Satoma Asadgamaya

In Memory

Migrated Datasets


Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Duck Out?!!

Some intellectual hit the nail on the head when he remarked, very innocuously if I may add, "Women! Can’t live with them! Can’t live without them!" I heartily concur.

Junta privy to my love life (which, rather unfortunately, has to be prefixed with the obnoxious adjective NON-EXISTENT) over the years would be quick to pounce on my opening salvo (if I may have the temerity of calling it one) by saying something like: "C**@## ! How the f*** would you know? You’ve never been anywhere near one. Not unless your dictionary considers a mile to be near measure. And even if you actually had the gall to break that ‘Lakshman Rekha’, then she, assuming the stability of her mental equilibrium, would have a restraining order taken out against you."

"Hey! Now you wait a minute! I sat next to R* V* during a chemistry class in Std. XII. The R* V*. 45 minutes. One foot away.Lot of chemistry. I…"

Tank it. As much as I’d like to protest these observations with vehemence, I find myself unable to do so in light (what light?! I’m in the dark here!) of starkly contrasting statistics viz.

# Dates : Hundreds of them
"Khajurs may not be counted."

# Dates : Zero
"That’s more like it."

# Dances : Two
"Hat saala! Proper dancing only. In front of the girl, and not behind."

# ‘Proper’ dances : None

# Kisses (on the cheeks) : LOTS
"Mother and aunties are not to be included."

# Kisses (on the cheeks) : None

# Kisses (on the lips) : Just gimme a break !
"At least a peck?"

# Pecks : None

#Girlfriends : R*V*
"Abey! Teri to…!"

#Girlfriends : Next

#Rolls-in-the-hay : Talk about searching for a needle in a haystack

What does this add up to? Obviously, the answer is not Casanova, Valentino and Don Juan rolled into one. Assuming that my mathematics is somewhat better than the gynocentric bit of my social skills – Zilch! Naught! Nothing! Zero! Now, look here. I’m a frugal guy. I don’t wish for much. I just want the ‘n’ out of the ‘none’ and step triumphantly into the hallowed precincts of ‘one’. Perhaps even that is too much to ask for, going by some of the repartees from my more fortunate cohorts (who are way beyond ‘one’ and into double digits on all fronts).

One such cognoscente would often remark, with subtle condescension, "You ain’t on zero, buddy!You’re on one. And what more, you’re THE ONE!" Aghast ?! Skipped a few heartbeats, did you, thinking that your brahmacharya club just lost yet another valuable member? Relax!!! I’m still with you. He was alluding to the one statistic that I (deliberately, perhaps) missed out.

#Rakhis – One

Aaaaarrghhhh !!! You can probably hear me tearing my hair out in frustration…or is it because of the dandruff ?! Hey, you know what? I don’t care. I just don’t (Psst! But do remind me to sue those Clinic Active quacks).

The preceding statement truly expresses the essence of my vacuous being. It is a constant vacillation between the extremities of thought. First, I say that I get ulti frusth (which implies that I do care) and then I say something totally antithetical as if I don’t. Love them, hate them! Like them, loathe them! Think about them all the time, banish them from my psyche altogether! Am I nuts? Do I need to be packed off on the next bus to Ranchi? I just give up.

But the truth is I don’t want to. When somebody needs some Maggi, where does he go? To Chedi’s. Some rasgullas? To Harry’s. Some booze? To Venky’s. Similarly, by the laws of inductive and deductive logic, in the evergreen campus of a certain premier engineering college, a guy who needs a girlfriend has to prostrate at the altar of that mighty temple of love – the one and only Mall Hall. But hey! Just look at how religious people out here are! Jampacked temple! 25 deities and 500 devotees! And of those 25, 20 have amazing puke-inducing powers that would put tequila shots to shame. God, so many malls in Mall Hall. But the devotee next door puts things in perspective when he says," No prizes for guessing the winner if I were to shave my arms and legs and enter a beauty contest with these lovelies." 5. 500. Of those 500, at least 100 are hardcore studs. Now I don’t think you need to contact Prof. Jain of the Dept. of Mathematics to get the probability pertaining to this right. I do a bit of mathematics anyway. Thomas Finney apparatus and says (quite kindly), "Son, the roots of this equation are complex and imaginary." Egad!

Depending on the weight of the guy’s pocket, Cupid’s mood and the guy’s queuing algorithm (Truck Despatch might seem to be a good bet), he might manage a ‘vardan’. Lightning strikes! Again and again, dispelling the age-old myth that it never strikes twice at the same place. Along with a million volts (for accurate figure, please contact the Dept. of Electrical Engg.) comes enlightenment. Buddhus become Buddhas! Dawning realization! It ain’t no temple and there sure ain’t any ‘prasad’ to be had! The prime of youth – gone awaste! Ya Khuda! Kahan Ga**d Phasa!

I find that some of my ‘expert’ friends are quite amenable to buying this sob story of mine. "There is little that a guy can do in the face of such adversity, bereft of opportunity! " summed up a sympathetic face perspicuously. "Ok loser! What about Cal? What about back home? jutted in a contemptuous voice. My reply? "Err…err…err (infinite loop that is broken by a kick up my backside)." No problems with that. I had long perfected the art of humming and hawing. After all, it is an activity that I’ve performed with aplomb in the presence of desirable female society on umpteen occasions. Needless to say, I invariably lost the pleasure of their company after such dazzling displays of eloquence, usually being left with nothing but a deadpan expression that masked feelings that are beyond my powers of description.

I really got to admit this – women scare the living daylights out of me. Phat leta hai mera! For example, I’m sure many of you would have experienced this situation : Imagine a helpless unarmed guy walking past a gang of rowdy girls, minding his own business and …and they start giggling furiously (remember the Kwality Feast ad)! What the heck man…sharafat ka koi zamana hi nahi raha. I mean, come on, what in heaven’s name is so funny about a guy walking down the street, whistling nonchalantly "Hum honge kaamyab ek din." The giggle, man…the giggle…ban it...I say ban it…array koi ban karvao yaar!!

Often I’ve been left wondering about the enigma that is womanhood. Watching Mel Gibson in the movie hasn’t helped either. Somebody suggested that I put "fire into my belly" and "brimstone into my heart". Others prescribed crap ranging from an "attitude to wear" to a "Scottish accent". I’ve had it with these pretentious cliches and bombastic lies. I’m going to be plain old me. That’s the best way to be. Duck out?! Not a chance. Every dog has his day and so will I. I may not be a bloodhound but I’m no poodle either. I have pedigree and I’m still batting. I’ll hit a century and walk back to the pavilion when I’m bowled (over) by a maiden!

And this haiku, by the inimitable Stephen King, sums up my unadulterated thoughts on the fairer sex.

"Your hair is winter fire.
January embers.
My heart burns there too."

Not all horror stories have a horrifying end. Right, Mr. King?

"Ah! Women! Can’t live with them! Can’t live without them!"

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

mental baba 4:36 AM
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