Category: SYNG

As I snuggled my way into the economy seat of a Being 747, with a flask half-full of rum and my iPad in position for a theatrical odyssey, hoping to avoid any in-flight food and entertainment, a sexy crisp-cracker like voice on the overhead speakers of a Boeing 747 had me entranced.

It was the pilot – a female in her early 30s, and moments later, she handed over the mic to the co-pilot, another woman – although this one sounded like a girl I met at a bar in Berlin, who happened to work as a part-time belly dancer. I’m guessing this wasn’t her, although, that would be a fantasy most of us would fancy.

In a lech-like state, I pictured the first voice in garters, topped with a sexy short blue skirt, piercing white shirt littered with medals and hair tied neatly in a tight bun under a cap. And, the second voice in an electric yellow and pink Punjabi suit, with wavy hair down to her Angelina-Jolie-like bum. Think Katrina Kaif from Namaste London but with Sheila’s feline prowess.

It was only when Linda – a sexy flight steward – interrupted with a glass of Jack that I noticed the drool on my upper left shirt pocket. She knew this wasn’t the airplane food that had me in a dog-looking-for-bone state.

Around 3 am, two hours into the flight, and a few innocent glances later, I could see Linda step up to the lavatory door and press her comely body up against the door, biting her lip, big-Barbie-eyes fluttering, left hand combing her hair and the right slithering down from bust to hip in slow motion – showcasing her a body like the girls introducing a Chevy convertible on The Price Is Right, hosted by Bob Barker.

A heady clutter of thoughts ensued as I gathered my legs to follow Linda into the high-flier loyalty program. We began to work each other like clothes in a washing machine – nimble not to awake fellow passengers.

I kept thinking, Linda’s damn flexible – she had both legs wrapped around my neck, while her bum balanced on an inch of shelf. This is when I lost balance and ended our kinky jugglery by sandwiching Linda’s bum against the counter, dislocating a tap.

The sound of gushing water deafened my ears. As I regained consciousness from a sozzled slumber I could see Linda crouched over, dabbing my face with a wet towel. Apparently, I had one too many and zonked out two hours into the flight.

Published originally on GQ.

I’m sure all the women out there, who’ve read the first of this 2-part series, will brandish me as the creep-who-generalizes-women in one egotistical-male-chauvinist induced confab. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I’d say there’s truth down that road – where men are spectators to women playing dodge ball with their –ahem, cough *clearing throat- sack. In my defence, this literary trek levels the playing field for my brothers.

Foxy FOB
The Fresh-Of-The-Boat girl is a city slicker and sucker for designer label replicas. Although, her days in foreign were premature, her accent drivels your mind with vocabulary that blends English and Hindi in one extra large peanut-butter Oreo ice cream shake – a gulping feat for many. In the sartorial department, she’s a cross between Govinda and Lady Gaga – a pretty picture indeed, if you’re a cross dresser working at Barney’s Steak House. Although she’s an eyesore, you’d be surprised with her devil-may-care attitude and assertiveness. A piece of advice, keep your ears open and pivot quickly.

Bollywood Bebe
From a wardrobe that’s right of Kareena’s latest movie to pelvic thrusts, this girl’s got Bollywood covered better than Malika Arora’s legs. Oh, by the way, don’t tell her I said that. You’ll bump into this dame outside Salman’s bungalow in Bandra or at PVR, first day first show of (put name of Bollywood movie here). Her father will have a striking resemblance to Simran’s dad from DDLJ. And, don’t act surprised if she slips “I’m a bad girl, (put name of Bollywood actor)!” in bed. Ideally, this crescendo should end in a typical song and dance sequence, in a cotton field, with the both of you running apart in slow motion.

Virgin Vixen
Wipe that grin of your face, you’re no longer in school – and by being one you’re not going places. By and large, the Virgin is a mercenary of the almighty and society. Her favourite quote “mujhe bhagwan ke liye chod do” (please leave me for god). Join her and become Celibate Princess of No-Action Ville, leading an army of desperate nuns and fat chicks. You can kiss those fantasies goodbye – especially the one where you sport a birthday suit.

Facebook Fairy
As the name suggests, this is your gossipmonger, the mother of social networks i.e. faster than your Facebook status update. Even though women – by nature – are talkative beings (which is cute in a way), this girl is going to put you in an open source market – everyone will know your “pinky-swear” secrets. Don’t bother looking for Privacy setting on this Facebook page because even Zuckerberg doesn’t know where they are.

Published originally on GQ.

Over the years, with my experience and trained eye, I’ve compiled a flock from Venus who make us cringe, dig a grave or even recluse for the hills. These women are everywhere – living next door, at work, the coffee shop and (while you read this on your iPad) in bed sleeping. And, truth is, most men are unable to decipher Venus code, leading to the point of no return – marriage and kids. I say, lets attune those senses, drivel the past and start afresh – the right way.

How does one go about doing such a thing? Simple, understand the opponent, keep your ears open (like Toby Maguire from Spiderman), observe the finer details and pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you next.

Xena – Femina Warrior
Most commonly found in the corporate jungle or a leadership position. The sword, steel bust plate and Greek lace are replaced by Gucci ghetto. She oozes feminism – you’ll often receive a women-have-bigger-balls indictment. And, male chauvinism will be frowned upon. The flipside, however, has some advantages i.e. dominatrix in bed, lots of leather and spanking. Unless you’re secretly a man lesbian, you’d be better of with The Tease.

The Tease
This breed embodies a cute cuddle-like face, perfect bumpers and nature similar to Cameron Diaz from Charlie’s Angels. She’s fun, flamboyant, drinks like a bear and a natural trophy with your boys. Being with this girl is as good as bungee jumping without rubber. Every moment will be a Kodak one, you’re face will glow and life will be beautiful. But, you’ll be pissed because after all that attention, “the special-feeling”, so to speak, she’ll drop you like a peanut the moment you spill your beans i.e. speak your heart. Be prepared with tissues and lots of vodka.

Pocket Poojari
Usually found buzzing around rich ugly men with deep pockets – like flee on shit. The Pocket Poojari (devotee) is usually a 10 – every square inch dipped in sexy vanilla goo that makes men week in the knees. At this point, you’d be thinking what’s he got? The answer – my friend – is in the pocket of credit cards that sit next to a Mercedes engraved fob. Unless you’re one of the Lehman brothers, prepare to auction your assets.

Holy Bebe
You will bump into her at the temple, post prayer or pre service. A moment you will regret later with your half-baptised brain. The “Holy Bebe (typical Indian aunty)” has an answer from God for everything, including a holy cure for infidelity. At first, all this may come of as cute and funny, but once things get serious you’ll experience frequent pooja-path (prayers) – even before sex, and maybe even after. Be prepared with holy books, candles and oodles of meditation.

Matrimony Devi
You’ll meet her in cooking class, at the gym or during morning yoga in the park. Her innocent brown eyes, soft-spoken nature and simplicity will have you howling in the middle of the night like a thirsty cave man. Being with her is all about mushy talk, incessant updates that sound like where you are, have you eaten, have you pooped, did you wake up, where are you now? Her cute dimpled-smile will –in a short span- turn into annoying rants of how you should get married. If you’re a typical Indian man who’s an over possessive nincompoop, I’d say get the hell out of here.

Published originally on GQ.