Things That Bang

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He watched her melt down the pole on a sensual beat. Her movements were slow, her gaze glacial and her skin vanilla white under the psychedelic lights. His gaze rested on her pert nipples and then on the tight nylon patch of a bikini that barely covered her shaved vagina.

His adam apple bobbed and his prick became thick like an uncooked Cannelloni. He wanted to adjust his fly and shifted a bit on the bar stool he sat on. A Kingfisher beer chilled next to him on the bar. Cherries was one of the few nightclubs that served Indian beers and the place had come highly recommended when he asked his seasoned Indian techie friends for a good strip club.

The two geeks grinned at the FOB and together said - Cherries. They printed out the directions courtsey google maps and over the weekend had him dropped at the nightclub via a cab with a set of instructions- no touching, no buying drinks for the girls and no blatant leering.

The first two instructions were easy to follow- he felt intimidated when two white goddesses slithered up to him in their sparkling bikinies and asked if he was alone. He gulped and nodded and blurted out - Just passing through!

Their shapely eyebrows rose in surprise and their eyes flashed with mirth. Newbie! they thought and probably living on Ramon noodles. He looked away from the women, unable to rest his eyes on their semi naked state. Their close proximity made him nervous. He gripped the beer bottle and wished them away.

The preying mantis moved on and tittered to each other. The man already forgotten.

He berated himself for being an inept, impotent deliquent. His solar plexus and buttocks tightened and he found it hard to breathe. There was too much skin glistening in the dark. He gulped his drink and looked at the strippers on the pole. They performed magnificent feats on the pole and he wished Indian women were as dexterous and uninhibited. Compared to the strippers his wife had the sex appeal of a doorknob.

In the womb of adult entertainment he came to hate his skin. He felt like a child who had been kept away from the goodies. He was a duty bound husband responsible for his old parents, his two children and his wife. He was a man who never walked on the wild side. The boisterous Americans behind him seemed to at ease at the strip club. They drank and laughed amongst themselves oblivious to the skin and glamour whereas he like a parched soul couldn't take his eyes off them nor control his hardened dick.

He was convinced they all had raging sex lives with their women. And that was probably the reason for their satiated mannerisms whereas he was a quivering mess of pre-ejaculation waiting to happen.

This was a world he would never belong to. He felt inferior, he felt out of his depth and the acidic taste in his mouth had nothing to do with the beer that had lost its fizz.

He tried to shrug off the melanchia and turned his attention to harlot on the pole. But the moment was gone. He felt like a inspid roach caught in the glaring obscene light scuttling in a place he did not belong.

He left his beer and walked out of the club. There were no taxis on the parking lot . He sighed and on his cell called one of the techies who suggested the nightclub.

The guy on the other end sounded amused and asked whether he got to touch the white skin. Pain thumped between his eyebrows and he wanted to ram the cell phone down the throat of the amused techie.

He pushed back his rage and asked the techie to come and pick him up. The techie agreed and he shoved the phone in his jean's pocket.

Sudden female laughter made him turn and he stared at the glistening beauties in tiny clothes briskly walk towards their cars. Two looked through him and one gave him a slight smile. Strippers! his mind told him.

They drove off and as his eyes followed the cars he felt a sudden urge to brawl his eyes out.

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Standing in a long line I kept to myself the information that there had been a plane crash in Mangalore. I was told over the cell phone and was warned not to let others know. Why work people up over it just when we were about to board? But I did land up telling a mother and daughter who smiled their appreciation and chucked my daughter under her chin when I let them shuffle in the line ahead of me.

The mother said we were in 'his hands' and I nodded. He? The one? The universe? Its all the same. When our time is up its up. My heart went out to those who died and those left behind.

We all got on the plane. I buckled my kids in and then buckled myself in. Grabbed the mags, had the expensive but delicious 'airwich', landed safely, took a cab home, did some exhausted out of my eyeballs grocery shopping, cooked dinner for my kids and crashed on my dusty pillow. What stayed with me through the day is that when its time to go we all gotta go -immutable karma and all that jazz.

RIP

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Armed with umbrellas and chilled water flasks we decided to go to our local haunt, Khan Market, for some retail therapy. We stepped out of our airconditioned home into an oven of car and gasped. Heat beat against our strapped in chests and my sister squawked as she tried to hot the leather encased steering wheel.

The air conditioner was put on full blast but the car wasn't warming up. I looked out of the window and saw kids of varying ages in their uniforms dragging themselves home. They looked like dehydrated fish- gaping mouths and dazed eyes. Their bottles dragged against the dusty roads and shoulders dropped with sagging school bags. Thankfully schools were going to shut down soon but my sister told me that the school hours had been permanently shifted. Delhi kids were going to go to school early and return home early till October.

I nodded sagely. Much had changed in Delhi due to the upcoming Common Wealth Games. Delhi was being cleaned up in keeping with the typical Desi tradition of scrubbing the house clean before the advent of 'special guests'. The roads that glistened and shimmered in heat mirages were clean, the trees looked greener and there were less squatters around.

Maybe Sheila Dikshit wanted to make Delhi look like any other First World City with wider painted roads, more signals, flashy cars and of course no tonga wallahs.

But she hadn't been all that successful in her endeavours since an odd bullock cart with its turboned heat bronzed driver waited at the traffic signal alongside our car. He and his exploited bull were the touristy picture of India that the world would crazily click their digital camera at. And while they thought how exotic, we Indians would think -WTF is he still doing here? Wasn't he banned from entering the city?

Like most Indians Delhi-ites offer lip service sympathy to the poor, bemoan the squaller and use their own ancestoral refuge status to show that they too rose from the ranks of adversity and made it. But somewhere in the climb they left compassion behind or in their generosity patronised the poor.

Most American cities have a 'downtown' and if Delhi is to have a town down it would start all the way from the plush Chanakya puri area to Greater Kailash area. That is the core area that Sheila Dikshit and her cabinet are hell bent in keeping cleaning and there are no Indian hobos to be found lurking around in that area. While Rudy Giulani cleaned up Times Square our very own Sheila Dikshit cleaned up South Delhi to the best of her abilities. The Delhi concept of 'downtown' is a hype First World kind of look.

We drove under the shades of the Chanakya puri trees and reached Khan Market. Despite the heat the place was crowded and the people thronging the place were models of latest fashion. They were beautiful immaculate people- the delhi-ites who never perspire no matter how oppressive the heat.

I stepped out of the car and wondered why I continued to sweat despite the cool airconditioning of the car. I was no longer a Delhi-ite but a Bangalorean with sweat glands. We walked down the sidewalk and entered into the cool refines of the over priced shops and I told my sister that this is probably what Dubai felt like.

And she replied sagely -yes, thats what Dubai feels like. I grinned - another hallmark of a Delhi-ite. Most upwardly mobile Delhi-ites are world travelled. They are at par with the rich of the First world countries but work twice as hard for their money;P

My younger sister elbowed me for saying that and laughed in jest. Most Delhi-ites do. In and around Khan Market there were little shops tucked into nooks and crannies and there were also immigrants from Bihar and UP there manning the parking lot or acting as guards to the shops. They all looked fresh and none seemed to sweat. They had become Delhi-ites in their own ways.

We shopped quickly and ran back into the car. Plonking the bags in the back seat we again gasped. The water in the flask was no longer cold and our drive for retail therapy had also cooled some what.

There was still Karol Bagh on the check list. But neither of us had the guts to weather that blazing shopping zone and like most middle class Delhi-ites decided to either go to Sidewalk mall or cross the border and visit Ambience Mall.

There are Delhi-ites cannot bear the heat anymore and these are also Delhi-ites of the old who were used to power cuts, fanning ourselves with newspapers at night, sleeping under the stars in our balconeys (if nothing the fear of thieves keep them in when inverters fail) and who loved their dessert coolers even in the rainy months.

And though I agree the heat is inhumane but the airconditioner and plush enviornments are no longer a novelties but necessities. Some would see it as Delhi evolving but thats still the crust of Delhi, the layering of the pie underneath is still Delhi of the old. And its the kind the Common Wealth lovers want to hide. The bullock cart riders, the occasional mahout and his elephant, the sadhus and yes even the squatters.

Once the games are over they will be back. Once the guests leave we Indians tend to go back to live the way we always did- general sloppiness and lethargy is a way of life and thats something that will sneak back soon enough.

Delhi will never be Delhi of the old but nor will it be Singapore and thank god for it!

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"Mama, when are you getting my ears pierced?" Intense eyes looked into mine and I sighed. "Soon! Next weekend probably."

Parita stamped her feet and walked off.

The day finally came. Today my soon to be five year old got her ears pierced. She danced around the house in anticipation and sang "I'm getting my ears pierced. I'm so happy!"

And I muttered in the background "Yeah! you sure are gonna be happy in a couple of hours. You're gonna be very very happy."

Naturally at the jewelry shop the little one caught unawares howled with pain, the jeweler was dexterous and I hid my face in my dupatta unable to watch the act. Parita cried for a few minutes in my lap and touched her newly pierced ears tentatively. I distracted her by showing her gems that gleamed from underneath the glass counter.

There were topaz, rubies, emeralds and other stones that she marvelled at and the jeweler took them out and let her feel them in her little palm. I asked her which ones she liked and she was quick to answer "Diamonds!"

The jewelers and I burst out laughing. The girl knew what she liked.

Couple of hours later she showed her ear studs proudly to anyone who was willing to have a look and praise her. The first milestone in her life was covered - getting her ears pierced.

Thankfully all other milestones are study oriented and maybe throw in music and dance lessons since she loves singing and dancing.

To be a young girl is fun and I get to enjoy her world as well. There are barbies, pink tent houses, frilly clothes, tea party in plastic cups and dreams about growing up and cooking for mama;P

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