How it all started

I had been in Music class before, but then that was a time when the happiness of making it to the front row as one of the main singers for Vande Mataram was what got you high.  It was a little different now.  Instead of a newly wed miss clad in a heavy saree and adorned with as many bangles as could find space on her arm, sitting behind a harmonium, entranced, there was a balding bespectacled man, smiling through the round lenses, tapping his feet as he animatedly played "Let it Be" on his piano, nodding in affirmation to the guitarist seated right next to him with a half Elvis look, a busy moustache and nails large enough to substitute for a pick.  First day at school, and Music class; as if joining a new school mid-session hadn't given me enough jitters, the proposition of having to croak and be ridiculed wasn't particularly a happy thought.  The first class I just lingered at the back, observing the brat pack, customs I was unaware of as a young Indian boy who left partitioned his hair and felt rolling up his sleeves would be disrespectful.  It wasn't long before the little brown boy in a sea of white was singled out as being too quiet, in Music class, blasphemy!

He asked me what I was good at, playing or singing?  Playing, I wondered.  Would jamming to "Papa kehte hain bada  naam karega" on a toy guitar I had since childhood count?  Or how does my brother and I going *ting ting* on the miniature piano sound? Thought as much, both didn't qualify. Singing it had to be and I was asked to pick a song.  A song? What does he mean? I came back home, dropped my bag at the door and fell flat on the bed, still wondering, what exactly does a song sound like?  Do they expect me to pull off a Bollywood number, 'coz they wouldn't get jack shit!  I was the kid who fast forwarded the video tape in the VCR whenever  the hero and his love interest donned ridiculous clothes and danced around trees till normal conversation resumed and the plot thickened.  I was aware of the existence of music, of singers and songs from the West, which quite unlike the usual Rangoli songs, presented themselves as items of great mystery to me.  But that still didn't answer the question, what song do I pick?

I sifted through the handful of audio cassettes I could get hold of in the boxes that had been opened up by Mom already and put them into the cassette player to get a feel for what songs were.  The cover read Kishore Kumar Hits.  "Who the hell is that?", I asked Mom.  "Chalti ka naam gaadi beta" came the reply. Oh.  After almost half an hour of browsing the collection I realised there was nothing in it I could actually pull off and not come across as a loser.  School is tough, first impressions are impossible to erase from memories.  I had to salvage some pride, especially after having stood up in class for every reply to the teacher's question, something I learnt almost a month into the curriculum was not the "norm" around here.   After much deliberation, sleepless nights, 'twas the night before the actual "performance" was due that brilliance struck me.

What is better than "the one thing" you have been asked to do?
Three things your teacher would not be expecting from you!

I called out for Mom asking her which box had all the farewell gifts my friends had given me before I left.  Excitement levels were off the charts, I could not contain my emotions, that evil smirk was so evident on my face it actually gave my mother a fright.  A mantelpiece from Archies with a 4 liner, which was easily turned into a limerick, became the first article of brilliance.  The next one was a meaningful translation of a Hindi song, one which I fail to remember right now.  This is what took me the longest, probably around an hour to make some sense of the lyrics.  Two down, one to go.  By the time I was done with the translation, I was so euphoric that it made no sense to wait and work on the third but that internal figure of three I set for myself had to be met, and what I did as a consequence is something am not particularly proud of.  I plagiarised from a Hallmark wall hanging.  I am ashamed of it till date, that's probably why I still remember it till today:

Friendship is like a flower
A joy from day to day
But you should take good care of it
Lest it should fade away
Tended by your nature and protected by your care
It will soon grow into A Blossom Rare

A complete rip off.

I received accolades for the effort.  I still ended up being popular in school for all the wrong reasons.  But that day opened the doors for me to the world of music.  It was my brother who went to Media Markt and got a Sony Discman with the first ever English CD I lay my hands on - Oasis, Standing on the Shoulder of Giants, probably realising that the time had come for me to lose my music virginity. Why then did I recount this utterly useless story?  Honestly, it was to form the prelude for a post I had in mind, but as usual I got carried away on a tangent.  So here's to you bro, for introducing me to the world of music. Cheers!!

The year was 1997.

Aur bano phantom

Man has an innate propensity to take on more than he can handle, and if you're wondering about the statement being too sexist, it is intended to be so.  If we were to extrapolate this behaviour it wouldn't come as a surprise that our first step on the moon was deemed to be a giant step for mankind.  One slight pat on the back and we think of ourselves as the king of the world.  We fall prey to the slightest signal thrown our way by a woman; like rabid dogs hungry for food, we start salivating at even the leftovers!  Such low threshold for resistance and a high tendency to give into temptation is probably why we have ended up being labeled as the "horny bastards".  Men, I tell you.

Then again, reading the first paragraph again am wondering who I was talking about there, myself or a guy who almost beat me to a pulp the other day.  If you have ever had the misfortune of looking at my wiry frame it would come as no surprise that my somewhat irregular visits to the gym have borne no fruit.  Despite repeated attempts at following a strict regimen, my body is intent on making me suffer through what I now call "every girl's dream" nightmare!  This is not where my story lies, however.  As always, in a futile attempt to salvage some pride and draw some value out of my yearly gym membership I turned up on a Thursday evening at the weights section.  After a half hour "rigourous" *do not laugh!* workout, I was completing my final stretches ready to pack up and leave.  I bid adieu to a friend who has been frequenting the gym quite often and actually turned out to be motivation enough for me to drag my ass down there.  To be honest, and at the cost of being overly frank, she isn't too far off when it comes to being labeled haddi raja!  Having had my usual kicks out of paining her happiness just before leaving, I opened the door, turned the key, took out my cellphone, earphones and wallet, turned the key again and slid it across to the guard for safekeeping.  How I wish I could have ended this story here itself.

The Deviant Devil had other plans for me.  Its been a known fact in circles I usually invade that I have a penchant for being too much of a smartass for my own good.  If nothing has stopped me in the past, why would I stop this very day either.  I envy some of the guys who turn up at the gym for the way they have maintained their health and physique but I loathe most of the others for having developed themselves into steroid pumping adrenalin blobs who just love graduating from lean muscle to very offensive and disgusting "man-boobs".  I call them monkey-men, for reasons I still am trying to figure out.  Anyways, so along comes a monkey-man, all huffed and puffed up, fresh out of a shower, wearing only briefs, white ones, Tommy Hilfiger I think, chuck it.  The door opens again as one of the gym instructors exits.  He snatches a peek inside.  He is partially obstructing my line of vision if I were to look in the same direction.  Now consider the following in slow motion.  As I am handing over the key and turning to walk away, he gapes inside, smirks and yells out, "aajkal yahan bhi *expletive* tota maal aane laga hai by god! kya phuljhadi hai kasam se!"  Normally, I would just shake my head, call him a jerk inside that little space between my ears and walk on, but not today, because the moment I was turning away, I saw whom he saw. The girl who had bent down to pick up a set of dumb-bells, turned and waved goodbye to me, 'twas my friend.

Chutiya - is what I called him. To his face. Well not technically, he was still ogling through whatever little crack in the door was visible.  He swiveled around, and poked his face at me, "you talkin' to me bro?"  Here is the interesting thing about humans.  When we are all pumped up and full of anxiety, we either go all out or whimper into a corner and hide.  And here is something even more interesting, men love choosing the first option, so whatever height difference there was between me and the giant from Sparta, I made up for by moving closer, chest out, rolling up the short sleeves of my t-shirt, tilt of the head to the right and said "I don't see another douche bag around here, BRO!"  A verbal duel never, in the history of mankind, resolved itself in the favour of the burlier, more beastly opponent, and I think Mr. Muscle Mass was well aware of that.  So while I tried to use whatever fiery embarrassments I could launch at him, he chose to reply monotonously with "tu bahar mil saale!" It was like a boxing bout, while I fluttered around and kept giving him punches left, right and centre, he kept swirling his big empty blows threatening to knock me out in one swing.  If only Muhammad Ali could have been there - dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee, he would have been so proud a tear would have rolled down his cheek! ;-)  Five minutes into whopping his ass with verbal assaults as the others also joined in ridiculing and criticising him, I realised what sort of a pit I had dug myself into.  The others who came up in support for me were not going to stick around, and this man-whore with his big knockers dangling out of his vest was going to pummel me to death the moment I stepped outside.  Damage control, is all that came to mind.  Offence is the best defense - sounds good in books, sucks in real life!  But when you are this deep in shit the only thing left to do is splash around in the hope that it'll rev up a storm and scare off even the most mightiest of assholes around.  So out came the index finger, pupils dilated, nerve ready to pop out of the forehead, teeth grinding, eyebrows narrowed, eyes widened.  It was like the finger was moving independently, my mind kept screaming,

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?!"
"Stop right now or else!"
"That's it I give up on you!!"
"You are not my responsibility anymore!"

and finally .. "Holy Crap!!" by which time the index finger had started digging into his forehead and a voice could be heard through my grinding teeth uttering something to the tune of "You DARE look at my friend with your lecherous eyes again, I swear to God I will pull them out of their sockets and feed them to a group of rabid dogs who'll spit them out in an instant after which I'll shove them up your behind so far up that you'll feel violated for life, you fucking asshole!"

He stood there, astounded, unable to comprehend what just happened.  Cue for me to make a quick exit.  I was so proud, I upheld my honour, my friend's honour, took the Hulk on, and escaped unscathed.  Not 5 seconds had passed as I had stepped out on to the road with my earphones plugged in that a heavy hand on my shoulder turned me around and I received a mighty blow in the stomach.  I dropped to my knees, cringing, my arms wrapped around my tummy.

PS: In the first paragraph I criticise men for construing even the mildest of gestures as being a license for them to call themselves "King of the World".  This definitely does not translate into the girls being better off.  If anything they're probably worse, because they need absolutely NO stimulus to think of themselves as "Queen of the whole bloody Universe"! :-)