Adult Diapers and Arab Smocks

...male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin.

You guys need adult diapers. Cos apparently you can’t control your stuff. Cos apparently the urge is so urgent, you gotta go right now. Right now when you are talking to me on the phone. And by by the – do not think it necessary to inform me until I hear that horrifying sound of the toilet flushing.

Didn’t your mommy tell you it’s poor manners to pee before others? Oh well, out of sight is out of mind right?

But God help me, I have a million bruises on my mind from horrifying flushes. I have permanent disabilities from the running sound of pee trickling down your wee wee. “These are the stuff that nightmares are made of and our little life is rounded with a tinkle” – Shakespeare from the Tempests of Rabia .

And you know the funny part – EVERYONE does it. And apparently I am the only wierdo who has a problem with it!!! And it totally beats me! I don’t even take a call if I am undressed, or in states in which I would ordinarily not appear before you. Why? Cos well, I got your voice pouring down my ears. There’s barely any distance between you and I. You are in fact very close to me. Physically. Because your sound is converting into physical waves. But you won’t get it na. You will jiggle your wiggle and slap your crap at ease. If there are no eyes there are no spies. Right?

Ugh.

Don’t bother talking to me. Any of you. I know you’ve all done it. I know all of you feel rather empowered and superior when on the pot. I can hear your silent “Let me show ya what I got”s. Show me what you got? I am going to come over right now and dunk your head in that pot and flush it all around.

Grossed out? But it didn’t happen right? Hmmmm. Remember a thing called the power of imagination?

Some people don’t even want to leave it to the imagination. I saw a well-groomed floor manager at an upmarket store – digging his nose away in glory … then go right up to a customer and shake his hand.

There’s a reason I don’t like shaking men’s hands. And it’s got nothing to do with my sense of modesty. It’s got everything to do with theirs. I don’t know why men think that when they scratch their nether-regions, nobody sees it. Hello yes, I may have modest eyes that turn away when you actually do that. But I know what’s going on. The same way I know that you don’t even wipe your hands after having publicly urinated or privately for that matter. There’s a reason male hands have that slimy look. 

I tend to believe that men suffer the rather impractical male clothing essential – the pants, for one sole reason only. Ease of urinating at any publicly available spot. If they had the control women did, the would happily opt for a lungi or a smock like those rather smug Arabs. There would be no nether-region scratching and you could actually hold my attention without me obsessing over all the items of mine that you have had the chance to lay your slimy hands on.

And male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin. Ugh. Ugh. Yugh.

So are you all disgusted enough now?

Good.

Now dontchya ever ever ever call me when on the pot and dontchya never never never try to show me whatchya got.

Pssssst: Ladies, I am actually referring to you. You know that you are the ones who do it the most -- some wierd sense of female bonding going one too far I think!!

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Death by Dung or Kohinoor?

.... and hey if you didn’t notice, you are driving to the tune of her hands yourself! This is the point where I wanna roll down that window and scream LADY JUST STUFF YOUR HANDS IN HIS PANTS AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY!!

Now that I am back behind the wheel, the road is my video game, and I am winning it! Well, err, only sometimes. Every day on the road is an experience isn’t it? All the out of control asses, the out of control asses of asses, and just plain old cow asses! And if you are in an auto – well its like a whole another movie! Oh that horrifying fast motion experience of an upcoming cow ass, and if you are lucky enough to be carrying a dupatta you can slow motion throw it around your face and super slow motion duck into the auto as the big fat ass with that swishing tail and leftover poop looms closer and closer ... and closer. The tail swishes like a ball chain .... the poop wriggles slowly .......and its almost as if the cows ass took a deep deep breath to totally inflate itself! In my head I am enacting a dramatic “nahiiiiiiiiiiii” in sloooow motion as I jump in revulsion to save myself. But I don’t even know if I managed to duck it........ dear God ..Nahiiiiiiiiiii.......silence .... and then Ka Boom!!!

Ok, it was just the auto. Pulling out all its power and kaboom in that final spurt to escape certain death by dung. Silent thank you to the auto-guy. You are not so bad are ya?

You know that stretch between Hosmat and Domlur? The actual Hosmat hospital road? You know that ride? That super bone jerky ride that is designed to pop loose all the nuts and bolts that hold your body together? For the non-Bangaloreans, Hosmat hospital is the leading ortho hospital specializing in spine injury. The ROAD. Well, that’s a business strategy. Designed to drive more customers inside. The drilling machine effect begins at the start of the road. Hosmat lies right at the end. Then slowly the craters start appearing...and sudden mountainous ridges. And then you hit that one big ridge that ejects you right out of your seat and throws you inside the Hosmat compound. They are waiting there with their stretchers to take you away and commit you to the life of spine repair and wheelchair. Like a bad sci-fi movie.

Once you cross that stretch and start zooming towards Koramangala the roads are like inner city heavens for motorists. Every cyclist, biker, and driver will just gun his vehicle to make the most of that half a kilometre. And the road even curves so beautifully. I took some firang friends on that road once to show them the city in an auto. And as we were zooming, one of them stuck his head out of the auto to take in the semi fresh Bangalore air. Mmmm the sweet Bangalore air ..... Ka Boom!!! Lady Amba hit him right in the face!!!

Never happened.

But it could.

And it should.

That will give them the real taste of India. Amul India :D.

In the recent weeks the other kinds of asses on the roads have been testing my patience. What’s more irritating than a weaving motorcyclist on a mobile phone? A cyclist on a mobile phone!!! Oh God, like I am not that worried about running you over already that you had to go and add a mobile phone into the mix!! Oh uncle. unccclee - but you are road royalty aren’t you? Next in line to Lady Amba and Baby Swishy Legs and her friend Master Silly Pants. I have to bite my lips to stop myself from offering a saccharine “come, why don’t you sit down in the middle of the road and have some tea?”

In the days the various variety of auto-wallahs ferried me around, the only solace at long agonizing signals would be the thumping music surfing out of a car window. And thus, I now take the responsibility of traffic signal entertainment very seriously. I am the traffic light DJ, unleashing chammak challos and mohit chauhans upon the still audience. If it were an ad we would all start tumbling out of the vehicles and start jiggying with it. Uuuui Uuuiii. Ahan. Ahan.

Hey, in all this I forgot to mention the biggest road royalty of all – the condom ad actors. The guy on the motorbike with a girl plastered to his back. Her chin gently resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Her arms by the side of his legs. The wind blows gently, the bike slows a little, it weaves and sways, the hands move up to hug that chest.....the chin burrows in closer .....the bike sways some more .... drifting to the tune of her hands .... she laughs naughtily in his ear ... singing vaseeegaraa.... he brakes a little ... her hands move south ... he suddenly accelerates ....she presses in closer and he brakes some more .... and hey if you didn’t notice, you are driving to the tune of her hands yourself! This is the point where I wanna roll down that window and scream LADY JUST STUFF YOUR HANDS IN HIS PANTS AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY!! But the tease won’t have any of that.

By this time I have gotten quite horny myself. The other kind of horny. Please Sound Horn OK horny. But dear God I gotta beat this, so I gear up to zoom past that weaving bike. Hand on gear stick, foot pressing in on accelerator, I burst through with a warrior cry of EEeyyyaaaahhhHHHHHHHHH. But the climax stops me in my tracks. Or rather the anti-climax.

A traffic signal.

Condom adders rumble down to a stop right next to my window. A question pops in my head – do I prefer death by dung or by the kohinoor adders? But then I look out at their laughing faces and realize that probably I am the one out of line with my reactions … isn't this what makes desis - desis? – lawless, passionate, horny, loud, rule-bending, little adjusting, totally bursting, and throbbing with yin and yang. Slowly a song so corny runs through my head.

INdiaaaa ..... incredible Indi-yaaa .....

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