On a Woman-Woman Relationship

Alright, all you perverts who've eagerly jumped onto this blog expecting a raunchy write-up, $@%#$% off. This is neither the time nor the place (we'll talk about that over a drink or three some other time). Today I'm ranting about the hate/no-love-lost relationship that most women have with pretty much every other woman.
Like all great writers, let moi dredge up an example from the 'Sparkling Life of MySelf.' In the red corner we have Agsie, a puny 182kg Bull(-et) who spends her days carrying me around the Kingdom of Nai Dilli @ a demure 40kph(speed thrills but kills). In the blue corner we have YUM-YUM, a vivacious 35kg(+10 - but you didn't hear that from me) girl about whom I could write reams but I only refrain for fear that her pretty little head would bloat.

Round I (Scene: Pleasant windy day, we've just ripped(@53kph) into the parking lot of shitty-expensive-snob-hangout-mall-in-Saket):
YUM-YUM(running a pretty hand through shiny black hair): Hmmm... My hair's all messed up.
Moi(thoughtfully scratching unshaved stubble): Wind, probably.
Agsie: [purr].
YUM-YUM: It's the ride dummy! All that wind in my hair.
Moi: huh?
Agsie: [rumble].
YUM-YUM: Seriously, you should get a car. Even 'you' can afford one.
Moi(ogling at pretty thing getting into a nearby car): [grunt].
Agsie: [growl].

Round II (Scene: Traffic signal at busy intersection. Warm evening):
YUM-YUM(arms lovingly draped around Moi): Jeez! It's getting late. My crazed-over-protective-excuse-for-a-father's going to be furious if I'm late.
Moi(thoughtfully scratching... unshaved stubble): Traffic, heavy.
Agsie: [rumble-that-sounds-suspiciously-like-a-grin].
{The sun sets and simultaneously the light turns green}
Agsie: [kaput].
Moi(after 13 attempts to kickstart): @#$%@#!@$!!???!
Agsie: [floorrrp].
YUM-YUM: WTF??!!?? Daddy's gonna murder me! Can't you get this piece of $#$@% to start?
Moi(oceans of sweat pouring down brow): "Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem" (from the latin: In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).
YUM-YUM: WHAT??
Agsie: [bleerb-that-sounds-like-a-giggle].
Moi: I said I'd just dislocated my Ox Coxae.
YUM-YUM: Very funny. Perhaps you've also dislocated the Humerus?
{choice Punjabi words accompanied by loud honking from motorists behind}
Moi(muttering under my breath): I'd like to squash someone's Medula Oblongata right now.
YUM-YUM(walking off): Turn that infernal thing off. Let's take an auto and you can come back for the damn thing.
Moi(tears welling up, that empty feeling in the heart): Agsie, you're the best-est-est thing ever that carried me around (after Mommy - little slower but nine months on the trot!).
{final half-hearted kick}
Agsie: [ROAAARRRR-DUB-DUB-DUB-GRRRRRRR-DUB-DUB-DUB]
Moi(with a whoop that sounds like red-indian who's about to ravish hot white woman): She's...Alive!
YUM-YUM: Hmmpph... Do you think it'll last?
Agsie: [GROWWL].
{Long traffic-infested ride to drop YUM-YUM. No goodnight kiss}

Which is what the 'status quo post bellum' is, like my old uncle Julius Nairus Caesar used to say. At this point I should probably be asking, "Why do women hate each other instinctively? Why do I have to bear the brunt? Why do women ask men if they look fat(if you're asking, you probably are!)?". Brave men throughout the ages have attempted to answer questions like these, failed spectacularly and ended up slashing their wrists/throats/'other body parts' in despair. However, lacking that particular brand of testicular fortitude, I plan to do the only thing a reasonable man can be expected to do - reach for a glass of the 'Aqua Vitae' and surrender to glorious oblivion.

On Humility

For the first few days that you own a Bull, you're on top of the world. You polish it till it gleams, you don't allow anyone else near it, you wipe dirt off the silencer (while it's still hot and burn your index & middle fingers); you know, the usual.

So this past Sunday saw me riding, decked out in all my finery, to the showroom to get my leg-guard fixed. There's a red light up ahead with a few cars waiting. I downshift and slide into neutral and slowly cruise to a stop. The weather was a pleasant 38 degrees and the sun was just bright enough to glint off the shiny new paint on Agnieska (the bike, idiot!).

If you've taken care of your Bull you know that one of the the best things while stuck at a traffic light are the stares of envy you attract. There was the usual crowd - uncle-JI's wishing they'd bought a Bull instead of those big, air-conditioned monstrosities on four wheels (Mercs they're called, I believe), bored aunty-JI's wondering what their hot yoga instructors were doing and Pinkis' and Pappus' picking their noses or drooling over Agsie (still talkin' of the bike, moron!). Acknowledging my superstar status, I turned off the ignition, adjusted the mirrors and checked that my receding hairline hadn't retreated any further overnight - all the while throwing quick glances at the traffic light (remember the 'Magnum' look in that Ben Stiller movie?).

And then it happened... the light turned GREEN.

With a lazy flick of my wrist, I turned on the ignition and pressed the electric starter - all the while glancing down arrogantly at the hoi polloi. There was a sound like a dog choking on a carrot. Unfazed, with the arrogant look still on my face, I pressed the starter again. This time the dog seemed to have swallowed a watermelon. With the sound of angry horns being honked by angrier drivers I turned to my reliable kick-start.

Kick One: Agsie burped...honking grows louder.
Kick Two: Agsie coughed...I can faintly make out references in punjabi to the female members of my clan.
Rolled Agsie forward and Kick Three: Familiar subdued thump...feel the power of the beast waking up. Shift 1-2-3 and I'm out of reach.

As I rolled away, spirits slightly dampened, I figured Agsie had taught me a valuable lesson in humility - the whole pride goes before a fall thing. No worries, I forgive all you car-driving, road-rage affected Dilli-wallahs. I ride a Bull, you'll just spend the rest of your miserable lives wishing you could.
Plus, when Royal Enfield take over the world, I'll have you all executed... nasty @#$%@@$%#

I got me a Bull

Concerned Chaddi-buddy: "Seriously, are you eff-ing crazy?"
Colleague, who's been there, done that: "Why don't you get a nice little NaNo instead? It's economical and safe. Plus, it'll have an A/C for Delhi's summers."
Older, wiser colleague: "Get a car - invest in your future."
Ex-GF: "What is this, a quarter-life crisis?"
Best Friend & Machismo owner: "It's pure lust. Don't fight it, go for it!!"
X: "I'll sleep with you if you buy the TBTS!!"

Ok, the last one isn't true. So here I am...late twenties, software coolie, haven't ridden anything except bsa champ/hero cycles (in school) and an advanced automatic-geared Kinetic (in college), with a history of crashing into gates, cycles, mopeds and innocent chole-bhature-wallahs by the road;my first bike - a Bullet? Looking back (to about two weeks), WHAT WAS I THINKING?

That's how love at first sight works, I guess. I was passing by a Bull pen, saw a few on dislpay and instantly fell for the TBTS. Some say it's not a real Bull - oh yeah?? !
It's been a couple of weeks now - early morning (4AM - honest!) rides because I'm too sissy to ride in Delhi's traffic, day-dreaming at work, reading up on Bull-care, planning long trips up mountains somewhere and hoping my parents don't find out that I've bought a bike.

Pissed-off parents: "Rajiv!!! You little turd! If that bike doesn't kill you, we will...."

IM(not-so-humble)O, there comes a time in every bonded labourer's life when he gets sick of hauling crap; planning and acting very carefully in the hope of a mythical Shangri-La-like future. He feels the urge to make a clean break from the past and, at the risk of sounding cliched, to get away from it all. Suddenly, in a moment of clarity, he decides to steal the master's horse and run away to the mountains - to savour the HERE and the NOW.
Well, I got a Bull and the labourer story doesn't make any sense, but being the don't-care-till-it-bites-me-in-the-@$$ kinda guy that I am, I really don't need to convince anyone.

Thump On (even with a subdued thump)!!