Koi humain bhi samjha diyo bhai jaan.
Sometimes the North Indian inside (unleash stream of non veg jokes in 3, 2..) just comes bursting out. All uncouth and uncivilised and going “hain? Hain? HAIN??” all over the place.
Parak. Gahahahahaha. “Arrey bhaiya woh parak mein chalte hain. Parak. Nehru Parak.”
I always thought the quickest way to de-sexify anything is to make it all religious and shit. Like can you actually imagine Ganeshji actually doing the boinky boinky? For real? Sure, maybe its cause he has an elephant head and all that, so not a good example. Okay, what about Vishnu? Hmmmm….okay perhaps.
Anyway, I was also thinking that it would be really fucked up if your first sexual encounter was linked to someone’s death or a funeral or something. Like say you are getting your first hand/blow job and suddenly you get a call saying, “Beta, your maama just died. We are in the hospital” and part of you is like “Nahieeeee” and you reply into the phone, eyes welling up as you say, ” I am coming”. Which is, not too surprisingly, what the other part of you is also thinking.
Man, that would fuck you up. That would so fuck you up. Ten years later, landing up at funerals with a frikkin boner in your pants. Too embarrassed to meet the grieving relatives but left with little option. And that too if you have to wear a frikkin dhoti or pants that are soft and easily foldable. Fkkfkfkkfkfkfkfkfkfkkf.
Your first orgasm being combined with images of Death and coffins and burning bodies and shit.
I went to a Marwadi funeral the other day. Plenty weird. And the protocol is to go up to the portrait of the deceased, pick a couple of petals from a bowl placed before the portrait, throw the petals below the portrait and then do namaste. You also have to do namaste to the grieving relatives who are sitting in a row on either side of the portrait. And then you just sit there, and huddle (if you are lucky) to talk to the person next to you.
I am dreaming of some grilled chicken right now. There is this place in Malleshwaram called Moonlight or Moongarden or something with Moon in it (Not Moon moon sen? – Ed?) and they have those twirling rod things which grill and cook and roast and char the chicken. And it is yanked out when you order one and cut into pieces and sprinkled with some chilli powder and slapped onto your plate.
Big, huge, juicy pieces of the finest grilled chicken in the world. Oh and the skin. oh the skin. What can I say about the skin. A rose of any other name would also blush when I flash it.
There is a rat in the house. Of this I am sure. Actually its not as much of a rat as it is a frikkin small puppy. Bastard came scampering towards me one dark, stormy night. And I went “What the faaaaak” and it just scampered past me and I was like, “Shit man, that puppy has got to die.”
Oh and I went to swim at a nearby club the other day. In the morning. Worst fukin decision in the world. Step out of the shower cubicle to see a group of butt naked old men. Discussing the stock market. Had to brush past one of them to get to my bag. One of them was drying his balls on a towel. Sala rubbing it like he was trying to start a fire or something.
In a word – YAG (word learnt courtesy one proper hep young thing)