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आज फिर दिखे

कुछ जलते अलाव

कुछ भरते से घाव

कुछ पके हुए छाले

कुछ उजड़े पड़ाव.

एक अधखाई रोटी

कुछ रिसती आँखें

कुछ गालों के गड्ढे

कुछ मूंछों के ताव.

कुछ ज़ाया से घंटे

कुछ बच्चों के बंटे

कुछ चटकी तसवीरें

कुछ रेत की लकीरें.

पिघली पन्नी की बू,

पिछले महीने की लू

दलदल पे बैठी,

एक कागज की नाव.

एक बेईमान तराजू

एक उड़ती चप्पल

एक गांधी टोपी

होती पीली हर पल

उधड़ी बखिया वाली

नेहरु जैकिट

सोने की लंका में

नोटों के पैकिट

और रावण के हांथों में

शकुनी का दांव

54%

Why are you here? Yeah, I am serious. Why are you here? This is a no-good-ghost-blog. All you’ll find here is fragmented pieces of a fraud who calls himself a writer. Yeah, this guy is no writer. If you know how much he scored in English way back in high school, you’ll probably flag this blog as blasphemous. And since we’re on this topic, I might as well confide in you. It was a whopping fifty-f$#%ing-four percent. Yeah, 54%!

But that really doesn’t matter now (oops, I shouldn’t start sentences with ‘But’), that was way back in 1996. Probably, I was really bad at remembering Shakespearean dialogues. Or maybe I was thinking, how BamBam Bigelow combo on sega Wrestling Video game is flawed while writing the paper. Or maybe, I was just day dreaming about the sweetest patch of my life to come – the ten days before the results come out. All in all, I just messed up that very exam, which made my prowess in this fancy language…my proverbial Holy Grail. I will always stay the vernacular I was to Mrs. Thomas, my English teacher. May God rest her soul in peace and she doesn’t turn too much in her grave as I type this. Well she had a gout problem. I was 100% sure of that.

कह दो मीर-औ-ग़ालिब से,

हम भी शेर कहते हैं

...वो तुम्हारी सदी थी

ये हमारी सदी है.

Ride to Tarkarli

Rajiv Shah lost it, under a star-lit sky in the middle of nowhere. In that one moment, the patience he was 'not-so-known-for' gave way and he showered the Thumpers with choicest accolades of incompetence, 'abuses' in simple words. "Kya saala, bhanchod tum log ko jab dekho gaandmasti soojhta hai, be serious for once in life!" he said wiping the sweat of his bald pate. It was the only thing shining, at the crossroad where the thumpers lost their way. His raspy voice silenced every virile thumper on that chowk, which was rechristened as 'Gandmarla pass' a few minutes ago by Shyamal and Amit. After riding for more than seven hours continuously, even the most seasoned LKGs (Iron butts) in the group were feeling uncomfortably numb. And here was a great excuse to get off the bike, getting lost! Here was a great excuse to ask the right way. The intentions were good, the interpretation went awry. The lorry guy sees a road blocked by thirty bullets, and several war-torn looking men approaching like they mean business. Anyone in his sane mind will be scared out of his wits. So was he. He ran away leaving us in a lurch, which every thumper was still coolly enjoying. Probably that's what riding is about, anywhere you go,take the weather with you. But, there was more to come. The ride was not over yet.

This ride meant a lot for rookie thumpers like Kumar and me. It was my second overnight ride and Kumar's induction ride. Both of us had fought our way through work the night before. We didn't want the office to miss us on Friday, the day we planned to bunk. In advertising, sleep is a novelty; people are nocturnal and rarely look beyond a day. Maybe it's because of the nature of advertising. Anyway, before it sounds like a discourse on advertising, I will come back to the thump. Kumar and I finished packing by three in the morning, had a half baked sleep of an hour and left for Datta Vada at four in the morning. We had no clue that the ride will have such high and low notes, to even put Pavarotti to shame. Memorable, none the less.

I was missing the gang I met from the first ride, Guri, Billal, Kaka,Chinki, Daku and Bali. Infact, I was looking forward to meet Guri, especially. He was my padre in baptism by fire, in the ride to Lonar. This time I wanted to show him, how serious I was about riding. Wearing the works; the knee caps, balaclava, elbow guards, gloves, reflecto safe riding vest and of course, a full face helmet (Poor thing, didn't know its going to be its last ride). Will tell you about that, in due time. To a rider, the journey is as important as the destination, right.

______________________________________________________

Kumar and I landed at Dattavada. Waiting in all honesty for Andy to come, and take a look at our bikes, like two kids in kindergarten, gobbling lots of poha in the meantime. "Okay boys, saddle up!" said Rajiv imitating Guri, people laughed while I stared at my fuel needle. "Dude, I am going to tank up", I told Avinash. Kumar and I fuelled up in a flash and gotback, only to find no one there. Everyone had left. "Whoa, what a way to start a group ride", I said to myself. In next six seconds, Kumar and I were talking to the wind, heading straight like 'bullets'. There was a lot of catching up to do.

Kumar unleashed his throttle like a wild stallion and me like a cheetah, to sound euphemistic…actually Kumar unleashed like a rabbit, and I followed up like a greyhound. That's when I saw the milestone we crossed. We were not going in the right direction. We were 'propah fucked' at leastby a good 20kms. (See Snatch for a clarity on the phrase). I tried everything to slow down Kumar, who was riding like a storm. Honking and flashing. He wouldn't have stopped even if he saw Pamela Anderson flashing in his rear-view mirror. We all change, once on the steed. Nothing else matters but the road and the wind. Not even loosing the way. I pushed my throttle. The needle touched the nervous nineties. Overtook Kumar and got by the roadside. We took a U-turn, got a local as a pillion to show us the way and cruised along. The journey hadn't even begun yet. But, soon we were on the right route. Now, let me take the writer's liberty and cut tothe chase.

Even after following the trail of thumpers for a good 10kms, we didn't bump into anything but milestones…and more milestones...chiplun 170kms, mahad also some kilometres away (figuratively speaking). The story where I iterally bumped into one was still a hundred odd kilometres away. Kumar and I stopped. "How fucked are you", I asked genuinely. "Very", he replied with equal honesty. "Dude, we haven't slept, we have lost our way, and the day is going to get worse only, with the sun going up, you wanna head back to Bombay?" , I said taking off my sweat drenched helmet and tugging my balaclava. "true", he said looking at an Innova passing by. The kids inside were watching some film on a small plasma screen. This is the point I should salute the riding spirit of Kumar, he is not one of those who will let go easily. "Lets do a toss', he said reminding me of Sholey. "Heads, we carry on the ride, tails we head back to the comfort of Bombay", I said tossing the coin. Now, you reading this proves that, the coin said heads. We tossed our ass back on the Enfy and roared yet again, we were tired, our steed wasn't. We soon overtook that Innova. I smiled to myself, when the kids stopped watching the movie and looked at us through the window. I could empathize.

_______________________________________________________

We soon caught up with the gang at a dhaba on the way. I will call it a dhaba, for lack of a better word. It was the place where I had the best panna (mango nectar) since quite a long time. I enjoyed it, with a sight of the beauties around. I leached at Saurav's 500 cc 'warlock' for a long time; it has one of the best paint jobs a bullet can get. Chinki's trailblazer was looking more clothed than the last ride, with a pillion seat, rear mudguard and tail-lights. After gulping copious amounts of panna, smoking enough nicotine to last for another 24 hours and splashing enough water to stay awake, we roared yet again. Things were looking better again.
This time around, I held onto the group like a kitten to its mother. Kumar also rode like he was glued. There are so many things which one learns riding in a group, smart riders take these learning's beyond the obvious,to the plane of self growth and intellect. I will broach this topic a little later, but would recommend you to not miss it. It's the best part.

Bali, spread an old bed sheet and was snoring in no time. This stop came a wee bit sooner than we expected. Around a hundred kilometres away only. Kumar was zonked, so were Avinash and I. "Always eat an apple when you're sleepy, that's what Guri does", said Avinash munching one looking at Kumar sleeping off under the shutter of a shop. The shop lady was trying really hard to wake him up. She was as zonked as him, wondering if she got up on the wrong side of bed today, being surrounded by a mob of Enfield's. Kumar woke up reluctantly, as Rajiv herded everyone on their bikes.

On the road, life was a little cooler than the stand still of the stop. Breeze was circulating through my visor, and the balaclava which I was still getting used to. Kumar had ridden off, much ahead of my sight. Soon,we approached the ghats. An ignorant trucker passed by, I swayed to the side like a pro. This was the part I loved most, but I was to be proved wrong yet again. Fate had something else in store.

I approached the ghats with a confidence. Tappet was on my tail. In trying to catch up with Kumar yet again, I raced ahead of tappet forgetting the first rule of riding. The cardinal rule, of not letting the rider behind you out of your sight. I got carried away. How costly it proves was still a few miles ahead, somewhere in the distant future.

The wind was soothing. The thump was like a lullaby. I was drowsy. I stopped by the side of a tree lined rode. In the middle of nowhere. Waited for tappet. Took a leak. Its funny, how we just throw our inhibitions on the highway when the nature calls. I wouldn't do that in a sane mind while city riding. Nobody turned up. I got on the bike again and trudged a few more miles till I fell off to sleep. It was the best part of my ride.Peaceful.

Ghad ghad ghad !...screech, screech, thud, thud! … "Wake up Rohit!", someone shouted in the dream. I was off road. Sleeping with the eyes open and heading towards a beautifully painted white pillar. The breaks did their best to bring me down from sweet 60's to late 20's, and we hit the pillar head on. I flew straight into the pillar and realized the beauty of a full face helmet and knee guards. Jeetu, may god bless you. You are an angel. You are a saviour. You are mother Teresa. Keep selling the riding gear and you will reserve a first class seat for yourself in heaven. I came out of the crash without a scratch or sprain. Another learning from the ride. Sleep, if you are sleepy. Stop anywhere, don't give a rat's ass about where it is, doze off or you'll be sleeping forever, in some god forsaken ditch, trench or a grave.

My bull was hanging face down, there was no trace of Shafiq, the guy who later for lack of topics to talk about, claimed that I fell in front of him, and his wife said "log kaise chalate hain". Shafiq mian, if you are reading this, then here is a big applause for coming up with such a great story and if you were around, I would have really appreciated if you came to help, rather than leaving a crashed fellow Thumper behind. Coming back to present, there was no one for miles, I waited for some help. Finally, I saw a car coming and I stopped it. It took two extra guys to pull my bull back up on her feet. They disappeared before I could even say thanks.

The brake paddle had shifted a foot away from its standard position. Headlight pointed towards the heaven and the whole speedometer unit was staring at the petrol tank. Thankfully, only a layer of paint had come off the tank. Kick paddle was twisted and stuck against the silencer. That toss was bad. I looked at a milestone nearby, Mumbai 200 kms, it said arrogantly. I threw in the towel. "You win", I said as I trudged my bull down the ghats slowly, avoiding the oncoming traffic. Clearly, it wasn't my day. I was headed back to Mumbai.

"Hey! We are here!!" I heard a voice as I passed a petrol pump some twenty kilometres on my way back from ground zero (the place where I had the crash). Amit was waving madly at me. For the next 15 seconds, Amit must have thought, what I thought of Jeetu. I could read the look on his face, hear his mind. "here is a biker, who comes back looking for his stranded fellas", that's what he must have thought.

"Yaar mera bike mein kuch to panauti hai, saala har ride pe panga kartihai", said Tappit. He was still smiling. Well, maintaining a bull as old as yourself, develops a lot of patience. "haan, mera bike mein bhi panauti hai, saala har ride pe thuk jaati hai", I tried to humour myself. Sadly, it failed like always, both Amit and Tappit were pretty tired to laugh.

"Guys I think I will head back to Bombay, cos I don't know how far this junk will take me" I said looking at the twisted speedometer and the poor key which was stuck in the ignition like Natalia Onatopp to James Bond in 'Golden eye'. "Don't even think about going back", hollered Amit from a distance. He was busy getting Tappits tire fixed. "Tu hamare saath aayahai, hamare saath jayega", he said quite casually. Well these were the words I was dying to hear since morning. They worked for me, but I am a guy with a stronger right brain. Logic appeals more to me, more than emotions.

As we grow up in a corporate culture, and get hand fed the luxuries of life on individual merit of our talents we forget something very basic, the feeling of a pack. The feeling of being one with our nature. The feeling off a tribe. This ride was exactly the shock therapy I needed to come back to my elements.

________________________________________________________

Writing such a big body of an article is a tedious task. I don't even know how many of us have the patience to read it all. Hence, for my biker mates who don't have much of an attention span, and feel restless sitting down for a long time. This story has to get over now. If you liked it so far and want me to carry on, just drop in a mail and the epic will go on. Otherwise, there's always the next ride to look forward to. Godspeed guys.

To précis the ride down, I must say. Like so many other rides, my meditations on this bike were the moments which changed me for good. I met people who can star as heroes in action films, romantic films, can play the meanest villains and win an academy award. I absolutely loved everyone on the ride. They all had unforgettable characters which is so tough to find in a world of wannabes. The stereotype of bikers was broken long ago; I am on a new high. I saw places which were there only in my dreams so far. I breathed the cleanest air in India and like hell, I love my Country. I will explore more and more till the day I am around. I had the time of my life.

Nature call

Radheshyam turned twice, around the Indian style loo. A quart of hooch, usually made his decisions tough. Deciding the approach and aiming right was the toughest part while taking a leak. A matter of inches could make him the laughing stock of the friends sitting outside. It was the noise that made him conscious, not the time spent in there. He shrugged, and laughed at himself before giving up. He took a deep breath as he zipped up and came out relieved. Relieved, not because of the discharge, but because the friends had already paid. Still, he couldn’t stop eyeing that Rs.10 tip.

Pretending to take a tissue paper, he slyly picked the tip money and walked behind his friends; gloating over his victory.

Labour of Love

These are the reasons for no posts for a long time.

'JIMI HENDRINKS', pencil colours on A3

Xerox machine paper.

'ELVIS PRESLEAT ', pencil colours on A3.

Xerox machine paper.

Here are two illustration pieces done for Hard Rock Cafe', Mumbai.

To see more of Rohit Dubey's art, please check:

www.coroflot.com/rohit_dubey

Son of a Gun

“Shut the f**k up, you son of a gun”, said the mother Uzi to the Luger. “How can you do it, she was the only one who could get some sanity to Pakistan. You have disappointed me."


...“But mom…, nobody saw me”, said the Luger sheepishly. “Enough, first you kill someone and then you lie, just let your father come home!”, Uzi fired Luger at the top of her voice. “Mom…they think she died in the blast, by some silly suicide bomber”, said Luger. “See now, what have you done to the family reputation. They think we aren’t even reliable. They had to send a man to do a gun’s job”, said Uzi. “Its time to put you in detention now, so just unload, put your safety on, holster yourself and sit in the drawer”, ordered Uzi as she stomped out of the room.

She had no option but to sulk till evening, looking past the framed photographs of the ancestors would give some solace, she thought. Her heart was lead-heavy, she threw the magazine aside and dragged her feet towards the family, hall of fame. These couple of hours, will seem like a century to her, she knew.

Uzi went nostalgic looking at the black and white photo, which dated back to 1948. She could never forget the Arab Israeli war. The smell of sulphur was still there in her barrel. The handsome portrait of Major Uziel Gal looked down at her, with benign eyes. The german born israeli weapon designer, looked like a clergyman. A toymaker of sorts, who would be remembered sixty years later by a blogger on blogspot.com.

Ironically, Major Gal’s greatest creation was a tool of destruction. Uzi looked at the dust covered portrait of her father; who she was named after.

Major Gal had a good foresight, but a weak conviction. After creating Uzi, he tried his level best…not to get the weapon named after him. He made some futile attempts which the Israeli defense ministry turned down. Call it Karma, in the end, Uzi paid for his creation. Till today, whenever a drop of blood is spilt, his name comes first in any record. If Billy the Kid ever saw, the number of Uzi victims since 50’s, he’d have his profession changed to a kindergarten teacher.

To be continued...

Sick Strings

“Getting F - majorly, with... F - Major aint no one's F -business.If you have a F - problem, please try to F - yourself. It will be F – embarrassing if you cant F – play it. Give it your best F – shot, still if you can’t then F – give up. Playing guitar aint your F – game.”

- Anxious Rohitus Dubious, 2OO7 AD

"Take me home, I am sick of this place", said my six string.

I was seduced in 1999, in the backfields of NID, Ahmedabad. Couldn’t muster up my courage for next four years, got my pleasures just looking at them in others arms…then I bumped into them, when I least expected; right inside the QAR room. It was midnight, there was no one around. I reached for them... and got them to my room. I didn’t care who they belonged to. That was my first night with those strings.

"Its never too late to learn Hotel California", my friend Van says emphatically, everytime I hit a sloppy F major.

Jayanti-LOL.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Face Value

“See, I can’t change the design once I have made it. I am sorry, but you’ll have to live with this fact. You’ll never be a hunk in a woman’s eyes”, said the God to the dark skinned Indian male.

“Well, then change her eye’s, you have to do something about this!” said the Indian.

The Indian used to be quite happy with himself. His looks and complexion were not at all a bother for him. He could play 'Gilli-Danda' and 'Kabbadi' all day long in the sun without sun lotion; feel the sun on his face without a worry of a skin cancer. No tan lines. He used to laugh at his caucasian friends, who turned pink in the sun. Life was pretty good so far, but what goes up comes down; and so it happened.

One fine day, when the Indian Male was at play, God released some beta versions of womankind. The beta women flocked on the Juhu beach, where the Indian was playing ball, with some Caucasians. The moment they noticed this new species, they were dumbstruck. The ball game was forgotten, a new game of ‘who gets who’ started. The Indian realized, except ‘Gilli-danda’ and ‘Kabbabdi’ he wasn’t good at anything. He tried his best to look graceful, macho and charming, but to no avail. Every cave resounded with sounds of pleasure that night, but his. He slept alone that night, a defeated man.

“Okay fine, fine…now don’t give me those looks, let me think”, God interrupted the Indian's depressing train of thoughts. “Hmm, I shouldn’t have done this, it’s my mistake I admit, I should have made all of you the same…” he added in a sotto voce. God was a little sad, he felt like V.P Singh, after passing the mandal commission proposal on reservation for backward castes. There was no solution. Even the light at the end of the tunnel had a brown tinge.

Indian was the only successful beta version of God’s male creations. He was a survival machine. His dark skin could withstand the UV radiation. He had a lot of hair to save him from extreme heat and cold. He wasn’t tall and white, making it easier for him to hide in the bushes while hunting. He was very lithe, and could climb up trees whenever chased by lions. His skin tone matched the bark of any tree in the forest, his camouflaged ambush was lethal. He never slept on an empty stomach. Today he seemed like a flawed piece.

God went through his inventory; there were still quite a few things to be introduced in World. His head did some permutations; there was still a solution possible. “I hope he buys it”, He thought.

With a little hesitation God said, “My son, I am sorry for what I did to you. I just wanted to experiment a little, please understand. Still, I can make some amends. See, I am going to invent something called ‘money’. It can buy you anything in this World, even a compliment from a woman. Now, will that satisfy you?” He noticed the Indian’s eyes come alive.

“Does that mean I will have a lot of money?” asked the happy Indian.

“Umm …not exactly, but it will be one thing which you and Caucasian will have an equal shot at. Both of you will have to figure it out…you know sort of. See, the best part is, money won’t know the color of your skin. You can attract money…and then attract a woman…are you getting what I am saying?” He added.

Indian came back to his cave, with a heavy head. He was ecstatic and sad at the same time. He hit his bed early and dozed off with a game plan. Play time was over. There was a lot of work to be done.

Next day, by afternoon, while the Caucasian was still hanging around in forests, calling himself Adam and looking for Eve, the Indian had already invented wheel, discovered fire, conceptualized ‘Zero’ and developed a township. He also helped the Caucasian figure out Christianity, and sold him the discoveries and inventions at a huge profit. Money happened. Moreover, this time around, respect and compliments were a natural by product, from the beta females. Though, he was not a hunk, the tall, white, chiseled, muscular mass of skin and hair which would make a ‘woman’ swoon. Still, he didn’t feel like a zero now; he was free wheeling all over the globe with a fire in his belly. “Thank you God…you behaved like one” was the only thought he had. Indian was content.


God on the other hand, was not really happy with himself. He is still trying to make things equal for the Indian. He tried convincing the whites to change to brown but there was a huge uproar. He couldn’t change the blacks and browns to white either. He made Michael Jackson do it once, but every one still called him a black. There was no solution. Even the light at the end of the tunnel had a brown tinge.

He figured a long term plan and tried racial cross pollination. He made the Caucasian invade India and the other way round. Offspring’s like Johns and Dinos, looked like positive results of His effort. In a few eons all the humans will be hunky and beautiful, thank to his efforts.

As of now, in parts of south India, the story is different. The original Indian is still found in all his glory there. He hasn’t changed. He still wakes up in the morning and looks into the mirror, “I need to be better at Mathematics, start an IT firm, buyout a Caucasian’s factory, win a Pulitzer…and then I am sure she will call me a Hunk ”, he tells himself as he combs his chest hair and puts oil on his mahogany skin.

Bump in the Night.

Mumbai monsoons always gallop me through a never ending memory lane. This morning they cross dissolved me to two years back. No, its not one of those life changing incidents. It just leaves me with a funny feeling, and yes a little moral to behave better next time.

This is a story of my initial days in Mumbai. I had no clue about the City. I had just got a taste of my first salary. My account had quite a few zeroes earned by me, not by my dad, for a change. There were a lot of things on my desire list, like sitting in a aeroplane, buying an iPod, etc. I wanted to treat myself, only MYSELF. I wanted to have the best Bombay could offer to any bachelor earning his own dough. Sorry to disappoint you, but I ran out of imagination and just landed at a movie theatre. It was the cinematic masterpiece, ‘Van Helsing’. I am sure the director was high on LSD, camera man high on methadone, lead actor had a dose of ether and the crew was tripping on Indian bhang, munakka, arrack and some household phenyl. Anyway, that’s beside the point.

The movie finished at twelve in the night, leaving me with a hundred ways to rip it apart. Isn’t it amazing, how good we feel about ourselves after watching a bad movie? Just the way we feel after being patient to a really cranky kid. So, there I was stepping out of ‘Suburbia’, the theater. It was raining outside.

Monsoon shower is best, if you are headed home. You actually don’t mind it. You know you have to go back and change into pajamas only. I strolled a while in the rain, mulling over the CG antics of Van Helsing, waiting for the crowds to disappear. Unfortunately, I forgot that the crowd will disappear along with all the available cabs also. I was stranded.

The pouring hadn’t stopped. Crowd had cleared. The cigarette was over. A cab stopped on the other side of the road. I rushed to catch it.

The downpour was heavy; I was drenched in a matter of seconds. This cab was my last hope and an Indian had again lost to white skin. Anyway, I was standing next to the open cab door, looking at that white girl. She had her one foot outside, I couldn’t figure whether she is getting in our out. “Are you getting in our coming out”, I asked; speaking the slowest English I could. I saw her face in the dim street light. She was pretty cute, and distressed. I was terribly wet, no pun intended.

“He is charging me Rs.240, for the airport, isn’t that too much?” she said. She looked like an archetypal damsel in distress. Rain added to the ambience. I saw myself sitting atop a white horse, with a shinning sword and resembling George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Raj Kapoor, all at the same time. Deep down I also felt like being a good Indian. “Of course, he is trying to fleece you! Let me handle it.” I showed the cabbie my war face and scowled, “tum jaiso ki wajah se hi sab hindustaniyon ki naak katati hai!”. (Because of guys like you, Indians lose respect everywhere). She got her handbag out and together we walked towards another cab which stopped a little ahead.

“Come with me, I will pay for the meter till Dadar and get down there…you can take it further to the airport, it will be much cheaper to you that way”, she agreed. The taxi started trudging towards Dadar. None of us knew that this cab ride will change the way we look at things…

Mariana was from Virginia, she was here on a university exchange program. Apart from the fact that a cab was trying to gyp her, she had a high opinion of Indians. Of course, my effort was the icing on the cake. In a matter of thirty minutes, we learnt a lot about each other.

The cab stopped at my place in Dadar. I stepped out with a two ton halo and a pair of wings, feeling good about myself. “Madam ko safely yahan se airport le jao, aur jyada pareshan mat karna”, I ordered the bhaiya cabbie. Cabbie gave me a smile, I couldn’t decipher it. Anyways, I stood at the gate of my house, waving at Mariana as she left. Oh, so angelic I thought.

I slept like a baby that night. My brain worked overtime though, thinking of various romantic scenarios. I used to be single then, and any female was a prospect of a relationship in those days.

I woke up with the irritating noise of my brother Dhruv brushing his teeth and flipping the Sunday times like a Neanderthal, next to my bed. I was very excited. “Dada, you know what happened last night”, I said, rubbing my eyes. “Whaa happeng?” Dhruv replied through the foam in his mouth. I told him the story expecting a little more nitro for my ego and overall studliness.


“Phwwwwaaaaahaahahhhhh!!!!” Dhruv laughed splattering the whole foam on the paper and some on me! He rushed to the bathroom, washed his mouth and came back laughing even loudly. I looked at him, something seriously wrong had happened last night. There was no reaction choice for such an occasion, in my manual.

“DO YOU EVEN HAVE A F**KING CLUE ABOUT WHAT YOU DID LAST NIGHT!” he said, after some five minutes of rolling on floor and laughing. “THAT POOR CHICK WOULD HAVE SHELVED OUT SOME RS.500, THANKS TO YOUR GOOD SAMARITAN DETOUR! IF SHE WAS PAYING RS.240 EARLIER, WHICH ACTUALLY IS THE RIGHT AMOUNT FROM BANDRA TO AIRPORT, SHE WOULD HAVE PAYED DOUBLE THE AMOUNT FOR A DADAR TO AIRPORT CAB, WAH! DUBEY JI! WAH”

Mariana’s email address in my pocket suddenly seemed like an unredeemable sin. Like I said, I had no clue about the city. I had never seen an airport or a plane in my life till then. That day I learnt the most about Mumbai. It is a linear city and Bandra lies midway between Dadar and Santacruz.

I really don’t want to think about her image of Indians. I laughed as well as lambasted myself that day.

I still try to be a good Indian hoping that one day, I will again be caught in a monsoon with a white girl in distress, this time I will do better. That will be my redemption, for the ‘bump in the night’ I gave Mariana.

May God bless her.