For my Hindi-averse friends, "Hag diya", it's a phrase that means botching shit up when everything is laid out to you on a platter. The word "Hag"(Pronounced HUG) means shit, and "diya" means 'to give' per se. In this context, the phrase translates to 'taking a shit' where you usually aren't supposed to. I still don't understand why taking a shit is so looked down upon culturally. What were people thinking? To live perpetually constipated?
I must say that I feel I've had more than my fair shots at botching shit up, especially when it comes to dealing with ladies. My sister says that you're supposed to make attempts to know the woman you're wooing. I fall asleep by the time she reaches the word 'attempt'. Leaving the usual lady-talks aside, there's another thing I've managed to botch up... WRITING. Here I was, thinking that writing is about stringing words together that make sense when read in a sequence. It's not that I'm wrong, because you see, no one is ever wrong, at least not admittedly. But writing is a lot more than that, as I've come to know in the last few months.
In writing, there's supposed to be thing like structure, flow and that sort of nonsense. All this to make sense to a bunch of people who just look at the fancy picture atop your 400000-word piece of crafty-wafty verbosity. I've seen the chaps who go through magazines. They blankly ogle some half, or completely nude female that they can find, and then, simply flip the page. However, there is a small gang who read the bollocks that you've tirelessly written. And oh my word! How it is worth watching someone read your sweat and blood! It is in beguiling times like this that you wonder to yourself, "Damn! I get paid to write. I must be onto something."
I mean, I still can't get the sweet girl to come out for a movie, but blimey! The pleasure of seeing someone buying a piece of your hard work is otherworldly. I almost cried when I saw four people on my flight clutching onto the magazine I write in.
Talking about flights, I've never had much luck with flight seats. No good looking female has ever greeted her derriere to the seat next to me. To the extent that if there actually is a good looking lady on my flight, she'll be sitting at the further most corner of the cabin from where I sit. Either that, or she'll park her bums next to this chap who can really chat up his women. Sucks. I on the other hand am not the biggest fan of the window seat. The sight through the smaller-than-my-head window may sometimes be worth dying for. But by the time such a view comes by, I must have already died of claustrophobia. That's because I usually get a seat next to obnoxiously fat men who either snore, or fight with me for elbow space all throughout the flight. Sometimes, just for fun, I wonder how these poor lives got so rolly-polly. Do they just eat their while away, or do the countless parties they attend, a 'proof' of all their hard-work, just pile onto their front and sides till the point they can see their pricks no more? Take care of yourselves, my fat uncle-buddies!
Oh crap! This isn't an advisory forum, of course. Especially not after proclaiming to my dwindling readership that I'm a professional botcher of well, everything. So what do we talk about next? How about a ride in a rickshaw? It's a fun-little three-wheeler, and no-one knows why it exists. It pollutes the heavens out of any place, and is not allowed in the best parts of my city, Mumbai. Yeah, I plan to rule the place in some time, hence 'My City'. Coming back to auto-rickshaws, these machines are to mobility what Quartz watches were to the wind-me type watches of the past. Just enough automation to have the word 'auto' prefixed to them. Here too, lady-luck has evaded me so far. If big lads were a problem in flights, it's big ladies who squish me in rickshaws. It's like this....
I sit in side this three-wheeler, which is ideally suited for four people, including the driver. But carefully notice. On an average, there are 24 people sitting inside a rickshaw at any given point. You see, it's the result mindset of the lower, middle, and even upper middle-class of our country to get as much as possible by spending the least amount required. And in the process, four ladies get into the vehicle with three children each, and I'm told to sit in front with the driver. Ha ha. Not funny.
In case the kid's are playing at home, and the ladies are on their day out, they come to the rickshaw, find me inside, give me an abhorrent look, and shovel themselves inside anyway, although trying fruitlessly to maintain distance with my, just in case I'm a rapist. How can people confuse criminals with victims so badly?
This is when I think, chuck everything. Let's buy a motorcycle.
No comments:
Post a Comment