Mar 22, 2008

Benetton Inc.

       It was a white T-Shirt. Pure and virginistic. I simply looked marvelous in it. Without it, even better. But let us not get into the genesis or the implications of the underwritten eleventh wonder of the world. I walked around with an air of handsome-ness and hot-ity. I felt the T-shirt bring out something that only my girlfriend and a few Miss World rejects manage to twitch. In plain Greek, I was in love with my T-shirt.

       Imagine a paling sunset, with the beach shining; golden soft. A couple. Lost in love and in each other's eyes, as they try to look for an answer to the questions that God had somehow forgotten in his huge plan of perpetuating species. Hands held, thoughts locked and lips inviting. The two are oblivious to everything. To even a fully grown grizzly bear, stinking of dead rats and Musharraf's breath, that enters the scene somehow, with a blood- curdling howl that would send microscules of crap running to your bowels. The hairy bear, sprints into the scene, lifts the female and plants a loud, wet, loving kiss on her cheek. Imagine her confusion; her feelings and that of the helpless male as he watches his beloved, handled like an old transistor.

       That was how I felt. As I was pacing my steps towards the mess, in a complex Venusian dance move, hands grew out of nowhere and tugged at my shirt. Dirty, rainbow-colored hands. It was all over in a few seconds. My T-shirt went down in tatters. My soul was damaged beyond any repair and it started blowing a requiem. And that was not all. The same hands bore me up and I started floating in air as the foliage above me, shifted rapidly. Suddenly, sunlight broke out and punctured my eyes. I shielded them and gravity hit me with a sledgehammer. I plummeted six feet. Down. Down.

       Into a tub of colored water. The water was grimy and tasted of chola puri. I rose from the depths, waters cascading down rippling muscles and an angry expression, looking like Clint Eastwood with bad skin problems, as my ears shuddered in pain caused by a shout that even bats will not have a problem hearing..


       From there onwards, it was a Shakespearean tragedy. I was mauled and beaten alive, as I battled my way through the levels. Yes, there were levels. The Tub was Level 1. Level 2 was me being thrown in the air and ejaculating oohs and aahs from the feminine crowd as my pink underwear, made even pinker by the colors, was made public. I was being literally, visibly stripped. And then came Level 3.

       Somehow, everybody got to know that I was not that heavy, in spite of my rather menacing and calm demeanour. Both boys and girls bore me up. By this time, I had swallowed enough water to irrigate the Sahara and all my breath had taken a vacation. I was too tired to struggle. Level 3 hit me full on the face and body parts. It was brown and smelt of damp earth.

       It WAS damp earth. It was a bloody mud pit. I was rolled and rolled on it like a chappati. Suddenly, it was all over and the thudding stopped. There was a new victim. I stood up. Damp, dirty, stinking and my pants in threads. I looked around and saw the new victim being ambushed. I waited to find out the people responsible. They were three of them who were doing this. Instantly, I wanted vengeance. It boiled my blood. The three guys were carrying the poor guy to The Tub. I swiftly scanned the surroundings with my ultra sensory perceptive sight and it came to rest on my poor T- shirt. Seeing the T-Shirt, gave me more strength and an idea. I picked it up and wetted it thoroughly. Then walked purposefully, to the three perpetrators of crime, who were now harassing the poor fellow, drowning him in that insipid water.

       I stood a meter behind and pulled back my T-shirt taut. It was aimed splendidly at the first fellow's backside. I let go. The T-Shirt flew and perfectly flicked his behind. A howl split the air and filled my ears with music. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't done it. The fellow turned, surrounded by the other three. And more behind the three. I gave up.

The process was repeated. Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3.

Again. And again. And again.

Five times. They made sure that Hamam will owe 13% of its business to me.

But, as the proverb goes: When you are getting raped, you might as well enjoy it. And I did. To the fullest extent.