Sunday, June 7, 2009


One of my biggest handicaps at this place is an unavailability of a vehicle called motorcycle.
It is a two-wheeler with a motor between the wheels, which is run by an engine, which again is between the two wheels. But world would have been a lot better place if it had just been a vehicle. In this place it is a way of being.

People here don’t walk. They merge their feet with the vehicle. They make the wheels out of their legs and they walk, rolling them with horsepower. You need motorcycle to go to work. You need a motorcycle to go to the chowk. You need a motorcycle to go to the grocery shop. You need a motorcycle for your morning walk. You need a motorcycle to buy a pack of biscuits from the shop below your home. You need a motorcycle to eat on you dining table. You need a motorcycle to shit and then you need a motorcycle to wash it off your arse too. The local residents lived on the motorbike. And the migrant male students died on it. They rode their bikes day in and day out. From one end of the city to other. And then rammed it into a milestone, a truck or a tanker. And died on it. Female students managed to stay alive. They were always awed by machos who commanded these roaring machines and fell for them instantly. Or did they fall for the involved convenience regarding traveling, was a matter of reflection. But they merrily took up the role of pillion riders, keeping aside their otherwise feminist ideology and jumped to safety in such situations. They escaped with minor injuries like a fracture or a broken spine, which could be mended later. But they lived to see their flourishing careers and set up families. That was the circle of life. Some sadists amongst the survived women, also named their kids after the dead guys. This choice of name could be called ironic. Passing on the same fate of a dead man in your past life to your own child which is about to begin its life.

Being deficient of a motorbike narrows down the chances of getting a woman in this place. And not having a woman, brings down the chances of being sane in this place. Almost every arse here has a motorcycle seat to rest itself upon. Except some like me, who overcome this deficiency by maintaining strong relationships. Especially with people who have a motorbike but don’t have anybody to ride on the pillion seat.

“Harshad…I wanted your bike for a day.” I lit him a cigarette.
“Don’t ask for permission fucker…It’s yours”
“Dam??” He asks taking a puff from the lit cigarette.
“Hill Station”
“I said a day bro…”
“Yeah…24 hrs…”He smiles naughtily.

That is the problem with the virgins. The thought of someone else getting laid, excites them more than the person getting laid. They will pull your leg. They will encourage you. They will give you concessions. They will exaggerate the situation. They will drive you crazy by showering goodwill. They will also imagine the scenes to themselves and enjoy them. Even jerk over it. They will praise you. They will respect you. They will despise you. They will bloat up the situation and burst it all over you. Even when it’s not the way they imagine it to be. Like now.

“Arey yaar…Shamita’s brother is coming there for a conference…she wants to meet him…have to take her yaar…”
He suddenly looses the mischievous glow on his face.
“Ohh…kay!” He tediously utters the word.
“When is it??” He asks spuriously.
“Day after tomorrow…” I answer.
“Arey I have to go to meet my Mama….when do you want it exactly??”
“No issue boss…will send her by train…will ask her brother to collect her from the station…” I speak before he ends.
“Arey…it’s not like that..”
“Chill dude….no worries!!” I throw a fake smile and punch his belly playfully.

I never guessed. I was not shocked. Not because he did it. Because I couldn’t guess that he could do that. I didn’t prepare myself for this. Complete failure. I had missed this line as I was chalking out the design. An important line. The darkest and the thickest one. Sometimes relations you maintain with people make you forget the obvious. The obvious way they could behave when you touched their delicate impulses. You forget that before they are whoever they are to you, they are individuals. Stand alone human beings with their true disposition. And when you scrape off the layer of your relation off them, you experience the true humans in them. The humans which you had been neglecting when you were busy living these relationships. Love, friendship, family or anything else, these primal instincts form the base for each of them. Just that we are unaware of them And when we come across them in these relationships, they purely shock us. Devastating us, destroying our faith in them. But the truth is, people are just being one their real self at such moments.

“Take it in the evening yaar…I will come back by three…I will bring it to you myself after that…”
“Its okay buddy…relax!!!” I say.

Harshad has a small arse. Or else I would have asked him to thrust his bike up his arse. Bhenchod!

Had Shammy not been a friend of mine in this situation, I would have made her fall in love with me. Got her laid and mailed him the pictures of us kissing each other passionately.
And If I had a chance to marry her, then I would have sent him five invitation cards, one for each family member. And would’ve had tweleve kids, just to call him ‘Mama’. Maternal uncle, their mother’s brother. I would have also asked Shamita to send him a Rakhi every Raksha Bandhan. Two of them to tie on two of his wrists.

But then I realize. Its not his fault. It’s his instinct.