My Street's Ramayan..!!

In my street, there are two girls with the same name, both their dads bald and of course irritating. Both the Priyankas spent a lot of their high school days staring at me. Like all intelligent girls, they stopped it once I started staring back. Their dads, whom I suppose had an antenna fixed to their bald heads started receiving bad signals. Priyanka1’s dad, Mr. I-am-a-Disco-Dancer came to me one day and said “I know your dad very well.” The dumb fellow I was then, I thought – “so what?” Anyway, Priyanka2’s dad Mr. I-know-everything-other-than-what-my-daughter-is-doing wasn’t posing a problem. At least I thought so. P2’s mom wasted no time in setting her husband’s antenna right and since then, they never missed an opportunity to hurl very dirty looks at me. But man, it was too much. It was not that I had taken the girls out for a date or something. All I did was to just exhibit a small little, harmless, not-so-innocent smile. I do that with my neighbouring granny too (“not-so-innocent” doesn’t apply here). And more over, not that I see those Priyankas everyday. They are like our street’s VVIPs. You can’t catch them unless you fix a chair outside their gate and wait for them whole day long. Anyway, it’s been a long time now and I’m not interested in them at all. Thought of writing this after an incident that happened just this morning. Mr. I-am-a-Disco-Dancer crashed his 2-wheeler onto me. I didn’t fall. He fell. (Hope those antennas are broken now.)

Then to Mr. James Bond. Just opposite to my house, stays a young man of age 65. He rides a ‘Scooty Pep’ and wears a psychopath killer’s rain coat. He starts all his replies with- “No pa, it’s naat like that.” I can have a never ending conversation with him; the trick- I also start my reply with- “No uncle. It’s not like that.” It never ends, I tell you. Just last week, I had a Cricket discussion with him. He stated his theories on a few technical stuff and I bet if a professional cricketer had heard that, he would have committed a violent suicide. But he’s a nice man; he gifted me a blue Rain-coat and a wrist watch which had a Mickey-Mouse in it.



Then to my neighboring Granny. She is our street’s News agency. From who bought which television set to whose wife is pregnant, she knows it all. If there is one human being that I pity the most, it is her servant maid. Poor lady, I just hope at times, she was deaf and dumb. My mom talked to granny a couple of days back and brought me news that P1 is doing her MBA now. She also informed that P1’s dad, Mr. I-am-a-Disco-Dancer is a rich man. See, what all I get to hear and what all gets me tempted? :P

And finally, there is this tenant of ours, a newly married guy working in IBM. He thinks an earth-quake happens once in every week. He goes to work at 10 and is back by 5; doesn’t work from home. He gets a head massage every Sunday because he thinks he is stressed out. His wife doesn’t know anything but hindi; my mom hardly knows any hindi; when both of them talk I’d rather get a packet of pop-corn, throw all the movie CDs aside, sit and enjoy.

Anyway, now I’ll throw the ball into your court. Any interesting neighbors?? Any interesting characters?? Do share.

Until next time- yenjoyyy. ;)

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When I was SULTAN..!!

“Every day I get to hear some or the other forts falling into his hands. I don’t care what you do, Afzal Khan, my friend, I want him dead.” I said with an angry face, loud voice and a wicked smile.

I was in class 5 when it struck to my parents that they needed to make me Mr. Nice Boy. My mom turned to her colleagues, her Google search, for suggestions. It wouldn’t ‘shock’ me if I’d kissed an electric pole, but it certainly would if her colleagues didn’t have a suggestion to offer or an opinion to share. So, as expected, they sprung into action and suggested a ‘Personality Development’ camp which was to be held far outside the city. Talking about those colleagues, someday I will shoot them and go to jail surely. Anyway, about the camp; we had to camp in for 10 days; we would be woken up at 4 and made to lift our hands and legs; I mean, we were taught yoga. A little of cleaning, praying, eating, sleeping, bhajan-ing fabricated the rest of the day. It was after dinner (at 6.45 pm) that the actual fun began; things like plays and dances. We were split into groups and I fell into a group called ‘Shivaji’. Our group had four guys (including me) and three girls, one of which I would name Miss. Stare, would stare at me at a rate of 30 glances per minute. I didn’t like her.

“I will bring him dead in 24 hours, Sultan” Afzal Khan, who resembled a skeleton promised, bowing down. “I’ll look forward to it my friend” I patted on his cane-like back and let out an evil look. Miss Stare made a signal to me that I had to leave the stage for Chatrapathi Shivaji to enter. I didn’t like her at all.

“I wand you to read this book gombletely today” our group’s new instructor announced in a Mallu accent and handed over the mini-sized book on Shivaji. We gombletely read the book and waited for him the next day. He examined each of us top to bottom; shameless I say. It took him 2.6 seconds to decide that I should be the villain, The Sultan Of Bijapur. The skeleton guy became Afzal Khan and the other became Shivaji. I objected- “Sir, this Shivaji is just half of me.” He showed us that he had a smile and said- “ You dond worry. Shivaji should be simble.” Miss Stare giggled at me until she learned about her part in the play; she along with another girl had to escort the Sultan of Bijapur ( that’s me) to my chair. I explored options as to how best I could piss her off, but ultimately satisfied myself with a teeth-exhibiting smile. This girl gets on my nerves. Anyway, the practice began in full swing. I practiced my dialogues and evil looks outside kitchens, outside toilets, everywhere. Shivaji practiced killing while I and Dr. Skeleton practiced dying.

“Not with me Afzal Khan” Shivaji punctured Afzal’s chest with his cardboard knife, and headed straight to the Sultan Of Bijapur, who was rejoicing with his girls.

The day had come and it was time for me to enter the dais. I wore someone’s churidhar, had a yellow colored half-moon painted on my forehead, tied a cloth around my waist, pushed my wooden sword through it and walked to my chair with the two girls escorting me. I had to walk like a chess champion, as though I had to think deep about my next step. Doing so, I reached the big chair and sat but immediately jumped out like a spring. That damn sword was poking. So got up, pulled it out and then sat. I could notice even the last row of people laughing like mad dogs. But I was a man, whose heart was made of steel. I sprung up, blasted my dialogues blowing off a few ear-drums thereby killing all the surrounding laughter and restored pin-drop silence in the hall (of around 150 people). Afzal Khan walked in wearing something resembling a frock, but again, a man made of steel wouldn’t giggle, so I grabbed the opportunity to shut up; then continued with my dialogues and exited with ultimate grace. My part was surely a hit, I thought. Only thing remaining for me was to get killed by that tiny little Shivaji.

“How dare you try to kill me” Shivaji tripped my foot, held me with my back resting on his arm and pushed his knife into my chest. That was it; I had kicked the bucket; I was dead.

Shivaji was supposed to drop me on to the ground gently but just before he could do that I heard him grasping for breath- “ Hey, oaahhh.. I am not able to hold on…aaaa…” even before he could complete it, let his hands off me and I fell real hard on to the ground. bloody damn idiot.. I wondered what an irony it would create if I got up and killed him. But anyway, the great fall incidentally turned out to be the best part of the play; a blood-pumping action scene.

Later as I was exiting the stage, I observed Miss. Stare laughing like she hadn’t for a decade. God, I hated her.

P.S- Unfortunately, nobody took photographs of the play that day. Leave alone snaps, that damn place did not have a single mirror for me to even see how I looked.

P.P.S- My parents' colleagues are still a pestering lot. What to do??

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My Morning..!!

“Monicaaaaaaaaa….. Oh my darling…” RD Burman’s voice trickled through my peaceful ears as the clock struck 7 in the morning. If there was someone who knew how to wake me up, it was my dad. As I struggled through the process of opening my eyes, I noticed my dad standing like a policeman. “Don’t you remember that you have to go give your blood sample for the blood test?” he reminded me. I’m a man of silence and not violence, so woke up and began to make the walk to the bathroom. “Don’t get settled in your white house” another timely reminder. I remained silent and dragged myself into the loo. It was ironical, me being silent. I mean, just before I was woken up, I was having a heated argument with my dad in my dreams. Such a thing is possible only in my dreams, but that’s totally a different issue. Anyway, within fifteen minutes I was ready. By now, my dad was behind the wheel in the car, again Mr. RD Burman’s trumpets going wild. We breezed through the empty roads to the lab.

“Sir 420.” The lady behind the counter appealed to me.

“What (the hell)?”

“Rs. 420 sir.” She smiled.

Once I paid, I was escorted into a small cabin where a woman was waiting with a needle (ok, syringe). She began a search operation; where to poke this fellow. Finally, she smiled, I smiled and the blood was sucked. My God, my blood looked the darkest shade of maroon, almost brown. Finished this ‘bloody’ business with another smile and went back to the car. RD Burman never got tired, nor did my dad. Dad hit the accelerator and we were off. If you thought we were heading back home, you just put your leg into the gutter. No, my dad wouldn’t stop unless it was a hotel. He takes me hotels of his college time and puts me through his college stories. It was one such hotel; it was non vegetarian. For the first time I had non-veg for breakfast. It was so spicy that one could spot a waterfall from my eye and nose. Even small kids dint miss a stare.

We travelled another 5 kms to have the best tea and then headed home. The lion spotted the deer and was ready to attack. Sorry, I just meant to say that my mom was waiting for me. She literally blew steam into my ears- “Now, who will eat the breakfast that I prepared? Eat the same thing for lunch.” The orders came. So, here I am, the man of silence writing this post in search of some sympathy. I’ve made lunch plans with my friend already. Now how can I go keep my head into the lion’s mouth? Wats the way out?? Let’s see.

I actually also wanted to write about a play, that I had acted in, while in school. But I guess long posts are boring. Anyway, I’ll write about it very soon. Guess what, I was killed by Chatrapathi Shivaji in that play. :P

(Just this thing. Let me know your opinion. I’ve never written such stuff on my blog until recently. It has always been some fiction story or something. Always thought, such meaningless rants would be boring for people who read it. I actually still feel so. Let me know, if I should rather just write my usual thing or if such writes are okay? )

Have a super-duper weekend. Try to do nice things for people who will never find out. Yenjoyyy..!! :- :-)

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