Breathing down your neck

Akin to a dragon who is spewing orangey-ginger flames, almost singing your hair – such feels the breath of people who breathe down your neck. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And boy! Isn’t it wildly annoying?!

Irrelevant of whether a boss does it to you, making you feel like the most-wanted-criminal-who-just-got-caught-and-must-now-be-escorted-to-the-gallows; or a nosy Parker who edges closer to you at a party to look down your ermm…twin assets; to the person elbowing you exasperatingly while you stand in line at a relatively-uncrowded multiplex to purchase tickets to the new flick that is playing – most of us have been there, i.e. been at the receiving end of such excruciating torture, an inordinate urge to skin, or better still, strangle the life out of that creep.

But we don’t.

Instead we shuffle our feet awkwardly, hoping the infuriating dolt gets the hint. Or give a sheepish, watery smile, and take two paces backwards, hoping he would follow suit. Fat chance! Even if you do move two spaces rearward, he would walk two spaces – FORWARD.

Making you grit your teeth in sheer frustration.

Quite some time back, I ticked-off a woman at work who would stand too close for comfort, almost breathing down my neck – making me feel extremely uncomfortable, and crotchety. Not only did she invade my personal space but she also brought me within arm’s length (pun intended) to that demon who can read one’s soul. So while she would talk to me with a soul-stare, I would shuffle my feet awkwardly, invoking all the Gods from above to bring the blessed conversation to an end.

The ticking-off went off worse than anticipated. She was clueless about the existence of such a phrase as ‘personal space.’ Accused me of being a mean, icy-hearted woman. And topped it all off with a teary-eyed outburst.

I ran as fast as my feet could.

It goes without saying that that was the last day she talked to me (and Thank God for that).

Wish life were as simple as ticking off a person.

At the unrivalled way I can tell off people, my life would definitely be the least bumpy.

Wanna spread some color in your life?

The grip and the hurl are unmistakably accurate.

Splashhhhhhhhhhhh.

And if you are lucky to escape the deftly-tossed balloon the first time, don’t clap your hands merrily and shake in glee. It might be a tad too soon. The very next moment, who knows, you may be shaking your pretty head because of the water-filled balloon that hits you smack, bang on target. That you shake with the utter chill of it all, with simultaneous teeth-chattering, and a frayed temper to boot – well, what can I say except that boy! You sure sound like one nifty multitasker. Tee hee.

These words come from someone who’s been at the receiving end…of well-pitched balloons. Someone who’s flared her nostrils, hitched her sleeves symbolic of confrontation, gritted her teeth and bitten her lips to keep from hurling a string of abuses that would make the ears of a sailor / fisherman turn beetroot red, put her hands on her hips – and all because of a well-aimed balloon that she forgot to duck, and which hit her BANG!. Much to her visible annoyance. !@#$%^&*

And the balloon-tossing starts well in advance. So say, a cool twenty-days before Holi, the Indian festival of colors, a balloon, flung in a way which can only be comparable to a participant in the Olympic javelin throw competition, lands on the intended target – YOU. Leaving you wet, cross, and cussing.

As the festival approaches, the days only get worse. Even nights don’t offer any relief, giving the aimers the added advantage of pitch darkness ensuring that their faces remain anonymous.

It’s open warfare then. Buckets, pichkaris, water pistols, mugfuls, and the odd tomato / egg make an appearance. And how!

Hapless victims run pell-mell in colonies. Little Johnny head in air would be wise to keep an eye as well in front, cos if he’s only keeping it on the second-floor devils armed with water-gear, he would soon get some tell-tale wet marks on his tummy, back or nape. Besides hoots of well-audible guffaws at his expense.

A day before Holi, if you do not count yourself amongst the adventurous ones, it is best to lock yourself indoors. Because if you are to venture out, stern-look-on-face-firmly-in-place, chances are that you might just be engulfed in a bear-hug by someone who you may have never set eyes upon before, but who nevertheless envelopes you in his brawny arms, and proceeds to smear dry (or wet color – depending on your luck) all over your already-crimson face, hair, and neck. And before you can extricate yourself from this delicate position, you would be deafened by a “Holi Hain” chant, and then within seconds left alone on the lane, looking very very foolish with clean clothes, and a face that would compete with the best of ‘em Aztec warriors / Red Indian chiefs after a major victory. (Putting some feathers on your head would complete the picture, if you get the drift…)

Face smarting, some with fury, some with the color that has crept into your mouth, you spit your way back to home sweet home. A vigorous shower later, you emerge – clean-smelling and clean-feeling, utterly exhausted. After all, who would have known that the dratted color would make its way into your ears and entrench itself into your soft hair, which while lathering, would leave rainbow-colored rivers in its wake? With a face raw after several minutes of scrubbing, that too with that new pumice stone (tsk tsk), you either:

a) swear revenge
b) swear to go off Holi altogether

I proceeded from from point (a) to resigned (b).

No wonder, I’m getting all my door locks checked.

After all, next Saturday isn’t all that far away (Shudder)!