'Twas quite a colourful conversation between Gabbar and Duh (Duh= Superstar athlete. Stupidity personified.) that ensued yesterday, the point being that Gabbar wanted to submit his geography assignment to the concerned teacher, but had to rush for his cricket class instead. Now, Duh isn't anybody's idea of smart. He reaches the very edge of his knowledge of English with an "I didn't do it, ma'am." Think Big Moose minus the bloonde crew-cut and Midge, with all the duhs intact.
Gabbar : Duh, I need you to help me.
Duh: What, ra?
Gabbar: Write my name on this assignment and submit it for me, please.
Duh (Picks up the paper, stares at it, mouth open.) : Errrr...
Gabbar: I have cricket classes now, and I have to change. When I get back ma'am would have left.
Duh (Looks at Gabbar, slow smile creeping across his face.): Eh? Hehehehehe.
Gabbar (Tying shoelaces, or atleast trying to.): What's so funny, da?
Duh (Smiling happily. Apparently, there ARE somethings he and he alone can understand.): Notheeng, da...Leave it.
Gabbar (Raises his caterpillar eyebrows): Go and submit it, then.
Duh (Smile vanishing): Eh?
Gabbar (Grits his teeth, intensifies his grip on his tough Nike shoelaces.) : Write (Gestures with a pen) my name (Thumps himself on the chest, then coughs crudely.) on the paper, okay?
Duh (Comprehension dawning across his face. He looks like someone turned on neon lights inside his head.): Aah.. Apidiyaa? Seri, wokay... Then?
Gabbar (Clenching fists. His fellow benchmates run to the toilet for cover.): GO AND SUBMIT IT.
Duh (Duh-d.)
Gabbar, in one swift movement, wrenches the paper out of Duh's grip, grabs a pen, scrawls his name across the front, sprints to the teacher's desk and flings the assignment on it. He walks back to Duh, makes a rude gesture and breaks out into a stream of Hindi curses. Duh bids him goodbye saying, "Bye, da...Why you took the paper like that, ra?" Gabbar replies saying, "Live demonstration for you, ra... If you want I'll also show you a suicide attempt, live."
And Duh grins, baring his teeth (That are so crooked, they put the Great Wall of China to shame.) "You are so jokey, ra, Gabbar!". Gabbar turns around, waves his cricket bat like a caveman wielding his club and retorts, "Oh, you have no idea." And he walks away into the distance until he's nothing but a tiny, angry speck.
30 June, 2006
Floored weirdness
People are weird, in the true sense of the word. One look at the madhouse of a school I go to and you'll know what I mean. With every turn of the staircase, the language changes, why, the very mood changes.
Ground floor= General weirdness. The tall and the beautiful, the brilliant and the duh-d, all over the place. There is the occasional swear word, the ape-like antics, the lip-gloss coated giggle. Yes, that is the ground floor.
The first floor= Tolerable weirdness. Little twerps who dress the way their mothers want them to, malippu in their hair, with no sense of shame or table manners. The kind who run up to you and call you either Akka or Anna and wail at the top of their voice if you tell them they're stupid ("I will tell to miss. You call me stupid, no? I will tell miss you're saying bad bad words.")
The second floor= Tiny spurts of weirdness. Like when you see sixth-grade boys running around a pillar in circles, the challenge being that one should not even lay a hair on the pillar. However unbelievable that may sound, it is just as true as anything that ever lived.
The third floor= Extreme, extreme weirdness. Intolerable to the point of wanting to stay off that floor entirely. Why, you ask? Oh, only because it is a second home to vile wannabes. Super-cool on the outside with low-waist trousers and skirts, styled hair, imported accents, et al. But on the inside, they have the mentalities of teletubbies. Only not quite developed. Save the peoplehood (I love, love, love my friends. So sue me.), the rest of our batch are bundles of raging hormones on legs.
Boys swagger (They think they look SO hot. I'm sorry, but the anteater that was on Animal Planet last week was much more appealing.) Girls do the catwalk (I don't do the catwalk, so, as my fellow floor-mates see it, I am not a girl.) And they co-exist in sweaty peace (You read right, sweaty. It isn't 42 degrees outside for nothing.) only because they find each other so attractive. It is, therefore, most necessary that I eat lunch with The Peoplehood of The Freaky, only for that whiff of sanity. If it weren't for them, I'd have drowned in the swimming pool a long time back (I can swim. The pool's just as pool-y as any other, people use it like they would any other. Need I say more?)
With that, I shall get back to analysing the kindergarten section of school. I bid you good day.
Ground floor= General weirdness. The tall and the beautiful, the brilliant and the duh-d, all over the place. There is the occasional swear word, the ape-like antics, the lip-gloss coated giggle. Yes, that is the ground floor.
The first floor= Tolerable weirdness. Little twerps who dress the way their mothers want them to, malippu in their hair, with no sense of shame or table manners. The kind who run up to you and call you either Akka or Anna and wail at the top of their voice if you tell them they're stupid ("I will tell to miss. You call me stupid, no? I will tell miss you're saying bad bad words.")
The second floor= Tiny spurts of weirdness. Like when you see sixth-grade boys running around a pillar in circles, the challenge being that one should not even lay a hair on the pillar. However unbelievable that may sound, it is just as true as anything that ever lived.
The third floor= Extreme, extreme weirdness. Intolerable to the point of wanting to stay off that floor entirely. Why, you ask? Oh, only because it is a second home to vile wannabes. Super-cool on the outside with low-waist trousers and skirts, styled hair, imported accents, et al. But on the inside, they have the mentalities of teletubbies. Only not quite developed. Save the peoplehood (I love, love, love my friends. So sue me.), the rest of our batch are bundles of raging hormones on legs.
Boys swagger (They think they look SO hot. I'm sorry, but the anteater that was on Animal Planet last week was much more appealing.) Girls do the catwalk (I don't do the catwalk, so, as my fellow floor-mates see it, I am not a girl.) And they co-exist in sweaty peace (You read right, sweaty. It isn't 42 degrees outside for nothing.) only because they find each other so attractive. It is, therefore, most necessary that I eat lunch with The Peoplehood of The Freaky, only for that whiff of sanity. If it weren't for them, I'd have drowned in the swimming pool a long time back (I can swim. The pool's just as pool-y as any other, people use it like they would any other. Need I say more?)
With that, I shall get back to analysing the kindergarten section of school. I bid you good day.
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