Vikram
in search of his internal blonde…
In what can be termed as a monumental leap towards embracing my metrosexuality,
I finally succumbed to the temptation of getting my face bleached.
I went to the nearest shop, Gupta General Stores, and asked for bleach. I was
promptly handed a blue bottle with a weird shaped nozzle. The instruction label
said: The triple action formula can be used for all types of toilet bowls and
does not affect septic tank.
Can toilet bowl be my face? And septic tank my brain?
The stupid Guptaji had supplied me with Harpic. A toilet bleach. In retrospect,
I think the storekeeper called me Shit Face. Just like my friend Joel who says
I am so full of shit, my eyes are brown.
Right then I decided to outsource this need to the nearest salon and promptly
got Fem bleach done. As I walked back home… fair, trotting and humming
to the advertising tune “Fem Fem se hogai mein… gori gori” (With
Fem Fem bleach I became fair fair)… it suddenly struck me: What would
my chaste Rajput mother think of this act? Bleaching is not what is expected
of the Alpha Male Rajput. Belching is.
I could imagine my mom opening the door and say, “Ham barbad ho gaye.
Ab hum kisi ko muh dikhaane ke layak nahin rahe. Kya issi din ke liye tujhe
paal pos ke bada kiya tha? Ghar mein jawaan betiyaan hein. Is ghar ke darwaaze
tumhare liye hamesha ke liye band hein.”(We are doomed. We won’t
be able to show our face to the society. Did I
deliver you from my loins to see this day? I have a young daughter at home.
Who will marry her? The doors of this house are closed to you... forever.)
But nothing of that sort of happened. Mom opened the door and said, “Yes?” She
couldn’t recognise her own first born. I was soooo fair... soooo cute.
I fluttered my eyelids and said, “Look Ma, it's me. Tera eklauta Beta
(Your one and only son). I bleached. I am fair. Now kids won’t pick on
me, Ma. My value in the shaadi (marriage) market will triple, Ma. For dowry
we can even ask for a scooter and colour TV, Ma. Why I may even get a promotion,
Ma.”
“Beta? Aaja re mere raaja. Aaj mein itni kush hoo.” (Son? Come here
my sweetness. I am so happy today.)
She then took me to my Late Daddy’s picture hung on a wall and said, “Beta,
aaj tere Babuje hote tau kitne kush hote.” (Son, if your daddy were to
be alive today, he would have been so happy.)
And then Mother and Son bonded big-time, as she said in a Nirupa Roy voice
over: “Ek baar mujhe maa kehkar pukaro, Beta.” (Just for once call
me Mother, Son)
“Maa.” (Mother)
“Mera ladlaa. Mera nanha.” (My sweetness, My smallness)
“Maa, tum kitni achi ho, Ma.” (Mother, you are so sweet, Mother)
***
Once
upon a time, the coat I am wearing in this picture, posted in the About
Vikram section of this website, was cream in colour. But then… many
people thought it was white. Especially women, who were curious to
know if I was wearing white shoes with it!
I would then politely explain how the coat is actually cream but looks white
due to the excess camera flash… BLAH BLAH BLAH. And NO I am not wearing
white shoes. SICK MY DUCK, BITCH. Etc, etc.
One day I reached to the end of my tether. If this were to be America, I would
have bought a gun over the counter, gone to the nearest elementary school and
shot everybody dead in brutal cold-blooded murder. But unfortunately we have
laws in India against such therapeutic acts.
So I called my friend Nischint and told him to pleasseeeee turn the coat black
with a photo editor… before I go insane answering these crazy bunch of
lunatic women.
Nischint promptly changed the colour to black. And if you look at the image
up close, you will know he didn’t do a good job. Bloody techie.
Now I adorned a black coat. I felt like a newborn Hindu. Even my mother couldn’t
recognise me. Again.
Now… the same women look at my picture in the black coat and ask: Vikram,
why do you look like a male porn star? Like a morph of Will Smith and 2-Pac
in a safari suit.
God I miss Sati.
Singh is King
My mom is getting old and feeble. She came to me the other day
staggering, barely managing to remain audible, and said in a
trembling voice, “Babloo beta (Son), I am getting old. These
knees
cannot take it anymore. I could do with some help around the house.
Get me a 4x4 Tata Safari, alloy wheels, fully loaded with anti-lock
braking… And make sure accessories shown are part of standard
equipment.”
“
But Ma, why Safari?”
She snapped her fingers arrogantly in the air and said in a
Dharmendra voice-over - “Rajput: Ek shandar Safari. Ek jandaar
Safari. (Mama said to knock you out!).
“
And, Beta, while you are at it, make sure it is nothing less than
100 Brake Horse Power. Us Rajputs cannot be seen in public with
anything less than 100 horses.”
Ole. Ole. My Mommy strongest.
“
And one last thing, Beta… I need a bumper sticker that says:
Singh
Is King.”
So I called JMD. Short for Jai Mata Di. An auto dealer service who
dispense bhajans (hymns), as they keep you on hold. And picked up a
black Tata Safari. Just like that.
In all the Rajput largesse, mother and son forgot one small detail.
No one in the family knows how to drive.
So Mom scouted around and found a driver, Tiwariji. According to
her, he has impeccable credentials. Tiwariji used to drive a hearse
in Bihar. And his passengers, apparently, never complained.
***
I don’t know why God does this to me.
All the women I meet have to
have fathers in the armed forces with licensed guns. Or sell
explosives.
Meet Susan (Name changed ‘coz I can). A sweet girl whose father
heads the division of a company whose sole objective is to “get
business from people who want to blow things up”.
“
Your father is an arms dealer? He flies a plane at night and drops
illegal arms in Purulia?”
“
No.”
“
He lives in a protected bunker surrounded by weapon-grade Uranium,
ready to press the Red Button when the President calls?”
“
No.”
“
He lost four fingers and an eye while making bombs for the
Palestine Liberation Front and gets to say cool things like ‘Today
we shall die in the name of Allah’.”
“
No.”
“
He is a eight-year-old destitute whose life is of servitude at the
Standard Fireworks factory?”
“
Noooooooooooooo. Shaaddddup or I will blow you.”
Yeah, Baby. Isn't it amazing how I get women to say these things?
***
In my last post I promised you articles by
my friend Nischint. A
scrawny Sardar with four fathers and three mothers… (at the time
of
going to press).
Here’s one such tale of… The Trials and Tribulations of
a Sardar Who
Shaved his Balls… Well, almost.
Around 4:00 am, out of sheer boredom, I (Nischint “60 GB Porn”
Sohal) decided to do something interesting. No, no, not tying my
penis into interesting animal shapes (Look ma, a giraffe!!) I wanted
to do something different. I decided to shave my balls.
I made my way to the bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror,
and narcissistically admired my loins. Then I held the razor in my
hand like a Samurai.
I knew exactly what to do. First cut all the
hair really short, then wrap a hot towel around my balls, wait until
the hair was softer and
the skin cleaner, and then shave, extremely delicately. And in a
few breath-taking minutes, I would be smooth.
I held the razor, cupped my balls, looked in
a mirror, thinking of shaving my gonads and suddenly it hit me. It
might look cool at the
time, but I was going to have to keep shaving my scrotum, just to
make sure the hair wouldn't grow back.
What would I tell my girl? How would I explain
to my punjabbi father that I needed more razors to shave my balls?
How was I going to hold
my head up when my kids asked me, "Daddy, daddy, why are your
balls
so clean like a baby?"
Ah, the shame of it all, the shame. ***
Last year my punjabbi family decided to do a
Goa trip by car. It was
supposed to take 7 hours, but we took 12 hours to reach the hotel.
All the way, Aarya, my four-year-old sister, would not stop crying.
It was very claustrophobic in a car stuck with the same people for
12 hours.
When we finally did hit Margao, we spent two
hours trying to find the bloody hotel, which had graciously decided
not to put up any
signposts on the way to help guide travellers.
And this managed to piss off my hot-headed father, and most of us
were already seething with anger about how much we had argued about
the way to the hotel.
On reaching the gate, the old security guard walked up calmly, and
said, "Yes??". To which Daddy dearest shouted, "What
yes?? Bloody
fucker, open the fucking gates. Maaderchaud (mother fucker), this is
a hotel, we have come to stay here, and you're asking us, yes??
Openthe fucking gates, I'm gonna screw your manager. Open the fucking
gates, chutya (born of the cunt)!!"
Singhs ARE Kings.
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