Category: SYNG

With nothing on the cards for a sunny Sunday afternoon, my mother announced a trip to the local mall. I was in the 3rd grade that year. A few Nintendo games aside, a toboggan [a long, light, narrow vehicle, typically on runners, used for sliding downhill over snow or ice] sitting beneath boxes of unused stuff in the attic, there wasn’t much I had on my to-do list.

*At the time, the internet was in its nascent stages. Selfie, Facebook, Twitter and “social-media” didn’t exist. Neither did girls gone wild.

Within minutes, my mom had my sister and me in the backseat. Window-shopping, eating a Double Big Mac at McDonald’s, or the skin-covered chicken at Swiss Chalet and loitering between toy and sports aisles made for an adventurous evening with my sister and mother.

Post Sears, Wal-Mart and Loblaws, we’d head to Toy’r’us on pleading and begging [which my mom would try and avoid knowing I’d create a scene and embarrass her for not letting me have either Batman figurines or Nintendo games].

For your information, in class one, I had stolen my classmate’s pencil and, on my mother’s knowledge of such behaviour, received a massive thrashing. Earlier that evening, I had turned blue on interrogation and come short of an alibi.

*Quick tip if you’re going to attempt and lie through your teeth- mother’s parental instincts can look into the depths of your soul. Tread carefully if you may.

I felt guilty and ashamed that night, as if it was the end of me. The next day, I returned the stolen pencil, promising myself never ever to steal or lie again.

But today [the 5th grade], a few years after the rare pencil incident, I was at the mall, forgotten of any such behaviour, standing eye-to-eye with a pack of baseball cards. I wanted them so badly [in my defence, all the kids at school were showing off their collection, and I badly needed to feel “in” or cool or accepted, I guess].

I had wiped the slate clean only to have it re-written this day. I inched closer toward the rack, eliminating any distance between my chest and the set of cards. I pulled a few packs down in each hand and made a B-line for the bathroom. I hadn’t thought this through as I wasn’t a thief or a professional shoplifter.

I closed the bathroom booth door behind me. As I sat there, with my pants down, staring back at the pack of cards, a trickle of sweat ran down my back.

This was it—the moment of truth. I was going to shoplift these packs of cards. My brain began to work in overdrive, shelling thoughts of getting caught or walking away from the whole episode scot-free.

I made up my mind. On quickly unwrapping all the packs, I disposed of the covers in the bin and shoved a fistful of cards down my underwear. Pulling my pants back on, I could feel the stiff cards poking up against my crotch.

No pain, no gain, right?

With all the courage left, I walked out of the booth and then to the bathroom. I could feel the sweat on my palms and an accelerated heartbeat in my chest.

By now, some sweat off my crotch had rubbed up against the cards, making them soggy. I suppose a few cards would be sacrificed, but I didn’t let that worry me then.

On strolling around for a bit, I fixed my stride and found my mother between an aisle for cushion covers and sheers. I made my move and began walking toward her, thinking I had successfully gotten away with shoplifting baseball cards.

Only a few strides later, two elderly men in their mid-thirties cut me off by the perfume section. I looked up in utter dismay and shock. Fuck. I was caught. Now what? They told me they had been watching me from CCTV cameras. They requested my parents, and upon seeing unidentified men crossing paths with her son, my mother walked over and listened to the entire episode patiently.

Disappointed by her son’s stupidity, my mom began to apologize and begged the undercover mall security personnel to forgive me. She reiterated this was my first time.

*We all know how true that was.

As I watched the sequence of events unfold in dismay, I slowly pulled out the baseball cards from my underwear and handed them over to one of the men without ever raising my head once.

One of the men, closer to me, got down on a knee while the other continued to talk to my mom and, with one hand around my elbow, told me of the consequences and the fact that I was in so much trouble. But he would let me off this once because he could see that I had been humiliated and shattered forever.

Once the men were gone, my mom looked at me in a way I had never experienced before. It’s a look that I will never forget. It was of momentary-lost-faith, forgiveness, and paternal-instincts factor [unable to describe exact emotions].

That evening, we had McDonald’s for dinner; the incident has never been brought up in the last 25 years.

First thing first. Yes, I’ve smoked cigarettes. Benson Lights. India Kings. Classic Milds. Gudang Garam. Marlboro Lights. I wasn’t exactly loyal to any one brand or the taste [as compulsive and habitual smokers would have amateurs believe].

Labelled -to my convenience- a social smoker, I would light one after having a couple of drinks (at a party) or at work during “creative brainstorming” sessions, held between floor 16 and 17 -out on the stairs- at the agency.

This, ability to smoke at will, gave me the reassuring feeling of being in control of my sick habit, leaving little room for feelings of addiction creeping up my throat.

It’s safe to assume that almost anyone in advertising, smokes. A sweeping generalised statement would have been “everyone in advertising smokes” but that’s clearly not the case.

Don’t believe me? Go watch an episode of Mad Men. Captured between dialogues is the foreplay of cigarettes. A smoking protagonist is so much better in dialogue delivery than a non-smoker. I bet the director agrees with my angle on the matter.

Look, all I’m saying is that people smoke. You can like it or hate it but it’s happening right now, as we speak- someone out there, working in the creative department of an advertising agency- put a lighter to a cigarette and inhaled every bit of the cancer-inducing smoke.

That said, I’ve come clean now. *Takes a deep breadth. That habit is well behind me, like bell-bottoms or a head full of hair. I’ve been shaving my head for a decade now. You do the maths. It’s my way of combing with stress [pun intended]. *Exhales.

Curious to understand how ideas and smoking work together, I chartered upon a search for answers. That said, non-smokers are also idea-capable people. Sure, they get ideas [which are not as good as the ideas people have who smoke or drink] but, hey, where credit is due, we must oblige.

Hell, I believe geniuses of tremendous creative potential such as Edisson, Picasso, Bethoven, Einstein, Jobs, Ogilvy, Landor & Morisson were all possible smokers and drinkers. They’ve ruled and led the world over decades with world-changing-ideas.

Now, let’s examine this closely. The length and breadth of a cigarette is armoured with the single most powerful concept- a bridge between your inner and outer conscious.

Hear me out. On examining creative folk closely I stumbled upon this powerful idea. During the process of discovery [the constant failures/trials before the eureka] frustration levels climb on failing [before succeeding and changing the world] and can prove difficult leading to stress.

It is during these difficult times great minds would take a timeout by either smoking a cigarette or nursing a glass of hooch. During solitude, they’re not focused on the problem but shutting off. This bridging of their subconscious and conscious mind, unleashes the most powerful answers to problems that have riddled their minds forever.

Eckhart Tole suggests a similar concept. To be enlightened, one must switch off. To shut the process of thinking entirely. To harness the power of the mind. Smoking and drinking did just that for all the great thinkers of the world. It opened the doorway of possibilities and great potential.

For a moment, let’s set aside the common variables- lung cancer, heart problems, bad breadth and the “till-death-do-us-apart” brandished on every box. Draw a comparative of these with the remarkable gifts left behind because of them aiding great men and women.

By that token, I’m not championing ideas being born from smoking or drinking are better. Their noteworthy contribution is in no way palpable to the amount of damage they may have caused over the years. But at the same time, we cannot but ignore the fact that smoking or drinking have contributed, in some ironic way, to the betterment of this world.

I wish to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart for your new found self-image. The new Indian woman is liberated, powerful, ballsy, daring, commanding, in-charge, leader of the wolf-pack and most importantly driven by this inner radiance of rebel (so so sexy).

The submarine of sexual revolution under the sea of society has it’s snout peaking out for a glimpse of the sun from deep below. It’s empowering, goose-bump-inducing and down-right the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Let’s spit into the palm of our hands and shake on it. Gross? How about we squeeze in a tiny hug (a pat on the back, if you may) or a peck on the cheek?

Gross. Weird. No-fucking-way. No strangers please! Indian men are fucking horny perverts. All they can think of is a “chance” [ludicrous assumptions, right fellas?]. I don’t blame your narrow ways ladies. We’ve earned ourselves a notorious reputation of horny apes with dicks for brains.

Hey hey hey. The generalization bandwagon is over here by the flags of male chauvinism. Guys, fellow brothers, come on. We haven’t – exactly – built bridges or even shown remote signs of growing up.

Our past record -together- reflects only super shiny shit stains.

Too many bad things have happened and women have had to resort to the lowest common denominator- a-deep-seated-generalized-view-of-all-men. We’re screwed. Yep. Rock bottom bitches, is where we’re at.

Now what? Ladies, you’ve lost faith. But, as a humble request, don’t lose hope. Hold onto that for the few out here ready to lay down their “Louis Vuitton” shirt on a puddle so you can stride over or take a bullet of calories on the dessert table [whatever rocks your boat].

It’s hot when you play coy.

There. That’s got one eyebrow kissing your forehead and the other locked square with your cheek-bones. For a few, the one’s I’ve congratulated, kissed and hugged, on you go. The rest, sporting crooked facial expressions, stay behind. Have a drink. Relax. You don’t drink? Ok, take a glass of lemonade. There we go. Much better?

Here’s my plea.

If men compliment your eyes, your new shoes, your hair or the fact that you can make us laugh or go weak in the knees or your round-round bum or your athletic body or a beautiful painting you might have made or something you might have written or cooked or built with your very muscular hands and calf-muscles- please don’t take us the wrong way.

We don’t like sandpaper either unless used to smoothen out the rough surfaces. *Genius line. I’m amazing. Alright. Back to the sexist-like rant.

I feel, some of you get way to serious about that stuff in your head. Frankly, we’ve got the attention spans of a kuala bear [or perhaps a bag of Cheetos] and before you calculate the repercussions of our comments, we’re thinking about that slice of pizza on our plate.

Grow up? Why? Do it when you die. Think young.

Consider our cheap, perverse humour spontaneous, in the moment and please [for-God-sake] don’t take it personally. We’re not rapists or certified by the Institute of Molester Fucks. It’s sick. Trust us. We’re disgusted by distasteful acts of persuasion or any forms of illicit humour ourselves.

At the same time, I will say this. Once you ladies get to know us a little bit. The rickshaw of emotions charter directly in sync with the chain and pedals. You begin to get our silly ways, our non-discreet humour, or our love for porn and most of all- the fact that some of us treat you like humans first and women after.

Call it a truce. We’re hear to cheer you up and not get into your pants. Frankly, your pants are way too tight anyways. Peace.