QUICK GUN, AIR GUN!!

 A really LONG post this is.

There was a time when I was more athletic than most of my mates in the school. (This IS truth. The post is not meant to be a self-adulatory piece of an e-page.)Only lost to the RED LINERS (red line {marks such as 15,02,1/2, quarter of 1,etc. remember?}On the report cards- GET IT???). The RED LINERS would be 1.5 times taller than me, 2 times my age, 2.5 times heavier, 3 times intelligent (at dodging only), their strides would be 3.5 times longer than mine, and thus their winning chances would be always greater. I remember the time I wept uncontrollably when I lost in the 100m race for the first time in my life against these 20 years old runners.(I am on a losing streak since then as far as athletics is concerned) That was in the 6^th grade. That too, exit in the very first round. Be it cricket, relay-race, ‘potato race’, ‘hopping race’ (hopping with the feet in a jute sack) AABA-DHUBI, kitty-kitty and even lagori, my participation was obvious. WINNING was (is) always certain. (I GRIN)

Years later, in an annual sports day organized by my CHS, I won (as usual, I GRIN AGAIN) a really weird event. The category in which I excelled was considered as an EVENT by a few of the 30-plus BADE LOG thugs who have been organizing the annual sports day, year after year. The BADE LOGs dealt only with very SERIOUS issues like the sports day and often did show their kin & keen participation in the ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING (AGM). In the AGM, they would discuss on Topics like NO EVENT FOR TODDLERS, JHOL in the SATYANARAYAN fund, LACK OF CRICKET BATS, MORE RUBBER BALLS LOST IN THE COCONUT TREES THAN THE ACTUAL NO. OF COCONUTS ON EACH OF THEM. One can NOT assume an activity to be a sporting event when the activity is as retarded as bouncing a basketball  in a pre-marked circular area of infinitesimally small radius as many times as possible by tapping the ball with one hand.

[1) with the ball bouncing from the ground only once between successive ball-taps &  

2) Ensuring that the ball does not bounce twice between two successive taps.

3) Both 1 & 2 mean the same.**

Well, no need for such a long text to be inside the bracket.]

Nevertheless, the champion (a booster the readers say. I assume. I DO NOT GRIN this time.) in me, did not cave in to the weirdness of the EVENT. I won the event by managing to bounce the basketball 190 times in a minute. Try doing that yourself and you will acknowledge the valor in me. (I GRIN AGAIN. I hope the reader is not getting annoyed by this GRIN stuff and does not start throwing pointed objects at me.) I was surprised that the BADE LOG did actually count my ‘no. of bounces’. Didn’t they have any other meaningful work to do on a lovely Sunday afternoon?  CAUTION: It is a different issue participating in such events than organizing one such. For example, the critics don’t question Nisha Kothari for ‘acting’ in RGV bloomers. But, RGV is always thrashed when he makes films like AAG, SHIVA 2.0, etc.  I bet watching the movements of a snail (the movements are faster than Laxman’s motility in running between the wickets.) is far more action-filled an event than watching a basketball being bounced 190 times in a minute.

The prize I got for winning this event was an airsoft gun. (The prize sponsored by the ever-increasing maintenance collected every month by the CHS) The one that resembles the guns used in CID, or even in the low IQ and zero creativity films (high budget of course) like QAYAMAT.. Akkal Under Threat.. (The actual sub title is CITY UNDER THREAT, the movie stars the PHILANTHROPIST Riya Sen & the beneficiary Ashish Chowdhary)The gun has a magazine which can contain 100 yellow colored plastic balls (bullets).

The readers have the right to know the reason for my flattery blabbing about the GRAND event I won or the GRAND prize I got for my winning. The airsoft gun was of little use to me. It was useful only when I had a severe urge to play a prank on the often snoozing watchman at the CHS gate. One yellow plastic bullet on his severely mosquito-bitten leg and it was enough to cause him sleeplessness for decades. Phew. But, that was bachpan. It has been 10 years since then. I still have the airsoftgun with me. Sometimes, I let my over healthy-very athletic-flubber like-flabster-9 years old-cousin to play with it, provided the gun is not aimed at me anytime. This often-visiting-naadaan cousin of mine finds a stock of 100 plastic bullets highly insufficient. Everytime. So, my mother T does not fail to give her flabster son (me) instructions to arrange for some more stock of those yellow plastic bullets. And there is only one store in the ENTIRE (home to 2 million people) Andheri where you get these bullets. Also, whenever I visit the bazaar, my mother T makes sure that I am subjected to some weight lifting activities such as buying vegetables (Yes! I can choose fresh ones from the rotty-ratty ones).

The Andheri Bazaar is not really a bazaar. It is like 100 Kumbhmelas (minus the stampedes) in one. Only difference being, the presence of multi-communities. One can purchase anything-under-the-sun from the Andheri Market. Even the yellow plastic balls. So, on one fair vacation afternoon when I usually enjoyed my NICE LOONNNG HIBERNATING siesta, I was forced to go to this bazaar to get those yellow plastic balls for my aforementioned cousin. I also took my cousin along with me. So that, next time there would be a demand, the cousin can manage himself. The cousin took the airsoft gun along with him. And of course, I was thrust with a long list of items to be bought, thus raising the GDP of Andheri like never before & helping  me burgeon new muscles every where on the body. We reached the shop, bought the yellow balls (200 this time) & were on our way to return after the purchase of other ‘listed’ matter. (Of course, anything-under-the-sun)

The now-happy-faced-cousin had refilled the magazine with a 100 bullets by then. Just as we came out from the narrow lane where the shop was located, to the main road of the bazaar, I heard a yelling voice. The crowd was absolutely stunned. Barring a few initial yells & cries, there was silence all around. Meanwhile, my cousin was still in his ‘airsoftgun world’. There was a man standing beside a rickshaw, hogging on the limelight the onlookers provided. He was yelling at a seemingly-teen-aged-batata hawker. The manner in which he yelled was enough to show that he had more alcohol in his body than blood. Another man, sitting inside the rickshaw on the passengers’ seat tried to control the yelling man, saying “USMAN BHAI! ANDAR AA JAO!”  Moments ago, the yelling man had stepped out of the Auto & ordered the poor hawker to give him 2kgs of potatoes. The hawker obviously was surprised by such an odd behavior. He was tad too slow to react. The delay in the execution of THE Order was enough to make the NOW-YELLING man angry. “SUNA NAHI KYA? 2 KILO BAAND. LAGTA HAI TU NAYA HAI! PAISE NAHI DOONGA KYA? HARA** !@$*$(%(^&*%!!” . The other person in the rickshaw found it difficult to control the situation. He kept saying” USMAN BHAI RAIN DO! JAAN DO!!” (Usman Bhai rehne do! Jaane do!Chodh do!” in more understandable text!) But, Usman bhai was in no mood to abide. After an array of unprintable, a gun that was partly visible from under his shirt and hooked in his trousers was in his hand now. So, it meant that there were 2 GUN-men on the bazaar road. The other being my cousin. I noticed that there was a chance that the situation might   become un-watchable, un-hearable & certainly unthinkable i.e. the 3 bandar wala phenomenon. People started running wherever they could, in any direction. I quickly hid myself and the small-gunman-with-me behind a ‘cheap-pirated-CD’ wala’s CD board. This board gave me & my cousin (who, by now, got aware of the tense situation) enough cover to hide ourselves, as well as, watch the entire sequence of operation. We were roughly 25 feet away from the ‘CENTRE STAGE’. The batalawala teenager had turned pale & was jaundiced with fear and shock. The gun was pointed towards him. I could imagine the batatawala’s precarious plight. Because, even the airsoft gun pointed towards me by my cousin, would give me a panic attack. Forget about a real artillery unit loaded with ‘real’ bullets. The hawker was reduced to tears. The crowd was hypnotized as if watching a brilliant Sachin Ton Highlights. By then, the guy with Usman bhai was out of the auto and the autowala seemed to be highly desperate to get his auto out of the mess. The bhai just did not stop uttering the unprintables. ‘Somebody’ had to do ‘something’ to stop Usman bhai. The guy with Usman bhai had failed miserably in doing so. The hawker’s cheeks, that had turned yellow, suddenly were given a red tint by two tight blows from Usman bhai. Killer silence followed. My cousin stood still behind the CD Board, inching slowly and steadily hiding behind his more corpulent cousin. SOMEBODY HAD TO STOP IT. The inebriated Usman bhai was just out of control, depositing two more blows on the hawker’s face. He moved aggressively towards the batata stash & the road got inundated with potatoes with one potato coming in our direction. So, it was TOTAL nuksaan for the batata hawker for no particular fault really. Then, Usman bhai tore the batatawala’s shirt. The money cached inside the inner pocket of the shirt was now all over the road. The batatawala was now on his knees, pleading for some respite. While there was an unprecedented supply of unprintables from the Usman bhai. I looked at my cousin, thinking that it might be for the first time he had been in proximity with BAD words, delivered at such small intervals, each having a distinct meaning. BUT, he seemed OK with it. GEN X, I thought.

The other guy with Usman bhai was half his physique. He, too, seemed to be in the third world of inebriation. I cursed the crowd including me, for shamelessly watching the entire episode. Forget the ladies, the MEN should have intervened. Meanwhile, my cousin urged CHAL JAUYA ..CHAL  JAUYA.. (Let’s go..Let’s go) He promptly handed the gun to me, showing complete submission.

TO get out of the mess seemed difficult indeed. Nobody moved. Even the slightest turbulence would have been enough to divert the bhai’s attention. By that time, the CD wala also hid himself behind the BOARD. When I noticed him coming behind, he gave me a weird smile. Coward smile to be honest. He saw the gun in my hand. The smile was replaced by a ‘tongue-out’ expression. He asked to me”Bhai,khari hai kya?” I did not respond.

My mind grew restless like a honey bee. The situation needed some one to be brave enough to stop Usman’s assaults. The word ‘brave’ and me were like opposite poles. They never met, even once. The cousin tried pulling me out of the BOARD. I held the gun in my left hand. I rested all the shopping bags on the ground. Loaded the gun. Aimed it at the gun-man through the wonderful screen that was the CD Board. Glanced at my cousin. The cousin’s circular eye slots seemed rounder than they actually were. I aimed at Usman Bhai. Usman Bhai aimed at the batata hawker. I shot at Usman Bhai. The yellow plastic bullet’s path couldn’t be traced. But, the next moment saw Usman Bhai withdrawing his hand back. He shook his hand violently. The yellow bullet hit its target. The pained Usman bhai got irritated by then. When the pain subsided, Usman bhai seemed to be more certain at pulling the trigger. Before he could go any further, another plastic bullet hit him. This time it was on his leg. Then, one more on his affluent belly. This was followed by a bullet on his face. His reaction to those hits resembled to Salman Khan’s dancing steps. The next few aims were targeted at Usman’s groin area and his face. He looked like a severely cramped DEAN JONES of the tied test. The airsoft gun grunted each time it fired a plastic bullet. But, the noise in the bazaar was enough to muffle the sound from my gun. It was the batata hawker’s luck that the OTHER BHAI thought that Usman was actually cramping badly. “BHAI, tum AKAD rele ho. Isko baad mein nipta denge!” were his words to Usman bhai. Few more blows from my side assured him that. Usman, himself, grew uncomfortable. The plastic bullets were too tiny to be spotted. That was the key for the success in curbing Usman’s intentions. The other bhai some how got Usman inside the auto. He took that gun from Usman’s hand. Before leaving, he ordered a water bottle for Usman’s sake. I Hope that some water would have solved Usman’s SO-CALLED CRAMPING problem.

**************THE END (FINALLY) ***********************

I take this post as an opportunity to ask my fellow readers what they think about the above situation.

I was not brave in this situation. In most cases, I’m not. So, what was it that worked or probably can work to avert the harmful consequences of such situations?

What would be the readers’ reactions to a similar situation as the above?

LATER.