed my friends.
"What the fuck are we gonna say to her?" I hissed back.
"We're not going to talk. You talk. You wanted to do this. Now call her."
"Bastards"
All this while, the girl was staring at us from across the room, giving us the same look prom queens give nerds in teen movies. I looked in her direction, beckoning her with the classic raised-eyebrows-and-head-tilt gesture. At least I *think* I beckoned her. What she saw was a guy shyly raising his head, like a newlywed Indian bride from the 50s, doing something weird with his eyebrows and turning away again, all in a matter of milliseconds. Thankfully, she got the hint and started walking towards the table.
This was it - my first conversation with a being that until now had been almost mythical. As she leaned over, her tresses lingering over her face, now dangerously close to mine, the journalist within woke up (And no, that is not a sexual metaphor). I had to say something deep and engaging, something that would make her stay a while and eventually lead to insights about women living on the dark fringes of society. I took a deep breath, letting her perfume fill my senses, and said, "What is your name?"
Yes, I'm quite the Don Juan.
Her response to the tepid question was better. She put a hand to her ear and shrieked, "Kya??" (WHAT??)
My use of English had sent my friends into a tizzy. Ignoring them, I repeated the question in Hindi, "Aap ka naam kya hai?". "Sanjana," came the dour reply. She was clearly uninterested and wanted to go back to normal customers who did not scare her with words like 'aap'.
I tried again.
"Aap kab se yahaan pe kaam kar rahi ho?" (How long have you been working here?)
"Ek saal", she mumbled. (One year.)
After a moment's silence, she turned and walked back. By now, my friends had multiple hernias from holding in their laughter. I had paid to be snubbed by a bar dancer. It felt strange, almost dirty, and stupid. There was only one thing left to say, so I said it.
"Let's call another one!"
In my defence, I understood the game better now, so I wanted to play it again. My friends were perfectly fine with the idea, as long as I did all the talking (Have I used the word 'traitors' already?)
The next dancer was much prettier. She was petite, with full, maroon lips, straightened hair and a glittering sari that promised to fall off any second, if it weren't for the shiny clip on her shoulder. When I first saw her, she was flirting with a man who looked like he was a member of the 1980s Bollywood Junior Artistes Association. I wondered if he was a regular high-roller who would stab me with a fork for looking at his girl. The ten rupees he was handing over though put the high-roller notion to rest.
I went through the whole routine again - call the waiter, point out girl, hand over money, tip the waiter extra for handing over money, signal for the girl to come over using the 'shy-indian-bride-head-tilt-raised-eyebrow' method, and try to think of something clever to say.
This one had a little trouble comprehending the signal. She couldn't figure out if I was calling her over or practising Kathakali. A few twitchy eyebrows later, she mouthed the words ‘Aaoon kya’? (Should I come over?). I nodded meekly. So much for second attempts.
Determined to not look like a fool again, I opened my mouth, only to say 'Aap ka naam kya hai'? (What is your name?)
"Shama", she replied. Yeah right. And my name is Studmeister Steelcock.
"So...Shama", I ventured, "aap ke paas yahaan khade hone ke alawa aur koi bhi talents hain?"
(So Shama, do you have any other talents besides standing around?)
"Nahin," she giggled shyly, her Maharashtrian accent coming to the fore, "mere ko aur kuch nahin aata."
(No, I don’t know anything else.)
Her giggles were well-timed, rehearsed like part of a Bollywood script. She walked back, throwing us the occasional glance, as if to say that her milkshake did bring all the boys to the yard, but it wasn't her fault that the boys were cheap virgins. It was a great act; one that brought out the ‘Shama’ in a girl whose real name was probably Savitri Bajirao Thorwade. It was the same with Sullen Sanjana, and every other woman in the bar. And yet, despite the pretences, the appeal of such places is obvious. It gives many men, brought up within the confines of a regressive social structure, a taste of lust, power and yes, even love, that evades them in the real world. Or simply put, dance bars help ugly people get laid.
I wish I could tell you more - about the prize dancer with a heart of gold, about her fat stockbroker client whose wife smells of onions and about the leper pimp who has the singing voice of an angel. But there was no time to explore all that. We’d had enough of being rejected by bar dancers and were itching to get back to the real world, where we could be rejected by regular women. We called for the bill and as we hurried out, I could feel the women still staring at us, quietly laughing at our problem of ‘premature evacuation.’
Thursday, February 19, 2009
25 Utterly Useless Details About Me
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
1. I love talking about myself. So while I may roll my eyes at ‘yet another tag’, I quite enjoy it.
2. When I was really young, I thought the world was actually black and white in the 50s, and that it was filled with colour much later.
3. As a kid, I used to watch this cartoon about a guy, who used to raise one arm towards the sky, yell ‘Shazam!’ and turn into a superhero called, naturally, Shazam. I went out on my lawn one night, raised one arm and yelled ‘Shazam!’, hoping for superpowers. I believe that was the first KLPD of my life.
4. I never saw Star Wars as a kid, and it didn’t really interest me when I grew up. So yes, I haven’t seen a single Star Wars movie and I think it’s a perfectly acceptable way of life. You can put down your tubelights…sorry, lightsabers now.
5. I cannot stand it when ‘ppl typ lik dis n tink itz kewl’. It brings about a physical sense of revulsion, followed by an urge to break things. Also, what the fuck is ‘lolzzz’? Does it mean you were laughing out loud and suddenly started snoring?
6. For the longest time, I thought that the lyrics in the Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan song, ‘Afreen Afreen’ were ‘uske Nana ki tareef mumkin nahin.’ (Translation: It is not possible to completely praise her maternal grandfather.) I always wondered why, when talking about a beautiful woman, someone would think about praising her grandfather. (Maybe he passed on exceptionally good genes?) It made sense when I learnt that the actual lyrics were ‘Husn-e-janaa ki taareef mumkin nahin’ (Translation: It is not possible to completely praise the beauty of the beloved.)
7. I have a freakishly strong memory when it comes to recalling names, faces, dates, phone numbers, license plate numbers and other absolutely useless details. I sometimes freak people out by telling them things like what they were wearing at a birthday party 14 years ago. I get a nervous laugh in return, followed by a restraining order.
8. If I were ever a superhero or an action movie character, I’d be called The Procrastinator (Tagline: I’ll be back…tomorrow.) Seriously, I’ve spent hours just *looking* at two pages of a textbook.
9. While growing up, I found it silly that adults expressed surprise at how much I’d grown, as if I was supposed to shrink with age. I now find myself expressing the same surprise at my younger cousins and nephews.
10. I don’t understand how people can read on the crapper. It’s something I never do, although I do spend hours daydreaming there. And when I say hours, I really do mean hours.
11. I’m not vain about too many things, but I absolutely love my hair. I think it is bloody awesome and will really miss it when it’s gone.
12. I hate musicals. I cannot watch stuff like Chicago, Moulin Rouge or Sweeney Todd. I. just. can’t.
13. There are days when I think I’m the greatest writer in the world, and that I deserve to be borne aloft on a winged chariot helmed by nymphs wearing nothing but shimmering gold dust, as the world looks skywards and worships my genius. And then there are days when I look at my work and it makes me want to jump off a building, land headfirst and have a road roller flatten whatever is left. Mostly though, I’m somewhere in between, tending towards the positive side.
14. In Class XII, I once memorised the entire periodic table, including the Lanthanide and Actinide series, just to see if I could. This really helped with my study of inorganic chemistry, but it didn’t do too much for my social life.
15. I regret not being able enough to join the armed forces. I think a compulsory, short stint in the military will do our pussy generation a world of good, and that no matter how rich or intelligent you are, a soldier owns your pansy ass.
16. I love first dates. The nervous anticipation, the last minute check in the mirror, cologne, mint, random conversations, laughter and the voice in my head reminding me to look at the girl’s face – I love it all.
17. I feel I need to earn my vacations and leisure time. If I’ve had a particularly unproductive stint at work, it bothers me, and while a quiet drink or two is fine, I can’t really get into a party mood when this happens.
18. I have to watch a movie on the day of its release, i.e mostly a late night show on Friday. There’s something very comforting about settling into plush, multiplex seats and kicking off the weekend with a movie. It irks me if I cannot make it on a Friday, and if, for some reason, I fail to catch it over the weekend, I will pester all and sundry until somebody agrees to watch it with me on a weekday.
19. Like any self-respecting kid who grew up in the 90s, I love The Wonder Years. I have all the episodes on my comp, and have seen them multiple times, except for the last episode, which I’ve seen only once when it aired on TV. I simply can’t bring myself to watch it again, because I’m afraid it will me break down and sob like a little bitch.
20. The longest continuous stretch I’ve watched a TV show for is 12 hours (6 p.m to 6 a.m). This was for Prison Break: Season 1. Also, after back to back viewings of Dexter: Seasons 1 and 2, I spent at least two days living with a dispassionate voiceover in my head.
21. I always feel hungry after watching the opening sequence of Dexter.
22. I go for the crazy chicks. I like the normal ones, everyone does, but there is some twisted pleasure in chasing a woman who you know will rip your heart out and spear it with her stiletto.
23. I’m a big fan of toilet humour. Also, I think the word ‘chuddies’ is extremely funny.
24. As a boyfriend, I’m quite the romantic. (Ok you can stop laughing now) Random roses, a dash of poetry (including dirty limericks) and other such schmaltzy nonsense – I’ve done it all and thoroughly enjoyed it.
25. ‘Written by Ashish Shakya’. I think those words would look great on a book jacket and film and television credits.
BONUS: Told you I liked talking about myself.
26. I cannot imagine ever being married. Then again, I can’t imagine being alone either. I think if it has to work, I need to be really good friends with the woman crazy enough to say yes to me. To quote the wise philosopher Shahrukh Khan, ‘pyaar dosti hai.’ *waves multi-coloured friendship band*
27. I want to meet Dave Barry once before he goes to the Big Writer’s Office In The Sky.
28. I believe religion was born out of ignorance and later manifested into a form of mind-control. It is a game of Chinese Whispers gone horribly wrong and I do not see the merit in following arbitrary “laws” that were created for a different time and place.
1. I love talking about myself. So while I may roll my eyes at ‘yet another tag’, I quite enjoy it.
2. When I was really young, I thought the world was actually black and white in the 50s, and that it was filled with colour much later.
3. As a kid, I used to watch this cartoon about a guy, who used to raise one arm towards the sky, yell ‘Shazam!’ and turn into a superhero called, naturally, Shazam. I went out on my lawn one night, raised one arm and yelled ‘Shazam!’, hoping for superpowers. I believe that was the first KLPD of my life.
4. I never saw Star Wars as a kid, and it didn’t really interest me when I grew up. So yes, I haven’t seen a single Star Wars movie and I think it’s a perfectly acceptable way of life. You can put down your tubelights…sorry, lightsabers now.
5. I cannot stand it when ‘ppl typ lik dis n tink itz kewl’. It brings about a physical sense of revulsion, followed by an urge to break things. Also, what the fuck is ‘lolzzz’? Does it mean you were laughing out loud and suddenly started snoring?
6. For the longest time, I thought that the lyrics in the Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan song, ‘Afreen Afreen’ were ‘uske Nana ki tareef mumkin nahin.’ (Translation: It is not possible to completely praise her maternal grandfather.) I always wondered why, when talking about a beautiful woman, someone would think about praising her grandfather. (Maybe he passed on exceptionally good genes?) It made sense when I learnt that the actual lyrics were ‘Husn-e-janaa ki taareef mumkin nahin’ (Translation: It is not possible to completely praise the beauty of the beloved.)
7. I have a freakishly strong memory when it comes to recalling names, faces, dates, phone numbers, license plate numbers and other absolutely useless details. I sometimes freak people out by telling them things like what they were wearing at a birthday party 14 years ago. I get a nervous laugh in return, followed by a restraining order.
8. If I were ever a superhero or an action movie character, I’d be called The Procrastinator (Tagline: I’ll be back…tomorrow.) Seriously, I’ve spent hours just *looking* at two pages of a textbook.
9. While growing up, I found it silly that adults expressed surprise at how much I’d grown, as if I was supposed to shrink with age. I now find myself expressing the same surprise at my younger cousins and nephews.
10. I don’t understand how people can read on the crapper. It’s something I never do, although I do spend hours daydreaming there. And when I say hours, I really do mean hours.
11. I’m not vain about too many things, but I absolutely love my hair. I think it is bloody awesome and will really miss it when it’s gone.
12. I hate musicals. I cannot watch stuff like Chicago, Moulin Rouge or Sweeney Todd. I. just. can’t.
13. There are days when I think I’m the greatest writer in the world, and that I deserve to be borne aloft on a winged chariot helmed by nymphs wearing nothing but shimmering gold dust, as the world looks skywards and worships my genius. And then there are days when I look at my work and it makes me want to jump off a building, land headfirst and have a road roller flatten whatever is left. Mostly though, I’m somewhere in between, tending towards the positive side.
14. In Class XII, I once memorised the entire periodic table, including the Lanthanide and Actinide series, just to see if I could. This really helped with my study of inorganic chemistry, but it didn’t do too much for my social life.
15. I regret not being able enough to join the armed forces. I think a compulsory, short stint in the military will do our pussy generation a world of good, and that no matter how rich or intelligent you are, a soldier owns your pansy ass.
16. I love first dates. The nervous anticipation, the last minute check in the mirror, cologne, mint, random conversations, laughter and the voice in my head reminding me to look at the girl’s face – I love it all.
17. I feel I need to earn my vacations and leisure time. If I’ve had a particularly unproductive stint at work, it bothers me, and while a quiet drink or two is fine, I can’t really get into a party mood when this happens.
18. I have to watch a movie on the day of its release, i.e mostly a late night show on Friday. There’s something very comforting about settling into plush, multiplex seats and kicking off the weekend with a movie. It irks me if I cannot make it on a Friday, and if, for some reason, I fail to catch it over the weekend, I will pester all and sundry until somebody agrees to watch it with me on a weekday.
19. Like any self-respecting kid who grew up in the 90s, I love The Wonder Years. I have all the episodes on my comp, and have seen them multiple times, except for the last episode, which I’ve seen only once when it aired on TV. I simply can’t bring myself to watch it again, because I’m afraid it will me break down and sob like a little bitch.
20. The longest continuous stretch I’ve watched a TV show for is 12 hours (6 p.m to 6 a.m). This was for Prison Break: Season 1. Also, after back to back viewings of Dexter: Seasons 1 and 2, I spent at least two days living with a dispassionate voiceover in my head.
21. I always feel hungry after watching the opening sequence of Dexter.
22. I go for the crazy chicks. I like the normal ones, everyone does, but there is some twisted pleasure in chasing a woman who you know will rip your heart out and spear it with her stiletto.
23. I’m a big fan of toilet humour. Also, I think the word ‘chuddies’ is extremely funny.
24. As a boyfriend, I’m quite the romantic. (Ok you can stop laughing now) Random roses, a dash of poetry (including dirty limericks) and other such schmaltzy nonsense – I’ve done it all and thoroughly enjoyed it.
25. ‘Written by Ashish Shakya’. I think those words would look great on a book jacket and film and television credits.
BONUS: Told you I liked talking about myself.
26. I cannot imagine ever being married. Then again, I can’t imagine being alone either. I think if it has to work, I need to be really good friends with the woman crazy enough to say yes to me. To quote the wise philosopher Shahrukh Khan, ‘pyaar dosti hai.’ *waves multi-coloured friendship band*
27. I want to meet Dave Barry once before he goes to the Big Writer’s Office In The Sky.
28. I believe religion was born out of ignorance and later manifested into a form of mind-control. It is a game of Chinese Whispers gone horribly wrong and I do not see the merit in following arbitrary “laws” that were created for a different time and place.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Weigh You Make Me Feel...
Hundreds of years have passed since the Renaissance, yet the art from that era still serves a vital need in modern society, i.e it gives rich people something to frown at while they sip their wine. I’d like to join the frowning contest, but honestly, I’m as much of an expert on renaissance art as Britney Spears is on childcare. However, I do know the true history behind the Mona Lisa and its creator Leonardo Da Vinci, who, as you can tell from the ‘Da’ in his name, was South Indian. No seriously, I’m mesmerized every time I look at the Mona Lisa. It’s as if she’s reaching out to humanity from behind that enigmatic smile, and asking us the all-important question, ‘Does this dress make my ass look fat?’
Let’s face it – women just love asking that question. Despite the knowledge that straight men are genetically incapable of answering correctly, they persist like Nazi interrogators on crack. In fact, given a choice between answering their girlfriend’s weight-related questions, and having a fanatic German yank out their genitals with pliers, most men would, without a moment’s hesitation, introduce the woman to the German, who would then end up using the pliers on himself. America used this very tactic to win WWII.
So as you guys can see, we’re dealing with an issue that has enormous consequences.
However, you needn’t despair, because there is a way to offset the impact of the deadly ‘fat’ questions – just use humour to distract your woman. All you need to do is to come up with a sincere, yet light and humorous reply that also reflects your unconditional love for her. For example, you could say something like ‘Yes you’re fat, but it’s absolutely fine because luckily, I have a whale fetish!’ (Yeah I’m single. How did you guess?)
However, this article isn’t really about poking fun at women. Ok, so they’re creatures who believe that men are turned on by ‘Haute Couture De La Somali Refugee.’ That’s no reason to make fun of them. And yes, these otherwise independent, outspoken beings allow thong-wearing, coke-snorting, flowery-smelling men with unpronounceable names (How the hell do you pronounce ‘Yves’ anyway? Is it ‘Wives’ or ‘Aaives’?) to tell them what to wear. We must refrain from making cheap digs, even if their sacred fashion rules change more frequently than Shilpa Shetty’s nose. (For instance, it seems like just yesterday when voluptuous women like Marilyn Monroe were considered hot, whereas compared to the hotties of today, Marilyn Monroe, with all due respect, is an oil tanker) But we shall ignore all these idiosyncrasies and focus our attention on a group whose weight issues really need to be tackled – men.
Unlike women, men have always been blessed beings who go through life completely oblivious to their ballooning weight. Things may reach a stage where even their shadows are causing craters to form on the ground, yet in terms of Stud Factor, they will still think of themselves as John Abraham, only smarter.
But what if, hypothetically speaking, there’s a young, dashing humour writer who’s had enough of this ignorance? What if this writer, still hypothetical mind you, put on so much weight during the course of his sedentary career, that he now has his very own personal moon orbiting gleefully around him? What if this hypothetical writer, who once worked with JAM, is not kidding when he says that he feels physically tired after simply watching a sports channel? What if this hypothetical…oh never mind! I might as well own up. The ‘hypothetical writer’ I’m talking about is none other than - you guessed it - Sidin Vadukut.
Haha! Just a little media fraternity-humour there! No, I was indeed referring to myself. If you’re wondering how this happened, then you’re as bright as the hero’s batty old mother in the Bollywood village movies of yore. I’ll explain. You see, when the old woman learns that her nubile, unwed daughter is pregnant, she screams the most redundant question at the trembling waif. ‘Yeh kaise hua?’ (How did this happen?) the old cow wants to know. It’s a stupid question, because everyone in a 300-mile radius knows that the chick has been knocked up by the Thakur’s son, because - let’s face it - no one else would have the cojones to screw around with the hero’s sister (although I’m sure many wanted to, especially his bumbling sidekick).
So yes, if you still want to know, my answer is – the weight gain happened pretty much like the incident with the hero’s sister. Like her, I too was aware of the risks, but thought that nothing would happen to me. And just like her, I was having fun, until I realized that I was eating for two.
Even after all this, I’m not worried, for there is still some hope. After all, the Olympics are on, and there’s no better inspiration to lose weight than an unabashed display of muscle and sinew by men in tights that look like they were originally designed to fit 2-year olds. I’d go out and exercise, but honestly, watching all these athletes run around has left me exhausted.
PS: This is a guest article I wrote for JAM's 13th anniversary issue (dated August 15-29)
Let’s face it – women just love asking that question. Despite the knowledge that straight men are genetically incapable of answering correctly, they persist like Nazi interrogators on crack. In fact, given a choice between answering their girlfriend’s weight-related questions, and having a fanatic German yank out their genitals with pliers, most men would, without a moment’s hesitation, introduce the woman to the German, who would then end up using the pliers on himself. America used this very tactic to win WWII.
So as you guys can see, we’re dealing with an issue that has enormous consequences.
However, you needn’t despair, because there is a way to offset the impact of the deadly ‘fat’ questions – just use humour to distract your woman. All you need to do is to come up with a sincere, yet light and humorous reply that also reflects your unconditional love for her. For example, you could say something like ‘Yes you’re fat, but it’s absolutely fine because luckily, I have a whale fetish!’ (Yeah I’m single. How did you guess?)
However, this article isn’t really about poking fun at women. Ok, so they’re creatures who believe that men are turned on by ‘Haute Couture De La Somali Refugee.’ That’s no reason to make fun of them. And yes, these otherwise independent, outspoken beings allow thong-wearing, coke-snorting, flowery-smelling men with unpronounceable names (How the hell do you pronounce ‘Yves’ anyway? Is it ‘Wives’ or ‘Aaives’?) to tell them what to wear. We must refrain from making cheap digs, even if their sacred fashion rules change more frequently than Shilpa Shetty’s nose. (For instance, it seems like just yesterday when voluptuous women like Marilyn Monroe were considered hot, whereas compared to the hotties of today, Marilyn Monroe, with all due respect, is an oil tanker) But we shall ignore all these idiosyncrasies and focus our attention on a group whose weight issues really need to be tackled – men.
Unlike women, men have always been blessed beings who go through life completely oblivious to their ballooning weight. Things may reach a stage where even their shadows are causing craters to form on the ground, yet in terms of Stud Factor, they will still think of themselves as John Abraham, only smarter.
But what if, hypothetically speaking, there’s a young, dashing humour writer who’s had enough of this ignorance? What if this writer, still hypothetical mind you, put on so much weight during the course of his sedentary career, that he now has his very own personal moon orbiting gleefully around him? What if this hypothetical writer, who once worked with JAM, is not kidding when he says that he feels physically tired after simply watching a sports channel? What if this hypothetical…oh never mind! I might as well own up. The ‘hypothetical writer’ I’m talking about is none other than - you guessed it - Sidin Vadukut.
Haha! Just a little media fraternity-humour there! No, I was indeed referring to myself. If you’re wondering how this happened, then you’re as bright as the hero’s batty old mother in the Bollywood village movies of yore. I’ll explain. You see, when the old woman learns that her nubile, unwed daughter is pregnant, she screams the most redundant question at the trembling waif. ‘Yeh kaise hua?’ (How did this happen?) the old cow wants to know. It’s a stupid question, because everyone in a 300-mile radius knows that the chick has been knocked up by the Thakur’s son, because - let’s face it - no one else would have the cojones to screw around with the hero’s sister (although I’m sure many wanted to, especially his bumbling sidekick).
So yes, if you still want to know, my answer is – the weight gain happened pretty much like the incident with the hero’s sister. Like her, I too was aware of the risks, but thought that nothing would happen to me. And just like her, I was having fun, until I realized that I was eating for two.
Even after all this, I’m not worried, for there is still some hope. After all, the Olympics are on, and there’s no better inspiration to lose weight than an unabashed display of muscle and sinew by men in tights that look like they were originally designed to fit 2-year olds. I’d go out and exercise, but honestly, watching all these athletes run around has left me exhausted.
PS: This is a guest article I wrote for JAM's 13th anniversary issue (dated August 15-29)
Sunday, August 03, 2008
A Knight's Tale
I saw 'The Dark Knight' yesterday for the second time, despite the notion that a repeat viewing would kill the awe inspired by the first. I shouldn't have feared though - after all, the film is one of the most satisfying experiences one can have in a dark room. Real and reel unite in an almost perverse manner, as you watch a dead man devour scene after scene in a role that, in some small measure, led to his death. The film, which may seem like The Joker’s story with Bat-whatshisname relegated to the shadows, is by far the most complete and complex superhero film ever made.
Didactic marries dynamite in a furious narrative that's forever slashing away at the faces we'd like the mirror to show us every morning. Virtuous, moral, with hair neatly parted to the side - that's what your mommy wanted you to be, that's what society expects of you and that's probably what you pretend to be. But under that presentable face lies a scarred, perhaps grotesque visage - maybe you believe in its existence, maybe you don't - but in Gotham City, it doesn't matter, because The Joker believes in it and gleefully conducts a grand symphony of mayhem in anticipation of its unveiling. Gatecrashing the performance of course is Batman, along with
Batman versus The Joker is like matter versus anti-matter, yin versus yang – this dependency expressed wickedly with a line from Jerry Maguire. What starts off with a bank heist, turns into a frenzied, almost-biblical battle between two absolutes - the righteous superhero and the Devil incarnate in a purple suit - with Harvey Dent at the centre of it all. Gunfire rents the air, engines roar, hospitals explode, trucks perform 'perfect 10' flips and the Joker, practically dancing around the bonfire that is Gotham City, hits you with questions - who are you really rooting for? The 'freak' who contends that morality is a sham and humans are a degenerate, hypocritical bunch of sheep, or the superhero who exists only because morality is a sham and yet, chooses to place his faith in something as idealistic as a white knight? Also, what can you take away from a man who has nothing to lose?
Don’t look at me for the answers. All I know is that from now on, I’ll find myself wincing every time I come across the phrase ‘smiling from ear to ear.’
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Who's Your Daddy?
Alright, so I'm sitting at my desk, "working from home" and generally minding my own business, when the cell rings. I don't recognize the number, but when I answer, a young girl's voice shrieks out:
"Hello...DADDY??"
FREEZE. FRAME.
Do you ever have those 'Scrubs' moments, where reality pauses for a while, and in your head, you're facilitating a vagina transplant*, giving an Oscar acceptance speech or wondering what would happen if the paternity-related phone call was NOT a wrong number?
Funny. Scary, but funny.
UNFREEZE.
Me: "Err..hmm..hehe...wrong number child.."
And the weird thing is, I've got quite a few of these phone calls from different kids in the past. I wonder where I'm headed to.
*Best Scrubs fantasy ever.
"Hello...DADDY??"
FREEZE. FRAME.
Do you ever have those 'Scrubs' moments, where reality pauses for a while, and in your head, you're facilitating a vagina transplant*, giving an Oscar acceptance speech or wondering what would happen if the paternity-related phone call was NOT a wrong number?
Funny. Scary, but funny.
UNFREEZE.
Me: "Err..hmm..hehe...wrong number child.."
And the weird thing is, I've got quite a few of these phone calls from different kids in the past. I wonder where I'm headed to.
*Best Scrubs fantasy ever.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
This Makes Perfect Sense At 3:00 a.m
"Hey whaddup?"
"Nothing except...well..we broke up...again!"
"Haha! Fuck what is this..the 15th time you've broken up with the same girl?"
"15th..20th..fuck knows..."
"When did it happen?"
"Just a couple of hours ago..."
"What happened this time?"
"Usual shit...distance and all that crap...dimaag bhosada ho gaya benchod!"
"Arre chhod na..you'll be back together in 2-3 days..you always get back together. Chutia ek saal se tera yeh natak dekh raha hoon!"
"No man..not this time. The break-up was different this time."
"Different how? Like 'her-body-is-in-the-boot-of-my-car' different?"
"Very funny (thinks) Waise which car would be the best in that case..Skoda I guess, no? It's got one of the biggest boots."
"Maybe..but fucken' Skoda handles like a truck man...you'll yourself die driving it."
"What? I thought you enjoyed driving the Skoda...1.9 litre na, turbocharged and all?"
"Yeah..ripping it is fun, but it's fucken diesel na, so it's like a truck only. Full sardar log ka gaadi hai benchod...just like Tata."
"Yeah, but Skoda's expensive...it's for the sophisticated sardar...Tata is for the common ones.."
"Hehe..yeah. (Pause) So what were you saying?"
"About what?"
"Wohi..break-up and all?"
"Haan...wohi it was just different this time. Like I've heard it from her before y'know - 'I can't do this anymore, you're never there, I need you to be physically present all the time' blah blah blah. Fucken' how can I be there ALL the time? So anyway, everytime she says stuff like this and insists on a break-up y'know, because that's her thing..that's what she does..she runs away. And I can understand why..I mean I know the reason she behaves like this. Not many people know her like I do.."
"Dude, you can't help it. All chicks have issues. Especially the pretty ones. In fact, they're the loneliest of the lot."
"Yeah I know but what's the need to panic? I'm not running away anywhere...chill na thoda!"
"Ladki hai yaar..what'd you expect?"
"I know..so everytime she wants to break up, I convince her otherwise...but this time, it was so mindfucking..ek toh she's acting all detached..and things are more stressful now...
"Uh huh.."
" So anyway we fought about that, shit happened, she asks if I wanna break up and I'm like 'Ok. Just take care of yourself'. I didn't even feel like convincing her otherwise...quite a weird break-up it was."
"What do you mean...weird?"
"Well there was no screaming, no anger...I just wished her luck and genuinely meant it. I want her to be happy. I mean she of all people, deserves to be happy. I don't even hate her...and I don't think I ever will."
"Hmmm. Waise it's not just the chicks...we're also retarded in a way. We only fall for the crazy ones don't we?"
"Yeah true...the normal ones are too boring. Don't last more than a month. And even that's too much. (Pause) And plus I'm not saying that the break-up is entirely her fault y'know? If I could do this again, I'd do it better. But I don't think she's gonna change..."
"And let's face it...neither can we. We'll be back to our usual haraampanti in days."
"Heh! Yeah maybe...but fucken chicks are *never* happy. At least we're not going crazy thinking about the future and fucking up our present y'know?"
"True, that."
"It's like I can see God sitting up there. He's probably looking down at the world He created, full of fucked up people like us, and He's sitting there thinking 'Ok so I messed up a bit, but hey..just because I'm God doesn't mean I'm perfect.' And He's saying to Himself 'I've got like till Eternity to sort this mess out, so I'll deal with it later. Right now, I need a beer.' And He's sitting there chilling, sipping Corona - obviously heaven is full of Corona - and fucken Mrs. God walks in, looks at the world He's created and fuckin flips. And now She's giving him The Look. You know...the raised eyebrow look..the look that says 'Saala you've been hammering away in the garage for thousands of years now and THIS is what you've come up with?' And then She shows Him the parallel universe that She created, and it's fucking nice and clean, and smells like flowers, and She's all nonchalant like 'Oh I did this in like 20 minutes, while waiting for the cooker whistle to blow.'"
"Fuck..I can totally see that happening."
"Totally. (Pause) I mean you do all you can and it lasts more than a year, which is a fuckin long time for people like me and her - not that I'm saying I did everything right, but still, I, or rather, we, me and her, we made it last this long - and then it just died out. And why? Because of the fuckin'distance! Because it takes 1.5 hours to drive from my place to hers. It ended because of logistical issues. Sheh! What kind of an end is that?"
"What's your point?"
"My point is that when we were together, and weren't fighting, fuck...it was such a headrush! She's smart, hot, fuckin' talented...every day was like an adventure. The flirting, the randomness and the fuckin' speed at which we moved...leaving the entire world behind, it was...magical. And something surreal like that just fizzled away...turned into flat beer. A love
story like this deserves a cool end...cool doesn't mean tragic - like fuckin devdas and suicide and all - but something consistent with the whole initial magical phase y'know?"
"Like what?"
"I dunno...she could've been a spy on a covert mission..like Mata Hari...she was thinner and hotter than Mata Hari of course. Fuckin that Mata Hari was fat..dunno why those guys found her hot. Plus I'd never be able to fuck someone called Mata..that's just plain weird. Or maybe an alien..like a human female, but from a parallel universe, so technically she'd be an alien.
"Ohkay..."
"Think about it man...how many guys have made love to an alien? That'd be a love story I'd fucken write a book about, sell the movie rights for it, write the fuckin screenplay and also bloody claim royalty on the action figures...whatsay?"
"Dude..nobody's gonna buy an action figure of you. Action figures aren't supposed to have beer bellies you know.."
"Fuck you."
"Hehe."
"Hey you know what would be even better...she could've been a bisexual alien. Or at least a straight alien who liked to experiment. And of course she'd have hot, curious, morally-impaired friends. Fuck, now THAT would be an epic love story."
"Yeah...instead of Romeo and Juliet, they'd fuckin teach schoolkids about you..the alienfucker."
"Heh..yeah. But fuck that...all I get is an ordinary end, no aliens and all. How the fuck am I supposed to write about it?"
"I dunno..I guess you'll think of something."
"Yeah I guess I will. Anyway, let's meet up tomorrow evening. I need to get drunk."
"Yep sure."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer:
The conversation is inspired from real life and is part-truth, part-fiction. Resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely intentional. And yeah, it won't kill you to leave a comment.
"Nothing except...well..we broke up...again!"
"Haha! Fuck what is this..the 15th time you've broken up with the same girl?"
"15th..20th..fuck knows..."
"When did it happen?"
"Just a couple of hours ago..."
"What happened this time?"
"Usual shit...distance and all that crap...dimaag bhosada ho gaya benchod!"
"Arre chhod na..you'll be back together in 2-3 days..you always get back together. Chutia ek saal se tera yeh natak dekh raha hoon!"
"No man..not this time. The break-up was different this time."
"Different how? Like 'her-body-is-in-the-boot-of-my-car' different?"
"Very funny (thinks) Waise which car would be the best in that case..Skoda I guess, no? It's got one of the biggest boots."
"Maybe..but fucken' Skoda handles like a truck man...you'll yourself die driving it."
"What? I thought you enjoyed driving the Skoda...1.9 litre na, turbocharged and all?"
"Yeah..ripping it is fun, but it's fucken diesel na, so it's like a truck only. Full sardar log ka gaadi hai benchod...just like Tata."
"Yeah, but Skoda's expensive...it's for the sophisticated sardar...Tata is for the common ones.."
"Hehe..yeah. (Pause) So what were you saying?"
"About what?"
"Wohi..break-up and all?"
"Haan...wohi it was just different this time. Like I've heard it from her before y'know - 'I can't do this anymore, you're never there, I need you to be physically present all the time' blah blah blah. Fucken' how can I be there ALL the time? So anyway, everytime she says stuff like this and insists on a break-up y'know, because that's her thing..that's what she does..she runs away. And I can understand why..I mean I know the reason she behaves like this. Not many people know her like I do.."
"Dude, you can't help it. All chicks have issues. Especially the pretty ones. In fact, they're the loneliest of the lot."
"Yeah I know but what's the need to panic? I'm not running away anywhere...chill na thoda!"
"Ladki hai yaar..what'd you expect?"
"I know..so everytime she wants to break up, I convince her otherwise...but this time, it was so mindfucking..ek toh she's acting all detached..and things are more stressful now...
"Uh huh.."
" So anyway we fought about that, shit happened, she asks if I wanna break up and I'm like 'Ok. Just take care of yourself'. I didn't even feel like convincing her otherwise...quite a weird break-up it was."
"What do you mean...weird?"
"Well there was no screaming, no anger...I just wished her luck and genuinely meant it. I want her to be happy. I mean she of all people, deserves to be happy. I don't even hate her...and I don't think I ever will."
"Hmmm. Waise it's not just the chicks...we're also retarded in a way. We only fall for the crazy ones don't we?"
"Yeah true...the normal ones are too boring. Don't last more than a month. And even that's too much. (Pause) And plus I'm not saying that the break-up is entirely her fault y'know? If I could do this again, I'd do it better. But I don't think she's gonna change..."
"And let's face it...neither can we. We'll be back to our usual haraampanti in days."
"Heh! Yeah maybe...but fucken chicks are *never* happy. At least we're not going crazy thinking about the future and fucking up our present y'know?"
"True, that."
"It's like I can see God sitting up there. He's probably looking down at the world He created, full of fucked up people like us, and He's sitting there thinking 'Ok so I messed up a bit, but hey..just because I'm God doesn't mean I'm perfect.' And He's saying to Himself 'I've got like till Eternity to sort this mess out, so I'll deal with it later. Right now, I need a beer.' And He's sitting there chilling, sipping Corona - obviously heaven is full of Corona - and fucken Mrs. God walks in, looks at the world He's created and fuckin flips. And now She's giving him The Look. You know...the raised eyebrow look..the look that says 'Saala you've been hammering away in the garage for thousands of years now and THIS is what you've come up with?' And then She shows Him the parallel universe that She created, and it's fucking nice and clean, and smells like flowers, and She's all nonchalant like 'Oh I did this in like 20 minutes, while waiting for the cooker whistle to blow.'"
"Fuck..I can totally see that happening."
"Totally. (Pause) I mean you do all you can and it lasts more than a year, which is a fuckin long time for people like me and her - not that I'm saying I did everything right, but still, I, or rather, we, me and her, we made it last this long - and then it just died out. And why? Because of the fuckin'distance! Because it takes 1.5 hours to drive from my place to hers. It ended because of logistical issues. Sheh! What kind of an end is that?"
"What's your point?"
"My point is that when we were together, and weren't fighting, fuck...it was such a headrush! She's smart, hot, fuckin' talented...every day was like an adventure. The flirting, the randomness and the fuckin' speed at which we moved...leaving the entire world behind, it was...magical. And something surreal like that just fizzled away...turned into flat beer. A love
story like this deserves a cool end...cool doesn't mean tragic - like fuckin devdas and suicide and all - but something consistent with the whole initial magical phase y'know?"
"Like what?"
"I dunno...she could've been a spy on a covert mission..like Mata Hari...she was thinner and hotter than Mata Hari of course. Fuckin that Mata Hari was fat..dunno why those guys found her hot. Plus I'd never be able to fuck someone called Mata..that's just plain weird. Or maybe an alien..like a human female, but from a parallel universe, so technically she'd be an alien.
"Ohkay..."
"Think about it man...how many guys have made love to an alien? That'd be a love story I'd fucken write a book about, sell the movie rights for it, write the fuckin screenplay and also bloody claim royalty on the action figures...whatsay?"
"Dude..nobody's gonna buy an action figure of you. Action figures aren't supposed to have beer bellies you know.."
"Fuck you."
"Hehe."
"Hey you know what would be even better...she could've been a bisexual alien. Or at least a straight alien who liked to experiment. And of course she'd have hot, curious, morally-impaired friends. Fuck, now THAT would be an epic love story."
"Yeah...instead of Romeo and Juliet, they'd fuckin teach schoolkids about you..the alienfucker."
"Heh..yeah. But fuck that...all I get is an ordinary end, no aliens and all. How the fuck am I supposed to write about it?"
"I dunno..I guess you'll think of something."
"Yeah I guess I will. Anyway, let's meet up tomorrow evening. I need to get drunk."
"Yep sure."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer:
The conversation is inspired from real life and is part-truth, part-fiction. Resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely intentional. And yeah, it won't kill you to leave a comment.
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