Play, dear Boy!!

Disclaimer: This post may offend you. Don't believe me? Go ahead and read it then.

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Today, I stand in the twilight of my bachelor life and my singlehood. Two more years to go before I take the reluctant, suicidal plunge into matrimony (Dad says one year- but I’ve bargained for two). I’ve had an eventful life so far. In fact, looking at the types of misadventures I’ve had as a student and a bachelor, I can only thank my lucky stars and my pseudo- good boy image for not having been thrown into a prison cell or something. One of my regrets is that time has passed too quickly. The only other regret I have is that I feel I haven’t expressed my gratitude to people who’ve made my life special. I have always been guilty of taking people for granted, and I haven’t said enough thank you’s to the individuals who’ve made a positive difference in my life. The time has come to set things right.

Today, I want to take the opportunity to extend my heartfelt thank-you’s to two such people who in their own unique ways, have made a significant impact in my bachelor life. I want to say thank you to Hugh Hefner- the creator of Playboy and Tiffany Taylor- ex Playboy playmate and one of the finest soft-porn divas to grace the planet.

Statutory Warning: Careful! If you are in your office, then please do not Google for Tiffany right now. If you are at home staying with your folks, then wait until your folks go to sleep or step outside of the house, and then Google for her. Or else, make sure that you shut and latch the door of your room before opening her wallpapers. If you are a girl, you may not have met Tiffany before today, but I guess by now you may have already Wikied or Googled for her, driven by your standard why-is-this-man-complimenting-another-girl curiosity. Well, if you hadn’t Wikied/Googled already, then I know you will surely do it now! And if you are a man, then bastard, I know that you know all about her... you probably know her vital statistics better than your company’s Q3 earnings. :-)

Anyway, coming back to the point, Tiffany and I go back a very long way. In fact one of the first female tits that I ever saw properly during my adolescent life were hers. So therefore the bond that I share with Tiffany is deeper and more sentimental than the connection that I share with, say, an Alison Angel or a Priya Rai (again, look left, right, aagey, peeche before Googling for their images). As Generation-X boys, we attended high-school in an era when Internet and electronic media (CD’s, 8 GB USB drives, .avi files or high res- .jpeg images) were not as rampant as they are today. The access to free online streaming or downloadable porn- something as common as bread-butter-toast today- was like an unthinkable, unaffordable luxurious five-star meal for us ten years ago. In fact during my high-school days, the only sources of porn for us boys were a) biology textbooks b) torn and crumpled pages from Debonair or Playboy c) video cassettes of Mallu porn – showing blurred images of ugly, fat aunties making love to uglier fat uncles in a dingy room with Carnatic classical music for background score. (Ladies- I know you may be shocked, but you don’t exactly expect boys to be interested in dressing up pink Barbie dolls and playing with cushy little teddy bears do you?) .

Taking a nostalgic trip down the memory lane, today I laughingly recall the concept of ‘half-boob’ that was so popular in my high-school days. You see, in my tenth standard, we had about 35 boys in our class vying for a single copy of Playboy – the only legacy copy which we had ‘inherited’ from our seniors. We boys used to compete with each other- usually by organizing rounds of arm wrestling- with the winner taking home the grand bumper prize of the solitary Playboy copy for an entire night of ‘private viewing’ . But gradually, as the testosterone levels shot up and the demand outgrew supply, a single copy of Playboy was rendered utterly insufficient. That is when we came up with the ingenious concept of ‘half-boob’ – in which a single photo of a topless model was torn right at the centre of her cleavage into two pieces. The piece of paper with the left boob was handed to somebody and the piece with the right boob was handed over to someone else! That way, we ensured that most of our mates had at least one boob each at their disposal every day. And it didn’t stop here – you see if you’ve ever torn a topless model’s photo apart at her chest ( it used to break our hearts, but we had only one Playboy with us, so we had to do it) you’ll know that the other unimportant parts of her body like face and hair would be torn into half too. Unfortunately, this made the identification of the photos very difficult. So, being the teenaged geniuses that we were, we came up with the idea of code-labelling the boobs. For example, if it was Alicia’s boobs that were being divided, then each scrap of the photo was labelled Al. R (Alicia right) and Al. L (Alicia left) at the bottom right corner. Similarly Betty’s separated pair of assets were labelled Bet. R and Bet. L respectively and so on. We made sure that the labelling was done with a very thin lead-pencil and the letters were marked as small as possible and as much to the bottom-right edge of the photo as possible – to ensure that the attention was not diverted from the main showpiece content of the photo. You may be wondering what happened to the photos that had full nudity. Simple – unlike the topless photos that were bisected, these types of photos were trisected. I’ll leave the rest for errr... your imagination.

And it didn’t stop here. We were a very bright bunch of boys (most of us have grown up today to become successful techies, doctors, MBA grads, air force pilots and wizards in the creative field) and we had our logistics firmly in place. We maintained a centralized register that kept track of all the ‘half boobs’ that were being circulated. This register consisted of a table that listed the name of the left boob, name of the right boob, current owner of the left and right boobs, due-date when the lefts and rights were to be exchanged between the ‘boob-buddies’ ( for ex. The boys who owned, say, Al R. and Al. L on that particular day were boob-buddies, who were supposed to exchange their respective half boobs within the due-dates listed). This centralized register actually was a sheet, which we had torn right off from our official class attendance register- because the rows and columns with printed dates on them made them very convenient to maintain our boob inventory. The responsibility of maintaining this centralized register usually fell upon the brightest lad in our class- the class monitor. Come on, he was made the class monitor because he was the brightest lad, and we knew we could trust him with the logistics. The exchange of the half -boobs usually happened during our lunch-breaks, in a clandestine, synchronized operation. The scraps of paper with the half boobs were innocuously hidden inside our Maths classwork notebooks and exchanged between the respective boob-buddies. I remember being really excited about this exchange program.... it was my long-awaited turn to know if Betty’s right boob really looked any different from her left counterpart. Anyway, this is when I saw Tiffany Taylor (code Ti L. and Ti R.) for the first time. Unbelievable! I was overwhelmed by that woman... had she proposed to me, I would have readily said ‘Yes’ to her then and there. She was the epitome of beauty, so smoking-hot that a piece of butter dropped on her lissome body would have probably melted away in nanoseconds. Even though I found everyone else ‘nice’, I was especially partial to Ti L. and Ti. R. My kaminey friends had even nicknamed me as Tiffany Kumar. Some sense of humor they had, I tell you.

Everything went like clockwork for about 6 months or so. But it took just one afternoon for our entire porn infrastructure to collapse. You see, I happened to study in a co-ed school. We boys took painstaking care to cloak our self-built porn network in a thick veil of secrecy and ensure that none of the girls in our class got any wind of it. We boys were actually worried that the girls in our class were not as sexually erudite as us and would freak out like hell at the thought of half-boobs being exchanged in their presence. We were convinced that those girls didn’t even know how to spell ‘sex’. At that time, we believed our female classmates’ probable idea of reproduction was something like: “Man gets married to a woman. During the first night, man and woman shake hands with each other and poof! , a baby drops right down from the skies.” And to add fuel to our suspicion, girls in our class had the reputation of being cribby, complainy little twats who could not be trusted to keep secrets. Hence we ensured that our network of porn was only known to the ‘men of the class’.

But one fine fateful afternoon, shortly after we were done with our customary exchange program during the lunch break, it so happened that one of our boys had carelessly left a photo of Jessica’s left boob (Jes L.) unattended on his desk. One of our girl classmates, oblivious to this rare blip, was quietly having her lunch in a corner of the classroom. As luck would have it, a strong gust of wind came through the open window and blew the photo of Jessica’s boob right across the classroom and straight into the girl’s lunch box! “Aieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!” . A bloodcurdling, high-pitched female scream echoed right through the classroom, sending shivers down the school corridors. That was it. The was the end of our story.

You need not be an Einstein to guess what happened next. But for the record- we boys were marched to Principal Sir’s chambers, made to stand in a line, and caned mercilessly on our bums until the brown cheeks turned scarlet red. Bloody Principal, he would have probably spent the whole of the previous night fondling his mistresses’ boobs, but if we students exchanged porn likewise, then it was a crime. Some justice, bah! Anyway, the punishment was pronounced and each one of us were suspended from school for 2 days (which we merrily spent playing cricket in the neighbourhood fields). However, the poor boy in the centre of the storm – the one who happened to own Jes L. at that point of time - didn’t have it so lucky. He was suspended from school for 5 days, a complaint letter was posted to his residential address, and was told that he would be allowed to re-join the school only if he summoned his Dad to the Principal’s chambers.

Let me tell you something- we boys were not the ones to take things lying down. We fifteen- year olds were all lust filled scumbags alright, but we were really feisty fifteen-year olds. We had tremendous guts, we were boys of integrity and we were united in our cause. We felt responsible for the poor guy who got caught, and so we set ourselves upon a path of redemption. Our first stop was the town post-office, where it took about 50 bucks to bribe the head postmaster, and about 5 minutes to nip the Principal’s letter from the postal room and tear it to shreds. Our next stop was at the neighbourhood pani-puri waala’s stall, where it took another 50 bucks to convince the paani-puri waala to pose as our friend’s Dad and meet the Principal. Man, you should’ve seen that guy’s performance at the Principal’s office- he would have won a Filmfare for sure!

We passed out of tenth standard soon after and dispersed into various colleges for our PUCs (equivalent to eleventh and twelfth standard-FYI) and subsequently to do our engineering/medicine/other stupid professional courses, and therefore our half boob network was unplugged naturally. My engineering college years (2001-2005) were pure bliss, I tell you. It makes me proud and patriotic to say that in any corner of our country, the words “male engineering student” and “porn aficionado” would count as true synonyms. In fact an engineering student is not considered to be an engineering student if he hasn’t seen a porn movie or two in his grad life (I am speaking only for the men. I have no clue about the female engineering students’ porn habits; you can probably enlighten me in the comments section). Engineering years were the time when technology around us truly changed trends. Internet became cheaper, faster and more accessible. No more half-boobs, we had the entire models for ourselves – movies, still-photos, wallpapers, animation, any category with any number of X’s – you name it, click, tap and presto there it was! The rickety 1.4 MB Sony floppies slowly made began to make way to CD RW’s and USB drives. But for people like me and most of my batch mates, who had an average of 10 GB porn stashed away in a hard-drive of 20 GB capacity (well, we used to save a couple of GB’s here and there for our engineering study files too) – those floppies, CD’s, pen drives- hen drives and other tiddly little pieces of storage junks were never sufficient. We generally used to take a screw-driver, dismantle the entire hard-disk drive from our CPUs, carry them over to friends’ places and exchange our files in bulk! Even during those days, Tiffany stayed close to me. Only now, I had the bonus of seeing her in 16-bit colour and various cinematic avatars.

The funniest part of engineering-day adventures was the way we guys stored and hid our files in our PCs. You see, during those days most of us lived with our folks at home and sometimes our folks happened to use our PC’s for browsing, checking mails etc. Therefore, we really had to take extra care and precaution in disguising our precious files. (Wish I had a personal laptop then, but back then laptops were not sold as cheap as bananas, as they are today). One of the common places to stash porn in was the Windows System32 folder. It was a perfect hiding place – trust me nobody other than you would have ever cared to peep in there, even by accident. And sometimes, if our personal hard-disks were packed to capacity, we stored the remaining of our colorful files in another safe hiding place – in the PC’s inside the computer labs of our college.

And then there were those innocent folder names that we came up with. For example I had all my Tiffany wallpapers and videos stored inside a hidden folder which was named as “Database_Project_Documentation”. Other folders that housed our sleazy bits-and-bytes were banally named as “System_Architecuture_Research” or “Java_Interview_Questions” or some other geeky name which would have never aroused the curiosity of non-computer savvy folks at home who shared the computer. And we were successful too. However, I knew one friend of mine, an absolute jackass, who stuffed all his hardcore triple-x videos into a folder, named it as “Devotional_Songs” and stored it, of all places, in “My Documents”. One day his Grandmother was apparently in the mood for some hari-bhajans and asked his Dad if he could play some religious music for her. The Dad escorted the Grandmother to the PC, straightaway opened “My Documents”, looked around and to his delight came up to this new “Devotional_Songs” folder which his son had created. Needless to say, he went on and double-clicked on the first available file. Well, I do not have the exact details of what happened next, but rumor had it that my friend spent the next two nights sleeping on a platform at the city railway station.

*Sigh*, those were the days. Time has marched on since then, in its own inexorable way. Today, I am a 26-year old who’s been there and seen that. Today, I live on my own, have a laptop, a broad-band connection and the goddamn liberty of doing whatever I wish to. But still, I miss those days, miss those crumpled sheets of half-boobs, miss those folder aliases and miss that clandestine, cat-and-mouse excitement that was such a part and parcel of my life. Just yesterday me and a friend of mine were casually browsing the Playboy site when we guys happened to chance upon an image of Tiffany. That brought all the wonderful mammaries memories flooding back. Today, as I stand in the twilight of my bachelor life, I want to pause and express my gratitude to these people who made a difference to me and million other men like me. Thank you Playboy, thank you Tiffany and thank you all other gorgeous divas for shedding your clothes and making a world of difference for me and millions of my ilk.

Until later,
Love,
Parry

P.S: For all you people who are itching to give me gyaan about how porn can be sheer gross and a manifestation of a sick mind and against the will of God and blah blah blah, you are welcome to go ahead and waste your time. You’ll only end up pissing on the wrong tree. :-)

Road Romeo

Hello!

I am back. Now I won’t be offering any reasons for my month long disappearance from the blogging world, because by now everyone knows what keeps me away- yep, the dreaded W word called Work. Life continues to be busy for the late-working, dinner-skipping, acidity-suffering, Gelusil-chewing, excuse of a human being called me. However for the next three hours or so, I have no work to do, as I await a series of shit reports to be delivered to me. So rather than spend the free time scrounging for porn on the Internet, I decided to come online and vent some steam on the blogosphere. All at my readers’ expense of course hahaha.

Let me tell you something about myself today. I am usually a calm, unflappable character. I hardly get worked up, agitated or angry. Please don't heed the shaking heads, muted no's, and other forms of denial that may possibly come your way from people who know me (my friends, especially). They are ignorant little weasels who don't possess the finesse of judging human behaviour. So therefore, please take only my word for gospel - I am usually a cool, unflappable character who never gets worked up. I mean even if you were to wake me up from my sleep at 3 A.M, douse me with a bucket of cold water and poke my ears with a straw- I would never get mad at you at all. Instead, you will actually find me sporting a sweet smile, throwing flying kisses and giving you jadoo-ki-jhappis in return. Really. Nothing drives me mad. Well, you may often find me smashing a glass or two to the ground every other day- but that is not because I get angry... it’s just that I like to observe the rare arty-farty kaleidoscopic designs which the shattered glass pieces make on the floor. You may occasionally catch me smashing a mobile phone to smithereens against a wall, but hey I don't do that because I get angry - I only do that because I am sometimes overcome with unbridled fascination and curiosity to explore the innards of the mobile phone and discover how those little pieces of electronic junk assemble to form such a wonderful communication device. For the information of cricket lovers, I am like Steve Waugh - who just stands there, calmly chewing gum at mid-off, even as the opposing batsmen thrash the nuts out of his fast bowlers. For the information of non-cricket lovers, I am like Buddha- always serene and tranquil. For the information of film buffs, I am always as composed as Dharmendra Pierce Brosnan waala James Bond- who manages to sport the same deadpan expression and unruffled demeanor even as the bad guys threaten to blow his bums to bits with a bazooka. (Pierce Brosnan's James Bond was calm and composed even while having sex - I am not sure if I'd be able to attain that level of composure)

So given my ice-cool nature, you may be wondering what does it take to tick me off. What would you need to do to invoke the utterly uncharacteristic emotions of anger and fury in me? Well, do just one thing- meet me on the roads. And better still, drive recklessly in my vicinity and endanger a few lives here and there. And then top it off by breaking a traffic rule under my nose. That’s it- you’ll see fumes and lava spewing out of me. Whenever I spot someone jumping a red-light or honking incessantly behind me, or overtaking from the left side or zooting past me at 100 kmph in a 10kmph zone, it sends blood rushing to my head. Whenever I see an idiot around on the road breaking a traffic rule, I lose my temper.... the Steve Waugh in me converts into a Sreesanth, the Buddha makes way to a fiery Narasimha, and the Pierce Brosnan transforms into a deadly combo of Dharam paaji- Sunny paaji-and Zanjeer waala Amitabh Bachchan. What to do... I yam like this wonly! I have been paranoid about road discipline and road safety since long ages, since times immemorial, since... well, even before my parents conceived me. In kindergarten, when I heard that Yankee Doodle went to town riding on a pony, my prime concern was whether he wore a helmet. And trust me, had I been on the spot, I would have pelted that careless Engine driver with stones and had him thrown into jail for breaking the poor piggy’s bones. That right, I am a road romeo with a road rage.

In Bangalore – heck why only Bangalore- in the whole of our country, breaking traffic rules is a banal, commonplace affair. Most of us Indians pride ourselves on being the maharajas of the roads, and hey you don’t make rules for the maharajas do you? Anywhere you go; any road you travel on, you’ll see that the drivers follow few rules except “Me First”. Whether it’s jumping a signal, or zigzagging between multiple lanes or taking a quick detour into the wrong side of a one-way street while no cop is watching- you name it and we’ve done it. It also helps our cause that the winky-blinky traffic lights are usually defunct and the lane markers on the road are almost non-existent. Actually, lane markers on our roads are stuff which jokes are made of. I’m dead sure that a majority of you reading this are scratching your heads, thinking “Huh? What lane markers is he talking about?” No, I am not blaming you. Nobody gives a hoot about those insignificant lane markers anyway – they have just ended up being a waste of white and yellow paints and those reflector thingies, if you ask me. I think the Government should stop spending such obscene amounts of rupees on those white and yellow colored paints and instead utilize the money to fund a welfare programme for underprivileged software engineers (like me) . At least it will do some good to somebody!

Zebra-crossings are another of my pet peeves. Time and again, I have tried to randomly pick and educate my fellow citizens, especially the pedestrians on the road on the importance of using a zebra-crossing to get across a busy street. Needless to say, my pedestrian advice always falls on deaf ears. I don’t understand these senseless imbeciles – they would prefer to scurry across a busy intersection and get crushed like mice under speeding trucks rather than safely use a zebra crossing and live to die another day. Here are a few instances, where I picked on such erring, random strangers and tried to drill some road sense into their thick skulls.

Me: “Array sir, you should walk on the zebra crossing”
Sir: “Oh you mean that black and white piano thingy on the road? Sure someday I’ll walk on it and get a decent tune out of it. Muwahahaha.”
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Me: “Array Aunty, why don’t you use the zebra-crossing while crossing the road? It is meant for people like you...”
Aunty: “Haan? Kya bola?!!! Lafangey kahinke, do I look like a zebra to you? *SLAP!*
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Me: “Array o bhai. What’s painted down there is a zebra-crossing, not an M.F Hussain artwork. You are supposed to walk on it, not stare at it”
Bhai: ????????
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Me: “Yo dude, have you ever crossed on the zebra?”
Dude: “Huh? Come again dude? What bra?”
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*Sigh* . You know what, I have actually given up on advising people. I really don’t give a damn now- I mean if people are so hell bent on getting themselves killed, then who am I to stop them?

When it comes to our driving etiquettes, the less said the better. Every day, hundreds of deranged men and women drive amuck on our roads , endorsing the popular road safety maxim “The-roads-belong-to-my-father-in-law”. For these men and women, driving patiently in a single lane is considered to be an act of insult. Speaking of women, there is a common myth world over that women make terrible drivers. I certainly don’t buy that myth. You visit any joke website and you’ll see that hundreds of jokes have been made of women and their driving skills, especially their turning, reversing and parking skills ( Actually, I have created some jokes of my own and uploaded them too... but ssshhhhh...don’t tell this to anybody, if you do I’ll deny it straightaway) . Actually I’d like to go one step further say that women make better drivers than men- not just better, but more skilful, efficient and adventurous. Believe me. Seriously. While most of the men drive in the same old boring way with both hands on the steering wheel, the women actually have a riskier, daredevil style of driving – jostling through a busy street with one hand on the wheel and the other hand busy tucking locks of hair behind their ears - or busy applying moisturizing lip balm - or busy searching for tissues inside their handbags - or busy rummaging through the dashboard to find an elusive copy of the instruction manual titled “How To Identify the Clutch, Brake, Accelerator”. So tell me, aren’t they more skilful?

Hahahahaha. Alright, now stop going giving me those steely cold stares my dear ladies. Don’t go grrr at me. I’m sorry- no more jibes from my side- I will shut up. I parrrrramisssse. Actually just the other day, a few of my dear female friends, sick and tired of me constantly making fun of women and their mannerisms on my blog, gheraoed and threatened me with dire consequences if I didn’t mend my ways. “Ok smarty boy...” said one of my friend, wagging a threatening forefinger at me “.... one more wisecrack on women on your blog and that’s it. We’ll drag you to the marketplace, tie you to a tree, strip you naked and hire hundreds of gay men to ogle at you” . I was even forcibly made to take an enlarged printout of the Eleventh Commandment of Male Chivalry, attach a two-rupee revenue stamp on it, sign, frame and hang it on my wall. FYI – the Eleventh Commandment of Male Chivalry says- “Thou shalt not make fun of really stupid women.” Anyway, the whole point of raking up the issue about female drivers is to narrate this unforgettable incident I had on the roads with one of their ilk. Now this is going to unnecessarily lengthen the post, but if you’ve read this far, then chances are you probably don’t have anything better to do right now- so why not sit back and read on?

Circa 2006. There I was, merrily riding away on my bike, the cool wind whistling thru my helmet visor and a cool song whistling thru my lips. I spot this car on the road in front of me. A silver Lancer Cedia it was. "Wow! , what a beauty..." , I remark to myself, in all admiration. "Someday, when I stop earning peanut shells for money and get digging on real pay dirt, I'll have a car better than this adorning my garage..." I silently promise myself, thumping a fist over my heart. We approach a 4-way intersection, with me keeping safe distance behind the metallic diva, when its blinky right-indicator signal pops on. Then, the automatic window rolls down and a fair, delicate, freshly-waxed female hand pops out briefly and points to the right. "Wow!, what a beauty... smoothie pie...” I remark to myself, in all admiration. “Someday, when I really get oye-lucky-lucky-oye, I’ll have a hand smoother than that caressing my face...” I silently promise myself, thumping another fist over my heart. Anyway, I had to proceed straight ahead, so I slow down at the intersection to bid a farewell glance at the silver beauty. And then the unthinkable happens. The car, instead of turning right at the intersection veers sharply to the left, directly onto my path, knocking my bike over and sending me crashing down to the asphalt. I take a tumble, the bike takes two, and both of us- man and machine - lie side by side on the road, with almost the wind knocked off us. A few good Samaritans rush to my aid and help me and my bike on our feet. I shake my head to bring myself to senses and surmise the damage. My palms, forearms, knees and ankles were severely scuffed and had blood oozing out of them. My head had taken a conk- but thanks to the helmet and my thick skull, I survived to tell the tale. I thought I was fine- until I looked at my bike. That is when I lost it. My bike, my darling of my bike, stood there shedding tears of engine-oil and crying in pain - her handlebar lay severely twisted, her mud-guard had a gash, her fuel tank had a moon-sized crater on it, she was bruised all over and one of her indicator lights was smashed to pieces!

*Pop* *Kaboom* . A fuse goes bust in my head, rising the temperatures within me and sending my blood into evaporation mode. I look around for the bloody car and its nincompoop occupant responsible for my misery. Wow, I mean how did this driver even attend her driver’s license examination? Through postal correspondence? Indicator to the right, hand signal to the right, turn to the left! Fantastic! For a moment, I feel inclined to salute, bow down and doff my helmet at her Columbus-like sense of direction. The car halts briefly at a distance, and the driver pops her head out of the window, probably wondering what the hullabaloo was all about. “Ohoooooy!!” I shake my fist and let out a bloodcurdling scream at the driver, sending the Earth quivering and causing a few startled birds to flutter away from the nearby tree-tops. “Ohoy bitch! Get out of the fucking car”. Bitch comes out of the car, slams the door and glowers at me. That is when I first notice her properly. She didn’t look a day older than 19, her seemingly pretty face marked with distinct cockiness and insouciance. Her jaws were busy chewing gum and her hands were just as busy tucking large strands of wavy, unruly hair( highlighted with different shades of maroon, brown and hold on, purple?) behind her pierced ears. Dressed in a skin-fitting jeans and sleeveless T-shirt that had transparent bra-straps distinctly poking out of it, she looked every bit of a rich dad’s spoilt brat. Interesting side note- Ladies, what’s the theory behind those transparent bra-straps anyway? Girls probably wear them thinking they are invisible but yet everyone makes them out. Anyway, I don’t know much about all these things, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself. But just one more question- are those bras transparent only at the straps or do they have transparent cups too? Muwahahahaha. Oops sorry- I forget I’ve promised not to make fun of you. Sorry-sorry. Anyway, coming back to the incident, at that point of time I was in no mood to admire breast contours. I stood there injured and infuriated, and believe me, I would have probably devoured any man, woman or animal that dared to cross my path at the time.

“Come over here, you bitch. Look what you’ve done” I scream at the girl.

Her expression turns livelier and angrier. No one, apparently, had called her a bitch before. But then, it was my fault too. In that moment of fury, I forgot to abide by the Twelfth Commandment of Male Chivalry which said “Thou shalt not call a woman a bitch. Even if she drives a car over thy bum” .

“Hey man, what did you say?” she retorts, taking a few steps towards me.

“I said, bitch, if you don’t know how to drive on the roads, then you should keep your fucking car and your fucking ass locked up in your fucking garage” I scream back.

“Hey no gaalis dude, I come from an educated family” she says with a toss of her head.

Her response causes the temperatures within my body to shoot a few more degrees to the north.

“I will fuck your entire family...” I retort. “... And besides, didn’t your educated family teach you the basic difference between left and right?”

She casually casts a look at me, and another at my disfigured bike. She spits her chewing gum out, points a palm at me and says in a condescending tone “Array theek hai na bhaiyya. Ab kyun bekaar mein nautanki macha rahe ho. Sirf indicator hi toh toota hai. Ab jaan thodi na liya hai maine”

*Pop* *Kaboom* , another fuse goes bust in my brain, sending smoke billowing out of my ears. This was too much. First she veers the other way. Then she conks me off my bike. Then instead of giving me an apology, she gives me attitude. Then, she calls me “bhaiyya!” . Even for the otherwise calm and composed me, this was too much to handle.

“Oh! Aisa hai kya...?” I scream. I then take two paces sidewards, bend down and pick up a large stone from the pavement. And in one quick, slinging motion, I smash one of the indicator lights of her car into pieces!!!

Her cocky red face goes purple with shock. She stands agape. Time stands still.

“Whaaaaat thaaaa fuuuuuccckkkk....” she shrieks, her voice rising in a Philharmonic orchestra-like crescendo “Hey you, what the fuck have you done? Gone mad or what?”

I throw the stone away and puff the dust off my hands. Putting on the same condescending tone I reply “Array theek hai na behenji. Ab kyun bekaar mein nautanki macha rahe ho. Sirf indicator hi toh toota hai. Ab jaan thodi na liya hai maine”

“You b-b-bbastard, I will call the police”

“Call the Prime Minister, I don’t care” I say and limp away from the scene.

It’s now been three years since that road rage incident. Let me put this on print – I regret that incident today. I know I shouldn’t have behaved like that, no matter what the circumstance was. I wish I could go back in time, do a Ctrl + Z with a magic wand in air and undo that incident. But as I said, what happened was three years ago, and I was quite a petulant lad back then – unlike the aforementioned calm, composed, mature gentleman whom the damsels crazily fall in love with today. Err...Ahem. I mean if the same incident and scene of events were to unfold today, then the new, mature me would have handled it differently – I would have reacted by smashing her windshield turning the other cheek and offering her a bunch of tulips instead.

Now this may sound like a cow advising fellow cows against chewing the cud, but take my word folks, please keep your road rage under check – it is simply not worth it. I may have learnt and wizened the hard way time and again, but I have certainly come to realize that one of the most effective ways to live long enough to see your grandchildren is to maintain your calm, be responsible on the roads and reach home safely to the joy of your loved ones. So before you jump the next red light or scurry mindlessly across a busy street or drive like a possessed Rossi or Schumacher, please spare a fleeting thought for your dear ones waiting for you at home. Spare a thought for your poor folks- who worry for you, care for you, think about you and utter a silent prayer for your safety every time you head out of your gates.

Ok ji, chalo bahut ho gaya, ab dukan bandh kar dete hain. Adios amigos, see you later. I gotta get back to my work. Cheers! Remember to play it safe- wear your helmets, play it safe- wear your seatbelts, play it safe- wear your condoms. Errr... I know condoms have nothing to do with this post, but hey, what’s the harm in spreading some awareness anyway?

Thanking You
Yours obnoxiously,
Parikshith Kumar.