Why I decided to enrol at Sangh School of Sexism
His whereabouts are unknown since 2014. But someone told me I’ll find my friend Vikas at the latest skill training session in town. It was likely he would attend it because both Vikas and I are romantically challenged. In these times, where love is seen through the prism of religious binaries, I felt it will be a good skill to have, just in case I might want to woo a girl of another faith.
And so, I decided to enrol at the Sangh School of Sexism. When Vikas was around, he told me that girls fall for guys who can make them laugh and tell them good jokes. I thought to myself, “Who can be a bigger joker than a sexist Sanghi? Any girl would laugh her guts out at a Bajrung doll.”On my first day at school, I was told I’ll be a part of a mob. A flash mob they reassured me. I just went with the flow, with the chief instructor. He had a lot of fans, like all Babas do.
Despite his matchstick-like appearance, his supporters called him the lion in the loin cloth. It was a rave party with his Shraddhanjali products and lots of weed energy. Everybody raved about Kamdev Baba.
As Kamdev Baba wriggled around like a caterpillar on steroids, I looked around to see if I could spot Vikas. Strangely, no one seemed to be bothered about Vikas. They were all in awe of the grumpy DJ. Of course, DJ Jet Lee dished out some pretty cool numbers. His latest hit was the peppy psychedelic number, the Sawa-We-See-See mix. He always juggled numbers to keep people happy and when caught he made cute sounds, like — Pew Pew Pew!
I tried to lose myself with everyone else and face the music. After tiring myself out doing the wriggly steps like Kamdev Baba and seeing no signs of the promised oomph factor in me, I settled down for a drink. I noticed a pretty girl sitting next to me. I asked her why she wasn’t dancing. She looked at me longingly and said she was weak in the knees.
I oozed pride and poetry. Things happened fast and before long I found myself carrying her in my arms. The Sanghi School of Sexism does work after all. Like Prince Charming, I carried her to a coffee shop. As we sipped coffee, I told her coyly that I never imagined I could make a girl go weak in her knees. She almost choked and told me I have nothing to do with her weak knees. She allowed me to carry her in her arms because she had arthritis ☹
Nevertheless, I took a liking to her and told her I will accompany her to the hospital. After coffee, we caught the latest bus service in the city — Rafael Bus Service.
I paid for the tickets and each cost 16 rupees. While I counted the change the conductor returned, a man picked a fight with him.
“This is a scam! Under the previous owner the ticket only cost us 7 rupees! And the Rafael bus was driven by my close pal Hal, who had experience. Who’s this new driver with no experience? How did he get the licence to drive? He’s underaged... this Antilla the Hon...”
The man’s rant irked conductor Cowswami. He snarled at the man and said one doesn’t ask questions in New India. Then he lunged at the man and said:
“How dare you don’t enjoy the ride?”
“Why will I enjoy being taken for a ride?” asked the man.
Cowswami said one doesn’t answer a question with a question. Then he bit the man and threw him out of the bus.
Witnessing the lunacy, my new friend and I held hands to comfort each other. It was a tender moment. ????
Just before we reached the hospital, the bus stopped, and we were told to pay up a toll tax. This time I didn’t want to keep quiet. I’d developed deep feelings for my friend.
“What tax is this?” I asked.
“Toll tax.”
“Why?” I demanded in a raised voice.
“Because it takes a toll on you... and this is the Gobar Sangh Tax, so you better pay up,” snarled Conductor Cowswami.
“This is unfair, how can you have GST on medical equipment?” I asked.
Conductor Cowswami threw us both out and the bus sped away.
Left high and dry on the highway, it took us a few minutes to regain our composure. As we embraced, to comfort each other, we noticed a throng of excited people. We decided to go see what it was all about.
It was a flash mob, led by a podgy man. I recognised him from the papers. He had recently mastered Bengali, Tamil and classical music to rebrand himself as a soft, tender-hearted man.
I didn’t know he took up dancing too until someone in the crowd informed me that as he learnt Tamil, he went to neighbouring Andhra Pradesh to hone his grooves. He took a new name — Gajjala Gajala — after the Telugu word for Ghungroo, as the clanging sound accompanied him all the time.
Keeping in tune with Indian sensual traditions, he chewed a paan and there were some stains on his white shirt. It was rumoured that they were bloodstains from his older days, when he was a bully on street number 2002. He stalked people, beat them up and led mobs. This was in the old days before Kamdev Baba began flashing in the mob.
These days, he’s so benevolent that he eases people’s pain by ensuring they don’t sorely miss Vikas, their old friend.
And so, Gajjala Gajala displayed his newly acquired skills. As he showed his jatakas, to the naïve crowd, gyrating his hips, throwing his centre of gravity all over, my friend and I enquired if anyone saw Vikas. A likeminded person informed us that he was last seen standing in a line.
“But didn’t they just celebrate one year of people standing (and dying) in lines?” I asked.
“No this is for a movie,” said the man. “You two should look for your friend there. If you don’t find him, you will at least go on your first date,” he suggested.
We asked him what movie it was.
“Finding NaMo”.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I love intelligent and courageous people who are finding NaMo,” she winked.