Domain Maximus

Actually it was the open air eating area on the terrace where the journalists here retire to when they need a break from the hectic Youtube video watching pursuing of truth and fact for the upliftment of mankind. We were swapping celebrity gossip over lunch from Pritam when a colleague recalled this most embarrassing incident, as told to her, about a rookie photographer just assigned to photograph India’s biggest star, no less.

The photographer waits, along with journalist who would shortly interview the star for a newsmagazine, while the star himself is quickly combing his hair and, I assume, trimming that salt and pepper french beard.

Amitabh Bachan walks out of the room, rookie photographer begins to palpitate just a little bit, breathing deeply, the colour draining from his face. This is one of his first assignments ever.

AB: Okay I am ready.

Rookie Reporter:

AB: Hello?

RR: Hello sir. Are you comfortable in front of the camera?

AB:

RR:

AB:

RR: *life flashing before his eyes, while simultaneously evaluating other career options*

Rest of the room: Deathly silence

AB: (Frosty) I will try to make myself comfortable in front of the camera.

RR: Thank you.

Image courtesy Wikipedia.

If inadequate manhood was not enough reason to make me potentially feel insecure, them SPAM sending fiends have taken this psychological attack on yours truly to newer, higher…er…heights. This snapshot is fresh from my Gmail spam folder:

Focus your eyes on email number 3 and 8.

Ugly and insubstantial is this man. Sigh.

Ok. Now before you smack your lips and say “Finally! Another 3000-word blogpost full of mindless drivel and pointless trivialities from daily life put in short sentences with excessive adverbs by a handsome and humorous malayali boy with minor weight issues that are easily overlooked due to an ebullient personality and a secret stash of “god mode” codes for PS2 wargames in order to get a false sense of bravado!”, I must warn you that this is not.

Instead, it is a brief retelling of something that happened a few days ago to the missus. An event that only serves to reinforce the slow but steady sliding of the author and close associates deeper down the slope of Afteryouth.

Afteryouth, regulars will know, is that period between graduating from a Master’s program and becoming 30 when one’s youth ebbs away slowly, when kids playing at Five Gardens kicks a football into the road and ask “uncle” to get it back for them, and when one watches contemporary TV (except House MD) and realizes all over again the timeless greatness of Chandler Bing and Niles Crane.

And when one continues to recommend “Crimson Tide” and “The Rock” as great timepass movies to friends at the office. (Also one is actually quite bothered by inflation and potential US depression but one tries to not talk about it loudly.)

And by one…I mean me.

So the missus is out with people from her office for a do at a club called Indus in South Mumbai. The night progresses well. The missus is not one for too many alcoholic drinks. But she does not mind the odd vodka lemon shot or caipiroshka. Also the misses likes to shake that leg a little if there is an enthu crowd she can dissappear into.

The night progresses peacefully. But the music simply does not rise to the occassion. So the missus makes a trip to the DJ in the corner, a young tshirt and cap clad boy who, no doubt, had a piercing somewhere below his waist by the look of those double sideburns.

“Could you play some Punjabi please?” missus inquired gently. The DJ shrugged and said ok, as is the way of all DJs except that old sweet fellow at Sports Bar at Phoenix Mills.

“What do you want to listen to?”

There are many Punjabi numbers very close to the missus and your truly’s hearts: Punjabi 5-0, Backstabber, Chandigarh Kare Ashiqui, Snap vs. Motivo, Mundian To Bach Ke, Takre and, of course, Sukhbir when he was still low budget.

But few can beat Nachna Onda Nei by Tigerstyle and Kaka Bhania. Who hadn’t heard of that eponymous number? The missus found out soon enough.

“Never heard of it! Nachna… what?”

The missus raised an eyebrow. DJ Jackass had no idea that, at best, he had another four minutes or so to live. (The missus is marginally slower than usual when wearing traditional attire due to the chunni, which creates drag when moving through air at Mach 2.)

“Nachna Onda Nei. Kaka Bhania. It’s a popular Bhangra number…”

“No idea miss. Is it from some movie? I can play Kawa Kawa if you want.”

“It’s not from a movie you fool! Khasmanu Khaanee…” She moved towards him her fingers tightening around a little paper umbrella that is a cocktail decoration for most but a weapon of mass destruction for some.

She was about to slit his throat via papercut when seventeen of her colleagues pulled her back. The DJ had the presence of mind to play Sajnaa Jee Vaari Vaari, which cooled her somewhat. Her colleagues informed her that perhaps th DJ was simply too young to remember that old classic that inspired many a young MBA to bend Ahmedabad prohibition legislation.

Later that night she came back home and told me what had happened. The anger quickly changed to contemplation and we sat in the living room feeling our youth dwindling. When I could handle it no more, I slipped in a Friends DVD.

When Chandler said “Chanberries…” in that episode with the Thanksgiving Dinner, we laughed out loud and our lives momentarily felt better. But not by much.

Addendum: I am stunned by the musical ignorance of today’s youth. (And yes, I am referring to you Ideasmith! Tut tut. No Wii/eeepc/web 2.0/twitter or some such young thing for you!)

This video will perhaps help to jog memory and shake those hips! Call all your friends, crank up speakers and crack open some beers… (Knockout is best.) Periodically shout: “Oy hoy!”

(Can’t embed the video whatever I do. Sigh.)