The Nut Job

Hank-nut

The joy of dog-sitting and learning the quirkiness of a new dog. Hank in this case a.k.a Hanky, a.k.a Hanky Panky a.k.a Da’ Hankster (you get the picture).
So Hanky has this quirk about taking whatever you feed him to his spot (on the carpet). He drops it out his mouth and then squats by it and eats it. He makes sure that his butt is facing you while he eats (a supremely greedy but shy eater, if there ever was one) Come what may; he does not eat in front of you. Yesterday I was eating some Cashew nuts. I gave him one. He took it , ran to his spot and did his routine. He was back in a flash, so I gave him another one. Then another and another.
It took him no time in figuring out that the constant back and forth trip wasn’t worth just one nut. So he stood there, dropped his shame,begged and ate right there. Greedy as always; just newly shameless.

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The A,B,C’s of L. O. V. E

cute kid

cute kid


Three eight year old boys A, B and C are walking back from school when they chance upon a mangy stray dog. A digs a few rocks out of his shorts and flings one at the dog. Boy B recedes behind a tree and keeps a close watch on the dog. Boy C plants himself firmly between boy A and the dog, ensuring that the dog is not hit anymore.
Which of the 3 boys from the scenario defines you? A hypothetical question, you say? Maybe it doesn’t jog your memory enough. Okay, read on;
Boy A goes home and his mom is indifferent to him. She’s busy arguing with his father or planning a kitty party.
Boy B goes home to a mother that is the quiet contemplative type. She’s a housewife concerned about her family’s well-being. Worried about her son having all he needs to do well in school.
Boy C goes home to find his mother feeding a cow or teaching the servant’s six- year-old child how to read and write.
Does either of these scenarios sound familiar? Too general, you claim? Well, read on;
Boy A’s path in life is as follows. From seeking fun in hurting others he becomes a bully at school. He then becomes an eve-teaser in college. He ends up getting into a few fights, always on the verge of getting in trouble, or worse; arrested. He gets married and has a good chance of being a wife-beater.
Boy B is the classic case of someone that does what’s expected of him. The “also ran” in life. The one who observes everything, does nothing and is educated enough to talk about it at a party. He gets married, has kids and watches out for them like his mom did for him. He will complain about ills in society and his country but he won’t do a thing about it.
And then there is boy C. He has learnt compassion from his mother. Love and care for animals and other humans has been nurtured in his heart. He will grow up to encompass everything. The environment, animal abuse, sex workers, oppressed classes, geriatric care; everything will be of concern to him. He will do something about each and everything. He will fill his life with causes those are beyond himself.
Now does the picture become clearer?
Here is the simple truth. Most of us fall under the category B. Always afraid that our B child doesn’t become a category A kid. All we have to do is make him a category C child. That will make a generation of category C children.
Most of us ask what one person can do for this world or to change our country. Well here’s the answer for you. Encourage your child to be a type C child. Learning about compassion early in life builds empathy and moral character, reduces violence and builds a sense of empowerment and responsibility. Society as a whole benefits when its members are more caring toward each other and the animal those live among us.
Studies have shown that kids those abuse animals are five times more likely to commit violent crimes against people and four times more likely to commit theft and three times more likely to do drugs than kids who don’t. In fact the FBI uses violent crimes against animals to profile violent criminals.
Hence A is not equal to B and B is not equal to C. So there you have it- Hence proved.
Q.E.D – Quad Erat Demonstrandum.

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No Country for Old Dobermen

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Dobe-Old
We geriatric dogs at the dog park are a motley crew. We sit under the shade by the water buckets and watch life go by. Although I’m out of breath easily, I’m still more active than this sorry bunch of slackers. I exercise more than the rest of them combined.
We gas about our halcyon days. The tall tales of our achievements run as wild as our demented imaginations. I doubt if anyone really listens. Some of us have lost our hearing. We just bark our heads off like grumpy old dogs.
I point at the four-year-old females frolicking in the water, “Look at those totta babes? Wouldn’t you agree guys. Kya maal hai?”
“Ai Mami! Look at those curves, Vato,” says Chuy the Chihuahua. “Ay carumba, so many dangerous curves and me without brakes.”
“Sweet az. Ain’t she, mate,” says Dundee, the Australian Shepherd. ”Fair dinkum–wicked Sheilas.”
“–None of them would give you decrepit old farts a second look,” I say. “I should know. In my golden years I’ve been with numerous females. The stories of my virility spanned several municipal zones.”
They mutter and roll their eyes. Some try remembering what on earth they’re doing here. I continue, “Had they invented Viagra for dogs, y’all would’ve seen me in full flow.”
I know in my heart that I have to be content with throwing verbal bouncers when the real thing clearly refuses to rise.
“You guys are terrible, Der Kokolores. I’ve always been faithful to my Ethel,” says Sage, the Bulldog, trying to shield his man-dog-boobies which are clearly bigger than Ethel’s.
“Fanabala. You hen-pecked old timer,” says Bruno Leathernuts, the Italian Greyhound.
A toothless fighting match ensues. “Geez man,” I think, “Too many freaks, not enough circuses.”
We’re watching the young ‘uns at play when we are hit by the noxious smell of rotting pickled eggs. It is King Toot himself, up to his old tricks. “Cletus, enough of your silent deadly ones. Lay off on the fried road-kill your mom feeds you,” I say. “You’re the reason these flies are swarming around us.”
“Don’t y’all skeeters and chiggers be sayin’ nuttin’ bout’ muh mamma. She dern near purfect,” he states. I’ve seen his mom and dad. Between Cletus and them, they have five good teeth. Also I have no idea why they painted the number eight on his side and call him Dale Jr.
“The youth of today I terr you,” sighs Uski Li, the chow chow. “They have no respect for the erders. They no hap me, when I in pain. The whore young dogs speak in degrading barks and they have no varues.”
“It’s the blud-fiah music day be listenin’ to,” says Ziggy, the Basenji, making the shaka sign with his paw. “What in the name of likky likky ganja is Beiber fever? Is it anything like valley fever?”
“I just can’t deal with the pain in my hips,” says Alfie the Weimaraner. “Hey Speedy. What was the name of that Ayurvedic medicine Inder got for you? Hook a brother up with that good stuff.”
I hear Alfie list his ailments. He seems to have taken too many thermometers up his butt.
It is almost four of o’ clock. It is time for all the old timers to be taken home and fed their early supper. We bid each other adieu hoping to stay alive for our next weekly meeting.

Unless You’ve Run 13.1 Miles in my Shoes

Half Marathon- Inder
Half-Marathon

Running 13.1 Miles

“I saw you running on Rankin road, Inder. There’s no pavement on that road. Somebody could’ve run you over. That’s crazy…What made you–?”
I put my hands on my knees and pant out. “Don’t ask.”
My colleague pats my back. “No reason is worth the risk– eeeew” He rubbed his hand on his blue dungarees and adjusts his hard hat. “How long was your run?”
A bead of sweat traces a path from my forehead to the tip of my nose. It dangles off the tip and splatters on the asphalt. Another one lands on top of it. “Thirteen.” I cough out.
“Dude, You did a half-marathon before you started work? On a Tuesday? How many times have you run thirteen miles?”
“Never.”
“Then why today? And before work” He points with his index finger to his temple and twirls his finger around, making the cuckoo sound.
                                                                                               **********
The day had started as any other.
The jarring tone had awoken me up from deep slumber. 4:15 The amber readout out of the clock was the only light in my bedroom. After my daily ablutions, I was about to insert the earplugs when my brother called to remind me he was coming to my apartment for picking up his documents.
I pushed my phone into my pocket, set my stopwatch to 0:00:00:00. I spot jogged to warm up. The new smart phone slapped my thigh. This is going to be an intrusion when I jog. I tossed my phone on the table and shut the door. Then I pushed it open to ensure I left the door open for my brother while I was at the gym.
The two-mile jog to the gym was over before the first drop of sweat made an appearance. The abs workout went per usual. An hour later I jogged back to my apartment. With one final check of the elapsed time on my watch I had twisted the door-knob and pushed in the door.
Resistance. The jarring microsecond it took to realize that you I’d been screwed. I tried it again. Darnit. He locked it. I slapped my pockets, expecting to hear the sweet jingle of the keys that lay on the other side of the bulky door.
“Arggghhhh,” I threw my head in the air. 0603, my watch read. I kicked the door a few times, cussed my brother again, rechecked my pockets and was done with my hissy-fit. Okay Inder, relax. The office can give you a duplicate key, but they open at eight. I can call my brother and ask him to take me to his house. Darn it No phone. Maybe I can use a pay-phone. Okay , no quarters. Maybe I can wake up the neighbor and ask for a phone. Yep- best idea yet.
I stopped my knuckles from rapping at the neighbors door an inch before they made contact. Gosh. I don’t know my own brothers number. What was it 281-423 or is it 632…I rubbed my temples. I remember his land-line number from fifteen years ago. Smart phones, my ass.
The thirty seconds it takes to realize that you one is completely and utterly screwed lasts five minutes. I leaned against the door and slid down till my butt hit the coarse foot-mat. No car, no money, no phone, no keys, no friends and an office that was thirteen miles away. That’s how one gets royally–
“–Run for it” My crazy brain chimed in.
“Shut the fuck up.” I punched my forehead with two fingers.
“What are you options? Sit here for another two hours? You’d be at the office by then.”
“Don’t do this? I’m done listening to you.” I wrapped myself in my arms.
“Listen, I’ve always been your friend. We–”
“Na na nana na na…”
“–It’s only thirteen measly miles. You will never know if you can do it till you try.”
“The stupid shit that you come up with, it’s-it’s…”
“–Mind-boggling?”
“I said shut the fuck up.” I slammed the back of my head on the door.
“Come on, Inder. It’ll be fun. It’s a challenge. Are you chicken? Bwuck bwuck bwuck.”
“I’m not falling for that shit anymore.”
“That’s okay. Didn’t think you could do it anyway. Your capacity is a forty-five minute run every week. Your heart or muscles can’t endure a half-marathon. Let’s just wimp out.”
I jump to my feet. “Wimp out?” I reset my watch.
                                                                                                     **********
At mile eight my lungs began to give out. By mile nine my thighs felt like they’ve been split down the middle. By Mile eleven my shin had just been stabbed with a switchblade. By Mile twelve the world moved in and out of focus.
Fuck you, brain. Cars zipped by me less than a foot away from my weary legs. I pushed my watch in my face 02:04:11:51. My wrist lolled back by my side.
Aha, the railway line. Just beyond it lays the employee entrance. I made it. I willed my legs to keep moving for the last 0.1 mile.
                                                                                                    ***********13. Miles

The faux-leather on my chair is stuck to my thighs. The musty smell of sweat permeates my office. I read the email I’ve typed up-
…and you locked me out of the apartment. I found my way to office but I really need you to come pick me up over lunch. I can shower at work but I have no change of clothes. I have a big project meeting after lunch. Please be at the office at 11 am…
I searched my office for a stray shirt till I come across a red tee.
What a lucky day…Yay…Hold on… Never mind, that’s my Halloween outfit from last year… Gay biker? What were you thinking? I stab my index finger to my forehead.
“Dude, That was a cool dress. The pink spray paint in your hair. The head-band and the The skin-tight T-shirt that said I’m so gay I –”
“–Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up.”
The icon for new email pops up on my computer. “Afternoon meeting moved up to 10:00 AM.”
I hold the t-shirt in my hand. This can’t be happening. It’s either this or nothing.
I press my folder close to my chest as I enter the conference room. My manager has the floor. “…and the parts we have tested have a cycle time of under six seconds. Inder, please hand me the brochures.”
My ears start burning. I peel the folder from my chest and handed it to him. My manager’s jaw drops. His finger waved at my red t-shirt.
I’M SO GAY, I SHIT RAINBOWS.

THE VALENTINE’S DAY CONUNDRUM- BOLLYWOOD STYLE

THE VALENTINE’S DAY CONUNDRUM– BOLLYWOOD STYLE

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           I learnt all my romantic moves or lack of them from Bollywood movies. Because the pudding defines the proof; my being single is proof that the Bollywood romance formulas are foul pudding.

          I’m an engineer. To my logical brain, If A=B and B=C then A should equal C- always.

           So Bollywood taught me there seven ways to woo a woman.

1)      If you love here follow her to the ends of the earth;

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The hero chases the heroine from London to Punjab, from Gujarat to Italy.  So I showed up to my girlfriends door in Switzerland and for the second time I got the response- What on earth are you doing here?

2)      Save her from a bunch of thugs;

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This has to work right? The brawny hero bangs up an un-imaginable number of goons. I saved my prospective girlfriend from an eve-teaser in a bus once. Well, I got arrested, refused to pay a bribe- went to court. Offered three months pocket money to a grossly incompetent and comical lawyer- and never saw the girl again.

3)      Use a furry friend;

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A cute dog (for some reason a Pomeranian) carrying a rose between its teeth and wearing a bow around its neck. The heroine carries the dog and sings a song, twirling amongst flying ribbons and balloons. My Doberman scared the crap out of every girl he approached. He was the gentlest dog but all he could carry was his reputation. Not only did he not find me a girlfriend, he never found one for himself. He was feared amongst all the strays and neighborhood dogs.

4)      Let her go;

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Sacrifice. That one must work. The hero reunites the heroine with a previous lover. Just in time the heroine realizes how important sacrifice is in the grand scheme of things and returns to the hero. I let my girlfriend go. And she left- darnit Bollywood. Then I followed her to the end of the earth and we know how that story turned out in point number 1 above.

5)      Have your mom be you wingman;

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The hero’s mom has the ability to explain away her son’s worse characteristics to the heroine. “Yes he is a serial killer, but he can touch his nose with his tongue.” Lo and behold the heroine melts. My mom was an expert in scaring away women I was almost engaged to. “Are you sure you want to marry Inder? His last girlfriend was…”

6)      Ignore her completely;

Now go figure this one. The hero completely ignores the heroine- and she still falls for him. In the harsh reality of things- every hot chick has fifteen guys wooing her. Here is a ratio to explain my point. If you turn over any rock lying on the ground there are 3 men found under it and one guy will be sitting on that rock. My last hope was the questionably attractive girl that was ignoring all these guys- seemed like a slam dunk. Five dates and five hundred Rupees later I found out that she was gay.

7)       Get her wet (noooooo literally- in the rain);

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Well if it starts raining in Indian movies the hero and heroine’s fate is sealed. Song first, wet clothes next…  Dry them by a fireplace… Kiss coming… Birds will fly out of the trees; they must… no sexual act can happen without birds flying out of trees. Some sobs and “I gave you my virginity’’ dialogues later- marriage happens. I got one woman wet once.  A hospital visit and a fight with bone-chilling fever later- I was still single.

 

                I am an engineer but if All of A is B it doesn’t mean all of B is A. Hence proven- Q.E.D

 

© Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

WHAT IS THE COLOUR OF YOUR LOVE- CINNAMON?

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           “Look at me Cinnamon.” I held the ball in my hand.

            The rust colored puppy turned her head. Her left eye was fixed directly at the ball. The right eye stared into nothingness. I tossed the ball to my left hand. Her right eye focused on the ball. She didn’t even move her head. “Cinnamon, what’s the matter your eyes?” I made a small circle with the ball. Her right eyeball followed the ball. The other eyeball stayed put.

            I laughed out loud. “Cinnabonita, how damn lazy is your eye?”

            She lifted her paw and took a swipe at my face. 

            “Okay, Okay. Peace.” I hoisted her in the air. She squirmed. Her body contorted in one direction and then the other till she wiggled out of my hands. Every miniscule muscle in her thirty-pound body will soon be sinewy and firm. “I won’t be able to do wrestle with you once you’re an eighty pound powerhouse, Cinnabonita.” 

            Auunhhhh. She cocked her head.

            I held my arms up to form a triangle “And your head will be this shape, your jaw will be square.” I mock punched her tiny jowl. “You, my sweet girl, will be feared. You’ll be discriminated against. People will judge you without knowing you like I do.”

            Aooor. She lifted her paw and I high fived her. She did it again and kept it up till she lost balance and tipped over, falling into a clumsy pile of dopey puppy.

            She pranced around me. I took pictures but she wanted to play with the camera strap. I pushed her away repeatedly and she kept licking the camera. Finally she figured another game. She tugged on one end of the lace of my yellow shoes.

            “No Cinnamon. Bad girl.”

            She looked away but kept the lace in her mouth. Then she backed up, slowly.

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            “Cinnamon, leggo’ my lace.”

            She jerked her head and backed up, got on her haunches and stared into my eyes; well at least one of her eyes did.

            “Okay, you naughty girl. Playtime is over. Back into the kennel”

            I picked her up and cradled her. She laid her head on my shoulder and enjoyed the ride back. Her soft, velvety skin tickled my ear.

            As soon as she got in the cage, she started whining like a baby.

            “It kills me to leave you in that cage too, Cinnamon. A cage is no place for a puppy, but all you get is twenty minutes of playtime a day at the shelter. Soon all the hard working volunteers here will find a good home for you where you’ll play all day.” I caressed the skin between her eyes across the cage.

            Aoooooor. Her whining followed me into the car, clear across the city and well into the night. Bring her home, Inder. I lay awake at night. Yeah, but how can you justify bringing Cinnamon home when Perry has been at the shelter for more than six months. It’s the classic struggle of every single one of us in rescue. How to turn down one dog and adopt another?

            Then the next week she undid my laces and the next and the next. It broke my heart each and every week to put her back into the cage and hear her whine.

            Then this past Sunday a new puppy was in her cage. My panicked mind searched the shelter for her. I finished my shift and came back home ready to shower off the mud the playful dogs had lathered on me.

            I placed my heel on the edge of the chair and started undoing my shoelace. It was too heavy. It wouldn’t budge.  I stumbled over to my laptop and typed an email to the volunteer co-ordinator.

          ‘I didn’t see Cinnabon in her cage today.’ I typed and retyped a few other sentences. Then I hit the send button and froze.

          Dinnggg

          One new mail. I clicked on it. “Yay…” It began. I didn’t need to read the rest. My heart and my mind were in a race. Everyone who has volunteered knows that feeling. The joy and the sorrow; missing a dog you love so dearly and feeling very happy for missing it, sending it all your love. The joy and the longing- we lead a blessed, sweet life.

         Fear not my fluttering heart- soon there will be another Cinnamon and then there will be another. Each of them will fill my life with more joy and more love for the next one.

        I love you, my lazy eyed Cinnabonita. That’s the color of love today; Cinnamon

        But just for today. Tomorrow it might be white or black… or brindle.

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© Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

JOHN’S ON THE DAILY NEWS

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 “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t” Vidyut counted the money again and stuffed it in his wallet.

I tossed the car’s keys to him. “This is the craziest thing we’ve done–”

“– so far.” He winked at me. “If I don’t outperform all her previous boyfriends, she’s going to dump me.”

“She’s ditched you three times already.” I slapped his back and laughed. “ Slutty girlfriend, virgin boyfriend.”

“HOT slutty girlfriend.”  He turned the key in the ignition.

We drove across the crowded bridge over the train tracks at the New Delhi railway station. The traffic light turned red and children appeared from nowhere with rags in their hands. They wiped our windscreen begging for a few rupees for a job poorly done. A song from the latest Bollywood movies blasted from the loudspeakers and the children danced to its tune.

Vidyut bit his lip and faced me. The reflection of the red light illuminated half of his face. “Inder, will there be actual red lights? How will we know if we are there?”

“M mm m,” (I don’t know) I hummed.

The light turned avocado green and his lead foot met the accelerator.

“There.” I pointed to the green sign that read in white bold letters. ‘Mahatma Gandhi Marg’. Vidyut made a sharp right turn. Gosh, did they have to name this road after the ‘Father of the nation’?

I opened my window and stuck my head out the window. Decrepit wooden multistoried houses lined the street with paint peeling off the walls. Street vendors sold various unhygienic snacks to hungry hard-working day labor.

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The narrow street was webbed with illegal power lines crisscrossing the passageway. In the next few houses several women clad in bright gaudy clothes stuck their heads out the windows.

Vidyut dropped the car into second gear.

Oye chikne, idhar dekh,” (Hey handsome, look at me) one yelled.

I plopped back into my seat, “Vidyut, where have we–”

“Arre O Rajja, Majja lena hai to idhar aaja,” (Come to me), another voice boomed.

I snapped my fingers. “Let’s get out of here–”

“–Hello, Sir. Wan’t girl? Best girl.” A boy all of fifteen years old tapped the drivers window.

Vidyut rolled down his window. “How much?”

“Come up and look, Sir. All girls. No charge for just looking sir. You select. I give you good rate.” He gave us the Indian head nod.

The wooden stairs creaked under our weight. We walked into a room no bigger than a volleyball court. The dank smell of sweat and cheap jasmine incense fought with each other to overpower the hall. A man sat on a small platform with a harmonium and sang a poor song to a badly played tune. People sat on the tile floor and rubbed shoulders and elbows with each other.

“You want girl too?” The fifteen year old asked me.

“No buddy, I don’t have a slutty girlfriend. I’m the ‘hero ka dost’ (Hero’s friend), the sidekick Danny. I make sure he doesn’t get in trouble.

“Danny?”

“Danny Zuko…as in Grease” I puffed my hair.

“Like Vaseline, Sir. You want?” he stroked his finger.

“Nooooo… Grease… Never mind. Rahul…DDLJ,” I splayed my arms.

He sang. “Tujhe dekha to yeh jana sanam…chahihe mujhe bhi nahana sanam.” He guffawed. “You sit. Enjaay music.” He pointed to the lone open spot on the tile floor.

The second god-awful song started. I yawned. Come on Vidyut, hurry up man.

Thock thock thock. The fifteen-year-old body appeared in the doorway. He put his hands on his knees and coughed out, “Police-Run-Police.”

I gulped and tried getting up but my knees were locked in their position. In the next few moments everyone in that room scrambled around me. They disappeared into cubby-holes and attics and behind doors.

Five khaki uniform clad men entered the room. The lapels on their shoulder announced, ‘Delhi Police’. One of them barked. “What are you doing here?”

“Listening to music…,” I pointed to the platform in the now empty room. “Uhh… There were fifty people here… five seconds ago. I swear. Trust me–”

Tanne ko to gaane sunayenge ib hawalaat mein. (you’ll surely face the music in the lock-up).

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I blinked a few times. Handcuffs? I’m actually wearing handcuffs. And all because Vidyut… I gulp. Gosh, I hope Vidyut is–

“I swear it officer. This is my first time here–” Vidyut walked behind another office into the room. His eyes widened when he saw me. He thrust his shackled hands at me, “Inder, do something.”

“Dude, where are your pants?” I pointed to his smiley faced Jockey’s.

“–I’d just taken them off.” He crossed his legs.

“You’ve been gone for seven minutes. What the fuck?”

“Dude, I was talking to her. Making her comfy–”

“You blooming ass. We’re being arrested for you talking to a–”

The policeman shoved me, “–shut up and walk.”

We stepped into the police van and sat on the hard, metal seats.

“How many did you get?” The sub-inspector asked his constables.

Just these two, janab.

I turned to Vidyut, “Just two. Goddamnit. There were two hundred men and fifty women in that building and they got two. You and me. Rahul and Deepak. Danny and Kenickie. And you’re still a Virgin. How can this day get any worse?”

Vidyut smiled. “It just did. They have my pants and my pants have my wallet. No bribes will be offered today.”

I slid my fingers on my cheek. “Well at least I shaved today for my first appearance on the news.”

************

It’s been twenty years since that incident. It was the only time either of us made the news. Two lowlife John’s in the vast sea of hormonal, oppressive men seeking any means to justify their whims.

We grew up in a society where it is okay for men to look down upon women as if they were objects. Where it is justifiable to take advantage of oppressed girls those couldn’t survive any other way. This is the same city of Delhi where last year a woman was raped in a bus by six men while they drove around town. I am amongst the millions of people who criticized the cruelty and the brutality of that rape.

I’ve travelled the world and lived in several countries. It’s not just Indian society- men of all countries are afflicted by the disease or treating women poorly. In the US women are protected by laws- but the attitude of men going to strip clubs uncovers their unabashed primal instincts. The flourishing business of strip clubs and whore-houses world-wide is a slap in humanities face.

I put the newspaper down and remove my spectacles, “How far was I from committing a crime of sex.” Even before the thought permeates my brain I have excuses ready; We were going to pay for it. We didn’t even do anything. We were teenagers. I never did it again. It wasn’t even for me. I was just being a friend. Prostitution is legal–

–I gag even before I complete the last thought. What kind of a sick bastard am I? Admit your mistake, damnit. I pick up the phone and call Vidyut.

This is what I’ve learnt about myself.

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— I’ve shamed my education and my family for doing what I did.

— My demand drives the supply. I’ve a hand in the flesh trade industry in India; however small it may be. I have a hand in it. I had the education and ability to stop exploitation of women and I didn’t do a darn thing about it.

— My biggest issue as an animal activist is the attitude of people those turn a blind eye to the plight of animals. I turned a blind eye to those women.

— That never again will a single Dollar or Rupee I earn go towards supporting exploiting women in any way, shape or form. Strip-clubs, porn, flesh-trade industry; all exploit women.

— That never again will I turn a blind eye to the plight of anyone- be it human or be it an animal. Nor will I judge anyone till I have successfully cleaned up my own act.

That is what I understand by ‘Being Human’.

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© Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Inderpal Sandhu and inderpalsandhu.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.