Tales from my youth – The Incredibly Flabby Body-shamers.

(A purely “fictional” and entirely “imaginary” little tale inspired by characters from my days in Anushaktinagar, Mumbai).

They were a nasty group of raucous girls, with a few male admirers in tow. Body-shaming and drinking were their primary means of entertainment.

Hardly a day went by without my ears getting burned by some bawdy joke at my expense. I couldn’t avoid these foul-mouthed femmes, because we lived in the same bloody neighborhood. I’d just grin bravely, weep my eyes out in the loo, and bury myself in my books.

After I finally left Anushaktinagar, and moved to Bangalore, I thought I had left these ghouls behind for good. But hey, most of them moved to Bangalore as well. And like a Biblical pestilence, they started up again. I was older now, and didn’t give a shit about that bunch of foul-mouthed, middle-aged married women.

Until, they interfered in my personal life.

The woman I was married to at that time was also from Anushaktinagar, and she was very friendly with that body-shaming gang.  Owing to my staunch refusal to leave India and migrate to Canada, she put me through an exceptionally traumatic divorce. ( is there any other kind, for Indian men?).

I wound up in a cardiac intensive care unit. Lost all my money and my job and my reputation. That loss of reputation was entirely due to that bunch of nasty women, and their equally nasty mothers.

Day after day, I’d see my aged parents crying like children, because of another vile rumor floated by those effing women.  I would have ignored all that crap, except that the trauma my helpless old parents went through was unbearable. My old father, a scientist of world-renown, would call up these women, and beg them to stop, but they’d just laugh at him. I too paid one of them a visit and told her to back off, but she laughed at me even more.

Sadly, the one way to deal with such malicious women is to beat the living crap out of them. But of course, I definitely could not do that.

And so, I would console my grieving parents, and cry myself to sleep, just like the old days in Anushaktinagar.

One day, out of the blue, they actually invited me to one of their ghastly parties. A reunion of Anushaktinagarites, they said. Nostalgia, they said. Rekindle old memories, they said.

Like a fool, I went. I had this vague notion that I would set the record straight and bring their rumors to an end. And so, like a fool, I went. Naturally, nothing of the sort happened.

They had invited me just to poke fun at me. They felt they owed it to their good friend, my ex-wife, who had left India by then. The insults flew at me thick and fast, increasing with intensity as they drank more and more. I just sat there and took all the shit they threw at me, my blood pressure rising along with my rage.

But then, as I sat there, a light-bulb went off in my head. I suddenly saw them for what they really were.

A pathetic bunch of drunken, obese and incredibly flabby married women, creating a public spectacle of themselves. A sorry bunch of losers, trying to feel good about themselves by mocking benign nerds like me.

I took a good look at this drunken gaggle of drooling, sagging idiots. Waddling buttocks, pendulous flesh falling out of their clothes, glazed eyes, spouting drivel, reeking of liquor. And it was this stinking collection of ethanol-soaked tubs of lard that was making fun of me.

I laughed. And I walked.

As I walked out the door, the leader of that drunken gaggle hurled one last insult at me, making fun of my bald head. I turned round, gave her a huge, beatific smile, and politely told her, “Fuck you”.  Just the two words. Fuck you.

That look on her stunned, wrinkled, drunken face. Oh that look. I almost came in my pants.

In that one moment, all that rotten baggage from my youth fell off my soul.

Thus, I laughed. All the way home. I laughed like a lunatic on LSD, tears streaming down my cheeks, nose dripping, sides hurting, people staring at me.

My aged mom was badly worried. Thought that I had gone bonkers. In between gusts of laughter, I told her about those Incredibly Flabby Body-shamers. After many years, I saw my mom smile.

And after many years, I slept well. And I continue to sleep well, thinking of those women and their unfortunate husbands. Imagine waking up next to a large mound of animal fat reeking of stale booze and vomit.  Every morning.  I’m happy to be single, thank you very much.

Just like that, I threw that entire gang of Incredibly Flabby Body-shamers out of my life.

It’s not much of a story, I know. Perhaps you expected a dramatic ending. But there are nerds like me out there who will relate to this tale. This is for them.

And hey remember, it’s just fiction. Purely imaginary. Just a story. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.


Tales from my youth … Second-base Bina.

(Another droll little tale from my days in Anushaktinagar.  Names have been changed to protect the guilty – and me!)

Bina was a sweet, demure, Bharatiya naari that any mother would want for her son.

Until she downed her first peg of the evening.

Under her modest salwar-kameez, the woman was an authentic ethanolophile. Three pegs of vodka and the Bina that emerged would make Mr. Hyde blush. For those of us who knew her, Bina’s capacity for ethyl alcohol and her post-alcohol amorous antics were legendary.

That said, Bina had a moral code. She never went beyond second base. A vigorous grope was all that she would allow. She claimed she was saving herself for her future husband.

So, second base it was. And she was very selective about who she went second base with. She’d have a drink with almost anyone, but she had strict criteria about who could lay a hand on her.

I silently admired Second-base Bina. The gawky nerd that I was, even talking to a woman would make me hyperhydrotic. Bina was everything I wasn’t. Bold, irreverent and really hot. I would always dream of asking her out, but never had the nerve.  Besides, on my meager research fellowship, I could hardly afford idli-sambar, leave aside a cocktail in a fancy restaurant.

And so, Bina remained a distant fantasy. My friends would brag about how far they went with her, including Babu the Lecher. Most of them were lying. They were good enough for a drink with her, and nothing more. But the select few who did leave their fingerprints on her, rave about Bina even today, thirty five years later.

When she decided to settle down, Bina went traditional, and got herself a goody-goody husband from distant Bangalore, a man who was blissfully unaware of her true nature.

I moved to Bangalore a few years later, and bumped into Bina and her husband at a friend’s wedding. They looked the perfect Indian couple, with two cute kids in tow.  But then, I found out that Bina hadn’t changed one little bit.

A perfect Bharatiya wife and mother through the week, and the same old booze-head on weekends. Her foolish husband believed that she was with her married friends for a weekly session of gossip and tea. She was with her friends all right, but what she guzzled certainly wasn’t tea. Neither marriage nor motherhood had reduced her affinity for the bottle.

Her second-base rule still held fast though. She still didn’t mind a nice grope after downing a couple of pegs.

Who was I to judge? Bina was entitled to her fun, and what she did with herself was none of my business.

And then, my divorce happened. Bina and her flabby booze gang took my ex-wife’s side. Bina and co. went all over town, screwing up my reputation and my career.

Enough was enough.  I paid Bina a visit and told her to back off, but she simply laughed at me.

I have my moral code too, and I have a very healthy respect for the law. So giving that loose woman what she richly deserved was out of the question. Complaining to her spineless husband would have been pointless. I had to gnash my teeth and bide my time.

The opportunity came when I was unexpectedly invited by Bina’s gang of drunkards to a reunion of our Bombay friends. I walked out of that reunion early, because I don’t drink. But before I did so, I had taken a nice photo of Bina, firmly gripping a foaming mug of beer with her left hand and another woman’s husband with her right. I didn’t have to be sneaky about it. She challenged me to take that photo, and so I did.

A week later, I “accidentally” met Bina’s husband at a social event. I shook his hand very warmly and told him how much I admired his open-minded attitude to his wife. Few husbands would allow their wives to do what Bina did, I assured him. I don’t understand, he told me, with a nervous laugh.

So I sent it to him on the spot. That nice photo I had taken of his wife simultaneously groping a beer mug and her friend’s sozzled husband. I’m not a cut-rate blackmailer. I sent that merry image only to him, instead of plastering it all across the internet.

But then, a naughty imp inside me took over. Abrubtly, I told him in a loud ringing voice that could be heard across the room, “Kumar, what a nice photo this is. Your wife drinks and humps like a man! How proud you must be”.

The deathly silence that fell across the room was only interrupted by that cuckold’s mindless spluttering. His face went scarlet, his mouth went slack and he simply spluttered and gagged for breath. I thought the guy would have a bloody stroke – and make my day.

I patted him lightly on the cheek and strolled out.

Go ahead. Call me cheap. But the vicious glee, the sheer pleasure, the orgasmic joy I felt in that one moment. Ah!

That feeling wasn’t as good as second base with Bina might have been. But it wasn’t so bad either.

Second-base Bina will curse me for the rest of her life. But she won’t dare cross my path again, will she?

Cheers …

Tales from my youth … Babu the Lecher.

Anushaktinagar. A vast township in north-east Mumbai. I spent my early life here.

That place is a city by itself, with an eclectic mix of cultures and religions. With all that cultural diversity, the posh apartments, and a lifestyle that most Mumbaikars can only dream of, one would think I was very happy to live there.

On the contrary. Too many elitists, too much cliquery, and far too many bullies. My years in Anushaktinagar were simply miserable.

In fond memory of those rectums who screwed up my happiness, I decided to write a series of fictional tales based on them. Let’s start with … Babu the Lecher.

Babu was a lecher beyond compare. The guy’s raison d’être resided precisely between his legs.

Single-mindedly would he pursue any damsel who caught his roving eye.  Each time, he would insist that this was his One True Love. And woo her with a passion that was quite frightening, until the next One True Love caught his fancy.

Babu had a way with women. A few words of praise, while deeply gazing into his victim’s eyes, and he would make her purr in a matter of minutes.

The man had style. His break-up technique was as smooth as his wooing methodology. When his current relationship ran its expected course, Babu would break up with her over a lavish dinner, an impassioned speech and copious tears. His reason for breaking up would always be the same … I will always love you, but our stars are clashing. For your own safety, must we part, my love.

You see, Babu was a deeply superstitious nutcase. As obsessed as he was with the fairer sex, he was even more obsessed with the stars. His elaborate courtship ritual had to be approved by his astrologer. Even his break-ups were timed by the stars.

Every morning, he would prostrate himself at the local temple and recite the same fervent prayer. O Lord, make her mine. Make her fall in love with me.  I will break a hundred coconuts in your honor, O Lord. And so on, for half an hour.

He never broke any coconuts, and of course, the name of the woman concerned would change regularly, but the prayer would remain the same. It was really quite funny to watch.

And if he bumped into me when he was with his current lady-love, Babu would treat me like I simply did not exist.  One stony look and he’d brush past me.

I would wonder about his rude behaviour, until one day I found out the truth about Babu the Lecher.  I knew he was a superstitious whack-job, but after he punched me in the eye for smiling at his lady-love, I realised what was actually wrong with him.

Babu the Lecher was clinically insane.

He suffered from paranoia. That explained his philandering, his superstitions, his desire for control, and his violent streak.

I should have punched him back, but being a gawky nerd, I ran home and cried myself to sleep, as I usually did. To this day, my left eye socket is a bit swollen and I see flashes of light in my left eye.

Insane lechers do not make good husbands. Two broken marriages.  And two alimony payments and child support, to my grim satisfaction. And of course, blocked by all his victims on Facebook.

Today, Babu the Lecher has settled himself in Udupi and leads a deeply religious life.

It was inevitable for an insanely superstitious lecher like Babu. Fear of impending death and divine judgement, coupled with clinical paranoia, have turned Babu the Lecher, into Babu the Sanctimonious Jerk-off.

I still owe that pervert a solid punch in the eye. But the amusement I get from watching him today, is revenge enough. For now.

Just for now.



(It’s just a fictional tale, remember. Or is it? )