A bedbug in my asshole
It wriggles. It tickles.
The annual social media plan for the entire year for a brand of phenyl is being worked out in front of me. The boss stands at the white board explaining the different kinds of things that needs to be done for the brand. It is a Friday, which means people who usually wear boring formal clothes can relax and wear t-shirts and jeans. A client servicing person looks attentively at the white board wondering where he could pipe in and add value to what the boss is saying. The boss, as he talks, looks at everyone seated inside the conference room one by one. He looks at the client servicing person next to me and then turns his eyes towards me. It wriggles.
For the last few days, I feel a few pairs of tiny feet amble up and down the hairy terrains of my thighs. How do I know it’s an insect? You know that feeling when a drop of sweat finds a way from your armpit to the waist? This is the same feeling, only upwards. I know it is a bedbug for sure because where I come from, there are plenty. Get where I am coming from? As I sleep at night, I feel a family of bedbugs faithfully perched on each of my limbs. It is after much deliberation that I have arrived at the conclusion that it is one of them that has found its way up my asshole, making it a temporary abode. It wriggles every now and then tickling the folds that cover the orifice.
How did they come home? They came home in an old sleeping bag that one of my roommates brought along with him. Apparently he hadn’t opened the bag for five years. It had also been given to him by his grandmother who had no use for it either.
It’s funny when I spank myself in the middle of the road. It’s a desperate way to say, “Shut the fuck up!” in the bedbug language. It seems to understand for soon enough, I feel it on the expressway between my buttocks and my knee. It is all the more funny when I am on my bike. To motorists passing by, I seem to be rubbing my thigh relentlessly. The worst of my fears is that the policemen patrolling near the Haji Ali dargah would see my actions as suspicious and open fire at me. My thighs are its playgrounds.
When at my desk in the office, I sit stiffly with a pained expression on my face. I learnt it from George on the Seinfeld show. He says, “If you want to seem busy, always look hassled.” But my stiffness had more to do with the fact that I was hosting another living creature. When the bedbug senses that my body doesn’t seem to be making much movement, it gingerly ventures out of its enclosure, its movements reminding me of how, in the olden ages, young men would venture out of their homes to faraway countries hoping to make their fortune. It takes a fast train from wherever it is to the front, only to get entangled in the much denser foliage.
I would only be too happy to play Noah and host as many creatures as possible, if only their movement didn’t cause me that itch.
Cut to the conference room where I am at the white board with the black marker in my hand when it moves across one of the most sensitive parts of the human body. The brain calls for an itch. With 12 eyeballs watching you with rapt attention and not even blinking, there is not much you can do other than what Sachin Tendulkar does before he settles down at the crease. The rest of what I talk is a blur. I write myself a mental note. Pull undies down tonight and check.
I reach home. Turn on all the lights, disrobe and bend down. I could imagine the way I looked from behind. Little Johhny once told a friend that he thought of a sun rising over two hills when he saw his father bend down to pick up a bar of soap on the bathroom floor. Over thirty minutes of careful, bent-over scrutiny revealed that I must deforest the region if I had to teach the encroacher a lesson.
My girlfriend is coming home this weekend. I must ask the visitor to kindly get out before that. I don’t want her to be interrupted in anything important by a pair of complex eyes staring at her, you see? It would be alright if she screams but it won’t be too pleasant if she bites down hard.
Grim, eh?
Atithi tum kab jaoge?
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
Honk Car Why?
Scenario 1:
A middle class settlement anywhere in Mumbai. It’s about thirty minutes past ten in the morning. Middle-aged men with original Reegok bags slinging on their shoulders walk with a dejected look on their faces. Something about their expression tells you they are going to their place of work and are suddenly missing home. Their wives hang clothes onto the insulated wire cum clothes line tied outside their balcony. Behind most of them is a blue oil drum with a half cut lid that they use to store water in, backup, you see. They yell out customarily, occasionally either to their children or to the fish monger with the tiny sarees folds tucked between their buttocks. The women in the balcony want to know what fresh catch the fishy women can offer. This activity is an exercise for their vocal chords. Their hands work mechanically, dipping into the cracked plastic bucket, wringing the water onto the vehicle parked underneath, opening up the folds, jerking it out to send a soapy dew into the air that feels like the rose water they sprinkle on you when you enter a marriage hall. A few dogs laze around, dreamily looking at what doesn’t seem to concern them. Occasionally they bite their coats on the back, that perennial itch, hmph! Pause. Everything is about to change. Why? You’ll see.
Enter the bangarwalla. He is the hero. Not only because he facilitates recycling of recyclable objects but also because he brings about a drastic change to the perfect doggy dream sequence. So much so that the canines would’ve gone off to sleep if he had not arrived right then. They sprang to their feet, ready for some action. They exchange looks at each other making it look like an unbarken signal to gherao the suspicious stranger. They bare all their teeth while they bark, which works the same way as the intimidation techniques used by martial art enthusiasts. The bangarwalla surprisingly walks unperturbed. He is used to this kind of attention. He walks as if in a trance but has a tiny smile on his face. He bends down suddenly to pick up a stone, which explains the smile a few seconds ago. The dogs scoot a few feet away from their original positions but intensify their barks. A few girls with tightly-tied pony tails run from behind the distracted dogs with heavy schools bags but no uniforms. They must be running late for tuitions. Walking briskly, the bangarwalla vanishes into the building to fleece a few seemingly gullible women with his broken weighing scale. The dogs continue to bark for a few more minutes, like a parting gift, lest the bangarwalla has only gone into the building to protect himself from the dangerous creatures that they are in their vicious doggy minds!
Scenario 2:
It’s evening. There is considerable traffic on the roads. The men with dejected faces must now be at home or at least reaching home with a flat bottle wrapped in the previous week’s newspaper in their bag but mind you, not in the same compartment where they keep the prayer books and pictures of sai baba which also act as a calendar. Care is taken to keep considerable distance between God and sin. A constable in a white shirt and khaki pants waves at random people but the people simply ignore him and walk or drive on. He waves a flood of taxis to a halt. There are 6 taxis one after the other. The red signal must indeed feel powerful. A huge white car – the kind they don’t seem to make anymore, comes to a halt right behind the sixth taxi. A pizza delivery boy ekes out a little space between the white car and the sixth taxi. An impatient looking man with his wife and child on a scooter follow suit. Another taxi joins in. two tiny cars come to pause next to each other, both are being driven by women, their respective children secured to the next seat. Both of them have up to their wrists inside a cardboard box of popcorn – the kind they keep at the movies. The third taximan leans out of his window to check the signal. It’s still red. He spits out a jet of red liquid, wipes his lips on the maroon duster that hangs on his rear-view mirror and shakes his head. Suddenly there is activity. The huge white car hears four of the six taxis honking. The huge white car honks. The pizza delivery boy who doesn’t want to pay out of his own pockets beeps along with the man on the scooter. The two tiny cars honk. Everybody behind them honks. The signal is now green. The huge white car honks to remind the six taxis that they are drivers and must take the taxis forward. Each of the vehicles behind the white car has taken it upon himself to wake the one in front from a dreamy stupor that he may have fallen into by honking incessantly. It is their intimidation technique that wants to say, “You better take your vehicle ahead or else…” They continue honking till each of them reach the signal post and make sure that the ones in front of them are not sleepy but are in fact active and even faster than them. But we honked…you know…just in case…they don’t nod off again because these vehicles are very dangerous, vicious selves, well, at least in their own minds.
Scenario 1:
A middle class settlement anywhere in Mumbai. It’s about thirty minutes past ten in the morning. Middle-aged men with original Reegok bags slinging on their shoulders walk with a dejected look on their faces. Something about their expression tells you they are going to their place of work and are suddenly missing home. Their wives hang clothes onto the insulated wire cum clothes line tied outside their balcony. Behind most of them is a blue oil drum with a half cut lid that they use to store water in, backup, you see. They yell out customarily, occasionally either to their children or to the fish monger with the tiny sarees folds tucked between their buttocks. The women in the balcony want to know what fresh catch the fishy women can offer. This activity is an exercise for their vocal chords. Their hands work mechanically, dipping into the cracked plastic bucket, wringing the water onto the vehicle parked underneath, opening up the folds, jerking it out to send a soapy dew into the air that feels like the rose water they sprinkle on you when you enter a marriage hall. A few dogs laze around, dreamily looking at what doesn’t seem to concern them. Occasionally they bite their coats on the back, that perennial itch, hmph! Pause. Everything is about to change. Why? You’ll see.
Enter the bangarwalla. He is the hero. Not only because he facilitates recycling of recyclable objects but also because he brings about a drastic change to the perfect doggy dream sequence. So much so that the canines would’ve gone off to sleep if he had not arrived right then. They sprang to their feet, ready for some action. They exchange looks at each other making it look like an unbarken signal to gherao the suspicious stranger. They bare all their teeth while they bark, which works the same way as the intimidation techniques used by martial art enthusiasts. The bangarwalla surprisingly walks unperturbed. He is used to this kind of attention. He walks as if in a trance but has a tiny smile on his face. He bends down suddenly to pick up a stone, which explains the smile a few seconds ago. The dogs scoot a few feet away from their original positions but intensify their barks. A few girls with tightly-tied pony tails run from behind the distracted dogs with heavy schools bags but no uniforms. They must be running late for tuitions. Walking briskly, the bangarwalla vanishes into the building to fleece a few seemingly gullible women with his broken weighing scale. The dogs continue to bark for a few more minutes, like a parting gift, lest the bangarwalla has only gone into the building to protect himself from the dangerous creatures that they are in their vicious doggy minds!
Scenario 2:
It’s evening. There is considerable traffic on the roads. The men with dejected faces must now be at home or at least reaching home with a flat bottle wrapped in the previous week’s newspaper in their bag but mind you, not in the same compartment where they keep the prayer books and pictures of sai baba which also act as a calendar. Care is taken to keep considerable distance between God and sin. A constable in a white shirt and khaki pants waves at random people but the people simply ignore him and walk or drive on. He waves a flood of taxis to a halt. There are 6 taxis one after the other. The red signal must indeed feel powerful. A huge white car – the kind they don’t seem to make anymore, comes to a halt right behind the sixth taxi. A pizza delivery boy ekes out a little space between the white car and the sixth taxi. An impatient looking man with his wife and child on a scooter follow suit. Another taxi joins in. two tiny cars come to pause next to each other, both are being driven by women, their respective children secured to the next seat. Both of them have up to their wrists inside a cardboard box of popcorn – the kind they keep at the movies. The third taximan leans out of his window to check the signal. It’s still red. He spits out a jet of red liquid, wipes his lips on the maroon duster that hangs on his rear-view mirror and shakes his head. Suddenly there is activity. The huge white car hears four of the six taxis honking. The huge white car honks. The pizza delivery boy who doesn’t want to pay out of his own pockets beeps along with the man on the scooter. The two tiny cars honk. Everybody behind them honks. The signal is now green. The huge white car honks to remind the six taxis that they are drivers and must take the taxis forward. Each of the vehicles behind the white car has taken it upon himself to wake the one in front from a dreamy stupor that he may have fallen into by honking incessantly. It is their intimidation technique that wants to say, “You better take your vehicle ahead or else…” They continue honking till each of them reach the signal post and make sure that the ones in front of them are not sleepy but are in fact active and even faster than them. But we honked…you know…just in case…they don’t nod off again because these vehicles are very dangerous, vicious selves, well, at least in their own minds.
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