Scooter Scribbler

School time. The old scooter coughed again. Seemed like a lifetime before it started. I was sick & tired of tellin’ him to buy a new bike instead o’ this wretched ol’ scooter. That way I don’t get to feel embarrassed when I see my friends in cars. Not that they sported around in BMWs and Rolls’, but hey, a bike’s a bike. Where does a scooter even stand a pig’s hair in front of a roarin’ monster that comes with a ‘Definitely male’ tagline?

‘Dad...’

He looked up.

‘What happened to the new bike we were gonna get?’

‘Oh that!... Let’s see’, he glanced back into the TV.

‘Yeah rite... All you see’re those crappy singin’ competitions on TV’, I mumbled without him surprisingly not noticin’ it.

‘For God’s sake sell the damn thing Dad... It’s been 15 years since you’ve been pushin’ that thing around’

He suddenly seemed to ponder a few seconds. Somethin’ that totally took me aback. (Well...uhh...you know… I’m not used to people thinkin’ over stuff I say. Odd faces and Yeah-rite-and-I’m-the-Duke-of-Wellington looks are what I get usually.)

‘Yeah you’re rite...Think its ‘bout time we got a new one’.

Wait a minute. Did he just agree with me? Agree as in OK?? Wow! The last time that happened I was in my diapers apparently signallin’ him that I had…uhh…successfully accomplished Operation Nature’s Call and wanted my diaper off. He agreed!!!...The huge ant-bite on my butt that evenin’ was a totally different story.

The next day more than half the school knew I was gonna buy a new bike. And more than half the school gave me more than half a school o’ suggestions.

On television, crappy singin’ competitions were ignored and commercials were given a priority. Newspapers were under forensic examination for ads and our mechanic became our dearest friend. Even those nosy neighbours played their parts. Always screwin’ up the bike I chose.

But before getting’ our hands on the new member of the family, we chose to dispose the old-timer. Mom didn’t know anythin’ ‘bout bikes but she was all the more excited about the gettin’ rid of the old-timer part. A nation-wide search for the apt scape-goat was launched. Neighbours, my folks’ colleagues, some o’ my worthless friends, everyone were told to keep an eye out for...uhh…vintage scooter collectors.

And after what seemed like a never endin’ fortnight, we managed to find one. Courtesy: Our new friend Mr. Mechanic. The guy offered a whopping six grand. Dad had related the tale of his prized possession countless times all my life. I chuckled as his words echoed,

‘You see the big fan here right above the engine? Well there’s a 150cc beneath it. It was a prestigious issue to own one o’ these those days you know? Was imported directly from London. You had to wait for more than three whole months after you’ve booked it. Not everyone was lucky enough to get their hands on this beauty you know? See the colour?? Ever seen any other scooter on the road o’ this same colour? When was the......’

Every time I was listenin’ to this speech of his…I found myself scrubbin’ the scooter. Gettin’ a new bike wasn’t gonna change all the scrubbin’ part, but if you’re asked to choose between watchin’ Dame Judi Dench strippin’ or Scarlett Johansson…uhh...you get the point!

The guy was supposed to visit the antique the next week. The rage o’ the road arrived home before then. I was rubbin’ my hands like a greedy villain with an evil grin who eyed the damsel in a bollywood movie. Dad cut it short by directin’ me to get some lemons in my bicycle. Bah!! He’d make the worst director if you ask me. (Oh and if you’re the same alien whom I mentioned in my first blog, then I’ve ta tell you that the lemons are for makin’ a new vehicle auspicious. You place one beneath each tyre and crush them in the first go and whoosh!!...your vehicle’s all auspicious. Yeah right! Try tellin’ that to the lemons.)

You know what they say...’An optimist is never deterred’. (Actually no one said that, but, it adds to the effect you know. By the way, if that line clicks, I’d like to have a copyright on that.) Ok I have to admit I was pissed off when he sent me to buy those stupid lemons, but, when I came ta think, (Yes, I do that sometimes too...Ha ha...Very funny you guys...), I came across the fact that I can’t be stopped by lemons! Those teeny, weeny yellow balls!! That’s ridiculous!! I’ve got more balls than a lemon!!

The grocery shop was at the street across. I geared up and sped as fast as I can. (In case you’re wonderin’, my bicycle had gears too. Eighteen of ‘em!!....I still had to pedal my ass off though.) When I raced back to the parkin’ lot with two o’ the plumpest lemons a pumpkin would’ve ever seen, I stopped by a crowd. A very nosy, noisy crowd. Neighbours!

I got closer to the source o’ the noise only to see Mr. Memon gettin’ on my ride. What nerve!! Hey wait a minute! What were those? Two lemons were lyin’ massacred on the floor! Courtesy: Dad. Apparently, he’d found some rotten lemons in the fridge while I was cyclin’ my ass off through the street. And now Mr. Memon was gonna test-ride it. Wow. How exciting. (RATS!!)

I stood there watchin’ while he sped off. I was in love with this bike. So now his daughter’s history. The engine was like a piano! Never heard more appealin’ music churn out from anythin’. And if Bach was there, I’m sure he’ll agree too.

Time stopped still as I felt the echo in my ears. No wait! It was that Memon guy comin’ back...with MY ride.

He came. He spoke. He never got up.

I can’t remember one dirty word that I didn’t associate him with. Unless of course, I heard this come outta his mouth.

‘Your motor-cycle has gotta lot of power sir. It can be fatal in the hands of teenagers.’

Have you ever wondered how it would be if you ended up in a lone island where there’s all the mouth-waterin’ food and the classiest of booze you ever wanted and loaded with the most beautiful chicks in the world, clad in designer bikinis? Well, stop wonderin’!! My heart’s bein’ ripped out in cold blood here!!

This was when I couldn’t help but think of ways to bash him up. I could wear a monkey-cap and sneak up at dark and bash him up. Yeah! I was gonna pound him left & right. Make him wish he was dead meat. So what if he was a trainer at his own gym huh?? I was the biggest guy in class! (Well horizontally....but...that’s not the point!!!)

Normally, I would’ve done what I was thinkin’, if it weren’t for somethin’ that sounded like,

‘You’re right Memon; maybe we’ll wait till he grows up a bit more and then give him the ride.’

Crap!! If it weren’t the lemons, it had to be the Memons!! Who knows what “grows up a bit” means? I could grow up to be someone who doesn’t even fit through his door for Pete’s sake!! Yeah!! Maybe then I could beat up Memon. Wouldn’t be much difficult too!! All I had to do was push him down and sit on him and the bastard’ll squish to death.

So the verdict was final. I can’t ride the bike. I can soak it, soap it, wipe it, wax it, dry it, clean it, but I can’t ride it!!

A guy came the next day. Was dressed pretty neat in shabby clothes. His hands were tight and he didn’t look like the kinda guy whose pockets were big enough. And I could tell he’d come to buy our old scooter. Dad & I took him to the parkin’ lot where it was left standin’ in a corner. It still bore the marks of the paint I scratched off as a kid (and had had a nice thwacking for it)...It still had the dent from the first accident we were in...Still had the memories of Dad takin’ Mom to the movies for the first time...The way I looked at Dad in awe when he gave that speech of his the first time...The way I scrubbed it clean all day after that...The excitement I had when I first managed to start it up...The first time I smelt petrol...The first time I went to school and ran behind it cryin’ as Dad sped off...The first time I played Speed Racer and kicked the kid next door off the back-seat...The first time I had the wind at my face...All the times that I annoyed Dad with the constant horn-thumping...All the scolding I got from him for dancin’ on the seat while riding...All the times I fell asleep on Mom’s lap at the back-seat... And as the guy drove off with the scooter, I agreed with Dad for the first time...Maybe it was priceless!!

Teenager Scribbler

Parents!!! One word to get a teenager into an instant mood (Old, torn, worn out, smelly shoes for guessin’ the kinda mood). They’re like walkin’, talkin’ ‘Tell Me Why’ books. Where’re you goin’? What do you need money for? Why’re you late? Where were you? The what, the when, the where, the who, the how….phew. And they say raisin’ up kids is difficult? Questions which basically have no answers or extremely obvious ones are what I get shot at. ‘Did you get your broken coolers fixed?’(Well Ma, would it still be lyin’ there in pieces if I had?) ‘Do you need any money?’(Are you really gonna fill me up if I said yes? Why ask ‘em in the first place if you’re not gonna give any? You don’t ask teenagers if they need money. Of course they need money. Why wouldn’t they?) Typical money conversations (which are probably only ones which take place between me and my folks) at my place go somewhat like this:

‘Ma, I need money’

‘How much?’ (Like she’s really gonna give it all to me)

‘How much you got?’

(Yes, I can be a blood-sucker at times, but c’mon, I’m their only son. They don’t have to spend money on anyone else. Pretty fair trade-off here you see? I ain’t that bad as you think. Besides, I’ll take real good care o’ them when I land myself in a job, which is gonna keep me confined to an 8 x 10 cubicle, frantically runnin’ my fingers on a cushioned key-board, on which the cushion is of obviously no use, and squeeze the juice outta me for no less than 14 hours a day and make the somewhat high salary seem like the tip that you’d give a waiter. Why am I wishin’ for such a paradisiacal job you think? I’m an Engineer. If I’m gonna wish for more I’d better be sure I’m rubbin’ Aladdin’s lamp. But all that I get to rub after I graduate, is a cushioned-chair look-alike which would analytically make you come to the conclusion that saddles are equivalent to heaven.)

‘What happened to the 100 bucks I gave you yesterday?’

(Wham. Only mothers can do that. Answer a question with a question that’ll knock you outta your senses. Now I’m really used to it (well….sorta), so I play it cool, although I’m wettin’ myself on the inside. What possible explanation could someone give for a question like that? (I’d bet a million bucks that it’ll baffle a Chartered Accountant.) Even that 100 bucks would’ve forgotten that it was with me (for like 5 whole minutes) the day before. And even if I did remember I can’t tell her the truth. Not that I took a gurl out or somethin’. (Yeah right. A 100 bucks in my pocket and I’m talkin’ about takin’ out a gurl?? Man, my Mom’s question really must have knocked my senses out. It takes at least two grand to take a gurl out these days. With these smelly restaurants and fast-food joints gettin’ new air-fresheners, confined spaces, and most importantly, a Newly Improved Menu Card, ‘impossible’ is the next word that comes to the mind of guys like me before takin’ out a gurl. And moreover, I’ve seen some guys unlike me takin’ chicks to such places. If you ask me I’d describe their condition in one word- Pathetic (with a capital ). But who asks me? I’m just another single guy tryin’ to get a life non-single ones may envy on. Why? You ask? I’ll tell you why. Remember those guys unlike me who took chicks to the restaurants? Well, their dates first test their patience (and the poor guy appointed as a waiter) by gaining a thorough knowledge of every item on the God-damned menu, due to which after some while, the waiter starts wonderin’ if he should be promoted as the Chief Chef. Then, the young lady, advances to give out an order which our poor waiter who’s already wonderin’ about his promotion, stops in the middle of it and starts calculating if he could’ve done away with a copy of the menu personally delivered to the Chef instead of findin’ a note-book large enough to jot down The Order, which if he was bright enough could’ve sold it to a publisher who foxes house-wives into buyin’ a low-cost compilation of continental delicacies. Hold on now. I’m not finished with the dates yet. Amidst all this, the guy keeps oglin’ into the chicks’ eyes as if he’d been hypnotized by a witch. (Well, the hypnotized part is certainly true, and hell, so is the witch part (What else would you call a woman with two inches of paint on her eyes, three inches on her cheeks, three and a half on her lips, nails the size of drum-sticks, and her hair havin’ a striking resemblance to a Tailor bird’s nest?)). So, as our poor and confused waiter arrives with all the stuff ordered (that he could get in one trip), frantically tryin’ to catch his breath in between, these two hold hands on the table, pretendin’ to be lost in each other, not givin’ the poor guy a chance to set the stuff down. Suddenly, the Cruella De Vil shrieks on seein’ the food set down by Mr. Poor-and-confused. Reason? She was on a diet and she forgot that while orderin’…..which perfectly explains why she ordered food enough to feed half o’ Somalia (The rest o’ the half lost their appetite on catchin’ a glimpse of our damsel). The afore mentioned pathetic guy then proceeds to feed her with his own hands, holdin’ a spoon of course (Why would anyone put food in an alligator’s mouth bare-handed?). She then advances as close to the spoon as possible, opens her mouth, and denies eatin’ (What suspense? Did you see that comin’? I’d bet Alfred Hitchcock wouldn’t have). After stuffin’ a coupla spoons, she puts up her hands in exhaustion to say she can’t eat a morsel more (Although, I’m pretty sure she can eat twice the items a ten-fold menu could hold). Our protagonist then gets up and tries to talk her into watchin’ a movie or whatever, as though he doesn’t care about all the money he wasted on the food (He doesn’t have a choice but to put up a carefree front. He can’t yell at her for orderin’ all that. Neither can he hog all of ‘em down with a gurl watchin’ him. Checkmate pal!!! Either lose your money or lose more o’ your money). Oh and if some o’ you new readers’re curious as to which movie they went to, finish your homework in the previous blog.) The point is I can’t tell her what I did with the money. Period.

I’m a genius!! All these thoughts run through me in micro-miniscule seconds, while I’m simultaneously workin’ up an answer for The question. Man!! My brain-cells must be overflowin’. No wonder they call me The Retardo Man!! Ahem….ahem….A’ rite I’ll stop.)

‘I spent it’.

(I know you’re all goin’ like “That’s it? That’s the bright answer? You made me read all that in the brackets just to hear this stupid one? I’m bringin’ my baseball bat now you bozo.” Hold it right there fellas. I haven’t finished yet.)

‘How’d you spend all that money? What’d you do with it? I gave you a fifty the day before too.’

(She says this as she puts the money on the table.)

‘Ma, where’s my socks? Why’re they never there where I put ‘em? Every single day I’ve to search for ‘em.’

(Bingo!! Perfect timing!!! She forgets all ‘bout the 100 bucks and goes sock-hunting. I did it again!! Now all those who’re gonna try this at home consult trained professionals first. The conversation must begin strictly at places where her purse is at an arm’s length and, most importantly, when she’s busy. For more details, contact me with a description of your Mom and the kinda job she does. Warning! Do not try this if your Mom’s a house-wife and your Dad’s already left for work.)

Well, such is how my day is made. I’m off now. (What? You expect me to write more with such hard-earned cash in my pocket? Hell, I’m outta here. Besides, some o’ you evil ones‘ve been complainin’ my blog’s too long. So right now, I’d better leave. Up, up, and awaaaaaayyyyy!!!).

Single Scribbler

Girls!! How do they get hooked with the dumbest, weirdest, most uncool, guys on the planet? I’m sure every sane single guy or an ex-single guy must’ve asked this himself at some point or the other in his otherwise normal life. I mean, how is it that women drool over guys like Matthew Mc Connaughey and still end up with a guy no taller than Danny de Vito, no thinner than him for that matter, and with a brain quarter the size o’ the brain he’s got?? Is it just because they’re the easiest catch??....Hmmm…Are all dumb guys rich then??...Maybe…But sane, single guys like me never seem to get the answer. I guess that’s probably why we fill our status as ‘single’. Not that we complain about it. We’re pretty happy if you catch the view from our side.

We’ve got no one to make up a thousand times because we didn’t cry on hearin’ a beautiful girl’s plight with her best friends, OR because we didn’t ‘awww’ on seein’ a li’l boy dressed in the shabbiest of rags, (I know I know…rags ARE shabby….Just adds to the effect you know), beggin’ for a rupee, (Yes…That’s what they charge….The most recent one that I heard included a Money plus scheme from the Life Insurance Corporation), OR some crappy film starring SRK, who must be spendin’ half his life in Railway stations or Airports (In case you happen to be an alien from outer space, that’s where this guy picks up chicks from, whines and dines ‘em, (Yeap…I spelt that right), makes ‘em cry, and at the end starts cryin’ himself, which is of course after he’s made sure that every other character has shed half a bucket o’ tears, and in the end gets the chick back at the same airport/railway station, whichever’s whiter in background, whom he let go of with utter stupidity and stubbornness somewhere before the interval, which would’ve saved us insensitive singles, if he didn’t, on cigarettes, who sometimes make the mistake of goin’ to watch such pathetic excuses of films because they don’t have a girl to take out to, who, on the contrary, if we did have, would obviously ask us to take them to such pathetic excuses of films, and we ex-singles now would have to end up payin’ for two tickets in place of one, and absolutely NO cigarettes which we less brighter mortals think that it relieves all the tension caused by the repeated question imposed on us by our bitch of a conscience….”What’re you doin’ here??...What’re you doin’ here??...WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’ HERE???”), cryin’ his head off over some overtly made-up stunning woman, who eventually comes back to him anyway, makin’ his whole cryin’ worthwhile (Well, that’s what the audiences are made to believe. They don’t know what she’s gonna do to the guy after they get home. She’d probably try to kill him with her mascara or hair-dryer by shoving it into his…uhh…nose, so that she wouldn’t have to waste her polka-dotted hand-kerchief on a guy who’s never grown a beard, and ahem ahem…waxes, and never ceases to weep like a baby who’s candy has been stolen by one such pathetic guy).

We don’t spend a thousand bucks on a 1cm x 1.5cm newspaper space reserved for love notes (PUKE) which go like,

‘Every moment I’m away from you I feel I’m walking on knives,

If I had one wish, I’ll wish we’re together for all the seven lives’

- Name withheld

*Barf* Excuse me dear. Now is that puke-inducin’ or what? I mean, what kind of a guy, writes stupid love notes like that? Jeez, walkin’ on knives? Get rid o’ those filthy loafers and get yourself a Nike you bastard.

And the reaction on the chick’s face the next day you ask? How the hell would I know? I didn’t write that. And even if was drunk on, like, 10 bottles of vodka, and I do happen to write such a romantic rhyme which has the ability to wipe out Shakespearean works from the surface of the Earth, I wouldn’t wanna find out.

Oh! I forgot to tell you the most important advantage we singles have. We can look at any gurl, for any amount of time and as many numbers of times as we count err...sheep, before dozin’ off. Now hold it right there.

I know what you non-single readers’re thinkin’ (Yeah right, the only probable readers of this post are gonna be a coupla my jobless friends who’re gonna resist with utmost disgust at the words ‘read’ and ‘blog’, and I’m talkin’ about categories of readers here??? Man, some hopes I’ve got). You’re probably thinkin’ I’m jealous o’ these not-so-impressive guys who end up with drop-dead gorgeous women.

All I'd say is you’ve got a point there, a pretty valid one. But if us singles (read sane bachelors) can walk away with the above mentioned advantages of being single, and the ones that I haven’t mentioned with utmost interest in Google’s storage limit, with just a small teeny weeny itsy bitsy accusation of bein’ jealous, then we have reasons to believe that you non-singles are definitely on the wrong side of God’s blessings. And with the utmost satisfaction of makin’ non-singles look pathetic, which does hurt me a bit too as I happen to have a heart of gold, studded with diamonds in between, I think I’ll stop my very first blog right here. Oh and people who did buy a Nike after readin’ my blog and are currently lookin’ for me with their former filthy loafers in hand, please do notify your nearest dealer in Nike of me as I would be grateful to receive a reasonable amount for such generous publicity.