The Shop of the Madmen

The house of the devil…and inflation…and fuck.. πŸ˜‚

I visit there every 3 months. I sit in the big maroon armchair and stare at the scissors, the spraybottles, and other thousand tools plonked in the monochrome vases. The music is faint and soft, and the heads are bowed down; some eyes are glued at the morning daily, some at their messengers. Amidst this soothing symphony comes the brutal snipping of metal scissors, and bunches of wispy warriors fall like colonies of timber in the latter half of the 19th century….

I have been visiting this world famous barbershop of my hometown – B S Gents Parlour – since I was a little kid. Despite our relationship stretching longer than a decade, that cunning fox never misses a chance to rob me of all my money, and sometimes even makes me pay more for what looks like an awful haircut. Barbers are real fuckers, I tell you.

I won’t lie, I have always wanted good hair. In my childhood, I’d see that poster of Shahid Kapoor with light golden brown floppy hair, and the bangs, and crave having a similar hairstyle. But every morning my mother would pour gallons of coconut oil down my scalp, grab that stupid little comb and flatten my hair like you level roads under Prime Minister Gram Sadak Yojna. And I’d go to school, wondering if my mother got her certificate of beautician through bribes. 

Then, as modernised societies germinated, youngsters started keeping gelled spikey hair, all stiff and cold. My friends looked stupid because they overdid it. But it was trending and so I felt like giving it a try too. 

“People with spikey hair are potential menaces to the society. You know how a spikey hair boy pulled Munmun’s necklace and ran away. “My mother argued. I wanted to convince her that not all spikey-haired guys were sublime assholes but she won’t listen to me anyway. 

So every 3 months I’d go to B S Parlour and sit in one of the chairs, checking out the equipments and prepare myself for another ridiculous  payment he asks me to make. He’d smile and I’d watch his red sunken eyes and guess how many quarters he had last night. This is a funny conversation we have without actually speaking. He considers me a prey and I consider him a monster. Nice story.

“So, which haircut are you going to have today? ” 

“Make it short. “I’d say and shut my eyes, and concentrate on the music that played in a distance. 

In the end, I always got cropped hedges on my head that were awful even by Podrick’s standards. 

“60 rupees. “He said, one day. I thought he was kidding. 

“What? 60? ”

“Yes. “He said, and added, “Inflation. ”

Fuck economics

Recently, I went to a salon in Delhi. It was owned by a middle aged Muslim guy who possessed cold, no nonsense looks. I had not watched TV for the last 6 months so when he played that awful song called Ramta Jogi on a loop, I didn’t ask him to stop. Anyway, he kept talking about politics and Yogi Adityanath and appeared to be an extremist in nature. When I sat there, prisoned inside the cutting cape, his cold sharp steely scissors grazing at the back of my skull, he asked me if I supported Yogi Adityanath. There was a danger in his voice, a threat which he tried to conceal, but which permeated through anyway.

I did a few calculations. I thought about imparting in him a bureaucratic approach, however, when you’re immobile with a shrap object hovering over your head, you don’t act like the nuns of the high Septon. So I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him everybody was evil out there, and how Owaisi was actually a messiah, and it should have been a mosque there, and all that bullshit and then he smiled and asked me what kind of hair I would like to keep. 

“Trim it. Use trimmer number 4. Roll along the sides till midway. Cut the rest till 3.4 inches with scissors. Go easy on bangs. And of course, take care of the sideburns. “I elaborated. “And please change the song. ”

He nodded, switched the channel to Zakir Naik’s preaching, and then went on with the job. When he was finished my hair looked exactly like the one done by the dope at B S Parlour. I think barbers have a code. 

“60 rupees. “He said. 

“Inflation? “I asked. 

“Yes. “He said. 

My Mother Goes on a Holiday. πŸ˜‘😠😭

When life wreaks havoc…

I woke up with a wince, drenched in my own sweat. My body ached like I’d been used as a doormat. My stomach burned like the insides of Nyiragongo. Had the fan went off, I’d have melted in a second. I crawled out, famished and exhausted, and trudged around like an old elephant. I searched for food. There was none. I searched for my mother. There was none. I was starving, and so I yelled out for her. No response. I whatsapped her – Where Are You? 

On a holiday 😎 – came her reply, and I felt like crying….


It was 8:18 pm. We were glued to our seats, watching India cruise towards victory in the last league match against South Africa. My mother was frying Okras in the kitchen.

“Hey, could you knead the dough? “She asked my father. He pretended as if he had been deaf for the last fifty ears, and then my mother turned to me.

“I’m on a holiday. “I shrugged my shoulders. My mother stared at me as if it was a lame excuse.

“Okay. Would you at least peel and chop onions? “She tried again. 

“I’m on a holiday. “I said. “I’m supposed to enjoy. Watch green people lose in cricket matches, eat delicious food, and get pampered. ”

My mother gave me a dirty look, as if to convey men are assholes. Twenty minutes later, she yelled,

“Here’s your food. ”

“I’m on a holiday, Maa!! Oh wait! Yeah, comin. ”

And the very next day, she’s off to Rajgir, watching lush green hills and Tumtums and Bengali signboards and whatnot. And here I am, gnawing this four day old bread after peeling the fungus, and googling Top 10 Bear Grylls survival tips. I have no idea where my father is but if he’s out eating in a posh restaurant I’d charge him with Child Neglect. 

I couldn’t believe my mother was gone. I mean you got to be kidding, right!? Who takes holidays! Okay, my case is different, okay. πŸ˜‘

Shit.

I chewed 4 breads in total and then I felt like a celibate monk who’s shed all desires and tastes and is naked and dying and happy about it. I fiddled with my phone for a while, thinking about the perks of my-mother-on-a-holiday. Yeah, I could draw naked ladies, but that apart, I could see no remarkable advantages of her absence. I texted her if she’s planning to come back or what. She sent me an audio clip and texted,

“Why would I ever think of coming back when it’s so much fun here? Listen to the clip, baby. ”

I downloaded the clip. It was some Bengali poetry, and people clamouring and laughing in the background. Perhaps she was in some poet show. I never knew my mother had a taste for Bengali poetry. I don’t know anything about my mother. 😷

What the fuck is that? – I typed, and then erased ‘fuck’ and replaced it with ‘hell’ and then erased ‘the hell’ and sent the rest. 

“Poetry. The wonder of the worlds. “She wrote. She was getting poetic herself. 

My father arrived home at mid noon and asked if I had eaten something. 

“There’s nothing to eat. “I grumbled, and then he showed me the things I could eat and I could cook and what the hell, who keeps snacks inside a barrel and why the hell is the pack of biscuits buried beneath Bay Leaves and Cinnamon and Patanjali scrubs. 

“When you were a kid you used to sneak everything edible. So we started hiding them, because there were other mouths to feed. “My father said. Yes, I remember waking up at midnight, climbing shelf after shelf and pulling cookies from the jar without a drop. I’d eat most of them, hand the rest to my brother and when my mother found out the next day, we would pretend they disappeared on their own. My brother was a scrawny thing, so no one believed he ate anything at all, so I was labelled the Scooby Doo of the house. 

“Okkkkay. “I said. 

My father prepared the dinner. It was Rice, dal and potato. For flavour he asked me to grab some pickles from the jar. And some curd. For supper, we had chutney and fat pita Rotis and when my father asked me to grab pickles for flavour, it was awful. 

This has been in the menu for the last four days now. Not even a hint of change. My father throws everything in the pan in the precise, calculated, measured amount and prepares the exact same food everyday. I wonder why he is not helping scientists in preparing clones. 

That apart, this is awful. Men are awful. They suck at talking. They suck at displaying emotions. They suck at being stupid. My mother would be dancing around, bitching about the neighbours, talking about her latest craze, going nuts over tiniest mistakes, reading stupid jokes from whatsapp, making weird faces when doing nothing, complaining about her old age and wishing she had more money. Then she would say she is dying soon and so employ each of us in the task of massaging her head and palms. She is a whole entertainment package, I tell you. Without her, here we are, my father asking if the water was delivered on time and me asking if the dinner is cooked yet. The most interesting conversation we had so far was related to sharpening of scissors. 

I called her a few times, and she was always in some concert or show, living her holidays in bliss.

“Child, I am on a holiday. “She said, “you eat delicious food and get pampered when you are on a holiday. You don’t think about ending it. “She said. 

I frowned for a while and then went on to peel onions so that my father could prepare the chutney for supper.

πŸ’€The Night of the Gloomy SundayπŸ’€

It was silent as a grave, and then, it started singing…

I remember it quiet distinctly. It was dead dark up in the sky. The street lamps had been glowing eerily all the evening. Not a soul fluttered in the city. Not a vehicle purred. Fallen leaves crawled as if a zombie’s hands. The breeze brushed past, in silence, cutting like a steel, drenching everything in the stench of death. It was dead quiet – as if someone’d just farted….

We all stared at Heroine’s face in disbelief. His fat, sagging, baggy, tired but sly face. He had just told us about a notorious song called Gloomy Sunday, aka the suicide song, and how it has caused a thousand suicides in the past and how it was banned from radio and everywhere else and whoever listened to it never saw another day. It was a late night bantering that had now turned into a session of paranormal yarns. We were discussing how goddam scary the horror comedy Vikral and Gabral was when Heroine started talking facts and told us about Gloomy Sunday. 

“One of my friend’s friend told me this. I swear it’s true. “He started. We all knew about his friend’s friend, who was some kind of omniscient twat whose sole purpose of existence was to fill Heroine’s mind with all sorts of crap. He once told Heroine that Aishwarya Rai had a nude scene in a Hollywood movie, and this poor chap skipped school for the next few days and rummaged through seventy four porn sites and Wikipedia and even asked it on quora. By the end of his campaign, xvideos sent him their catalogue with various premium packs and alluring discounts, which he furiously trashed. Also, a few quora guys called him a pervert.

Now it was some shit about gloomy Sunday. I looked beyond his shoulders, far into the branching streets of SOP lit by a row of isolated streetlamps, and the vast emptiness surrounding them. The world couldn’t be any sadder. I wondered if people would really die after listening to some Hungarian harp rather than witnessing something gloomier, things like poverty, murder, or their Maths result. Rana was already busy googling away as the rest of us decided which side to take on. We had our own qualms, but we were kind of sure we would not die. But when I was a kid, one of my friend’s friend too was pretty sure he would not die

“People are stupid. It’s so shallow I can see tortoises running down there. “He pointed at the notorious green pond of the village. Then he jumped in and died. 


“It’s bullshit. Here, here’s the mp3. “Rana flashed the phone in front of us. 

“Here, Ravish. Download it. “He said. 

Now, people, whenever I’m in a group, I tend to project myself as a modern man who doesn’t believe in superstition. I give all sorts of rational, logical, scientific arguments and show people how ghosts and shit are things embedded deep into their psyche rather than being real things. Then I go home and google five ways to protect yourself from a succubus
“I think the person who claims should download it. And cmon Rana, you are brave. Don’t tell me you think it’s true! “I said, as if I was on a social awareness campaign. 

“Of course I don’t. “Rana replied even more emphatically, and added, “but I am yet to enter IIT and get married and you know. Plus you are a commerce student. Nobody gives a shit if you die. ”

“Yes. That’s true. “Said the rest of them. 

And so I set it to download. A few minutes later, others started downloading it too. We all took up Prince’s room, closed the door from inside, switched on the light and put on a curse on whoever tried to switch it off. Then we waited patiently, counted as the song slowly oozed into our phone’s memory. 

“It’s done. “Rana said. 

“Yes. “I said. 

And then, we played it. 

It was our last night alive. “Half a dozen teenagers found dead in a hostel room ” – I could see the newspaper titles. We had no reason to commit suicide but millions to justify it. Poor marks, no girlfriends, aimless and pathetic life glutted with porn and chronic masturbation. I was feeling sad before even it had begun.

At first, we couldn’t make out anything. It was so low as if composed in infrasonics. 

“Do people kill themselves because they can’t hear it? “One of us asked. We shshsh-ed him.

And finally, it hit our ears. Oh. My. God. What. An. Overestimated. Piece. Of. Shit. It was like, like, that fat lady song which results in the shattering of window panes and which highbrow, suited people listen to anyway. It’s the song that ruins dates and shoots global noise population levels by a million and scares aliens away. It was more annoying than it was scary or sad. I’d die faster listening to Barney song rather than this crap. 

“Why didn’t we die? Does anyone feel suicidal? Are we going to sleep together? “They all began to ask, and I wondered what if it was a cursed song and what if we were really going to die. The mind is always delusional. I was scared when one of my friends called. He said hello and suddenly a girl started laughing in my ears. I shrieked and dropped the phone. Later, he clarified that it was his friend and he had no idea why she was laughing. 

“Enough shit for a day!! “I said as I hung up and went to my room. I researched more about Gloomy Sunday and realised it was indeed a very sad song. 

The next morning, I woke up with a fine air, and thanked the heavens for not pulling my soul out of my body. I reminded myself of all the goals and dreams and places where I had to have sex and deleted the goddamn song before starting my day. 

The Summer Odyssey #3

The final lag of the voyage. πŸ˜‚

Problems are like bananas – they always come in a bunch. So when I scooted back to platform number 3 and found the train I was supposed to board, I started looking for my name on the charts stuck on the coaches. I checked half a dozen coaches,  and my heart had almost sunk to hell when my brain kicked off. I checked my ticket. It said coach number B1. The tickers were showing B1 in front of a coach. So I went in. 

Oh my Seven Heavens! Hot north eastern girls! I stood there, dumbstruck and awed, and partially erect, wondering if my fortunes had reached the crescendo. Clad in shorts, they all owned pretty huge assets. The one exactly opposite to me was hot as hell. Pretty eyes, wavy hair, and mountainous breasts. I recalled all those wonderful sex stories from antarvasna that were themed on train journeys. I knew everything. I could execute it like Mr. Sins. I was ready for it. 

“Could I see your ticket, please? “The ticket checker asked, overly polite for his profession. 

“Sure. “I said and pulled my phone out. I had the ticket in my gallery. But I also had 4 porn albums in my gallery, which I seemed to forget. So as I opened it, vaginas flashed on the screen. I quickly scrolled down. The ticket checker stared at me as if I was a Mujahideen. 

“Just a second. “I said and scrolled down further. At last, I found the ticket. He studied the ticket as if it were some staphylococcus specimen and turned to me, and spoke, with a sheepish grin,

“This is not B1, gentleman, this is S7. Go find it before the train leaves. ”

What the hell! I was 99.9 percent sure that the ticket checker was fooling with me. But then the girls nodded and laughed too, so with a heart shattered into a hundred pieces, and a shrunken Godzilla, I stepped down. 3 minutes left for tbe train to leave. 

I ran along up and down the length of the train, twice, and yet I couldn’t find B1. As the train was about to leave I hopped into an unnumbered coach. It turned out that it was B1. 

Who were my copassengers? A family of four fat, ugly people, a wailing kid with his unattractive mother, a child who slept so much he was probably dead and three North. Eastern. MEN. 

I had no food and so I spent the whole 32 hours long journey feeding myself on overpriced undercooked semi rotten Samosas. Despite that the toilets were dirtier than a bug’s intestines, I peed a dozen times. I recalled how one of my friends had heroically recounted his epic stunt of jerking off in a moving train, and wondered if I should repeat it. But then I dropped the idea. I can’t work under extreme, non-romantic conditions. 

I watched movies and listened to It ain’t me, repeated the lyrics and secretly cried. And then I got sick of Samosas and rain and everything I liked so I mummified myself in a blanket and dozed till eternity. 

When I reached Katihar, I was a wreckage. And I could kill for a food product that wasn’t Samosa. 

On reaching home, I gorged on the royal food my mother had prepared. I could give up Samosas for this food. Anytime. Unconditionally. 

The Summer Odyssey #2

With few minutes left to board the train for a 30 hour long journey, would you take the risk to find the rare toilet of Anand Vihar Railway Station?

I have a problem. A disease maybe. Whenever I achieve something difficult or am almost asleep, I get this insuppressible urge to pee. I might be a monk and balance myself on a sword with my little finger, or pull heavy duty trucks with my eyelids, but I can never manage the pressure of my stupid bladder. So when my bladder started ballooning at platform number 3, I nearly went mad. 

Here were people, all happy and excited and fulfilled, waiting for their trains, passing time by munching on nuts, reading newspapers, or talking among themselves, and here I was, carrying a squirmed face, waddling to and fro along the whole length of the platform, looking for the FUCKING chamber they call a toilet. Twice I stopped at the lift, and half a dozen times I almost peed in my pants. I could go take a leak in one of the train toilets, but I didn’t want to end up being exported to Bhuvaneshwar in the process. After what seemed like a millennia, I was sure they don’t build toilets on platforms in Delhi. And whoever rated Anand Vihar station so high  probably peed through transpiration. 

I ran away, not caring about the time or the train lodged at platform number 3 and never stopped till I found a toilet at a desolate corner of the station. There were three rooms one each for Women, Men and Handicapped. For a second, I wondered if that meant handicapped men and handicapped women were allowed to pee together (sexy) and then I moved to men’s chamber. 

Now, men’s toilet have two different  arrangements. They have doored commodes and they have open thigh length basins. You pee in basins and you shit in commodes. So when you are peeing others can watch you without any obstruction. What’s odd is that almost all men are quite okay with it. They really don’t care about the audience. But my little Godzilla is a shy animal. I can’t pee unless I’m locked within six walls. Even on long bus rides, when the conducter announces a pee break, and all men just get out and pee around the bus, I find the most isolated, haunted place and shhhhshhhh myself to pee. Twice I’ve nearly missed the bus in such situations. 

Anyway. In public toilets I use the commodes. This one had five toilets three of which were already occupied. There was a man waiting outside the third and another outside the last. I wondered why they weren’t going into the two vacant chambers. I moved towards one. It was choked with turd. I almost vomited at the sight. 

I had two bags and no friends. And I HAD to pee. Inside a locked door. I couldn’t take the bags with me. It seemed like the prelude of a tragedy. I was either going to lose my bag or wet myself. A sadist would love this as Omorashi porn. When the third toilet was finally vacant ( 2 dumps later ) I went there and tried setting my bag against the most hygienic side. As it had wheels, it wouldn’t stand properly. Everytime I tried propping it against the wall, that stubborn bag would start rolling like an ice skater. Setting it up took a bit longer and a constipated man sneaked into the toilet amid that. I was so apoplectic and destroyed, I wanted to cry. I wondered if I should just jump into the ladies room without caring about the consequences. I mean it’s not as if they cut your little Vince McMahon for entering a ladies toilet, do they? I also wondered if I should just play a handicapped. Who knows I might have even met my soul mate in the handicapped room. Fancy the first encounter! It could be the superhit sequel of How I Met Your Mother. I had TRPs floating in front of my eyes when I recalled I had to pee. That’s the thing, when you start thinking about it, it only gets worse. By the time that asshole came out, my intestines were submerged in pee. My whole body was shaking and I could piss through my earholes. 

I shot in, shut the door properly, but leaving a chink, and found myself enveloped in the post-potty scent of a toilet. I was sure Nazi concentration camps used the same gas to kill people. I pulled down my zipper and told myself to feel good about this. I was finally ejecting the heaviest liability in a human’s life. I peed for a while and then turned my head to look for the bag. It was there, safe and still. So I continued to pee. Also I considered variables like the speed of my stream and worked out on a theory that If I looked for the bag every 8 seconds, I would have a fair chance at catching the culprit, in case I get screwed. So I peed and looked and peed and looked and kept on doing this till my neck went stiff. But let me tell you this, ladies and gentlemen, there’s no such thing as peeing. It’s the most comforting orgasm one can ever have. I walked out with a triumphant smile on my face. The bags were still there. I washed my hands and ran for the train. 

It was 6:30 am.

To be continued…

The Summer Odyssey #1

How I finally reached home this summer….

Tickets being cancelled one after one, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was staying in my rented oven the whole summer. I had a full chart drawn out, chockablock with bullet points stating in colorful embellished letters how I was going to get a monthly subscription to The Hindu, join the National Museum summer internship and break Yoshida’s world record for the most nonstop push ups. But as they say, the most outstanding things happen unexpectedly. So I got to go home. 
It was around midnight when the confirmation reached me. I had to board the North East Express before 6:45 in the morning. For that I’d had to reach the station before 6:30. For that I’d had to find a cab before 5:45. For that I’d had to leave 1618 before 5:30. For that I’d had to wake up before 4:30. I did a few more calculations and set the alarm at 3:00 am. But I was so happy I couldn’t sleep. So I aborted the alarm at 2:30 and paced up and down my room for a good number of minutes, thinking about all the possibilities that could result in the cancellation of the journey. I was ready for a disastrous, impending earthquake anytime. I checked the weather report on Google and a few minutes later I found myself endeavoring to understand the mechanism of El Nino. It was to be a rainy day. I just wished I found a cab. 

Emptying my bowels, I downloaded the Ola app. They offered me a prime ride only for double the price an auto driver would take. But auto drivers are hard to rein this early, and more than that, they are hard to find. I looked for some coupons but seemed like Ola people were no more consumer friendly. I wondered if I should call my friend Abhishek who has a museum of coupons but I looked deeper and found the cheapest ride to Anand Vihar ISBT. They called it Micro. 

I packed my stuffs and my mother called up. In a dozy voice she reminded me of all the stuffs I had to shove in my bag. 

“Don’t forget my handbag. “She said for the fourth time, as if I could forget her handbag. If you had a mother like mine you would never forget her handbag. But where the hell is it? I recall seeing it a few days ago….

“Ah. Ookkhhayy. “I said, fumbling around for her handbag which I had kept somewhere I didn’t remember anymore. Shit. 

I found it in the end. Below the bed.

I also sneaked into my landlord’s apartment like a thief, and returned the water camper to its place. I wondered if I should leave a note stuck to the handle, but going by the fact that they don’t have pan cards I wasn’t sure if literacy was a concept known to them. 

Forty minutes later, I was waddling in the rain with two bags in my arms towards the stupid Ola cab that didn’t budge an inch despite my persistent requests to bring it near me because it was pouring so goddamn hard. I had been standing under the overbridge looking towards the glorious Shyam Lal College on the other side of the road for an eternity, waiting for the cab. It was honking all the time behind my back, on the other side of the other road, which is both unethical and stupid. 

“This is Shyam Lal College. And you’re here! You had to be IN FRONT OF Shyam Lal College. “I complained.

“This is Shyam Lal College. And I’m here. I am in front of Shyam Lal College. “He said, as if it was an obvious thing. I was about to debate strongly, but I was already drenched and I had a train to catch. So I jumped in and he drove. As the Go slid through the quiet dimlit silvery morning, I followed the drops rolling down the window glass. There was a mesmerising harmony in everything. Life was beautiful. 

Half an hour later, I was dragging my bag through the rain. I had to hurry as the pouring had now become a torrent. Puddles went deeper than Mariana Trench and the ground was buried beneath a raging sea. It seemed like it could rain forever. If only I had a nice balcony and a hot girlfriend. And condoms. And some Samosas

I raced towards platform number 3. It was 6 am. 

To be continued….

#$@%$**!

When you can’t stop cussing…πŸ˜‚

Profanity was never taught to me at home. My parents are kind people and despite that my mother gets ticked off quite easily, she doesn’t actually delve deeper than comparing her victim with a petty animal. 

“You’re a goddamn buffalo. She’s a goddamn  bitch. My neighbours are goddamn fleas. This mosquito is a goddamn dog. “She’d use such language and that would be a cue for us to be careful for the next few hours, and also to cook our food ourselves. 

Everybody learns motherfucker at school. That, and several other words and phrases that relate various parts of body to various relatives of a person. I remember how innocent I was in std. 4. I believed girls had penises. Then, one day, my friend told me what fuck meant. I have no idea where he learnt that from, but he kept saying fuck for quite a long time. It sounded funnny. Next year, he taught me a few more words. By the time we passed X, we were eligible to sit an All India Profanity Exam, and I was sure I’d have gotten a decent rank. 

Even though we cursed each other for fun, and slowly, it became an indispensable part of our sentence construction, we never spat the most extreme words for each other. I mean there was a mutual respect for everyone’s mother and sister. We were happy calling each other dick and cunt and asshole. 

But then, be**nch*d Delhi happened. People here are more open minded I guess, because they never get tired of mentioning their friends’ mothers’ cunts or their friends’ fathers’ dicks. And somebody’s sister gets fucked at the end of every sentence. Cuss words are used as punctuation marks in Delhi. And it’s used everywhere and all the time. I have a giant sized friend who can’t help cussing. Yesterday while playing chess, he cussed at the rate of 12 words a minute. As I moved my queen to a safe spot, the room plunged into darkness. It was a power cut.


“Be**ch*d. It’s a power cut. Dick. What a dick Kejriwal is! What a dick Modi is! Be**ch*d. ”

I heard him patiently, relieved that he didn’t call me a dick. We waited for a while till he made a rap song entirely composed of the word Be**ch*d. And then, when my ears had bled enough, the room lit up with a fluorescent white. 

“Be**ch*d. Holy cunt of a mother! “He said. 

Rohit, his roommate, is sick of his profanity. He had been humbly requesting him to give up on dirty words for a few months, but all his requests were met with only more intense and verbose curses. 

“Be**ch*d. I do want to stop this. But it’s fucking automatic. Like I don’t have, dick, control over it. Be**ch*d. ”

Rohit gave him a tongue cleaner, and asked him to clean his tongue every time he spoke filth. He was told to shove the tongue cleaner up his anus. 

My neighbour, the Kota Guy, is quite fond of the word motherfucker. As you already know about his recent debacles at gambling (he is currently at a loss of 500) he maybe got pretty pissed at his rival, who is also a good friend and a classmate. So after they were done choosing their players for the game, the Kota Guy thought of telling our ex neighbours on this WhatsApp group. 

He wrote the message like this –

My players :- XYZ

Motherfucker’s players :- ABC

And sent it. 10 minutes later, he realised he had put it in the wrong group, where it was seen by all his friends, the girls in his class, and the motherfucker, I mean his friend, himself. 

“Shit happened again, Barbossa. “He came running. I thought he lost another gamble, but then he explained how he’d called his own friend a motherfucker and how his friend had seen the message and hadn’t replied yet. 

“I convinced him, “he pointed at his ex-roommate, and said, “to play the role of Motherfucker. I told the motherfucker that it wasn’t he who I called a motherfucker but it’s this motherfucker who managed to chose an entirely similar set of players as the motherfucker. ”

I burst out laughing. I was thinking about the motherfucker, the really intended one, and what he would be thinking of the Kota Guy now, and if he’d be bringing men to beat him up on some isolated street. 

“Even the girls read the message. And nobody said a word. I can’t meet their eyes. Why does all these fucks happen with me? “He said, and looked at his saviour, the ex-roommate. 

“Bro, please play the role of motherfucker for a while. When they come for poker, I’d call you motherfucker, and act angry. ”

“I’d beat your ass up, to bring some reality in my acting. “He hissed. 
I suggested him to stop cursing. Or be careful when sending a message.