Safarnama : Qutub Minar #1

The prologue to the Qutub Minar visit.

It had been pouring all morning. The rain pelted down like Spartan arrows, and as whatsapp texts swore, the lower half of Shyam Lal College was already drowned. Some of my friends though, despite the torrent, had travelled all the way from Rohini and Nangloi to Shahdra to attend college, but now they sat with sullen faces, playing Balloon Pop in their generous smartphones, waiting for the rain to go ebb away.

the rain…

Rohit dropped in at around 10 am, followed by two more people. We set up the chessboard and played a few boring games. It was decided that we would take a day off, but sitting idle only wakes up the wanderlust inside Rohit, and so, he came up with this great idea,

“Let’s go somewhere. Qutub Minar? ”

It took me some time to make up my mind. Lazybones! After I prepared myself for a long drenched day, I started calling everyone. A few of them said it was pouring in buckets and they hated rain and everybody should hate rain because rain brings flood and that we should drop our plans. As you know, every adventure comes with a bout of hitches. There were plenty in this one too.

Two of them didn’t have a metro card, so, as we reached Welcome Metro station, we went upto this vending machine to get the tokens. They put the money in and waited for the tokens to drop.  But the machine was a bit of a runt – it won’t take anything but fresh crisp notes. Some billion light years later, it took pity on us and accepted the note. But didn’t release the tokens. 

“What the fuck! “They shouted together. The screen promised that it was processing the transaction, so we stood by, waiting patiently, wondering if it was Mishra that should be blamed for the ordeal. Mishra is a jinx – once he had accompanied us to the zoo and it turned out that they kept it closed on Fridays. 

“That’s not fair. “Mishra protested. “You should have known zoos are closed on Friday. ”

Nobody believed him. 

The crowd behind us was growing fretful with time. 

We called the staff and he pretended to study the screen carefully. 

“There’s a countdown. “He pointed at the upper right corner of the screen where infinitesimal numbers were decreasing every second. “Wait for it to finish. ”

And so, we waited. It was just a 90 second wait, but when you have a digital clock making you aware of the existence of every single second, the wait becomes a billion years long. The tokens dropped back, eventually. And we took the train and reached Kashmiri Gate at around 12:00pm. 

There, we met Shivam, and as the train arrived, we jostled through the crowed to bag a seat. Three of us got the seats, one being Mishra. It was a long journey, so we spent it playing the game How-Jinxed-Mishra-Is? Everybody started throwing their ideas, and somebody said Mishra is such a jinx that when he visits a haunted house, the ghosts rush to the priests to get themselves cleansed with Holy Water.

On the way, it started raining again. The train stopped at a bridge, from where all we could see were wet lush green trees and a dense valley, and it seemed we had been teleported to a hillstation.

the panoramic view from the train…

 

It was a beautiful stillness, and the only thing that budged was raindrops on the window pane.

all we could see was green…

 The train started again, and the rain grew stronger by the time we stepped onto the platform. We clicked a few selfies on the metro, and then exited the station. We waited outside for some time,waiting for it to go slow, but it never did. 

“Maybe we should take an auto. “Hemant suggested. I didn’t know of a way to fit 7 people in an auto, so I wondered if one of us will have to sit on the lap of one of us. When I was a kid, I sat in a jeep on the lap of this uncle of mine. A few seconds later, I felt something hard beneath my butts. (No I wasn’t raped). I hate to sit on men’s lap since that day, though. 

outside the metro….

We waited for some time, and when the rain slowed down, Mishra walked out and we followed him. It was a mistake, because seventeen steps later, it started sheeting down. We ran, completely deficient of a strategy. I was sure we were running for an auto, or some cover, but a minute later, I realised we had left behind all the autos and were still galloping aimlessly down the road for some heavenly reason. 

“What are we doing? “I screamed.

“Following Mishra. “Shivam shrugged his shoulders. 

A minute later, Mishra stopped beneath a small tree. Everybody else stopped as well. I peered out into the distance, wondering if we had reached the Qutub Minar. Was Mishra jinxed enough to displace Qutub Minar from its place?  Mishra looked at us in utter confusion, we looked at each other in utter confusion. 

“What the hell just happened? “I asked. 

“Were you guys following me? “Mishra asked, baffled. “I was just looking for a shelter. “He explained. I was so apoplectic I felt like punching Mishra. I ran for cover, and everybody followed me this time. People are fool, they will follow you for anything. 

We found a shelter, a roof above a flight of steps, and sat there, watching the rain come down like magic, dipping the world in lush green. 

The board above us read – Sulabh Shauchalaya

To be continued

Tag That Friend πŸ˜‘

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen on social media?

​I was having a good time watching a 90 year old woman talk about Paleolithic cleavers when my phone pinged. And pinged again. And kept pinging as if all it wanted was to replace that godforsaken doll in the next instalment of Anabelle franchise. I picked it up and found my notification toggle flooded with Facebook notifications. Sometimes, technology is more annoying than groin itch. It seemed like my friends had tagged me to a post. Maybe it was related to drawing or something. Or maybe – because I’ve studied commerce for 2 years – GST.

Tag that Friend Who Masturbates 6 times a Day. 

I read from the screen. 


What? πŸ˜‘
I scrolled down and there I was, among the crowd of people tagged by my friends. It is important to mention here that I have a total of 6 friends. Anyway, there also was this guy I barely know, who I’ve met just twice, and who shamelessly tagged me there as if my Fap counts were displayed every night on CNN IBN. I was kind of pissed off with this guy. More than that, I was pissed off with the post itself and the drastically unemployed, retarded fuck acting as the admin of that page. I thought about his insignificant life, about the time the world would end and he wouldn’t be given a seat in the Ark because he annoyed the hell out of too many people. It felt so good imagining him disappear beneath the cracking earth with a scream I can’t even tell. 

This thing has started to trend these days. It’s become the worst social media epidemic of all time. Every time you log in your news feed is full of posts asking you to tag your friends. Tag that friend who is a dork. Tag that friend who has violet hair. Tag that friend who’d marry Dhinchak Pooja. Tag that friend who’s dead. What the hell.

Recently, I was tagged into this explain GST post as well. I wrote a long essay on GST and tagged all those people who had tagged me. They didn’t even like my post. On one hand, there are people launching hundreds of satellites into the space, on the other, there are dorks whose highest achievement of the day is to tag a friend. This explains why there’s an aggregate IQ deficit in India. Look at Chinese people, you’d never see a Sang-Pung-Ming tagging his friend to such posts, and even if there’s a Sang-Pung-Ming doing so he’d be a Manipuri guy. 

This country needs a serious reform. This country needs to get rid of dumb people. These are the same people who’d spend all day tagging people and then go on to blame the education system, the government and Ekta Kapoor for their miserable life. It just gets on my nerves. This country right now needs an Adolf Hitler more than anything. There’s an urgent necessity for an ethnic cleansing, the ethnic group being the assholes who should not have a Facebook account. 

It’s not just about tagging people, a whole community of educated morons has popped up on social media. These people have rigid opinions with no knowledge to back with. These people take sides and believe that the existence of people on the other side is as fruitless as a pest. If you praise something Modi did, you’re a Bhakt. If you praise Shashi Tharoor, you’re corrupt and maybe you had a part in commonwealth scams. If you admire Manish Shishodia’s works for Delhi, you’re just a retard. And you can’t switch sides. No, sir, never. If you do you’re a whore. If you’ve liked an SRK movie, don’t you dare to praise Bajrangi Bhaijan. If you’re a Kohli fan, get the fuck out of Dhoni camp. These communities keep on clashing on Facebook for no reason. Dhoni and Kohli don’t even give a monkey’s twat about you guys. 

Then they’ll read a stupid blog fuelling their own prejudices and write a verbose blog about Why Gandhi was a Real Villain or Why Men are Real Dicks in Society and How Posting the Photo Of Cleavage on Instagram Empowers Women.  I’m graduating in History hons, people, and you’re a fucking KIITian. I am closer to Gandhi than you are. My entire semesters are dedicated to doing elaborate researches on these personalities. Last semester, I had a whole paper on Ambedkar. So I know if these people were villains or not, because I have spent six months browsing through hundreds of sources to understand them, and not just one random hate post which intensified my personal qualms and so I wrote a post to seek attention where I should have just drawn a pencil sketch of a screw or something instead. 

Then, the extremists. Fuck them as well. Fuck Arnub Goswami. Fuck Arundhati Roy. Fuck Ajay Gautam. Fuck Owaisi. Ugghhh. There are so many people I want to send to Hong Kong on a one way flight. 

I hate social media. I loathe people who tag me. And I dont masturbate 6 times a day. If you really wanted to know. 

Awkward Awkward

Well, guess what! I bumped into Doctor. 😐

For the last few days, this new glitzy fast food joint called Charlie has been our binge corner. We start the evening with PC or Bhola knocking at my door after I fail to register their 23 missed calls. I fumble around for clothes and wear whatever my hands pull out of the Kilimanjaro piled up in our armchair. Then I comb my hair, slogging to create art above my scalp, but alas, it’s always awful. I rush out, and there they are, fat and miserable, but happy anyway. And then we keep walking, till the earth turns green and the sky turns red…



It was one of those normal days. We had returned back from the stadium after a long exasperating talk session dominated by dialogues concerning counselling and admission and cutoff and ranks and courses and whatnot, but which was supposed to be a long entertaining gossip session dominated by dialogues concerning pussies and breasts and cricket and AIB and politics and anything but career and studies. 

The two swines, PC and Bhola, were sitting like crabs on the red swing of my house, which I am pretty sure moves on its own after midnight. 

“I am starved. I need food. “PC said it for the thirteenth time. He is always hungry. People are always hungry. 

“What do you want from me? “I asked. 

“Feed me anything. Or I’ll die. “He pretended to have a cardiac arrest as he grabbed his manboob and dropped his tongue out. I wanted to tell him that 1. That’s not how you die of hunger and 2. That’s not how you die at all. 

“There’s nothing much in the house. Just some cheap Bengali mixture. “I lied. Actually there was Bikaji mix in the house, but there was no way I was going to sacrifice that. So instead I grabbed a bill of 100 and asked them to come follow me. 

“Oh Ravish…You’re our protector, you’re our lord!!” They sang as they followed me. 

On the way, we discussed our orders.

“Chicken momo for us. Veg burger for you. “They agreed.

“Fuck. I’m the one who’s paying, guys! “I protested. See, the world is pretty cruel towards veggies (shhhh….). These non vegetarians get to lay their canines upon chicken and lamb and beef and beacon and pork and mutton and crabs and squids and octopuses and what not, and here we are, lone warriors of Paneer, consoling ourselves with the belief that ultimately non veggies are going to be burned in the devil’s kitchen. The ratio of benefit in this case was 2:2:1 against me. So obviously, I was unhappy. 

“Alright. I have extra twenty bucks. “Bhola said. 

And so we moved ahead, fantasizing our beautiful plates. 

“Doctor. “PC said as we stepped into Charlie. I kind of froze. 

Yes. There she was and here I was. And on our faces was nothing but one singular expression of surprise. All I could see was her face and her hair falling all around. Just for a tiny moment. And then I turned around. It was weird as hell. I handed them the money and moved to the other side of the road. Found the darkest place and plonked my ass on one of the benches and watched giant bright wheels for a long time, thinking about what just happened there. 

I wasn’t annoyed or scared, nor was I nervous or angry. Nor was I happy. She would have waved and said hello, I would have waved and said hello. Then some generic talks and more awkwardness. I mean what would the talks be about? I couldn’t imagine anything but pauses. Awkward awkward. Like we could have talked about our orders or something, or we could have maintained a silence after the casual greetings. Both would have been awkward. And how do you talk to somebody you don’t generally talk to? I mean it’s been some time since we had a proper conversation. A good conversation. She’s online and I’m online and yet we don’t talk to each other. So I just ran out of topics there. I didn’t know how to converse and nor did I had any intent desire to. I mean Facebook is enough I believe. Plus, I was wearing really short pants. 

Anyway, after she left the place I went back. My friends told me that I was a wuss and I should have talked to her and all and I asked them if my veg burgers were ready yet. They were not. 

Back on Facebook she didn’t text me. So I knew she was pissed off. Then she texted me the other day, obviously pissed off, and gave me an earful. I apologised, tried to explain, and also asked if I could do something to make her feel better, but she didn’t want to hear anything. So I didn’t say much, cracked some lame jokes and hoped she’ll get better on her own. 

Now see, I’m the kind of person who lives dual lives. If you’ve never met me in person, you’ll never know me in person. I’m someone else on social medias – active and funny and intelligent and interesting and caring and good and romantic. However, in reality, I’m exactly the opposite – lazy, unfunny, dumb, ruthless, evil and filled with lust. I keep these two worlds apart. And unfortunately, Doctor is a part of the fb world, where she sees me through her own lens, which is what I choose to show her. 

Anyway, that’s my identity crisis. For more information please watch Tamasha. 

#$@%$**!

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. 

β™₯The Girl in the Exam Hallβ™₯

The probability of she sitting next to me was one in thousands, and yet, it just happened. β™‘β™‘β™‘

You have an intense crush on this girl in your college and there are thousands of people who have equal probabilities of being the person sitting next to you in an exam hall. And then happens the unbelievable! 

You hear it in stories, or from your friend’s friends, but you never experience such a blissful moment. Guess what! Now you’ll hear it from me.

I’m not sure if you remember the Desi Chinese girl I wrote about a few weeks ago. If you haven’t, roll back and read that (publicity). As I’ve already mentioned her attributes – the gorgeous, glittering streaks of hair, the huge pinkish glasses, and waxed porcelain legs – I guess you’ll be able to understand why she is so irresistible. 

So, early morning, haggard and hungry, I wake up after snoozing my alarm one million times. My head is throbbing from the unending assaults of the alarm clock. I’m frazzled and I’ve never so earnestly desired to be dead before. But it’s exam and so I can’t be dead because my mother would then bring me back and scold me big for being dead while I had to take the exam. 

“You could have died after the exam! Exam is so important! “She’d argue and I’d have no solid point in my defence. 

So I woke up. I pried open my eyes and peeled myself from the bed. I played some ancient romantic numbers in my phone and then went on with the daily routine. 

While applying soap all over my body, I wondered about the economy of Satvahana dynasty, and if they minted more gold coins than Kushanas, and if they allowed prostitution, like Mauryas, and if they didn’t what did they do with all the gold. Interestingly, I had forgotten everything I’d read in the last two days. All my memories were wiped out and the fragments that remained weren’t ductile enough to be stretched upto more than 6 pages. I was so doomed. 

All my friends had studied well. Rohit was bubbling with confidence. Anant was cool as ever. And Mr. Kalakaar already knows everything that has happened on earth since the dawn of humanity. I pretended to be an intelligent fellow and kept a straight face. Of course I wasn’t going to become a university topper this semester. 

We reached the college, found our seats from the charts stuck on the notice board and ambled towards the rows of rooms. 

The first thing I noticed as I crossed the threshold was she. There she was, small almond eyes behind giant half-rimmed round glasses, her short sleek hair flopped to a side. The seat next to her was vacant but I was quite content with sharing the same room with her. I mean when life gives you lemonade, you shouldn’t go asking for Haywards 5000, because then life takes the lemonade back and gives you draught and dehydration. I started searching for my seat and all my theories collapsed in that moment of unmatched awe, the unparalleled surprise marked by a sudden loss of voice, reasoning and conscience. I felt like clearing up the aisles and doing a victory lap for a few hours. I get to sit with the girl of my dreams. What is the probability, people? 

I won’t say I was sweating, because that is a feature of early teenage romance. I was excited, I was happy and I was going to make quite a donation to my city temple. 

She moved out to let me pass. Clad in shorts, she was making me nuts already.   Her skin sparkled with radiance, her legs glowed like enlightenment. I was straining my eyes to steal furtive glance and yet notice every bit of her ethereal charm, like I was Sherlock Homes. I sat and did what any guy would do. 

There she is, so beautiful, so full of life, so intelligent…If I were prince Joffrey, I’d have killed people for her. The bell went on, and the misfortune happened. I suddenly knew the answers to all the questions. This was a first timer – I never know all the answers from a particular question paper, I know around 70% and make up the rest 30%. But this time, I knew everything. That meant I wouldn’t have enough time to look at her, given how I was going to be drowned in the abysmal history of stupid dead kings. 

I wrote, even took extra sheets after about 8 years, and went on writing till the end. At times, the Romeo inside me would ask me to stop, and just take one look at her, but then the V.Gordon Childe inside me would convince me that history is a beautiful thing. At times, her question paper would fly in the breeze and land near my steps. While she tried to pick that up, her admit card would rise up and float in the air. It seemed like the good God sat up with a Khaitan fan in the clouds, having some fun with innocent human beings. The flying papers would sing to me about her, asking me to lift them up, hand them over to her, and ask her out. But as asking out only leads to tragedies, I merely watched. 

And so I wrote and glanced and wrote and glanced and when it was all over, I stood up, walked away and turned to her for one last time, so that I could store her in my memory in a series of beautiful fading photographs. 

Nostalgia #The Day of Dicks

The day Lord Evans went crazy… πŸ˜‚

“Are you alive? “Lord Evans asks as he raps at the door. If he doesn’t stop, the bolt is going to come off. 

“What the fuck is wrong with every creature who knocks at my door? “I yell, more to myself. 

“I have something important to tell you. ”

“You better be telling me that the hottest girl of SOP is waiting for a sizzling lap dance free of cost, and you have sacrificed me your share of divine act. “I shout as I take a look at the image I’m going to put as my profile pic on Facebook. It’s blurred, and my eyebrows are bent at funny angles. 

“Kind of. ”

Three seconds later, he is in my room, strectched on my bed like a four legged spider. Stretched on my bed like a four legged tarantula on a matchbox. Like a four legged tarantula who has a gigantic Fabre Castell ruler, which seems very akin to my own accountancy ruler, in his hand. 

“It’s six-four. ”

“What? And that ruler seems familiar. ”

“Here, take it. ”

I snatch the ruler from his hand. My secret initials are visible at the end. It’s mine! Oh wait! I drop the ruler almost reflexively, struck breathless by the scary anticipation. 

“What is six-four? “I ask, my voice gruffy. 

“My penis. It’s not small. You were wrong when you accused I have a small dick. That hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep. I have spent all night memorizing countrywise average penis size on Menxp. I am six-four. I have a Jamaican Penis. “He glows with pride.

Actually, Lord Evans got me to a rip off deal where I purchased vegetable chops for a price 5 times the normal price. So I called him a mindless, physics sucker. Then he started explaining the beauty of Quantum mechanics, so I called him the owner of micropenis. That had him shut up. And now he had come to seek revenge, contaminating my lovely ancient ruler with his dick. 

“Did you fucking use my accountancy ruler to scale your penis? “I say, flabbergasted. 

“My Jamaican Penis. “He stresses Jamaican, like it’s a sin to not mention the word. “And right now it’s the latest craze in Mansi Niketan. Half a dozen people are measuring their joysticks at this point of time. ”

I at once race to the washroom, turn on the faucet and place my hands under the running water. I squeeze out a giant blob of Dettol handwash and rub my hands together furiously.  I’m so apoplectic right now that I am going to explode into shreds. I feel like wearing a surgeon’s gloves and cut off his Jamaican monkey. Did I just hold the ruler he used to…. YUCK. I am going to get my hands sterilized. And I’m definitely going to puke on his head.  

“Whaaat? You don’t look awed. “He speaks from outside the door. 

“I am. I’m ecstatic about you using my lovely ruler to scale your Jamaican Longfellow. In fact, I feel so honoured that I might offer you a handjob. “I hiss as I open the door to face him squarely. 

“What’s your size, little Alex? “He winks at me, “Is it a North Korea? ”

“What’s north korea? “I ask impulsively. 

“Three eight. It’s the smallest range of human penis. Rana is a Turkey. Five five. Right now, he is googling penis enlargement devices on my phone. “Lord Evans says. He is so happy talking about dicks. 

“What’s the longest? “I blurt out at once. 

oddfuturetalks.com

“Congo. Seven point one inches. And that’s the average. So if you consider the concept “averages hide deviations” we might even see longer penises. I really want to have a congo. ”

Well, me too. Wait! Have you totally lost the plot?? What are you thinking!? You’re supposed to be enraged.

“I think I’ll be slightly better than Turkey. And I’m still growing. Also, I think you are a terrible person. ”

“Penises stop growing after seventeen. Average Indian size is four. “He says, seemingly unaffected by my last statement. 

“Dude! “I can’t help but gasp at him, “did you have penispedia for dinner or what!!? ”

“Never. Ever. Call a man small. “He speaks as if his words would, in future, be recited as scriptures. I nod in compliance. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to forgive him for stealing my ruler! I mean who does that? Also, I have to take my own measurement. With other ruler, of course. But first, I have to express my rage. 

“What about my..”

“Oh! I’ll wash it. Do not worry. ”

Seriously

“I don’t think even factory-recycling this ruler would erase the touch of your Jamaican Penis. ”

“It’s midas touch. I’ll buy you one. “He says. “You want to take a stroll through the corridors? ”

Okay. This sounds interesting! Didn’t he say that six people are currently busy taking measurements? I could have made a statistics project on this, had I been in std. XI, and had they accepted a project titled – The Story of Sizes : a survey on penis. You see, this is the kind of educational reform I want. Okay, not this precisely. But preparating pages long  Cash Flow Statements isn’t exactly an enthralling project.

The next second, we are assaulting doors like Spanish bulls, and in return, they are calling us the choicest of names. We ask them about their sizes and they are all six, as they vow from the secured confinements behind the bolted doors. When we ask PC, he yells,

“Nine.”

“We are not talking about centimeters here, convert it into inches. “Lord Evans deadpans. PC cusses us and tells that he was talking about inches and we could go fuck ourselves with a faucet. 

“He is bluffing. I can bet my testicles on that. “Lord Evans declares. I believe him. This stuff is surely going to be the event of the day, and I’m sure, today evening, we are having a debate over penises in Mansi Niketan. That’s what twelfth graders do. They talk about dicks.

After we are done with our survey, which is totally inaccurate since all of them lied, we head towards FCR discussing the actual possible lengths of our lodgemates. 

“I’m quite convinced Rana is not a Turkey. I mean he doesn’t look like that. “I say. 

“What about you? “Lord Evans scoffs. 

“I have the size of a fucking Hentai Monster. ”

“If you’re a Hentai Monster, I’m a Godzilla. I’m a Goliath. I’m Italy’s fucking tower. ”

I do not counter that. There’s no way you could counter that if you have seen Lord Evans. If people are catfishes, he is the blue whale.

I take a mental note to do my own research in my own private time. Nothing else in the life of a male adolescent has ever been of more significance than the length of his manhood. Although I still feel what Lord Evans did was a treacherous act. 

As we reach FCR, the stationery shop owner looks at me expectantly. I’ve been buying glossy girlie magazines from him for almost two years now, and that’s the reason he always looks at me expectantly. I don’t like to disappoint people, especially scrawny stationary shop owners who get me five Durjoy Dutta novels for just Five hundred rupees, however, I’m currently broke. I’m so broke that I’m going to order vegetable rolls, which are the cheapest kind of stuffed rolls on the planet. As Lord Evans places orders, I glance at the shop owner, at the stacks of books in the plywood racks, at the sultry magazines hanging from clips, at the twin tables standing tall at FCR, at the sunlight glistening on the road and at the rusted iron gate of Shyamli that leads to JVM, and all of a sudden, tight lumps block my throat. In a few weeks, I’ll leave Ranchi forever.