Friday, May 23, 2008

Sasura, Futurewa & Chowpatty

Six out of every five Indians have been conned by soothsayers in the guise of parrots, over cosmetic Maa Rithambaras (of the Mandira Bedi-Tarot-Sidekick fame), Sanskaar TV Babas who in stoic stillness seem to occupy the same screen-pixels despite innumerable to-fro channel surfs and the Linda Goodladies of the astrosphere. A quaint encounter with an oracle of sorts at Chowpatty left me befuddled about my future and over-indulgence in curios.

Nonchalantly perched by the sea-water was the seer, henceforth called Gadget sasura (fellow) - a frail saffron-robed old man tightly clenching a chillum in one hand, counting rosary on the other and promptly abandoning either to manipulate a forecasting gadget at the behest of a prospective client. The gadget, that could comfortably pass off as installation art, was essentially an LCD screen linked up to a weighing scale via a multi-laser endowed light-saberish tube (commonly referred to as 'that glowy thingy'). Ostensibly, the contraption would 'compute' the future of the retard standing on the scale and 'display' it on the screen for a meagre operational charge of rupees fifty. I succumbed and stepped on the scale.

Contrary to popular expectation, both mine and that of the twenty odd bemused by-standers, no farcical graphics laced with fortune cookie text were displayed. Gadget sasura, evidently annoyed by the rising public scepticism, grumbled that the forthcoming display would merely be a representation of the future and not the future itself. I was excited. In a matter of seconds a disastrously buxom pair of women graced the LCD screen, began mouthing a bhojpuri song and commenced thrusting vigorously to its beats. I was stumped at the appearance of these women in what was supposedly a visual rendition of what my future beheld. Gadget sasura, appearing from behind a cloud of his chillum smoke, egged me on to pay attention to the lyrics of the bhojpuri song which were apparently a manifestation of my future. I conformed.

Due to my limited exposure to bihari élan and bhojpuri panache, a major portion of the lyrical content was incomprehensible. However, with aid from mother - a woman of competence in the domain of bihari maidservant - punjabi employer squabbles, a fraction of the prophesy was deciphered over gelato by the sea. Vaguely, it was a hodgepodge of several elements of daily parlance including khatiya (cot), aincha (squint), bhagai (loin cloth), ainthhan (twist), thaeun (knee), chariyail (tantrum), padosbo (neighbour's wife), huliyaye (poke) and jhaunsal (heat). The precise nature of participation of the aforementioned thrusting belles in the above equation of my future, sadly, remained hazy but promising nonetheless.

The psychic-reading has had an influence on me. Genuine contemplation of vagabonding Bombay's streets clad in a loincloth, seeking the tantrum-throwing neighbourhood wife prostrate on a cot, is afoot.


Anonymous said...

LMAO. Lekin, seriously yaar; tereko aise namoone kahan kahan se mil jaate hain.

Btw, how did YOU of all people fall for such humbug?

PS: and what are you doing awake so late?


notgogol said...

@nilo: You should hear mom say it :)

P.S. projecting, zeppelining, blogging and trying not to salt-rubbing on wounds

atomicgitten said...

May be you should go The Alchemist way and just look for omens instead of going to gadget whatevers.

notgogol said...

@atomickitten: ah.. a very very interesting incident occurred at the Gateway recently. It involved a bihari, two women, a eunuch and me. Could that qualify as a sign? :P

:| said...

Neighbour's wife? Cot? Loin cloth?


I sure hope you blog about that stuff if it actually happens! :D

notgogol said...

@womanbehindthestraightface: Why would someone be interested in my escapades with random biharan sasuri? :P Actually, why would you be interested in anyone's escapade with sasuri :D

Vira said...

As usual, you're at your witty best :-)
I heard the entire incident from your mum this morning :D You enjoyed the show is what she claims ;-)

notgogol said...

@vira: Kuch bhi!! Why would I enjoy bhojpuri item numbers?

I mean I liked 'Iskool ke tem pe' but that was a class apart :D I mean, the woman wore a tie over a T-Shirt and pranced around in stilettos :P Art dekho madam, art :P

:| said...

Because I'm a bored person? :/

notgogol said...

@womanwithstraightface: I recommend that you watch the following video:
Iskool ke tem pe

Even if you have seen it before, this video has constantly been my source of 6 min humour for a year now :P

:| said...

*watches iskool ke tem pe*
*goes into deep coma*
*is back*

You should try benny lava.
Teehee. :))

notgogol said...

@whythestraightface: benny there, seeny that :P

Iskool ke tem pe reloaded

The sequel awaits :P

atomicgitten said...

Hmmm... my mystic senses are clouded with all the humid air around. Please try again after Chennai weather settles.

notgogol said...

"...after Chennai weather settles."
Ahem!! Ahem!! It hasn't happened in my short lifetime. When ever is the city not clouded with humid air? :P

atomicgitten said...

Exactly! :D

WhistlingDolphin said...

i saw the video...
the best line has to be "tohpha maango tohpha dunga...jaan maango jaan dunga..."

what feelings!!!

notgogol said...

@dolphin: Lol!!
But please do care to explain the logic behind the lady wearing a neck-tie over a T-shirt? :D
(ab yeh mat bolna ki Dhinch-Day tha :P)

:| said...

Different uniform in the sequel.
Different iskool, I'm reckoning.

notgogol said...

Post the blockbuster success of part 1, the sequel warranted a bigger budget which explains the different uniforms and the power-packed performances from the stellar jharkhandi cast :P

:| said...