The Weekend Shopping

It was a Friday again and the family headed to their favourite weekend destination, the City Centre Mall. Their outing comprised of this weekly groceries shopping at the Carrefour and then if time permitted, either a movie at the Cineplex or a session at the Fun City, where the kids were allowed to play the various free games and rides and the parents checked out their luck on the ‘Deal or no deal’ machine and finally a dinner at the food court.

This week they were late. The father, who spent the whole night awake, was writing a blog about a sleazy movie and as a consequence of it, spent most of the day sleeping. And by the time that he woke up and decided to go out, it was already late in the evening. Needless to mention, the entertainment and subsequent eating out plans had to be shelved. All the time that they had was to go about with their regular groceries shopping and then, at the most pick up some takeaways from the food section at the hypermarket which they could later on have at home.

The kids, who were pissed off with this arrangement lunged on to throwing tantrums and started begging for chocolates and juices as their parents pushed the trolley along the aisles. The parents were smart; they had read books and innumerable articles on parenting and knew that the best way take control of the situation (and to not give into their kid’s tantrums) was to remain indifferent and aloof. The kids would beg, jump and utmost roll on the floor crying, but they’d eventually give up. And if they didn’t, all that the dad had to do was pick the elder boy by the ear and ask him to spell a difficult word or two which he would not be able to answer correctly and then let the mother take charge and attack them with light reprimands and stories of how they themselves suffered as children and how deprived their childhood was in comparison. The scheme worked well, always. The elder boy would mellow down and hang his head in dismay and the younger one, who would’ve just witnessed his commander-in-chief being ambushed, would resign and surrender.

This week’s shopping was almost done, when the father just remembered that he had to buy a new lunchbox. His friends at work were already making fun of him for carrying along a kid’s style Sponge Bob lunchbox, and he wanted to change it now and so they headed straight to the Plastics aisle adjacent to the stationery section. As the parents consulted each other and embarked onto a lengthy discussion on which one to buy, the elder son interrupted them with an innocent smile on his face and a Ben10 water bottle in his hand. He begged his parents that he wanted this new water bottle and doesn’t want the Barbie one any more as his fellow classmates were making fun of him and teasing him that he was a girl. Dad, who is also an avid reader of management books, seized the opportunity to give out a lengthy lecture to the little boy on how to confront and tactfully deal with classmates who display negative attitudes and behaviours. The mother attacked the boy by arguing that it was he who decided to keep the cheaper Barbie water bottle + box of croissants (combo offer!) rather than this Ben10 water bottle, when asked to decide during their shopping visit last week. The seven year old, though not convinced, resigned after throwing his arms around and stomping his foot. Mom, who was impressed by dad’s lecturing, looked on smilingly and let dad pick the most expensive lunch box in the shelf.  Dad got a microwaveable plain blue coloured lunchbox with an orange-green lid. The colours resembled his country, India’s cricket team jersey, which was also his favourite.

He delicately placed the lunchbox in the trolley raised his head high, filled his chest with a deep breath and then turned around and looked at other shoppers as if he had just won a prestigious award. He then looked at mom, humbly blinked his eyes at her, as if he was thanking her for being the woman behind all his achievements and then started moving towards the billing counter.

As they jointly towed the trolley, they noticed both their sons sitting on floor admiring something in the stationeries aisle. The elder one had a box in his hand and seemed to explain something to his three year old brother. It seemed like he was convincing his little brother to stand strong and stick to his elder brother and not give into any ulterior offers from their parents.

The parents called out, to which the boys went running to them, with the elder boy delicately holding the box in his hands.

Dad questioned the boys “What is this?” to which the elder one innocently replied “This is a colouring puzzle Pappa. Can you buy me this? It also got crayons in it. I can colour it and we can share and play puzzle. Isn’t it cool Pappa. Will you buy me this?”

Dad had this disdainful look on his face, which conveyed the message “When will you kids grow up”. He then pulled that thing from the boy's hand and started prying it with an intention to find a defect so that it could be rejected outright. He couldn’t find any, and so turned to their mother, spreading out his arms and a look, which seemed to ask “What to do now?”

The boys raised their heads and watched their parents’ faces eagerly as they held each other’s hand teaming up and suggesting that they were both into this together.

The mother, who by now realized that dad was in a state of quandary, took charge to resolve. She asked “How much is it sweetie?” to which dad replied “Nineteen riyals”.

“Nineteen Riyals” she screeched, to which the younger son covered both ears and shouted back “Ouch! Stop it Amma”. But Amma was not going to stop now. She had just found a lead to help daddy get out of this sticky situation. It was now her chance to give an economics lecture to the seven year old.

In a lengthy lecture, which lasted an eon, the boy learned how the complex foreign exchange system worked and that one Qatari Riyal was equivalent to over twelve and half Indian Rupees and that they were extremely poor Indian expatriates and that buying this worthless piece of object meant shelving out a whopping Two Hundred and Fifty Rupees. He also found out that the flight tickets from Doha to Kozikkode were the most expensive ones and that the single reason why they rented out an expensive three bedroom flat was just so that the boys could have ample space to run around and play and that they didn’t require any such colouring puzzle to entertain themselves. Dad went on to add his expert points on budgeting and informed the boys that buying The Colouring Puzzle would throw their monthly budget out of gear, and that it was now the elder one’s decision to take, whether he wanted the Colouring Puzzle or the box of cookies that they picked earlier.

The elder boy was determined. He wanted The Colouring Puzzle and nothing else! But the younger lad who visualized a no-win situation here, made a sad face and whispered slowly into his elder brother’s ears “Chetta, cookie”. The elder boy’s heart melted and he gave out a sorry look at his younger brother for failing him again.

The boys had once again got sucked into a negotiation situation and this time, humbly settled for the box of cookies. The parents had won again. As the boys hung their heads and followed, the parents exchanged side glances and sly smiles to each other suggesting “We are the best” and that “We always have the situation under our control”. Reading all those books and articles on parenting had helped.

Later, as they queued up at the billing counter, ‘the man’ in dad looked naughtily at his wife, picked up a box of the Seventy Five Riyals Durex Play O from the display and flung it into the trolley. That was her reward for the day’s display of ‘How to efficiently and effectively control your kids while shopping’. The wife, not to be outdone, gave back a horny smile, flared her nostrils and almost bit her lower lip suggesting that tonight something would happen. To his surprise, she then tossed in an equally expensive return gift; a box of his favourite Davidoff Classics Cigarettes, confirming that something surely would happen tonight.

As he finished paying, he whispered into his wife’s ears that “This week we are a little over budget, but that is okay”. She gave out an innocent look and he responded back with a horny roar which almost bit off her left earlobe. They smiled at each other and licked their lips, wetting it, in anticipation of the ensuing programme that night.

The little boys however gulped saliva as their mouths watered gazing at the colourful display of chocolates and toffees lined up just half an inch away from their faces. They knew that they were poor and that there was no way they were getting it. They clasped their hands together, exchanged a sad glance and followed their parents.

PS:   This is a work of pure fiction and resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Maladies of a 70’s kid – Lacking Internet

My sons, 6+ years old Kevin and 2+ years old Yohan are ardent internet guys. Kevin has been on the internet since he was 4 and by now has learnt a lot from it, including the techniques of cartoon sketching, skateboarding and cup cake dressing by merely watching youtube videos. He even knows the names of all the Ben10 aliens and forms and all the other cartoon characters, what not, including descriptions on their specific anatomies with details on how many arms, legs and eyes each one of them have. Every time Kevin comes up with a doubt or query, we invariably point him towards the computer. He opens the home page and types on the keywords as we dictate to him and lo, he finds his answers, with pictures and videos too.

When Kevin was 2½ years old, he started play school and he struggled; Yohan on the other hand has already started his classes at home. Every morning his homeschooling begins with a review of alphabets and numbers on the website www.starfall.com. Today, I made him a desktop icon to access that website and now he doesn’t even need his Amma to help him open that webpage. He can go on with his class work all by himself. All that his Amma needs to do is keep intermittently checking on and reviewing his performance.    

Internet is really a boon, and access to internet is possibly the best gift that one can give to any kid. Through it, my boys have struck access to the world’s largest free library and communication channel. And I bet they are already using it to the fullest. I so very much miss not having the internet during my academic days. Although, I might have not used it to the same levels as my kids are doing now, I would have definitely got some advantage out of its two main traits.

The free library

If we had internet during our college days, I am sure, we would not have had to tear up our Khurmis and Aroras and share them chapter wise the night before the exams. Seniors would upload their notes and past question papers (which were a rare commodity) and we could just download and practice/use them without being obliged! If we wanted a specific book, all we would’ve had to do, would’ve been to log on to limewire and download the latest upload (err, edition) of whatever book we wanted.

The usual smart asses would have no need to scavenge the library and hide the Civil Engineering books within the Electronics section. Needless to say, the librarian’s job would’ve been a much easier one as every student would be locked in their rooms reading their online engineering journals and doing their own private little thingy, leaving the library free for some bold couples to venture out and work on exploring their amorous side.

I am sure, if there was internet during our times, there would’ve been lesser prying eyes (because they’d have got all what they wanted, through the internet), leaving the girls more bold and yet susceptible to the charms of some of my very lovable friends, who were otherwise rejected.

On the flip side, some of my friends would’ve had to look for alternative means to make money as their ‘Video Show Business’ would’ve not worked.  

The Communication Channel

The padipist (studious) guys could’ve used it to communicate with experts in the field from across the seven seas and get their doubts cleared. It would’ve also saved them all the money they otherwise spent on sending Masters Applications to the various Colleges around the world. They would’ve easily established connection with their super seniors through socialising sites like FB and got free help and advice for their Masters abroad.

The khurapat (mischievous) ones would’ve watched youtube videos and learnt a trick or two on ‘foolproof cheating in exams’.

Again, the khurapat boys would not have to raid the ‘Literary and Debating’ club notice board to pocket free pictures of their junior girls dancing. They could’ve easily downloaded it from the college website.  

Communication between the boys and girls hostels would have been free. The lover boys would’ve saved a lot of their allowance money by not dialling a certain number 3-5-1 for which an exorbitant Rs 4 was charged for every 3 minute call. It was expensive, and man did the hostel make a killing out of it!

Boys and girls could secretly fall into relationships (and also break off too) without anyone in the college knowing about it. No need to even talk to each other in the class.... Just go back to your hostel room, log in and fix a date, time and place and meet up. Wow! The guy could get onto one bus from Kattangal and the girl onto another from the Canteen and they could just meet up at their confidential point in the city with no one knowing about it. Wow again!

The desperate couples through their webcam enabled laptops would’ve broken all the barriers erected by our strict management. And with the broadcasting in view, the boys and girls would’ve always kept their rooms neat and tidy, especially ensuring that there are no undies hanging here and there.

What a loss!

Reality Bytes.

Most of my friends who met/talked to me since my last post were indifferent. Except for one, who went ahead and promoted it on his FB page, most of my regular readers seem to have not read it at all. Whilst some informed that they abandoned it halfway through after realising that it was too crass for their taste, someone, who read it full, felt that deep down inside I was a pervert of sorts and someone else was surprised and informed me that it was too brash of me to write such blogs with my wife and sisters as my regular readers. One of my friends even asked me to go ahead and write ‘some thing new’ so I have a new post just for the sake of it and that he doesn’t have to see those explosive pictures every time he opened my blog page.

Unarguably, my last post was the crudest one that I have ever written, but incidentally the last one week was also the most happening one on my blogsite and my research has left me more confused than ever.

Here are some of my findings and what I deciphered thereof:

·       The last post got 85 hits within a week, which made it the second most viewed (or should I conclude read) post on my blog.

Getting more hits on a post does not necessarily mean that it is a popular post, primarily because it does not conclude that someone who has visited the page has actually read and liked it. The hits could be coming from one of my FB friends who inadvertently clicked on the link that I posted. Yes, whilst most of the clicks came through FB, quite a few were also through Google. And believe it or not, my ‘stats’ say that, in the last week, the ‘search keywords’ amongst others have been ‘Shakeelachechi’ and ‘jacob nelson brahma blogspot’.

·         At least five people thought that the post was funny.

·        Since the last post, I got four votes for my blog on the website www.blogwriteraward.com

Well, the ‘like’ click could be a general ‘like’ on the blog and not for any particular post, but I like to believe that it was all for the last one, since all the clicks came after that post.

·   I have been blogging for almost 10months now and as at date, through the monetize section, I have now made an earnings of up to $4/-, 50% of which was made in the last week alone.

After I monetized my blogsite, I hadn’t set any specific rules or filters on the kind of advertisements that would appear on my page. I let the website intelligently manage it, which it does based on the blog content. It was indeed surprising for me to find out that I made around $2/- in a span of 7 days with my friends clicking on adverts relating to ‘adult dating’ and ‘online degree programmes’. I am pretty sure that none of my friends are in the need for online degrees, so what are they looking for?

So, what do I do now? Should I get sober and write only nice, acceptable, morally correct stuff and expect good comments or, should I get real dirty and look for making more money while my readers secretly 'like' my post and browse those explicit sites?

It is a pain to change one just to please the others, and so, I will refrain from inflicting any such change and rather maintain my despicable self. All that I can do now is add a forewarning to my blog. So, along with the Hinglish/Minglish blah blah which is actually my camouflaged alibi to cover up my grammatical errors, here’s one more, which says “I write without inhibitions, so please read responsibly”

Thanks

“Better to be genuine and outcast, than be fake and accepted”

-       Did I just say that?

Synopsis of an ‘F’ grade movie

Thursday morning I was late to report for work. The reason – The preceding night till well beyond the wee hours of morning, I and my wife missed sleep to ROFLOFAO watching an ‘F’ grade movie.

I am sure most of my friends know what ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’ grade movies are. However, in case you don’t know, here’s some totally faltoo gyan:

·      It is an ‘A’ grade movie if it has a red and bold ‘A’ printed on the poster. And now, if you are thinking “It is obvious, what’s the freaking gyan in this?”; think again. These are rare and priceless movies, and believe me you will hardly find a genuine ‘A’ movie in your local store. They are hard to find because they are patented by a few enterprising mallu men, who took the pains to shoot it around and over the many hills and valleys of Kerala’s most loved landscape, Shakeelachechi. As per the prevailing movie making laws, a movie is not an ‘A’ movie if it doesn’t have a Shakeelachechi scene. Sadly, it has been many years now since they stopped making ‘A’ movies; this disruption because Shakeelachechi stopped acting err, displaying. Shakeelachechi had to stop acting err (again!), displaying since some environmentalists objected to her long kuli scenes, which supposedly had caused water scarcity in Kochi and its neighbourhood districts. Some alavaladi skinny mallu girls did try hard to replicate her act and hijack her position, but alas! They all fell flat on their chests! Such was the grace of Shakeelachechi. Shakeelachechi is not just hot, she is super hot. There’s an old saying in Kerala that “When Shakeelachechi takes a dip in the kolam (pond), it turns into a geyser”. She is so hot that I am already experiencing the onset of an orgasm by merely typing her name.

Shakeelachechi, Shakeelachechi, Shakeelachechi ………. aarrrghhhh, I need a break. And while I enjoy my break, you guys go ahead and enjoy the pics.

*** BREAK ***

*** BREAK OVER***

*** Ahhhhh! My body hurts. That was a lot of rolling-on-the-floor last night! I am really tired and not in a mood for anything else. But for the sake of dissipating gyan, I will continue***

·     ‘B’ grade movies are those totally ‘Bekaar’ movies made with the sole interest of gifting a livelihood to the bekaar kids and siblings of famous ex-film stars and/or media barons. In short, if you are jobless and you have a filthy rich dad or a media powerhouse in your household, you can always coax that person or your mom into coaxing that person to invest in making you your very own ‘B’ grade movie. The good thing about making ‘B’ grade movies is that nobody really cares as to when it released or how it performed in the box office … etc etc… so if you fail, you can always start again with a new ‘B’ movie… and go on and on and on. With every movie you do, you are a fresh new face on the block.


      Some of the famous ‘B’ grade aspirants are Kishen K, Harman B, Uday C, Baby AB, Sallubhai’s brothers and the two Khanna sisters. The two sisters are so so ‘B’ grade that if you typed their name on google and clicked ‘images’, it would return pictures of their mom! Anyways, these are mere aspirants. 


     The real star of ‘B’ movies is a certain guy called Tusshhaar K, who stands up to his reputation as a ‘B’ star and keeps comes back again and again and again.

·       ‘C’ grade movies or the ‘Chootiya banao, paise kamao’ movies are purely patented movies. Patents for directing these movies are solely guarded and held by just two guys namely Karan J and Farah K.

·      Finally we have the ‘F’ movie. An ‘F’ grade move is ‘Fully Faltoo’ movie in its own right and by far (as per my opinion) also the most entertaining one of all. Here ‘F’ stands for that effing four letter word which does not end with a ‘k’. ‘F’ is the acronym for fail, Yes, F-A-I-L fail. Men, or Lukkhas as we like to lovingly call them, who act in prominent roles in an ‘F’ movie otherwise do odd jobs like selling Bhel Puri at Mumbai Chowpatty or those five for twenty five Bras over the Andheri Foot Bridge. Unlike the ‘B’ grade stars, these guys are self made losers. Although there are some exceptions, female co-stars usually, come from and go back to their dancing bars.

The biggest Bollywood ‘F’ movie star of our times is the great KRK. This guy wears a toy gun on his neck and thinks that he is actually an underworld don. The greatest Tollywood ‘F’ superstar is a guy called Sam Anderson. Mallu’s are not far behind either. Very soon you guys will hear about a certain guy called Santosh Pundit; man in reckoning to be crowned the first ever ‘F’ superstar from mollywood and I am eagerly waiting for his first/mega and possibly only release ‘Krishnanum Radhayum’. These guys are great entertainers I say. You must check out their videos on youtube.

Enough of gyan, let’s go back to the main topic. The movie!

Here’s the story in concise. I hope you’ll all like it and if you do, do buy an original CD. It is available on Moser Baer. We should at least do this much to keep these talents alive.

ISHQ AUR INTEQAAM (LOVE AND REVENGE)

The story revolves around Goan Christians (I am sure they are all Goans, because they all keep muttering ‘Oh my God, Oh my God’) and primarily three friends, Simon (Played by a real life mumbaiya lukkha who has this funny smile on his face, which makes you feel like he is farting all the time or like he has a lump of shit already in his pants), Michael (played by our very own Thakti Kapoor), Prince (Played by a local Bihari lukkha, who with words like desejan (decision), exiden (accident) and pojijun (position) adds in a bhojpuri flavour to that typical bollywoodish goan hinglish) and a girl named Pretty (played by Amita Nangia). The film is directed by a guy named Sunil Kumar, and that reminds me of a pukka alavaladi (Utterly Useless Fellow) from our college days; A guy who once saw Sakshat Brahma (the creator) in his real form! This movie was made in 1993 (my prime) and is classified into the genre: Mature/Obscure. What the heck is that?

Simon and Pretty are in love and Pretty’s dad (played by Kishan Dhawan) is an ailing man who would die any moment. Pretty is this typical bollywood-goan girl who wears skimpy dresses, prays to Jesus and wears a big cross on her neck. The cross is so big that half of it is parked inside her cleavage. Since these guys are rich, while at home Pretty’s dad is always shown dressed in silk pyjamas with a  silk night robe over it (and yes, don’t forget that big cross on his neck), while Pretty keeping in line with the bollywood-goan tradition wears only a skimpy negligee with nothing underneath. Since Pretty’s dad is likely to die any day, dad calls up Simon and without seeking their desire, fixes their wedding for the coming Sunday. Simon is surprised; Pretty is ecstatic and she starts rubbing her legs and twitching her lips.

Simon calls up his best buddies, Michael (Who is a fultoo drunkard) and Prince and invites them for the wedding. Prince who is in Delhi, promises to come down at any cost by the next flight. As the call ends, the scene shifts to a butcher shop, where they show a head butcher (played by Raza Murad) chewing pan with a disdainful look on his face as his half naked body builder assistant, chops mutton with a programmed frequency that could put most machines to shame. For a moment, you contemplate that the head butcher is possibly plotting to rape the next female customer visiting his shop, but the scene changes and you wonder WTF is happening? Don’t worry. Just hold on and you’ll know as the story unfolds itself.

Simon and Pretty tie the knot, and outside church they are greeted by Michael, who is almost always over 90% drunk and carries a full bottle of MCD in the inner pocket of his coat. There are two things about Michael that you’ll never miss noticing; firstly that he is always cheek-by-jowl with a girlfriend whom he keeps changing with every scene and secondly, that he never greets anyone with a ‘Good Morning’. For Michael, be it daytime or night, it is always a ‘Good Night’. However, there’s a sad story attached to these two traits, which you’ll find out later.

As Simon and Michael exchange greetings, the camera moves to Prince, their Bihari adulterated Goan-Christian friend who is standing next to them, but avoids all contact as he hides his face behind a bouquet of flowers. Incidentally, Prince has just found out that Pretty was the girl whom he dated while in college. Pretty, who is a good girl had dumped Prince once she found out that he had some connections with bad people. As Prince visualises his past, his blood boils and he turns into a man full of vengeance.

As Simon and Pretty drive away in their ‘Newly Married’ convertible, Prince drives down to the butcher shop and mutters some censored gibberish to the Head Butcher. Now, if you are thinking that Prince is here to buy mutton, then you are mistaken; he has a horrendous scheme on his mind.

The scene shifts to the newly weds bedroom which has S-E-X written all over it. A steamy act of copulation follows which is interrupted by a phone call. Simon who is over Pretty, multi tasks with gyrating hip movements while talking seriously on the phone. Pretty who is on the threshold of visualising brahma screams and shakes her head vigorously as her hands try desperately to tear off the bed sheet.  Just-In-Time, Simon jumps off a visually perturbed Pretty, who seems to be saying “WTF?” to Simon in her mind. Simon gets up and hastily dresses and tells his new bride that he has to go to the hospital as his friend Prince, who was arriving by flight for their wedding, has just met with an accident. (Note the emphasis on ‘flight’). Pretty responds back asking “Magar?” (“But?”). It’s just a one word question but says a lot. She is actually telling him “Bloody MF, first finish the job that you were doing and then go where ever you want!” As Simon leaves the place in his bike, they show a smiling Prince, who from the adjacent building has been monitoring the first night proceedings through his binoculars.

Simon is attacked by goons on his way to the hospital, but he manages to escape unhurt. As he nears the hospital, he is shot from behind by the Head Butcher, who later calls up Prince and informs him that the task has been accomplished. Prince celebrates the event with a drink. As he sips his drink, Michael, along with his new paramour drops in. Michael enquires as to why Prince did not attend the wedding and also the reason for Prince’s celebration; but Prince says nothing. Michael however ends up telling his story of how he became a drunkard and as to why he keeps changing girls every other day and hates greeting ‘Good Morning’. Incidentally Michael was in love with a girl, whom he could only meet in the morning and as they met, the girl would greet him ‘Good Morning’. Actually this girl was prostitute, and poor Michael didn’t know about it. One night Michael sneaks into his girlfriend’s house and finds her with a customer.  Later that night Michael ends up at Tuntun Aunty’s Feni bar and dances to a song with lyrics like “Apun kamal karega…. kale kutte se pyar karega…” From that day Michael is a changed man. I was touched!

Scene shifts to the steamy bedroom where Simon abandoned a visibly desperate Pretty, whose desire was left unquenched. Pretty tries to douse her inner fire by gulping down a bottle of chilled water, but alas, it goes in vain. She can’t control herself and she cringes in pain. (If you are a potent man watching this scene, I bet, you’ll almost get up from your seat and try to crash into the screen to help this poor girl. But I’ll suggest you to wait a moment and control yourself) The phone rings and delivers the obvious news to Pretty.

Pretty runs out of her bedroom in a negligee and appears in the hospital in a gown. If you’ve imagined that Simon is dead by now, you are mistaken. Simon is very much alive. But, there’s a sad news. The doctor (who in real life looks like the guy who sells peanuts at Juhu Chowpaty) informs Pretty that Simon was hit by a bullet on his spinal cord. (At this point, you’ll start imagining that possibly Simon is paralysed and bedridden for life. Just wait and listen to the fantastic revelation!) The doctor looks at the x-ray and informs Pretty that since Simon has been hit by a bullet on the spinal cord, he has lost his erection ability!! Prince visits Simon at the hospital, and is formally introduced to Pretty and the movie leads to a new angle.

Simon is discharged from the hospital and once back home immediately embarks upon his unfinished task. He does well with the foreplay and also dreams of a steamy saree (with no undergarments and no yes, no underskirt too) song performing intimate dance moves in the rain on a parked motorbike. Alas, our director’s effort to ignite passion goes in vain as Simon doesn’t last beyond the foreplay. He collapses and apologises. Pretty’s thirst remains unquenched and her fort remains unconquered. Prince, who monitors the act through his binoculars, gives out a sly smile.

Next day as Simon leaves for work, Prince calls up Pretty and offers his services, but Pretty, who is a good wife declines. Simon meets Prince and informs about his disability. Prince offers his advice to Simon “Har marz ki dawa, daroo” (“The remedy to all ailments, Liquor”). Simon takes his advices and reports back home fully drunk. Simon again lunges on to Pretty and tries to perform, but alas. At this point Pretty displaying her huge cleavage (minus the cross) in a horny tone asks Simon “Bhook lagi hai kya? Kya khaoge?” (“Are you hungry? What would you like to”) Simon looks into the cleavage and replies “Nahin main thak gaya hoon. abb bhook nain” (“I am tired. I have no more hunger”) What a class act!

Next day Simon hastily leaves for work, leaving the main door ajar. Pretty forgets to latch the door and leaves to take bath. Prince gets in, latches the door and tries to seduce a half naked Pretty. In the ensuing struggle, Prince’s version of foreplay meets success and it manages to rekindle the pyre in Pretty. They are about to enter into the next stage of the act and you are taken wide eyed and pulled close to the screen and now on the edge of your seat grabbing the chair cushion with great expectation as the bell rings. Shucks! It’s Simon, who has forgotten his red file. Prince jumps off the window and runs away as the watchman witnesses the escape. Back in the room, our poor lady Pretty, whose passion has been ignited for the third time now, tries hard to seduce Simon. But Simon who has to rush to work, pushes Pretty down on the bed and runs down the stairs. As Simon leaves the compound on his bike, the watchman informs Simon about Prince’s great escape.

Next day again as Simon leaves for work, Prince revisits Pretty and tries his hands on her. Incidentally Simon comes back and is about to knock the main door when he overhears the ongoing struggle between Prince and Pretty in the bedroom. He realizes that his wife is innocent and tries to break the door. Again Prince jumps off the window and runs away. Simon follows Prince; possibly he wants to talk this out with Prince and enter into an arrangement and so shouts “Prince, mat bhago, ruko Prince ruko. Mujhe tumse kuch kehna hai” (“Prince, don’t run away, wait Prince wait, I have something to tell you”), but Prince who is scared of a confrontation steals a parked jeep convertible and drives away. Simon follows him on his bike. A long chase ensues, which takes the viewer along the length and breadth of the Mumbai’s Western Express Highway. Finally, Prince’s car hits a truck and he dies instantly. Next minute, Simon’s bike hits Prince’s car and he is ejected off the bike, performs a summersault and lands on his but on the protruding rocks along the road which seems to have been created specially for the event. Thankfully, Simon survives and is taken to the hospital.

At home, a visibly tense Pretty receives a call and she says “Oh my God” for the last time and leaves for the hospital. At the hospital, the same doctor looks again at an x-ray and informs Pretty that a miracle has occurred! Since Simon landed oh his bum with the rock hitting the same point on the Spinal Cord where he was earlier hit by a bullet, he has been miraculously cured of his erectile dysfunction. Pretty is ecstatic and expresses the same emotion as she had when her dad fixed her marriage. The doctor gives some censored instructions to Pretty, which she wilfully agrees to perform.

Few days later Simon is released from the hospital and Pretty gets on to implement the doctor’s instructions. Pretty starts seducing Simon and catches him unawares with her sexy lingerie song. Simon, who has actually lost all hope of experiencing stiffness, lethargically joins in. As instructed by the doctor, Pretty implants her foreplay moves one after the other and Simon finally gives out that dirty look, which it intended to send out the message that “Man, I have an erection”. In a fit of rage, he jumps on over Pretty, who is by now panting heavily. The accident was truly a miracle, because Simon, who in a span of two weeks has had two surgeries on his Spinal Cord performs with the finesse of a porn star. Pretty clutches Simon’s palm and vigorously  turns it in all the possible directions; her nostrils flare and she finally visualizes the creator; Shakshat Brahma.

The movie ends.

Although, I may not watch it again, I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Definitely better than OSO or TMK, for one this one is a rare movie; it has a real CLIMAX in the end. I do have my reservations on its name though. Instead of ‘Ishq aur Inteqaam’, I think ‘Woh adhuri Pyas’ (The unquenched thirst) would have been an apt title. Any suggestions?

My good luck charm.

Few days’ back I shaved off my moustache. The next day at work, I was at the second most happening place in my office, the kitchen, making and stirring my cuppa when this new African-European friend of mine gave me that weird look and came out “Heyyy, why would you do that maannn?”, I responded by replying “Well, just for a change”. He continued giving me that strange, ‘make-you-feel-guilty’ look and continued “Aww, that one was good maann” he said and added pointing to his soul patch “See this, I never take this off. It’s my good luck thing. As long as it’s here, nothing goes wrong”. This casual event took me down memory lane and reminded me of my very own trysts with lucky charms and some events that had changed my life for ever.

I remember having a three paisa coin as my lucky charm. I had it safely tucked under a sheet of paper inside my geometry box and believed that it actually helped me fight some of my most dreaded fears and fiercest challenges; which included mustering enough courage to:

• stand up in the class and ask permission from the teacher to allow me to go for a leak; find ways to avoid meeting up with bullies in school;
• keep climbing the stairs up to my third floor apartment by avoiding any eye contact with this scariest monster (read: A big eyed swarthy podgy hirsute sardar with his dreadlocks left open and only a kaccha on), which most invariably was found sitting in a rocking chair on the second floor passage buttering his handle bar;
• and also to avoid getting caught by this monster’s huge wife, who if found me, would touch both her palms on her cheek, scream out some gibberish in Punjabi, grab me close to her chest and pull my cheeks till it lost all elasticity and in compensation force me to go through the ordeal of downing a large glass of tasteless buttermilk, which I believed she made out of rinsing her curd vessel.

I must confess that I had also heavily relied on my three paisa coin to help me cruise through the HSE Board exams. It was always there in my trouser pocket as I prepared for/took my exams and later on, even on the day when the results were out.   My three paisa coin was a reliable and trustworthy lucky charm and had always done its job well. After the results, I took my coin and tucked it safely in the book shelf, under my old exercise books and left it there expecting that no one would find it. My exploits in the academic field had made me a local hero and I was busy basking in this newfound glory. I forgot about my lucky charm. Time passed and I got my admission into engineering and left for the REC in Kerala.

At the Engineering College, I experienced freedom first class and decided to turn into the bad boy that I always wanted to be. I was not as bright as my buddies who could multitask as bad boys and do well in academics too, and needless to say my capacity showed up in the exam results. Meanwhile, folks at home decided to shift into a bigger-better place and, in course of doing so ran amuck through my bookshelf and misplaced my lucky charm, or should I say ‘they thrashed it’. Who needed a worthless three paisa coin anyways?

Although I had one of the best hostel buddies to lean on to, I must state sincerely that, I missed my lucky charm badly. I found it difficult to focus on academics and never really mustered enough courage to woo that chick I liked. By the end of the third year, I was carrying a backlog of sixteen papers and most folks at college reckoned that I was the next freedom fighter in waiting. Except for a girl, who was my closest friend, my guide, my counsellor and my beacon of light, no one ever believed in me; not even I, me, myself. Somewhere around the final year, this friend gifted me a small money plant placed in a recycled bulb for a vase with a threaded jacket to hang it. I called it ‘Sophie’ and hung it on the window of my hostel room and somehow found it worthy of being my next lucky charm.

While in my hostel room, I would keep staring at it and think about my next big task to accomplish. We were already in the final semester and I had only one last chance to clear my entire backlog, which, I had to achieve in one sitting, and in some cases at the rate of two papers in a day or get relegated to being christened a freedom fighter. To make things worse, the marks I earned through sessionals were in single digits and it meant that I had to score really great numbers to merely pass the exam. The task was tough, but not impossible. Notwithstanding, I did extremely well in the practicals and also my seminar. Charged with my belief in that newfound lucky charm, I took my exams and cleared them all. I did it. I finished college just in time with my best buddies and that girl who, by now was a special someone. When I left for home, falling in line with the tradition of the college, I passed on the plant with its vase arrangement to one of my favourite juniors, resolving that, if I ever got a chance to name a newborn girl, I would name her ‘Sophie’.

Back home, things were too cool. My parents, who were so very happy with my graduation, granted me a year’s vacation. But I didn’t want to wait. I had things to do. I wanted to hastily get into a management college, finish it, get a job and settle my future plans with that special someone. Every boy in that age did exactly the same, possibly because it was the simplest of things to do. But for me it seemed a tough act to follow. I was missing my lucky charm. I was taken ill with jaundice and caught under house arrest for over three months. I missed my GRE and CAT which I was so eagerly preparing for. I was heartbroken and I did what was possibly the most ungrateful of all things that anyone could’ve ever done. I banged the phone and broke that special someone’s heart. That was it! But my life had to go on and I found solace in my new designer briefs.

Yep! I wrote it right. I meant designer briefs. My sisters, who were fashionistas in their own right found it very annoying that I was still using briefs that they got for me before I left for my Engineering College. Yes, my undies were over four years old, and yes they had holes in it, but didn’t it matter that I found them comfortable? My sisters refused to accept that. According to them, it was below standards even for our maid to wash it and that; there was no way that the cloths line would accept my underwear alongside their designer lingerie. Don’t even imagine! I begged, but they didn’t allow it to be even converted into a floor mop. No way! It went straight to the thrash can. One fine day, my undies were all missing, and in my cupboard I found new packets of Kalvin Klien Designer Briefs, all animal prints! And in it was my new lucky charm, the one with zebra stripes.

There was something special about the zebra stripes that, every time I wore it, something clicked. The first day I wore it, I attended a walk-in interview for the job of a door-to-door salesman to sell items like hand held food choppers and magnetic healing chappals. I got the job, but decided not to take it as I was still enjoying my year long vacation. However, the brief had passed its litmus test. It was working and worthy of being my next lucky charm. Few days later I had to attend an interview for a Design Engineer’s position within a prominent engineering company that designed Cooling Towers. On that day, sadly my lucky charm was taken for washing and needless to say, I crashed in the interview. I humbly accepted that it was not my fault, and my belief in my lucky charm was reinforced.

Days went by and again, I wore my lucky charm to attend an interview for a marketing job which required promoting a drafting/designing software and I got the job. My new job took me to Ahmedabad, where, on one of the days I happened to visit CEPT to give a demo of our range of products and luckily for me, that day I had my zebra stripes on. At the main hall my eyes fell on a poster saying that the college was inviting applications for Masters in Construction and Project Management. I brought a form, cracked their entrance test, appeared for an interview, got the admission and resigned my job. Ever heard of an underwear doing wonders? Mine was a super hero.

After all these years of so called learning I was back to school. And what an amazing place of learning it was. And it was here, that I eventually learned the lesson that changed my life. I befriended ‘A’, who was an architect by profession and great believer in himself. Someone who contended that there was nothing out of limits if one believed in the self and was passionate enough to go full throttle with ones heart and soul into it.  ‘A’ was not only my project mate, but also my room mate and we spent a lot of time listening to each other. On one such chat over a smuggled bottle of XXX rum, he opened up and talked freely about his love life and that how he was fighting against all odds to secure it. I talked to him about my trysts with the many Juliets in my life and tried to justify how my ‘bad times’ had always failed me. He contested and proved me wrong.

The chat coupled with the after effects of tippling had rekindled my love sconces; I got up in a jiffy and headed straight to the nearest STD booth with my lucky charm on. The intention was to conquer and the plan simple. I made a long distance call to that special someone who, I thought was eagerly waiting for my call for the past seven odd months. I wasn’t entirely wrong. The conversation was short, but long enough. When the call ended, it was all over. My walk back to the hostel was the most strenuous one, not because I had just realized that I had been a treacherous immature chauvinistic brat, but more because I just realized that I had wasted a beautiful life in frivolities.

Later that night, back in our hostel room and in our undies we resumed our drinking. ‘A’ pummelled me with some more gyan, and out of which, one the most significant one (pertaining to this topic) was, “If only we believed in ourselves, we wouldn’t have to believe in anything else”. I was enlightened. And in the spurt of enlightenment that I had just received, I ran up the stairs, straight to the terrace of our three storied hostel building as ‘A’ screamed behind me “Abey kahan bhag raha hai wapas? kapdey toh pehente ja!!” (“Hey, where are you running away again? At least wear some cloths and go!!”)  

At the terrace, I ejected out of my favourite zebra stripes and unfrocked my past life. I wrapped it on a stone and threw it high towards the sky expecting that it would fly off far away into outer space. It was a windy night and the flying brief ended its journey positing itself in the corridor of the Arts College Hostel adjacent to ours, where, I am sure, it must have found itself a new worthy owner. I ran down back to my room, where my friend, who was totally drunk and trying out a complicated yoga position, recoiled like a spring and jumped up standing straight staring at a naked me and asked “Arrey, chaddi kahan chodd aye aap?” (“Where are your undies?”). With teary eyes I informed him that I had baptised myself and that from today onwards I am new person and that I’ll believe in myself and nothing and no one else. He smiled and spread out his arms saying “Chal, isi baat pe galey lag jaa” (“This calls for a hug”).

It was a life changing day, not only for me, but also for ‘A’. As two very drunk boys, one in briefs and other totally naked hugged each other (out of pure platonic love) in their hostel room leaving the door ajar, someone who had spotted a naked boy crying and running down the stairs raised an alarm. In no time there was a decent crowd outside our room, which included not only our hostel mates, but also their girlfriends who had dropped by to check out their boyfriend’s manliness under the pretext of joint study. Our lives had changed for sure. The news leaked out and we instantly became the infamous naked boys hugging. The news spread like wild fire and a few creative guys spiced up the story with their own blend of masalas. ‘A’ had a lot of explaining to do to his sweetheart. As for me, the event ensured that girls no longer got sucked into ‘The Nelson’s Triangle’ (Read: Nelson’s sweet sexy triangular smile), albeit a few ‘good’ men did try to rub their asses to mine. Shucks!!

 

“It's fun to have a lucky charm, but it can't replace believing in yourself.”

-     Rescue Heroes @ Kidsco TV

  Famous lucky charms:

·    A legendary all rounder and the star of India’s maiden World Cup winning team always had this red handkerchief in this pant pocket. It was his lucky charm, but however, his cricketing career ended the day he spoke against the selection committee. Last heard that this guy was desperately trying to become the coach of the current Indian team, but alas!

·      A mallu lad who plays cricket with a vengeance. His wrist is full of amulets and his neck full of blessed trinket jewellery. Sadly, he is still the most disliked player in the game.

·    An Indian Tennis player with a nose ring, who acts like she is already a legend, believes that her hubby from the other side of the border is her lucky charm. No sooner did she proclaim this, her hubby lost his job!