The pain of growing old

It’s been a desire for me to continue in same steam, have chicken steak with same hunger and have enough gas to reach milestones without refuels. Alas, you seldom can do all, and the high sights you set for, come crumbling down after.

Perhaps I’m glad that even after 7 years this homo-1sapient is thriving at least the thinking part. The days of moron donkey seem over and trying to get into meaty action lies ahead. But I can’t dissociate myself from the oxymoron within me. It’s who I am just like the way Dhoni defines when he wears sexy pair of shoes from Reebok, or that very voluptuous looking female sitting right across me tries hard to Ree-Tone her derriere. When I was young like all children around who remind me of my growing age, I thought of myself as He-Man and when RAJ comics came I got myself the hairstyle of super commando Dhruv. I went overboard to create a costume with the VIP trunks my mum bought, cutting its sleeves to make it a V-shape brief.  For a brief moment my mom went mad but had the right panacea for my insane behavior.

The retard within me had to be tamed and this was done with impunity. No comics, no cartoons whatever that came on Doordarshan, no stupid comic books discussion. For me that was blasphemy , all for a stupid trunk that I had turned up into a brief. I couldn’t forgo the grief that not so fancy designer brief had got me.

There was no shitting around when my parents were at task. I had to do something to unleash the hero within, to vent out my inner flux of creative juices and that’s when I decided, I had to write my own comic book, create my own super-hero, create a villain who is undefeated (borrowing it straight from Ra-One), a comic strip with no superhot girls (I was a misogynist since then), with such a strong zeal I started.

Since it was a big secret I didn’t tell this to anyone. Every day after school, I devoted 2 hours to project-Bieber (yeah I don’t recall its name but somehow Justin Bieber has crashed my mind). I could well see my pseudo beard growing, so engrossed I was that I sometimes forgot to meet my friend Chittu and go to nearest railways station to watch trains, walk on railway tracks. I named my comic book -------------------- ( you cannot expect me to remember a name after 18 years).

Finally, I ended up writing my own comic book (only the dialogues part).   That day it was stupidity at its best, I approached my brother have a critical literary review, I approached Chittu for a proof reading. But soon I realized it was a big mistake.

Chittu

He was sitting on his dad’s chair with legs on the study table. He look grim, he started blasting my story first, cursed on the powers the superhero (BlahMan) had, then completely revamped my story and presented the creation as if he had created it. That day I realized this man would end up becoming a big gaseous manager. I was right!!!

Brother

If this was not enough, my brother was the worst. He first ridiculed me of ignoring my studies (I was barely getting pass marks), bashed me up for wasting his precious diary( Did I tell you I stole that diary from dad’s collection of diaries which they get every year,  my dad had 50 of them that time and in Lucknow diaries are considered next to GOD. So we never write in them, we just collect!!!!).

There was no literature review further. The comic book was showed to my dad and mom. They didn’t utter a word. Dad shook his head in disgust; Mom thought I was a gone case.

“iske to paanch rupey milenge madam !!! badi acchi diary hai ye toh par bhar kyun di aapne”

The diary was sold for a mere 5 rupees to a kabaadi waala. I was aghast my first creation was sold. I was broken and tears strolled down.

Then it brought me a smile. My first copy was sold!! I had to start writing the sequel.

Till date that’s the only work that I have sold. My dream of publishing a book still remains a DREAM!!! Talking about dreams, nothing could have deterred me from doing anything, but now I have reasons, reasons strong enough to even stop myself from flatulence. (You cannot fart in living room, not in bedroom; KITCHEN is a blasphemy again…. Practically you cannot fart except in THE BATHROOM)

The art of growing old looms large. I try evading it every day, I try thinking of writing every day, I still dream of having my own band. At 30 you might feel the way you like. The choices are in plenty, you may choose to become Darth Vader from Star Trek, ACP Pradyuman from CID, Spiderman or Peter Parker, or Big B or Abhishek Bacchhan.

A douchebag on couch incinerates any desire of activity and probably catalyzes the pain of growing old.

“Bete jab main chhota baccha tha!!!”

The Last Call !!!

BACKHOE (Pictorial Representation) aka ME

CR – Abhi

Global consultant & Neetu – Sridhar

Dementia – My second track

Kaput – my good side

Index

Void ab initio – deemed invalid since begining

“बस आखिरी कॉल!  फिर नहीं !” It is difficult to finish a never ending conversation.  A tsunami might have hit 10 meters away, a lightning thunder must have roasted Neetu, and finally I could see CR shutting his mouth up with asphyxiation. I might have been hallucinating, though I wished for a moment it was true at least for CR; night seemed to be colder than before in Jampot and a claustrophobic feel entrenched me beneath an open sky.

My fear was staring at me; “In your face Bro!”; harder was to allay the thought of not calling her tomorrow. No more of colossal bills, no more of SMS recharge packages, would Bharti Airtel go bankrupt (the demented MBAian spoke again), even smoke rings looked like sore arses.

A pause, “tomorrow, I’m getting married “. I was taken down by shrillness of Abhi’s voice, “साले QUIZ का टाइम हो रहा है दोनों साले कहाँ @#$@# रहे हो!!” “Fuck you CR, another word you utter and I would get a crane, pick you with your balls…..” for the first time I felt like a Backhoe (the mean crane machine). CR could well sense the gravity of the situation and left blabbering for some other location.

“You there?” yeah very much, but not in totality, a part me had been sucked into void.  The night seemed to grow darker, colder, emptier and blunt.  I felt this vicious week was at fault, all Indian were at fault, how whole of India can get married in November. “सबको शादी करने की पड़ी है, ##$^%^ ! शादी न हो गयी चरस हो गयी बो दो सबकी २३@#@#$” (Dementia speaks!)

The noises in background subdued, I couldn’t utter a word, she was leaving me, I recollected myself, swallowed the lump which grew heavy with each second, I said those three magical words, “all the best !”.  ( Crash ! Seriously dude, after a courtship period of 6 years all she gets to hear is “ALL THE BEST!”, and what is so magical about it.) The three words can fit in any situation (Dementia speaks!) ;   I tried, tried and tried, all I could utter were words which seemed utter sham, we exchanged few rounds of warmth, few more rounds of conversations, few more…... It lasted for an hour.

She said: “Good Bye! I’ll see you soon.” That’s it I suppose. ”What did she mean by see you soon?” I stood there in the corridor all alone staring into the void, She dropped off, why me? Why her, why us, why the fuck am I in Jampot (Dude you have paid 15 lakhs for your MBA- yours sincerely Kaput), hence this question is void ab initio.

My cologne had stopped working, all of a sudden I could feel a stubble on my face ( but I did shave this morning), my sweatshirt seemed sulky, my shoes seemed torn, In the mirror nearby I could see the other side of me smiling.

“अबे बिशु दा के ढाबे चलो BACKHOE, QUIZ के तो पकोड़े लग गए, global consultant पता नहीं कहाँ loafing कर रहा है!” CR was back, he smiled jovially, but it failed to elate me. We walked slowly out of the alley; CR’s chatter box was still on, all of a sudden it struck me, I had left my watch back in the library, CR promptly said “अमा तो ले आते हैं, घडी ही तो है घोडा थोड़ी ना भाग जायेगी जो?”

I smiled for a moment, “she gave me that as a gift let it is. Not needed anymore.”

“बिशु दा, 3 चाय और 1 सुट्टा देना”

The smoke within admonished me, I smiled and said “Perhaps I will take that wrist watch tomorrow morning!!”

  

Giving Up !!!!

This part, right here is a void; I can’t face myself in the mirror. After initial hysteria that died, the euphoric tunes seem to have turned into cacophonous noises. All that is left a void, a chasm which I find hard to fill in.

This part right here is called GIVING UP!

I was done with my salary negotiations which didn't go as expected. I think I couldn't get my share because I was weak, I couldn't hard sell. Even an ostrich could have bargained better than me. It hurts you more when people around you were able to fetch more than you. Damn….

Then Rahul says, “Dude, it seems you got nervous” poor me, spot on, bingo, yeah you got it right Rahul, and here is your million dollar cheque. To cash it you got to sign – ARSE!

I still feel more than anything that hurts me is that I failed yet again to take a stand, the feeling is immense, dis-aggregated I feel an inertia surmounting, sucking me back to a chasm. In short I feel like crying. Meanwhile somewhere deep down, dementia speaks, “Crocodile tears don’t fetch you money. You Jackass!!!”

Yeah, it’s silly, I can’t ask god why me because I know. I’m the ONE! The only ONE! The only CHOSEN ONE – MORON DONKEY.

My room is in a mess, so is my brain – brain dead. People around are happy , they demand treats, they demand alcohol, they demand YO YO HONEY SINGH, after all I’m about to become GLOBAL LEADER. An oxymoron donkey still feels better than Global Leader – True Story.

To add to the broth, I feel cheated, I feel hell. Congrats dude for creating one damn awesome BROTHELL!!!

I don’t know which clothes to fold, which papers to put to basket, where to search for my wallet, even that damn itch guard is missing. If there was an award for philanthropy, congrats you just won an award. Best Saving caused to your company, errrrrr….. Future company.  What I always had cherished for doesn't seem lucrative enough…..

This part right here is called GIVING UP!

Diaries of a Back Bencher

क्या क्या चलता है इस दिमाग में, ऐ ग़ालिब

कहीं फितुरियां उमड़ रही होती है, तो कहीं कसक बुनी जाती है

बेबाक तथ्यों से होकर गुज़रे थे, देखा की गलियां इतनी सूनी क्यूँ हैं

पास मुहल्ले में ईदगाह है वही पर होंगे सब के सब.

कमबख्त क्या मालूम, पास में स्कूल भी लगा करता है

आजकल वहीँ आराम फरमा लेते हैं

A dream worth dying for.....

Everyday, I start afresh
take a hit, I don't mind,
scars on soul remind me of times
take a shot, I can't whine


everyday, I start to run
to tear the chaos, to cut loose from the wind
a slying chrome defines my world
an elusive dream outta my clutch


the times I was struck, at times I'm  broke
at times when the jeer, at times when the shout
I would take a shot, and run for a mile.
I would take a jibe on myself, 
Put on my trendy clothes, 
no matter I have a 1 rupee coin
would go out and run for a mile

India : Paunch in the Genes

Disclaimer: This post carries adult content, though in no ways intended to insult anyone. No Alpha males were harmed during the observations made. 

Travelling by metro on an early saturday morning towards Delhi, my moron cells made an important discovery.

I usually prefer travelling at the cusp of bogies, conjoining reserved women's compartment with the potpourri (that includes me). This lot primarily consist   of men who love being touched and touching others (to the point of fulfilling their carnal desires). Few love sleeping over you. 

The objective to position myself in such a place (trust me lucky few get this place) solve my two point agenda:

a. you don't have to smell "smelly-bushy" armpits of Indian Alpha male (NO matter how many ads portray desires fulfilled, bhabhis giving you lap dances and  AXING of libidos (A Pisces love exaggeration), we aka WE don't believe in applying DEODORANTS.  PERIOD!!! ). The fragrance from the other side is mesmerizing. The awry alpha male on the other side always look to this side wanting and panting for more. An unreachable territory  which for many out is desirable, intrigued eyes left wanting for more. Especially if you are around INA, jorbagh and Saket stations loads of pretty faces can be found, an eye candy. (Delhites call them totta)

Few who are brave and overenthusiastic try crossing the tormented line only to be ridiculed and sent back. The raucous aunties have their pound of flesh (You would always find one around in metro and trust me they won't get up and dance). These libidos then return with a clumsy smile. I guess that was the closest they ever got to a girl.

In the back ground someone mobiles rings "Ooh lala ooh lala, tuh hai meri fantasy !!! na na na..". Aptly said it describes the state of the men standing near that exclusive spot. The B-spot (aka BOGUS)

b. You are left amused with very interesting conversations from both ends. samples:

    "तू मुझे बहुत डांटेगी, पर मैंने ना उससे Break up कर लिया. yaar he was two timing me. कितनी परेशान हूँ मैं  !!!"

    "अरे हम कह रहे हैं ना बस पहुचते हैं , चरस बो दिए है आप  तोह!!" (and then he recites in a poetic tone, remembering mothers and sisters of our motherland)

"ओ जी, बच्चे  को सु सु  (toilet the no 1 types) लगी है ना, यही दरवाज़े पर करा दो ! gents लोगों  के लिए ही problem होती है . बच्चों के  लिए नहीं ."(I almost had a cardiac arrest after hearing this)

TRIVIA: *चरस : poppies. A kind of crude drug used by druggist across globe. 

*बो : sown. 

I can't really tell you the intricacies of where the man in question sowing these poppies. 

Unlike tube/metros around the globe you would rarely find people reading. READING !!! "man its like he is intellectual types". "Not that he is a loner but he wants to read". "inko dekho metro mein padhai kar rahe hain." To add to his travesty, people along with him start reading too. They don't read his book but read his expressions. "BHaiya ji padhai kar rahe hain!!!"

The metro stops at Saket, enters our GEN-X. O benc$@#s !! The colors subliming into one, pump up shoes from Palika bazar, the well spiked gelled harido (as a baldy I'm jealous) and a 'YO' attitude on their shoulders. I could well see scores of Mr. Kohli's,  few enter with their girlfriends. 

In our times, I would have sung "yehi hai right choice baby, aha !!"

First thoughts the alpha male first stares-glares (बाय गौड आँखों से दरिन्दिगी टपक रही है.) and then thinks - "sahi totta hai !!". There is heartburn in the air, few are left bloating and and few have been stuck with acidity only to relieve gases at an appropriate time. (The time bomb timer has been set).

Few uncles think aloud, ladies compartment toh aagey fir......!!

Midst all this lovely crow-d, I was about to discover something....

Lighting had struck me, and I saw them kissing, paunch of men kissing other paunches !!! Holy cow !!! Eureka !! I had witnessed an epiphany.

Verdict: We Indians are best suited for Jeans. Our body - made up of fat, proteins, minerals, muscles, tissues and GAS (tick tick tick!!) is physically the best place for the jeans to reside on.

Dear Jeans, its in our genes,

to imbibe thy flair,

to put you on, to test thy stitching

thy strongest cloth would hold my derriere,

my paunch would rest on thy top,

thy completes my attire,

Thy complete my attitude

O' thou and I look so good together

O'Jeans you are in my genes.

(this verbatim is a piece of literature I follow - PROFANITY)

Jeans in rugged for decades, few unwashed for years, faded, crisscrossed, few inviting (showing the most illustrious and most sensuous part of alpha male)  bum cleavages, jeans tore from the ends, few which not only cover the curves but also our very own customized bellies (soft and hard, three tier architectures etc.). 

Apart from the ones available in the market such as Boot cuts, straight cut, low waists, low bums, skinny. There is an elite design one which even covers you chest - yes these are our very own two in one.

The genes are symbolic for us, the anonymous hero which never lets you down, you take it to places (you booze, flush, fight, abuse, rest etc) and it bears everything. More over it bears the weight of your paunch sometimes by making it rest over it and  sometimes covering it. It goes in handy. If your jeans fails to cover you roundness, you can always open its button before lunch and yet it would hang in there as fateful (faithful) partner, it transpires and becomes low waist (some time low bum too). Yet it never has and perhaps never would find a mention in the books. I salute to the unsung hero. 

I dedicate thou the Haywards anthem: Hausla ho buland !!

On the other hand, the GENX has made the girl laugh and the witnesses are about to diffuse their time bombs(tick tick tick !!!).

You have kissed  paunch every thing and trust me "tu mera hero".

the tsunami of thoughts took a jerk. Our very own Shammi Narang (the voice of the metor announcer, a veteran from Doordarshan days) breaks into.

"अगला स्टेशन पटेल चौक! दरवाज़े दायीं तरफ खुलेंगे. कृपया दरवाजों से चिपक कर खड़े हों." (its not चिपक, though it goes better with the phrase, actually its हट )

My station had arrived and the silent time bomb has just been exploded. I had to get out. GO GO GO !!!

This time I saved my genes. 

Vertigo !

I poured in 4 cups of Americano,
a dangling modifier misplaced my vision
it feels I'm in a vertigo
it cuts me out to the core 
oh no, how should I tell you...
yeah, it feels I'm in a vertigo


painted zigzag on the canvas,
ranted thoughts in diary,
staring walls of my room...
yes, it feels I'm in a vertigo
pulled out my rugged jeans, 
got omelette and a beer
It seems few meteorites just hit my head,
it feels I'm in a vertigo


got to nearest subway,
boarded a train to an unknown station,
my thoughts are still in a tizzy,
yeah I'm in a vertigo.....

Monday Blues - I

Sunday Morning 0830 AM :

Indira Gandhi Terminal - 3: Nikks hugged me. Here she goes,

* mujhe miss mat karna

* dhyan rakhna apna

* don't worry too much about me....

Demon within me: "Come on! just few more minutes to hear all these rants." Even the berserk within is afraid of good byes.

I, certainly hate these good bye hugs. As lame as Most Desirable with Sammy Grey-balls.

I could hardly keep my concentration on her voice. It was her eyes what I was glued to.

Somewhere on a giant television screen came a loan ad; "Jab ghar mein pada ho Sona tab kahe ko rona". It was a cacophony that marred me.

Arrghhh - I'm gonna blast. Promptly I said: "Ok !! Bbye.".

Demon within me: "loser !!! you shouldn't have said this, wrong timing, teri toh lag gayi @#$%."

Nikks: "Accha Bbye... accha apna dhyaan rakhna". Oops she does it again. "Yeah, Nikks!! I'll take care myself", I think I just left, thinking now, I feel I should have stayed for a while.

There she goes......I feel knocked out.

Back ground: awwwwww !!!

planes ki गर्जन !!!

Damn !!! I hate this. I hate Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge too and I definitely hate kids (a different story, later!)

I'm all alone in the cab !!! Lets go driver.

Sunday Afternoon 01:30 PM:

Galleria, Subway:

Eating has always been my favourite past time. When I get bored, I eat. When I'm sad, I eat. When I'm happy, I eat. Technically I eat whenever, wherever whatever comes my way.

Today, the check list had ticks on all the boxes. I still didn't feel like eating.

Demon within: Wooohhh !!!! I couldn't control lets hog, lets attack, lets screw this sandwich.

So I eat. The bread seemed dry, as dry as those female models beauty creams ads, before they haven';t found that magical cream....and coke actually shook my belly.

"dhin ta chika, din the chika ...... he he he he". A famous song from ready almost broke my admiration to a void.

I could well see a morbid fat guy with 3 foot long subs attending the call.

मोटू मास्टर है टोटल डिसास्टर ! I could well relate to this song from Udaan movie.

Amidst all the incoherent thoughts rolling my head, a glitter caught my attention, lightening struck my eyes. Actually nothing as such happened, it was a call on my mobile, ahaan..Dr. Ashish Calling !!!


to be continued.............

It feels......!!!

It feels as

if a meteorite hit me,

I just had a stroke,

the ginger tea tasted as bad as those egg whites today.

it feels as if, the berserk within me just cried for a while,

it feels the void just went a little more vile,

The headache was never such bad, the chasm felt never so deep,

It seems I'm missing you,most certainly I'm.

It feels as

if the satire is winning,

it seems I want to read Shakespere,

It seems I missed a few  beats,

the maggi has gone bland and chicken tikka seems tasteless

The morning was never so breezy, though it was missing the pun.

Aloof I lie down and the TV seemed bored.

Might be it wanted to start a conversation.....

It seems I'm missing you, most certainly I'm.

When will it strike 5 ?

When would it be 5 ?
I yawned while sending out a mail,
My work speed seems synonymous to snail.

A near flash on my screen, 'you've got mail'

It says,Sweets at me desk.. please help yourself.

My calorie meter is just about to explode,

I can read my manager's eyes, I could well forebode.

I can see few sharing gossips,

few competing with desktop screen...

And then I stare back to the taskbar watch and stare at the window,

Wonder, When would it be 5 ? sigh.....

I can well see a cappuccino turn icy,

I can see rejoices on the conference call,

I can see discussions for releases, few tense faces on the ground,

I can hear guitar ringing down my ears.

Here comes Aerosmith, dream on o'dear.

Thou shall be penalised someday, somewhere....

I turn back to the wall clock, its 5... is it a dream, is it a nap?
No its 5 PM...Sharp

Hurray !! I pack my bags up and start down to walk...

I realize then and there loads of stare seem to stalk, 

O'dear O'dear !!! You have just seen the Singapore Clock.
sigh...

P.S. The ode is a true story of a poor soul on one of the Monday blues.

       Re-written for an internal organization magazine :)

क्यूँ ये शोर और हल्ला !!!

क्यूँ है  ये शोर और हल्ला,

क्यूँ मची है ये धमा चौकड़ी  ?

उन्माद की चादर में क्यूँ सिमट रहा है, ये देश सारा!!

होली नहीं है फिर भी क्यूँ रंगे दिख रहे है चेहरे सारे .........

पतझड़ के मौसम में , पेड़ भी क्यूँ लेह लाहा रहे ?

पटाखों की लड़ी चल रही , रोकेट दिख रहे आसमानों में,

ढोल नगाड़े जमके बज रहे, मिठाई  बँट रही है  क्यूँ ?

हर्षित मुख और तरंगित स्वर, गा रहे क्यूँ जन गन मन !!!

ना  कोई लीडर आया यहाँ पर ना  कोई त्यौहार !!!

उत्सव का माहोल है बना, हर विचिलित मन है उल्लास .

कटुता नहीं क्यूँ वाणी में, क्यूँ नहीं दिखती गालियाँ !

क्यूँ सब है गले मिल रहे , बाँट रहे हैं बधाइयाँ ?

How I became JACK-ASS !!!!

Year 1999:
Somewhere in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh.
India had experienced some finest moments in Services Industry, Infosys was on the advent of touching a billion dollar revenue, Y2K euphoria had started to build upon, adolescence was about to explore out mall culture, Shahid Afridi was still celebrating his 18th birthday, Ganguly had yet not taken over the reins of captaincy from our little Master, Twenty20 was not even a concept, BJP had smacked lot of asses around,Indian Army was too was smacking lots of asses...rather screwing. Indian automobile industry was witnessing a revelation......A change....


Unaware I stood as thin as a scarecrow, Story about me.... How I became JACK-ASS !!!
India had just found their love for bikes. Scooters were on the edge of an oblivion, and there stood my dad's Bajaj Super. Humaara Bajaj.
I was fascinated by the whole aura this scooter carried. I grew by it, nothing better than was the sight of my dad tilting it to an angle of 60 degrees sideways before start, hopping up and down to kick and there it starts. Race for a while before you zoom on to it. There was a desire to one day start my dad's scooter and take over those reins just like Ganguly. Yeah yeah... I still didn't know how to drive a scooter. A self proclaimed fear had engrossed me.


Watching my other friends around driving their dads' scooters disgusted me, that too a Bajaj Super. "Dude, how could you not drive a bajaj super ? Its the finest", Tunnu said. (God I wish he scores a dud in Maths.... 2 years later he did scrore a zero in boards). I stood as stone faced as Deepika Padukone in Dum Maaro Dum song. "Arrey itna bhi koi challanging nahi hai....bas race taan dene ka !! ". Waseem said boastingly. (His Dad owned Bajaj Cub, जिसे  ये शेर की तरह लखनऊ की सड़कों पे दौडाता था !).


Finally, I gathered my guts, getting into my red boxers, deceitfully taking the keys of Humaara Bajaj took the prized possession of the super. I almost dragged the scooter 500 meters, until I was sure I'm out of of Dad's reach. Chittu was waiting, he took this as a great oppurtunity to boast of his teaching skills. Final prayers made, I could hear Shaktiman saying in my ears, dude you are screwed !!!. I can hear Chittu saying "Yes, we can !!!".  
Intricacies explained, Tilting done just the way I had watched uncles around had done. I kicked, nopes It didn't start. One , two and three, still no luck.....I could see passerby smiling. An uncle commented out, "अच्छा नया नया सीख रहे हो, हे हे हे ! " (Darn you this was getting obnoxious, he still reminds me of Sidhu popping idioms). Chittu pitches in...... BRRRRRRRRRR. There it starts just like the smooth Coke ad. 


Chittu hops in. Off we go.......Hurray I'm driving this. Here I'm, this is me..... I could well see a Chandrachur singh within me. Then suddenly something unexpected happened.... A bull/cow DAMN...... All I could see was a black bull/cow (I can't figure out which one of that. Chittu says it was a goat). I can't hear anything. I can't feel anything.Someone shouts  "Brake.... you donkey... $%^%&^&^ अबे ब्रेक लगा  !!!" . I lift my hand in the air try to reach out to the brakes down....what the f@#$ !!! . 


Too late !!! Humaara Bajaj, Chittu and I were seen in a drainage. BLEED BLACK !!! Ahh its 11 out here time to go. Long story cut short.....
1. The back kicks gave me sore foot. I limped for almost 2 weeks.
2. Chittu gets bruised  and bandaged, I happened to get bandaged in after repercussions    (For each dent.... My dad dented me equally).
3. "गधा है ये !!". I made you proud dad.


That was just the start. Humaara bajaj and I never looked backed from there. My dad later followed the suit and bought a bike. I got humaara bajaj ! It stood tall in the ravages in years to come by..... Some damn guy later stole his stand. By the time it was sold, all that was left was an engine and a seat. It fetched my Dad 1500 bucks. My dad was as happy as ever smiling Uday Chopra. 


Humaara Bajaj is no more with us. Later, 'Buland bharat ki nayee tasveer' was replaced by none other than fast zooming energy efficient bikes. 
I finally managed to learn driving in 2001. Thats story for another day....Waseem crashed landed on an overbridge and that day I knew I was a sadist. Chittu never pursued maths, never gave a driving lesson and never piggy backed on my scooter. 


And thats how I became JACK-ASS.