The Perfect Day

There I was, walking down a familiar road, on a sunny afternoon. It was a Saturday, and I was in no hurry to get anywhere. The song that I was trying to remember all week was humming by itself, the original version, and in perfect rhythm. The smile that seemed to have placed a restraining order against was back, and was now refusing to budge. The Gulmohars were VIBGYOR. Crows and pigeons were on my side, waiting to be called upon if I wished an air-poop-raid on my enemies. Dogs were barking my heavy metal playlist. Flashes of orgies occurred every 2 minutes or so. Facebook was free of Rajnikanth jokes. Every woman on the street was smiling at me, despite me cracking a joke, or as was the case often, being one. There were no assignments on my mind, no to-do- lists to check, and no falling pianos to dodge. It was the perfect day.

Since it was the perfect day, and as nothing could go wrong on the perfect day, I decided to put myself on the edge. Well, a little bit. I stopped, my eyes searching desperately for something. After a stab here, and ruffle there, I found it. A stone. No. The stone. Round, polished and the next best thing to football. I positioned the stone carefully by the side of the road and stepped back. After one hard look, I repositioned the stone, and adjusted my stance. Uttering a piece of football commentary under my breath, I stepped forward and kicked the little stone. “Beckham shoots, and Beckham scores,” I screamed. And on the perfect day, the stone obliged. It rolled, and it bent and it rolled again. And slowly, yet flirtatiously, it came to a stop at the heels of the most beautiful woman the perfect day could offer.

I looked up. A suppressed goal celebration followed. She gave me the ‘what a weirdo’ look and walked past me, leaving a lingering trail of her perfume for me to take home, and into my bed. As I took the deepest of breaths and turned my head, it struck me. Hey, I knew that fragrance. I shook my head slowly trying to place it. I took another sniff, frantically probing around my memory bank. And bang, I got it. Right by the corner shelf, around 4 years back. My ex.

And before I knew it, everything came back. The break-up, the fights, the endless arguments, the compromises, the heartbreak, the denial,  the effort to recuperate, the failure that followed, the rebound, the heartbreak, etc. Like a ruthless juggernaut – it trampled down the years spent on repairing the broken heart, digging up memories buried deep down. Perfect day, my ass!  

Do you feel lucky, punk?

I have never quite understood the fight sequences in movies. They remind me of a bank. It is as if our hero works at the bank. The villains are the customers. Despite being armed with looks rugged enough to bring an expression of fear on Arjun Rampal’s face and enough weapons to pose a threat to the Bush administration, they huddle obediently around the hero. It is as if they have all been given tokens, like at the bank, and are waiting for their number to be announced over the PA system.

Slowly, they come forward, wielding their weapons. The first one approaches the hero. After a brief and formal greeting, he is bashed up beyond recognition. The others wait, anxiously looking at the token display and the transaction in progress. After the first of the villains has been beaten to pulp, the next one in line advances hesitantly, as if checking with the teller – “Token no. 23, isn’t it? Well, that’s me. Start punching.” And one by one they come, with a weapon of their choice. And one by one they bite the dust.

So you think it’s over, huh? Well It isn’t. Because that brings us to the single most important event of these fights - especially fights involving martial artists or Van damme. And hence the most intriguing - The quintessential Swivel Kick.

For the less initiated, the swivel kick is the one the hero deploys after going round and round like a ballet dancer with one of the legs planted. After every 360 degree turn, the planted leg moves by approximately 4 inches in the direction of victim. It is usually executed on the last participating thug, purely because of its dramatic nature. Or so I suppose. Or maybe it is because of the difficulty to execute it when surrounded by men armed with sharp objects. Or maybe he doesn’t want witnesses, in case he loses balance midway. Or it is just the length of the soundtrack, as was the case in ‘Bloodsport’. Whatever the reason, the kick is usually the finishing move. Beautiful. Brutal. And slow. Very slow. Therein lies my problem.

What is that last thug waiting for? He has seen what happens when the token number is called. He has time to run while the hero enters the swivel. If the hero is in his element and decides to employ multiple swivels, he might just have enough time to cross the border, register at a refugee camp and organise a small revolution. But no, he just waits. He is not holding an iPhone and filming the video. He is not busy updating his last words on Facebook. He is simply waiting. To be kicked in the face. As if asking the hero – “See, I am impressed by what you did to my gang and all that. But can you really finish in style with an accurate blow to my left temple?” There is simply no other logical explanation.

Remember...?

Remember 60ml rum and 60ml cold drink? Remember one sips, because there was no money for two? Remember feeding your good friend under the table, the friendly mouse? Remember wiping the empty glasses clean – again, and again, and again? Remember the elaborate conversation with the auto driver at the counter? Remember only needing 100 bucks to get reasonably smashed? Remember chicken pepper dry from the first week of every month? Remember the ‘loose mixture’ from the rest of the month? Remember potato chips and plain peanuts? Remember peeing standing on your toes to avoid stepping on the spillage? Remember holding your pee because of the vomit in the urinal? Remember parliament and congress, the edible kind? Remember the two quick 90ml drinks before entering the pub? Remember the Old Monk peg that didn’t taste like the Old Monk peg? Remember those slices of boiled egg topped with red chilli powder? Remember half-boiled? Remember those perpetually empty salt and pepper shakers? Remember the occasional don at the adjacent table? Remember the fight at the next table and the broken beer bottle battles? Remember the loud television in the background and the local news channel that was always on? Remember the mosquito coils dangling from empty beer bottles? Remember kicking them down after a few drinks? Remember the inevitable faulty bill and the screaming that followed? Remember ‘Murthy’ the waiter? Remember leaving last, as the tables got stacked and the lights went out? Remember those arguments in the dark, because nobody cared? Remember where it all began? Remember…… your local bar?

The Loop

“7 missed calls,” beamed the display on Anand’s Blackberry. His fingers scrolled effortlessly through them. They were all from his brother’s mobile. He walked up to coffee machine, filled up a large cup to the brim, and walked back to his cabin. He readjusted his Bluetooth earpiece, and dialed the number on the phone, and slid it into his pocket.

His tone remained casual as he took a sip - “You called?” During the grave minutes that passed, the composed figure that walked away from the coffee machine turned into a crumpled heap of nerves. He was sitting on the floor by now, leaning against a bay partition, breathing heavily. Streams of sweat trickled down his neatly done sideburns. A colleague, passing by stopped, clearly spotting his blood-drained face. As she leant beside him, concerned, he looked up. With a gasp he got up, brushed her aside and ran towards the exit.

The burnt rubber on the floor of the parking lot was still smoking when his car skid onto the main road.His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he brought the spinning car under control. The car ripped away, leaving the screeching tyres and the frantic honking behind.

The words of his brother were still echoing in the back of his head as he fought to negotiate a tight curve. “Dad collapsed. It was a stroke. We are taking him to the hospital.” He moved uncomfortably in his seat, honking incessantly at the truck that was slowing him down. Losing patience, he swerved the car to the right and hit the accelerator pedal with a vengeance.

It was too late by the time he saw the scooter. He threw his head back screaming, thumping the steering wheel vigourously. He was furious. At the truck driver. At the scooterist. At himself at everyone. By this time, a crowd had gathered around his car. Some of them were banging on his window in anger, urging him to step out. He just sat there motionless, staring coldly at the commotion in front of him.

In an ambulance a few rows of vehicles behind, unbeknownst to him, an old man had lost his battle with the inevitable. The Blackberry in his pocket began to ring again.

The name is Blonde!

There are two reasons why I don’t drive back home from work. The first one is slightly socio-economic in nature. To get to the crux of this one, you will have to dismantle, analyse and scrutinise the financial structure in the advertising industry and its effect on a copywriter’s life. Well, the first reason is that I don’t own a car. The second reason is slightly more important. It is an existential one. I can’t drive.

As a consequence of the aforementioned socio-economic and existential circumstances, I am forced to hitch rides back home. My usual benefactor is Meera. Neeraja chips in once in a while when Meera is not in too generous a mood. Both the ladies can easily claim an IQ level way above the average person. The high positions and the respect they command in the advertising world should underline that. As a result, the rides back home for me are usually not dull or blonde affairs. Yesterday, dear reader, was not one of them.

Due to a twisted ankle (goes well with a twisted mind), Neeraja was unable to bring her car. Generous as always, Meera offered her a ride. And along came Pritam Singh. I was the constant in the front. The reason for my being there remains the same as mentioned before.

The incident occurred somewhere near where Victoria road met Airport Road. Pritam was not present in the car at this point as we had crossed the junction where he usually got off. But for the sake of the story, let’s assume he was around. You really can’t leave a Sardarji out of a joke, can you? So anyway. Out of the blue, a sedan emerged from a gate on the left and sprung on to the road blocking our way. The ladies screamed. I let out a few profanities and stayed the man in the car. Neeraja, the keen observer in the vehicle had spotted the license plate. Her hair slightly started turning blonde at this point.

Neeraja: “Hmm... That vehicle is from your part of town Nikhil. ML registration. Must be a mallu car.”

Meera’s green Palio screeched to a halt. We turned back and looked at Neeraja. There she was, her hair now completely blonde, waiting eagerly for appreciation of her observation skills. You really couldn’t tell her apart from Miss Hilton now. Meera looked at me. I looked at her. And then, there was laughter. There was thunder too.

Meera: “How could you Neeraja? (Giggling) That really was your blonde moment.” (Laughs again, her hands off the steering, thumping her chest)

Pritam continued to look out of the window, nonchalant, as if thinking – “Racist jokes don’t really affect me. I grew up with them.” It was then, and only then that Neeraja realised the heat of the soup she was in. In a last gasp effort of redemption, she tried to pass it for a joke. But it was too late by then. (Let’s face it! Neeraja was no Woody Allen to pull off a straight faced joke. She usually laughed before she even began one.) So there she was. As she accepted defeat and slowly let the moment sink in, I heard Meera scream in the background.

Meera (preachy tone): “Kerala is KL Neeraja. That might have been Manipal.”

Note: A decade or so from now. Meera’s son Dhruva will grow up. He will have his group of friends and they will crack jokes together. When Dhruva’s turn comes, he will sit up and say, “Here’s a joke. Two blondes, a Sardar and a Mallu got into a car.”