I’ve been off this blog a long time now! I’d blame that on “writers block”, but then who’d believe me? Anyway, I seem to have lost my ability to write those sad excuses for poetry somewhere in Bangalore (I personally believe it’s lost somewhere in the annals of Nanjundaiah Bar & Rest). A place which was recently re-painted and re-furnished, only to have a board – which lasted a fortnight, saying “Nanjundaiah Bra & Rest”, but that’s another story).
I’ve been following the blogs written by some of my more verbally gifted friends like Punk a.k.a. Varun – Roll number 53, and Mutha a.k.a. Prashant – c22amarrahein. The latest batch of their blogposts particularly piqued my interest, and got me to write something in the same vein. So I’ve decided to post incidents from SIES, from which i learned something important.
This is the first such incident:
Moral: When you feel you've run out of expletives, just make some up.
This one occurred approximately around the time the English Tutorial thing happened (narrated on Roll number 53 – seriously, visit that link).
Set – 1st floor, the classroom right next to the stairway.
Cast – Mutha, Punk, me, Vivek, Shrikant, Rajamani.
Well, the story begins with just the 6 of us lazing around an empty classroom, just post college hours (I believe it was after college hours, one can never quite be sure of that). A few hours ago, in between classes, the infamous “Badgandy” (I’m not sure how that’s spelled) had decided to confiscate mobile phones, and Mutha’s was one of the very few phones actually confiscated. As expected, this meant Mutha wasn’t in the best of moods. He was hurling curses (non-expletive curses) at Badgandy. Vivek and I found the situation much too hilarious to contain our laughter and we were in splits. Punk and Shrikanth were trying to devise strategies to get Mutha’s phone back. Most of these were non-real world strategies, and some included drugging Badgandy, or placing a mass order for his Nirali Prakashan Math Tutorial Book etc. In the meanwhile, Rajamani decided to leave. One often doesn’t bother with asking Mani why or where he is going. Destiny often decides his paths for him! So Mani packed up whatever little belongings he had brought with, and split.
It was couple of minutes later that we realized Mani had forgotten his newly received ID card on the desk. Now we’d all received our ID cards just recently (about a semester late) and the newly stringent vigilance at the entrance disallowed students from entering the college without the ID. Being the caring friends that we claim to be, we decided to inform Mani that he’d left the card in the classroom. Since he’d already left, and none of us was in the mood to follow him and return the card, we decided to do the next best thing. The classroom we were occupying, overlooked the college gate on one side, and we were sure to spot Mani as he exited the college. I took the initiative, and climbed on top of the desk next to the window, and began shouting Mani’s name. I was at one point screaming at the top of my lungs, when finally Mani came into view. Hurling his customary abuses (which is often the way he begins a conversation), Mani stated that one of the Chembur people should take the ID card home and that he would pick it up on the way to college the next day (an odd request, considering Mani usually visited the college only once a week). Around this time, the conversation had reached a considerably high decibel level, which irked the already irked Mutha somewhat. He then went on to inform me that I should keep it down so as not to get into trouble. Given that Mutha was already angry around that time, his commands were at a higher decibel level than the conversation I was having with Mani from a one storey distance.
Mutha’s fears were soon realized when the peon (MAMA) decided to barge in to the classroom. There were always a countless number of Mamas patrolling the college, but none had ever got in our way before. Mama then demanded our ID cards (which he was intending on confiscating) and reprimanded us for climbing on top of the benches. “tumlog itna bada ho gaya hai, abhi tak Bandar jaisa karta hai, sharam aana chahiye, abhi main tumlog ka ID cards lekar Badgandy Sir ko dene wala hai”.
Around this time, the much spoken about bio-chick (mentioned in Roll number 53) walked past, and I lost interest in the conversation. I having spent all this time perched atop the bench, decided to descend and walk wilfully towards the door. On my way there, Mama demanded that I submit my ID card, at which I stated disinterestedly that I had not received it from the college office. Mama didn’t really want to argue about the efficiency of the SIES administrative office, and decided not to press on further (they weren’t exactly famous for their efficiency). I walked away preoccupied while he moved to the next person. Vivek who was standing just behind me, was next in line. I think I noticed him putting the ID in his bag while Mama and I were having that conversation. When Mama asked him for his ID, he said he hadn’t brought it along today. Quick to spot a lie, Mama asked him how he had been let inside the college campus without his ID, at which he replied that there was nobody checking at the gate when he entered. Mama couldn’t possibly attest to the efficiency of the watchmen at the gate, nobody could attest to that (they spent most of their time in the “AANDRE” lane smoking beedis [source of this information à Richie). He let Vivek pass, getting angrier every second.
Onward to Mutha, who even before being asked, meekly submitted the prize. Around this time, I was already almost out of the class, but I believe I heard Vivek let out a muffled expletive directed towards Mutha. Soon after, Mama, now feeling slightly confident, asked Shrikant and Punk, both of whom made up some excuse and walked away. Mama, having realized that for all the effort, he only had one card to show; walked away unhappily. Soon after, I having walked some distance away trailing the aforementioned bio-chick, returned to hysterical laughter in the class-room. I attempted to ask what had happened, nobody answered, basically because they were rolling around the room laughing!
After enough coaxing, Mutha (almost foaming at the mouth) decided to inform me.
Disclaimer: The language used here is not for the weak of heart. Mutha does not use common expletives, never has, never will. Mutha uses barnyard animals to invent his own expletives. I sometimes believe he makes them up on the spot.
Mutha “That bloody Mama, he took my ID card”
Me “ (laughing hysterically) I noticed that, why the f**k would you give it to him”
Mutha “abbey usne bola de to maine diya”
Me “nobody else gave it you numbskull”
Mutha “kya karu, he said give to i gave, bloody Mama!!!”
And before i could say any more, the barrage began
Mutha “That bloody Mama,
Sh*t of a Pig
D*ck of an Ass
P*bes of a Hippo
Ba*ls of a Bitch
F*ck*ng Oedipus (unfortunately, i had no idea what this meant at the time. I tried to ask, but there was no stopping him. Many years later, i found the information here)
This went on for what felt like 2 hours, when he finally stopped, only to restart the narrative with a new object of discussion – Badgandy.
“That F*ck*ng Badgandy, may his a*s be screwed by a male rhino, may he get raped by a bisexual horse (i never horses came in that well, type). Blo*dy d*ck of a gharial (a type of crocodile i once saw at Corbett National Park), I’ll shove a snake up him. I’ll puke on him.
And, well, so on.
Anyway, the story ends with the rest of us, laughing about this for the next 1 week. Mutha, unable to retrieve his ID the same day, had to come to college the next day without it. I have no idea what exactly happened at the college door the next day, I hadn’t turned up. He apparently got it back with some effort that day. Anyhow, all this just leads to my main point. What I learned that day.
While standing there, trying to concentrate on what he was saying, i learned one of the most valuable lessons of my life. That I would never, ever run out of abuses EVER! I could now spend the rest of my life knowing that “you f*ck*n bl*wj*b” isn’t the most difficult word to beat in the English language. It can most certainly be beaten with “F*ck*ng Oedipus”.
My suggestion to those few that are reading this, next time you come across somebody you really want to curse, but are afraid to do so, call him/her an Oedipus, lets see how many people know what you’re talking about (well, enough to take offense atleast).
That settles it for now.
