Text Maniacs

Who are you texting, my dear driver?

What is so important that you cannot wait until you get home to deliver that message?

Are you texting Superman, directing him to a damsel in distress, somewhere in Gurgaon?

Are you texting a girl, telling her how much you love her before she leaves the country forever?

Are you texting a politician, crying about the plight of the roads in your locality?

Are you texting a scientist, to share an idea you have to fight global warming?

Are you texting a researcher, explaining a homemade cure for cancer?

Are you texting a reporter, informing him of a scandal that is about to shame our nation?

Are you texting an activist, on how to give the underprivileged kids a proper education?

Are you texting the police, to provide them with evidence to solve a sensational case?

Are you texting your mother, to tell her how you’ve decided to step out of the closet?

Are you texting a failed singer, telling her how there are hundreds who love her voice?

Are you texting God, with a simple plan to answer more prayers than usual?

Are you texting a government official, reminding him of his responsibility of serving the country?

Are you texting the driver of a school bus, warning him of an impending accident?

Are you texting a kidney donor, asking him to help an old lady in dire need?

Are you texting the US President, requesting him to withdraw his troops?

Are you texting the Taliban leader, demanding that he let Afghan women play football?

Are you texting Pele, urging him to come out of retirement?

Are you texting Dhoni, pleading with him to promote football for a while?

Or do you simply think that you are the center of the universe and any harm your action might cause is irrelevant? I think it is the latter. So, fuck off!

The Crossing

I know that you know her well, we all do
That girl who’s always in a hurry to go
Throwing helpless looks and pouty pouts at you
As she waits, eagerly to cross the busy road

You watch as the heartless cars and bikes pass by
And catch one of the many looks she threw
It slides and goes all the way down to your feet
Lifting your foot and slamming it on the brakes

She looks at you, thanking you maybe
Her fingers working on unzipping her large bag
You wait as she navigates the mess inside
All that while still standing by the road

Truckers and cab guys and their friends abuse you
You however, hold tight for the damsel in distress
You are her prince, charming or not so charming
And you will hold your horses, until she passes

Her hands emerges from the bag with an iPhone
Blood rushes back to paint her pale face to life
She busily texts as if her life depended on it
All that and more while still standing by the road

Your patience wears thin with every key she presses
Your foot slowly moves towards the accelerator
The car, you can sense, is almost as angry as you
And just jolts the engine awake as if to run her over

The roar of the Fiat wakes her up as if from a dream
She jumps on to the road with a sprinter’s urgency
In an instant she turns into a rabbit in the headlights
And stares blankly at your windshield and your surprised eyes

You stop again somehow, hitting the brake just on time
As she clambers on to the footpath across the road
There is chaos and commotion and speeding abuses
As a crowd of Samaritans comes to the damsel’s rescue

You roll down your window in genuine concern
To see if she was alright, if only to wash away your guilt
As the crowd parts, you catch a glimpse of the girl
There is no thank you, but just a middle finger flip

The Perfect Day

There I was, walking down a familiar road, on a sunny afternoon. It was a Saturday, and I was in no hurry to get anywhere. The song that I was trying to remember all week was humming by itself, the original version, and in perfect rhythm. The smile that seemed to have placed a restraining order against was back, and was now refusing to budge. The Gulmohars were VIBGYOR. Crows and pigeons were on my side, waiting to be called upon if I wished an air-poop-raid on my enemies. Dogs were barking my heavy metal playlist. Flashes of orgies occurred every 2 minutes or so. Facebook was free of Rajnikanth jokes. Every woman on the street was smiling at me, despite me cracking a joke, or as was the case often, being one. There were no assignments on my mind, no to-do- lists to check, and no falling pianos to dodge. It was the perfect day.

Since it was the perfect day, and as nothing could go wrong on the perfect day, I decided to put myself on the edge. Well, a little bit. I stopped, my eyes searching desperately for something. After a stab here, and ruffle there, I found it. A stone. No. The stone. Round, polished and the next best thing to football. I positioned the stone carefully by the side of the road and stepped back. After one hard look, I repositioned the stone, and adjusted my stance. Uttering a piece of football commentary under my breath, I stepped forward and kicked the little stone. “Beckham shoots, and Beckham scores,” I screamed. And on the perfect day, the stone obliged. It rolled, and it bent and it rolled again. And slowly, yet flirtatiously, it came to a stop at the heels of the most beautiful woman the perfect day could offer.

I looked up. A suppressed goal celebration followed. She gave me the ‘what a weirdo’ look and walked past me, leaving a lingering trail of her perfume for me to take home, and into my bed. As I took the deepest of breaths and turned my head, it struck me. Hey, I knew that fragrance. I shook my head slowly trying to place it. I took another sniff, frantically probing around my memory bank. And bang, I got it. Right by the corner shelf, around 4 years back. My ex.

And before I knew it, everything came back. The break-up, the fights, the endless arguments, the compromises, the heartbreak, the denial,  the effort to recuperate, the failure that followed, the rebound, the heartbreak, etc. Like a ruthless juggernaut – it trampled down the years spent on repairing the broken heart, digging up memories buried deep down. Perfect day, my ass!  

Do you feel lucky, punk?

I have never quite understood the fight sequences in movies. They remind me of a bank. It is as if our hero works at the bank. The villains are the customers. Despite being armed with looks rugged enough to bring an expression of fear on Arjun Rampal’s face and enough weapons to pose a threat to the Bush administration, they huddle obediently around the hero. It is as if they have all been given tokens, like at the bank, and are waiting for their number to be announced over the PA system.

Slowly, they come forward, wielding their weapons. The first one approaches the hero. After a brief and formal greeting, he is bashed up beyond recognition. The others wait, anxiously looking at the token display and the transaction in progress. After the first of the villains has been beaten to pulp, the next one in line advances hesitantly, as if checking with the teller – “Token no. 23, isn’t it? Well, that’s me. Start punching.” And one by one they come, with a weapon of their choice. And one by one they bite the dust.

So you think it’s over, huh? Well It isn’t. Because that brings us to the single most important event of these fights - especially fights involving martial artists or Van damme. And hence the most intriguing - The quintessential Swivel Kick.

For the less initiated, the swivel kick is the one the hero deploys after going round and round like a ballet dancer with one of the legs planted. After every 360 degree turn, the planted leg moves by approximately 4 inches in the direction of victim. It is usually executed on the last participating thug, purely because of its dramatic nature. Or so I suppose. Or maybe it is because of the difficulty to execute it when surrounded by men armed with sharp objects. Or maybe he doesn’t want witnesses, in case he loses balance midway. Or it is just the length of the soundtrack, as was the case in ‘Bloodsport’. Whatever the reason, the kick is usually the finishing move. Beautiful. Brutal. And slow. Very slow. Therein lies my problem.

What is that last thug waiting for? He has seen what happens when the token number is called. He has time to run while the hero enters the swivel. If the hero is in his element and decides to employ multiple swivels, he might just have enough time to cross the border, register at a refugee camp and organise a small revolution. But no, he just waits. He is not holding an iPhone and filming the video. He is not busy updating his last words on Facebook. He is simply waiting. To be kicked in the face. As if asking the hero – “See, I am impressed by what you did to my gang and all that. But can you really finish in style with an accurate blow to my left temple?” There is simply no other logical explanation.

Remember...?

Remember 60ml rum and 60ml cold drink? Remember one sips, because there was no money for two? Remember feeding your good friend under the table, the friendly mouse? Remember wiping the empty glasses clean – again, and again, and again? Remember the elaborate conversation with the auto driver at the counter? Remember only needing 100 bucks to get reasonably smashed? Remember chicken pepper dry from the first week of every month? Remember the ‘loose mixture’ from the rest of the month? Remember potato chips and plain peanuts? Remember peeing standing on your toes to avoid stepping on the spillage? Remember holding your pee because of the vomit in the urinal? Remember parliament and congress, the edible kind? Remember the two quick 90ml drinks before entering the pub? Remember the Old Monk peg that didn’t taste like the Old Monk peg? Remember those slices of boiled egg topped with red chilli powder? Remember half-boiled? Remember those perpetually empty salt and pepper shakers? Remember the occasional don at the adjacent table? Remember the fight at the next table and the broken beer bottle battles? Remember the loud television in the background and the local news channel that was always on? Remember the mosquito coils dangling from empty beer bottles? Remember kicking them down after a few drinks? Remember the inevitable faulty bill and the screaming that followed? Remember ‘Murthy’ the waiter? Remember leaving last, as the tables got stacked and the lights went out? Remember those arguments in the dark, because nobody cared? Remember where it all began? Remember…… your local bar?