The Mole

In a short span of eight years, the little mole on the right side of my cheek had begun to speak German with a flawless accent. Three years back it had begun to sprout dense hair around it, sing Frank Sinatra songs to delighted family gatherings at Christmas and expound in great detail the pitfalls of communism. But I thought it was surely pushing it a bit when it fell in love with my earlobe. When it called my grandmother an octogenarian camel, I held my tongue and suffered the gaze of her watery eyes brimming with hurt. When it demanded to convert to Buddhism, I patiently waited for the phase to pass. When it fell in love with my earlobe, I zipped my conscience up in an airtight plastic bag and picked up the flame thrower.

We Men and Women

“We need water. Or maybe somebody’s daughter.” said General Specific.

There lies the solution to all our water woes. If you observe carefully then you’ll realize that the water problems all started as the sex ratio started dipping. In the developing countries where there are severe water supply problems, the sex ratios are far lower than what they are in the developed nations. Rain water harvesting and fighting over rivers will only get one so far. The population is growing but the water isn’t. On the other hand, daughters are renewable resources and their regeneration is ideally proportional to the population. This could be a very effective way to alleviate the water problems.

I Got Religion

A friend once took me to the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (and their page stats seem to tell me that I'm one of the only chaps in India who has entered it apart from the friend who took me). It's a lot of bull like all other religions but it has a point. On top of that he's a convenient god to believe in and worship and also has an International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Beat that Jesus.

Not.

Pig Out On Chicken Soup

"What a field day for the heat." quipped General Specific, smiling at the tattered newspaper. It was a pleasant day and the clouds hid the Sun. Platinum Blonde huddled under a blanket in one corner of the bus anxiously waiting for it to come out. She'd read somewhere that hot and sunny weather was a hindrance to the growth of the virus.

The rest of the occupants squeezed together in the remaining seats as far away as possible except for Baby Bitch who lay stretched out on an adjacent seat. If only she could push the windows open, she said to herself for the umpteenth time. She also scoffed at Platinum Blonde every time she groaned or sniffed. Baby Bitch, incidentally, had a headache too.

"Oh, stop it! It's rare enough for someone to contract swine flu in Pseudan and flying pigs fade into the background in comparison to falling death tolls!" ridiculed Baby Bitch realising that no one was really paying attention to her sharp, short and frequent dismissals of Platinum Blonde's symptoms. This time she struck gold as all eyes turned to Ambassador Boeing. Ambassador Boeing, who had been fairly loud with his views until some time back, seemed to have suddenly decided that he had been neglecting his right shoe and it deserved more attention.

"I'm sick!" wheezed Platinum Blonde unconvincingly. “I…” she continued before breaking off to sneeze into her palms. She wasn't really observing any of the listed precautions to prevent the spread of the disease or maybe she just wanted Baby Bitch to fall sick too. Her head did hurt and she was running a temperature with a sore throat. That could only mean one thing, right?

"Cheap flimsy masks which cut down the risk of contraction by no more than thirty percent at most, are the in thing." observed a dejected Director Ms. Leading as she caught sight of something in Platinum Blonde's fists. Platinum Blonde had just bought a revolting pink mask which looked like Aphrodite herself compared to some of the others she had bought earlier. Director Ms. Leading was actually thankful that she was down with whatever it was. That mask was a blunder if ever there was one excluding the Leaning Tower of Pisa. "If the pink one is Donald Trump's hairstyle then the green one's Boy George." she explained making her point clear.

"At the other end of the stupidity spectrum are these idiots who throw caution to the winds to avail festive discounts." added Captain Follow pointing at the pictures in the paper. These security chaps, ironically, felt very vulnerable. There was a picture of a crowd outside some mall and little kids dressed up in costumes and a human pyramid. If ever you’ve been shocked at finding out how many Poles are needed to change a light bulb you’d have a heart attack when you found out the number of Pseudanese it took to break a clay pot.

“Economics text books will leave no stone unturned in reminding you that people make trade-offs and that people are rational.” said Major Minor, enlightening Captain Follow. “The catch lies in that condition. It either makes it conveniently worded brilliance or crying-out-loud stupidity.” he continued. “If you ask me, I’d rather miss classes than risk contracting the virus myself.”

At this point Platinum Blonde interrupted proceedings with a loud wail with which she attempted to communicate that her knee was hurting. The wail was because of her remembering that it was another symptom. The pain wasn’t that bad, just a dull throb, but the wail was as exaggerated as an “India Shining” advert.

Dr. In T. House couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh, stop it!” he mimicked Baby Bitch without even turning around. “It isn’t that bad until tremors show up on your left hand.”

Baby Bitch, who’d dozed off while looking out of the window, woke up with a sharp intake of breath. It hurt. Her shoulders hurt too. But unlike Platinum Blonde’s terrified exclamations about how her left hand was trembling all she could come up with was a weak “I don’t feel so good”.

Heads turned again. An eerie silence gave way to murmurs. Seats were frantically changed. Dr. In T. House sighed and got up from his seat shaking his head. As he limped towards her he said something to Platinum Blonde. A puzzled and slightly embarrassed Platinum Blonde covered her face with that grotesque pink mask again as she slipped past.

Baby Bitch shut her eyes because her head hurt. The sore throat was irritating and hurt as much. Her shoulders felt heavy and hurt too. The quick examination that Dr. In T. House carried out left her feeling sorry for touchscreens.

She didn’t feel so good.

Man on the Moon

“Captain crash and the beauty queen from mars?” compared General Specific looking over the tattered newspaper into Quentin’s screen. It was a picture of The Eagle, the Apollo 11 lunar module and an artist’s imagination of the first manned mission to Mars.

“It’s been forty years since Neil Armstrong took the small step!” proclaimed Quentin in celebration, still facing the screen. “What a contest it was! Sputnik, Luna, Vostok, Voshkod, Soyuz, you name it! The Soviets won all the battles but the Yanks finally won the war! Yeah baby!” The others looked at Quentin’s back waiting for someone else to say something dumb after which Quentin could launch into his explanation.

"It's all geek to me." sighed Captain Specific.

“I think he’s talking about Ladies Wimbledon.” suggested Great Scot keeping his volume down.

"It's almost forty years since Woodstock. Led Zep I?" suggested Major Minor.

Suddenly the bus was abuzz. Everyone found Major Minor's thinking pattern more attractive and possibilities flew around like one of those dratted snitches. The air was thick with thoughts and clarity was going down. Vietnam? Give Peace a Chance? Monty Python? Sesame Street? Boeing 747's debut? Charles de Gaulle stepping down? Unix?

“No, the moon landing.” corrected Page Boy who couldn't take it anymore after someone suggested the first ATM. “And it was ‘a small step’, Neo! Armstrong didn’t realise that no one on Earth heard the ‘a’.” he corrected aloud. Despite all the time that had passed he still called Quentin by his online name. Everyone knew how they’d both met each other online and how there had been some misunderstandings. No one knew the exact nature of the problem though. When the pair discovered the truth it led to Quentin becoming a little weird about his online relationships about which no one knew anyway while Page Boy, on the other hand, immersed himself in his books and publicly aired his disapproval of the internet. There weren’t many things which did provoke him and it was a welcome sight to see he was human too.

Quentin held up a finger on his left hand as his right punched away at his numpad and then reached over for the ‘a’ and the ‘f’ before getting to the ‘k’ as he swiveled around in his chair taking off his headphones. It was an impressive performance and would have put a Hindu god to shame.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “On the 4th of October 1957 the USSR launched Sputnik 1 beating the USA who joined later with the Explorer 1.”

The next few minutes were spent in a rapid run-through of the race to the moon. Names whizzed by like a Monday does not. “The first animal in space - Laika in the Sputnik 2, ’57.... first impact on the moon with Luna 2, ’59... Luna 3 picturing the dark side, ’59... Sputnik 5 bringing back Belka and Strelka in ’60... the first man in space, Yuri Gagarin, in the Vostok 1, ’61...”

“Kennedy declares that the Americans will reach the moon in a decade.” interrupted Page Boy.

“...the first spacewalk by..."

“Khrushchev backs off a bit.” interrupted Page Boy again.

"...Alexei Leonov in Voshkod 2, ’65...”

“Johnson continues what Kennedy started.” interrupted Page Boy again, irritated.

“...Luna 9 makes the first soft landing, ’66... AND the first men on the moon, ladies and gentlemen, Apollo 11, 21st July 1969!” announced Quentin. Page Boy returned to his window spot and became the learned statue that he generally was. Great Scot fiddled around with the brochure he’d been reading seriously the past couple of weeks. Baby Bitch looked on, eyebrow raised. Some nodded, half expecting a band to strike it and teary-eyed astronauts to materialise to receive the trophy from Platinum Blonde as they thanked everyone profusely. Others did not. That didn’t stop Quentin from going into how Mars was being planned and Vikings and pathfinders and phoenixes and what NASA was planning for humans and antimatter and polyethylene and the risk to astronauts and...

General Specific was still listening when his eyes caught sight of Quentin’s screensaver behind him and lost track of the man himself for a second. It looked cool, the sort of thing you could do with Flash or something, probably a trivial 15 minute affair for Quentin. This one sported a black background as an ideal screensaver should and had two hovering faces. One was easily recognisable and the other wasn’t hard to guess. The caption read, “He moonwalked. He moonwalked.”

(Image is property of Times Warner, I think. )

Padma and Eve and Adam and Jeev

"Touch me, baby, can’t you see that I’m not afraid.” said General Specific treating the tattered newspaper as if it was one of those colourful masks. Realising that didn’t quit sound so right, he shut up and sat down. He didn’t really care about being misinterpreted though, not having a girlfriend since quite some time was chalk to being gay’s cheese. There was something that the courts should fix and reservations be made about, he thought to himself, instead of quibbling over Varun Gandhi’s hate speeches, those were pretty obvious!

Sir Mam hummed to himself as he filed his nails, he had been victorious and his joy knew no bounds. He had been pleased and upbeat for over a month now. If he hadn’t been so occupied then he would have probably launched into a song and hugged General Specific. There were still some things left to be done but for now he could savour the battle.

“It is against the wishes of god! It’s against our traditions! It could cause an AIDS epidemic! I refuse to allow this to happen!” protested Holy Shit. “But criminalising it is unnecessary for they shall be answerable to God!” he concluded, failing to make a valid point as usual, yet indirectly explaining why the judiciary was a wholly unnecessary body unless you were an atheist victim. Reason number three million thirty seven something why religious figures shouldn’t be allowed to enter politics or anything else for that matter.

Page boy murmured something about Indian traditions which Captain Follow repeated for him. It seemed Lord Shiva bathed in the Yamuna and transformed into a milkmaid to dance the raas leela with Krishna.

“Lord Shiva dances the Nataraja scary dance thingy, right? He wanted to...? Teehee!” giggled Platinum Blonde. Holy Shit winced.

“Some of my best friends are gay.” chipped in Director Ms. Leading. It bore no relevance to the discussion at hand but she figured it was important somehow and everyone wanted to hear about it. The only thing It indicated, if anything at all, was how they were accepted despite their queerness. The entertainment industry isn’t fair but it was setting an example for a change.

“Homosexuality isn’t a disease. No correlation has been established between HIV-AIDS and sexual orientation.” said Dr. In T. House offering his medical opinion as if it were a telegram.

“But there’s this confusion about age limits too? Isn’t there?” joined Major Minor with a topic relevant to him. “Non-vaginal isn’t allowed until eighteen, two years after vaginal, although vaginal is allowed at even fifteen if she’s married without having eloped or getting kidnapped otherwise the minimum marriageable age is eighteen after which she’s allowed anything anyway,” he paused for breath, “Right?” The usage of technical wording helped cushion what could have been a very unsettling statement.

“So your large intestine needs another two years over your vagina to trust your judgement? And you aren’t allowed a taste of things to come until the same? And even when they’re allowed genitalia, booze must wait seven more years? And is attraction to animals a disease? How do you get a horse’s consent? Nonsense!” exclaimed Baby Bitch dismissing the whole thing and undoing all of Major Minor’s hard work.

Ambassador Boeing, on behalf of Premier Worst, had previously expressed views on how the fundamental rights bestowed by the constitution included equality first and foremost, on how its inclusiveness was one of its strengths, on the right to privacy and dignity and how section 377 somehow seemed to violate all of it. But today Premier Worst seemed to be acting like a mirror of sorts, faintly nodding in agreement with everyone and not asking Ambassador Boeing to say anything for him. He didn’t need to say anything because one hears what they want to and the people pleaser that he was he couldn’t bring himself to say anything for fear of a conflict of interests.

“There’s still some time before acceptance and inclusion, after all a ruling can only alter actions, not thoughts. Change needs time.” summed up Inner Shia.

No one else seemed to have anything to say after that either. They were probably just too flabbergasted at whatever parts of Baby Bitch they could comprehend. General Specific lay back listening to all that was going on. He didn’t much care about the LGBT section as such but he was happy to see that the system was evolving, that it wasn’t afraid of taking bold steps to ensure what was rightfully theirs. He was happy because Sir Mam, who was still doing his nails, had a choice to not have to justify himself to anyone.

Holy Shit maintained an uneasy silence.

(Image is of a product sold at LiveNation)