The other Sania Bhabhi

With the World Cup thrill reaching a crescendo, it is not uncommon to find motorists, eyes firmly set on the road, ears glued to the various radio channels that do a neat job of narrating the latest scores.

With the din that the crowds make, it is a marvel that the commentary is audible, which probably accounts for the hiked decibel levels of the car’s music system and furrowed lines on the motorist and his passengers’ foreheads.

Without warning, the cheering of the stadium crowds fades away, to give way to the exaggerated drawl and provocative sighs of a woman, who calls herself ‘Aapki Bhabhi Sania.’

The titular ‘Bhabhi,’ with a wristful of jingling bangles, proceeds to read out a letter that she’s penned, one of the many she’s written in the past few weeks, addressed to one of her numerous ‘devars’ (brothers-in-law).

Her style is inimitable (and not in a good way). She speaks in a breathless, sultry tone, her amorousness all too evident in the way she voices her text. While her innuendos are not explicit, they are enough to slice through the air, and elicit an awkward laugh / pause in the conversation that the passengers in the car might be having.

More titillating laughter ensues on the part of ‘Sania Bhabhi,’ who reads her corny, rife with sexual overtones letter. The letter is replete with allusions to the cricketers’ rippling muscles, masculine prowess, and ability to bring her to her knees (Uhmmm) – all with subtle promiscuity thrown in for good measure. Just when you shake your head in utter disbelief at the veiled, suggestive statements she just poured into your ears, she probably takes a cue, and signs off, but not before an ardent sigh escapes from her, almost as if she were heaving her bosom at the sad thought of leaving her ‘spellbound’ listeners.

One last throaty laugh, and it’s time for Sania Bhabhi to be off and a commercial to be aired, much to the palpable delight of the passengers who recently underwent severe discomfiture.

Leaving prudish puritans yelling their lungs out about the debauchery this world had come to, as compared to the libertarians who pooh-pooh and scoff at this blatantly overbearing censoring.

Which one are you? The puritan or the libertarian?

Drop me a line...

Showing one's true colours

With the festival of colors barely four days from now, the kids in my colony never had it better.

Especially since my ample posterior literally cries out to them, begging them to perfect their water-balloon target throwing skills upon it. And the obliging souls that they are, they obviously can’t say no to such a sincere request.

The lil devils, armed to the teeth with their stash of ‘missiles,’ take refuge in balconies, terraces; behind bushes, and cars, ready to swoop upon any unsuspecting victim who decides to make an entry in the declared-danger zone.

The unwary prey approaches, oblivious to the shock that is about to befall him.
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With a war cry that is clearly enough to wake the dead, the young fiends come out in all their united glory. As if caught in a trance, the victim blinks – once, twice, and then, before comprehension dawns upon him, all hell breaks loose.

The water pichkaris (water guns) are pulled out, releasing a stinging current of colored water upon the poor soul. As the chap gasps, trying to regain his startled breath, a regular stream of water balloons descend upon him, pelting him as hard as probably a bunch of stones would. Wiping his face and looking at his clothes with a dismayed expression on, his look changes to one of sheer horror when he looks up at the balcony of giggling uns, and suddenly realizes that they are not done yet. No Sir!

Whooooosh! A bucketful of icy cold water greets his face and clothes, making him look like a cross between a mangly, wet puppy and a rotten custard apple that even the friendly fruit vendor leaves for the bees.

Our man is now livid. Shivering and spluttering, he brandishes an angry fist, piecing together some incomprehensible words which he can only spit from his furious mouth.

Deciding to take pity on the miserable watery mess, the adolescents look away, already on the lookout for their next victim. It comes in the form of the boy and girl, laughingly riding a mo’bike.

The ‘Splash’ and the subsequent howl signal that the deed has been accomplished.

A cyclist, a postman perhaps, meets the same fate, his cycle teetering dangerously close to the car that always remained in its same parking spot, day in and day out, thanks to an owner who believed more in driving away children who played ball near his house, than drive the darn vehicle.

Two giggling college girls fare no better – two huge balloons greeted them inside the autorickshaw they were travelling in.

A lone street dog, busily playing with a balled up piece of paper on the road, whimpers, looking around itself in alarm, and then, tail between its legs, ran to tell its just-been-hit-by-a-water-balloon story to its pals.

The smiling fruit seller is next. He however, poses, looks up, waves at the children, his pearlies flashing endearingly at them.

A twenty-year something, harried door-to-door salesman looks up, and ducks in time. Grinning, he smiles mockingly at the kids, and gets a big one right on his shoulder. Tut-tutting, he quickly makes his way to the next neighborhood, trying to convince some bored housewife to purchase the water purifier he was selling.

A scrap-dealer, cycling languorously in the sun, fares no better. He looks up, smiles sadly, and cycles on, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts of the evening meal with his nagging wife.

On Holi Day, the chaos reaches a crescendo. If you venture out, be ready to be attacked by a horde of people who all look alike in their colored-ness. Out of nowhere, a pair of hands make their way to your face, and before you know it, one of your cheeks has been brushed with the brightest pink gulal, while the other looks like the shade your Mum turned in your school days, when you returned from school yet again, in all your muddied glory.

For me right now, I only lok forward to the day after Holi, when people return to their more sober colors. Pun intended.

Holi (Kyun)Hain?!!!

Moan Machines

Haven’t you ever been at your wit’s end because that pesky colleague right across the corridor / sometimes-friend-sometimes-foe puts the “W” in Whining?

Constantly cribbing, their kind ensures that no one in their vicinity of a kilometer forgets that their life is the saddest, most bleak, utterly-devoid-of-rays-of-sunshine, yada yada. For them no day is perfect – it is either too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, you name it – they are bound to nitpick.

They are the ones who sit on their despair / pity pots, but unlike the rest of us, forget to flush, leaving their lives, as well as of those around them, full of, uhmmm, muck.

Bigotry is their middle name. The higher the hemlines go, the more their blood boils. The lower the neckline, the lower is their tolerance level, though they don’t mind the odd peek. Disguising their moral indignation with conspicuous, hard-to-miss halos around their swollen heads, they are the lone, valiant warriors out to battle it out with the depraved souls, who, according to them, have infested the world, almost like a severe invasion of the dreaded bubonic plague.

Heated arguments are their forte - they can outshine / outwit any seasoned lawyer waiting for his turn in the crowded courtroom. Heaven help those poor souls who decide to axe their own feet by daring to step into a dispute with them. Silly creatures – don’t they know that the best man wins, and undoubtedly, they are the best as best can be.

Freshly-boiled milk can, within minutes, turn sour – one look from them is all it takes. Ditto for an-in-the-pink-of-health-and-bloom plant, which can wither with one scornful look from these sorts. And to think that some people still imagine that they can win a quarrel with them. Oh well, that’s what is called optimism, I guess.

They are the reason for petty people like us scurrying for cover, and all because we prefer to retain that pleasant taste in our mouths than the obnoxious, bitter one that results post a discussion with them, a discussion that is, to most parts, dominated by them. What is a common man to do otherwise? And especially when their sighs and moans are audible from miles away, they really leave us with no choice.

Day after day, such people trudge along to wage their individual wars with the world, sneer plastered fixedly on face, index finger pointing accusingly at the wicked world, perfectly-arched contemptuous eyebrow in place, lips drawn out into a half-snarl – waiting to pounce upon their next prey.

Life sure is tough for them.

God bless these gallant sorts.