[I wrote this article as a part of my ongoing journalism internship. Thought of sharing it with the blogging community. 🙂 ]
Twenty years of existence. I have been immortal for what a mathematician would calculate out to 7370 days; taking into account five leap years, and +2 days which this article will take to get published (assuming the editor doesn’t send me a “go through it again” mail).
That’s quite a time as compared to the long breaths of the short lived multicolored creatures “dazzling” around our rooms in the rainy nights – the moths and their accomplices. For once, that makes me happy. I have outlived a few species of living organisms, including the moth; perhaps the one that distracts the last bit of my concentration required to write an article. Hooray! No more delays Ms. Editor; kidding!
There are a lot of things that get men off the hook, and most of the times its women and cricket; as for me, include the little dazzling party “hanging out” in my room.
A sugared thought of fair skinned clad – the sweet smelling opposite sex (homo-sapiens-sapiens only; no chimps, please!) is enough to get me laid (back). “Thou lay at ease, O dear master! The article can wait.”, and so it does, and so rings the bell of my editor.
Well, “Women! What can you say? Who made ’em? God must have been a f**kin’ genius. The hair. They say the hair is everything, you know? Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls, just wanting to go to sleep forever? Or lips. And when they touched your’s, were like that first swallow of wine after you just crossed the desert. Tits. Hooaah! Big ones, little ones; nipples staring right out at you, like secret searchlights. Mmm. Legs. I don’t care if they’re Greek columns or secondhand Steinways. What’s between ’em? Passport to heaven.” ( from “Scent of a Woman“)
In India, we worship women (for no one wants to loose their “passport to heaven”, let alone the priests). But dear “single-guy”, dare you worship the young voguish girl of a metro (Yeah! exactly the one whom you aspire to make your girlfriend), and she’ll rip apart that beloved organ of yours (Ouch! that hurts).
“Thou filthy fellow! Bloody fudoo (Punjabi for fucker). How durran (dare) thou stare at me?”. This was the latest addition to my book of “memorable insults” (already two volumes complete).
That’s the “anomaly” about women, they are captivating at imagination – they’ll grab your thoughts, grip your brain, and take you on a “Dear- O-Dear!” ride, but in reality, just try sniffing around one, and she’ll shoo you off.
“Shoo Shoo! Hurr..!”
It’s only a matter of time until every guy gets his due of the bitchy treatment (even the committed ones ).
Yesterday, I happen to sit by a woman, a twenty year old something, in the metro. She wore a stern look on her face, and just when her cell rang, “Don’t you ever call me baby again. I am never ever going to talk to you. Kutte (dog) Kamine (Roman-Hindi for fucking), Dafaa ho jaa (Go to hell!).” And to hell did the poor guy go; he became single – the genre doomed by the society as the bunch of incapable dogs roaming around just to impregnate the bitches; in other words, worthless.
Perhaps, O Womaniya, Ah! Aa! Womaniya… Jaa Jaa Womaniyaa! No more Womaniya chasing for me now. (And yeah! on time delivery of every article from now on; Cool! isn’t it, Ms. Editor? )