National Threesome Day

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Over the years it has become increasingly apparent that Independence Day is a day of formalities,reiterations and make believe. And we have all learned to continue the farce of patriotism while stabbing our fellow nationals in the back in the self righteous name of religion, caste and food habits. Yet I am at the end of the day an idealist and still continue to hope for the best which every new decade promises.

So instead of delving deep into our Indian inadequacies I prefer these days to focus on the quirks.

Because the quirks – oh the quirks –  they define us.

They are not only highly entertaining but wonderfully stupid making us almost lovably psychotic.

Have you ever noticed (at least it holds true in the city I live in)that all through the year the average motorbike capacity is 1 or 2 people ( or at the most maybe a kid )seated sanely heads down? The head down position is mainly to avoid eye contact with the police since the rider is mostly helmetless. Unless the helmet is being carried by the pillion – in which case the rider is proudly riding chin up and the pillion slips the helmet on and off at every traffic light.

But I digress.

Suddenly on 15th Aug (and on 26th January) the rules of the average 2 wheeler capacity change. Independence day is suddenly a day when 3 guys are on a bike.

Like the day implies independence in all forms.

No judgements to be passed.

Explore the limits of your fantasies.

And apparently the fantasies of adult Indian men include unnecessary flag waving, yelling like maniacs, whistling, littering but most important of all – RIDING THREESOME.

2 boys can’t be friends on National Threesome day.

It has to be an odd number.

3 or 5 or 7.

Thus ensuring 1 out of every 2 or 3 bikes you will see is laden with 3 men. Yesterday I actually counted 40 such combinations. I kid you not.

And you are welcome. I do my bit for the country. Taking surveys of madness is also a service before anyone objects to my pastime.

The excitement in their voices. The glee in their eyes. The glow on their faces.

I tell you – 1 day patriotism does more for their complexion than all the ‘Fair and Lovely’ creams in the world.

Patriotism is like a drug with all the high and absolutely no dependence whatsoever.

You can indulge in it on 1 or 2 days of the year and float blissfully through the rest of the year without a freaking care in the world even if the country is falling apart.

And it is Free.

Free.

Free.

No wonder they play the National Anthem at every cinema hall. It does pep up our mood thus making sure people get through third degree torture like When Harry met Sejal without killing strangling the person beside them.

In fact if cinema hall owners have a house full movie or trains/flights are overbooked and they want to accommodate more people I suggest they play the national anthem 3 or 4 times and distribute the national flag.

The patriotism might motivate people to sit 3 in a seat in a patriotic threesome.

Happy Threesome Day everyone.

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Of Massages, Masseuses and Madness

Steaming Pig.

Like every other touristy place, traveling to Kerala is fraught with cliches. And you have no choice but to succumb. And believe me – it is not always bad to do that.

The cliches usually involve a houseboat, the back waters, fish curry and a customary Ayurvedic massage.

Now massages in general involve a lot of undressing and creams and rubbing etc. But you haven’t experienced a massage until you have experienced a true blue Ayurvedic one.

It began innocuously enough with the dainty little woman telling me to get undressed. She handed me a little white handkerchief and I thought how very thoughtful considering the balmy weather until I realized that was not a handkerchief. It was a strip of cloth which is supposed to conceal the one part of my body that won’t be massaged. At least not in the respectable establishments. Now considering I am not an overly endowed woman I was still wondering by what stretch of imagination did they think that that fabric was enough to conceal anything ! It was something that would give a G string a complex. Anyway to humor her I went along with the idea and tied the little fabric to myself and then realized –  they mean it as part of meditation. You are supposed to relax to the point where the fabric feels like it has expanded and engulfed you and shrouded you with modesty.

So I lay down on the smooth table and waited. A lot of shuffling later she came back with a barrel full of oil and then began the massage, complete with my squeals because well… I am ticklish.

By the end of it – I felt like a deep fried croquette of sorts. You could have put me out in the sun, warmed me up and eaten me. If you weren’t on diet of course.

At the end of the massage she pointed out a little black box. I was supposed to get up and walk to it. Walk ? Walk ?

As I raised myself to sit up and swung my legs to the floor… I literally SLID off the table. Slid! and then swoosh skated on my bare feet in the general direction of the box… arms flailing all over the place. The horror struck woman tried to grab me to prevent me from falling to the floor  but instead slipped on a pool of gooey oil and went slippery sliding after me.

Now imagine if an outsider were looking through a window.

An almost naked woman..Oh who am I kidding … A naked woman slipping and sliding around a room followed desperately by another oily looking woman trying to lunge at her (Shakti Kapoor would have been proud).  This fracas lasted all of 20 seconds perhaps but for me, looking to avoid landing on the hard floor butt naked – it seemed like an eternity. Finally ugly black box saved me as I lurched towards it and held on for dear life. And did not move for a whole minute as I thanked all the saints in heaven who protect hapless naked women.

When I finally got my breath back, the masseuse came up to me sheepishly and with big doe eyes said something in malayalam which  I assumed was an apology. Either that or judging strictly by the tone, she was saying “How you doing?” Joey style 😛

She then proceeded to cocoon me in the Black box. One of those funny looking steam baths where you are sitting in a box with only your head protruding out.  As I sat there looking like a corpse trying to wiggle out through its coffin I contemplated the scene of the crime. The oily table, the greasy floor, the unctuous diminutive woman… my pinguid head minus the body( the reverse of a headless chicken)… I started to giggle. And couldn’t stop for the longest time.

It was the most eventful massage I had ever had.

Forget the oily smell that wouldn’t leave me for 2 days – the laughter was well worth it.

I tipped her well and promised to return. This time with anti skid slippers.

Oh and I finally understood the purpose of the little strip of cloth.

It was like one of those charm bracelets. Only difference is that you wear it around your waist.

You don it for luck and laughter.

I enjoyed both.