Pappu CAN dance saala!

One of my worst fears has been dancing in public. I just can’t do it. Even if I practise steps at home when nobody’s watching, I don’t know what happens to me in front of others in a party.

I feel like the biggest loser. I look out for company in people who are standing at a corner like me. I grab a chair in the darkest corner possible and pretend to be a very interested spectator. I ensure I have a big smile on my face so that nobody thinks I am not dancing due to bad mood. In simple terms, I am scared... party dancing looks like my worst nightmare coming true.

Many people have tried teaching me how to dance. Some ask me to fix a bulb, some say imagine you are in your school’s PT class, some just tell: one two, one two. But nothing seems to have helped. At home I did try doing that bulb fixing thingy; in fact, I must admit that it looks very much like dancing. But then, how come I fix the bulb so stiffly while others have a natural grace?

I even watched ‘Main Hoon Na’ several times, especially the part where everyone is trying to teach Shahrukh Khan how to dance before their prom night. But the steps he is taught never figure anywhere in the final dance. I also got some inspiration from 'Left leg aage aage, right leg peeche peeche' from Rab ne Bana di Jodi, still no luck. My left leg and right leg get so confused with my left hand and right hand that I end up in a mess.

A lot of times I feel bad for those who try to teach me how to dance during parties. These are people who love me and want me to enjoy, but I have never been able to live up to their expectations. I know they also give up after a while. And I also know that somewhere deep down in their hearts, they murmur, 'dumbo, can't even dance.'

So I sat down one fine day and gave it a serious thought. Am I going to run from parties for the rest of my life? Will dance floors always remain my biggest fear? I came up with two solutions: one, continue this party-skipping spree; two, get over your fear. The first one was getting old, so I decided to give the second solution a chance, and joined hip-hop classes.
 

The following words are solely for those who have been able to relate to what I have said so far: Google the nearest dance class and join right now. I promise you are going to love it. The first time you will shake a leg with other people like you... people who too don’t know how to dance, you will automatically get that sense of achievement. Your body will start moving, you will start understanding the beats, your hands and legs will stop getting confused, and the most important thing: your confidence level will get a much-required boost!

There is no bigger satisfaction than winning over your fear. So if dance is your fear, I suggest you start grooving to the tunes right now!

Hello... this is ladies coach!

Let me admit it finally. Whenever I am with my mom or dad, I try to be over-smart. After all, I am a big girl now, and I can try showing off by being a bit boisterous as well. What's the harm in that? The harm... is it? Well, I realised it in a very embarrassing situation.

I was travelling with my mother from Connaught Place to Mayur Vihar in Delhi Metro. Ever since one of the coaches has been spared exclusively for women, I have proudly hopped into it. Who wants to stand amidst those sweaty men ready to grab an opportunity to grab you?

So well, we couldn't find a seat even in the ladies' coach and mum & me had to travel standing. It's fine with me, but after the day-long shopping, my mother was definitely tired. I was looking around to spot some nice kinda girl who would spare her seat for my mum. We anyway had 'only' 8 stations to travel.

Aha! I finally found someone interesting. A HE was sitting in the ladies' coach! It was not just an opportunity to grab a seat for mum, but I had also got a chance to show her my over-smartness. And yes, obviously, to fight for the right of all the women sitting in that coach. Like a hero, I cleared my throat, stood straight, raised my eyebrows... all set for the seat-battle. I was sure other women would soon join me in my fight to kick out this man from our coach.

Me: Bhaiyya, yeh ladies coach hai. (Hey brother, this is ladies coach.)

He: Haan toh? (So what?)

Me: Bhaiyya, ladies coach, ladies coach. Sirf ladkiyon ke liye hota hai. (Bro, ladies coach, ladies coach. It's only for women.)

He: Haan toh hum ladies hee toh hain. (Yes, so what's the issue? I am a woman only.)

Oops! big mistake!! What had I done! He was a she. All the women in the coach were staring at us... the same women who were to support me in kicking this 'her-like-him' out. I didn't know what to do. Where to look. With my face red, I started looking here and there. And everywhere, I found the same expression... eyes and lips trying to suffocate a smile. Every woman in that coach wanted to burst out laughing at me.

How could I have missed it? That 'she-cum-he' had an almost flat chest, wore a dirty black shirt, faded jeans and chappals. Without doubt, she looked like a he.

My stop was still 4 stations away. For a moment, I thought about getting down at the next one itself and looked at my mother. She had gone red. With experience I knew she could open her mouth only for laughter then. Her eyes were welling with tears in her attempt to stifle it. Had she continued looking at my horrified face, she would have rolled over in the coach itself. So I thought the better of it and looked away. There were just 3 more torturous stations left before mine came.

'Coz your a** is on fire!

I know 99% of you will say, 'me too' after reading this: The whole year, if I had studied half as much I used to during exam time, I would have definitely topped my class. I don't know how I got the energy to read and mug up so much during those last days and last minutes.

In fact, the last 15 minutes our editors devote to producing a show, the last 10 minutes I get ready for work, the night before the last day of submitting that assignment... we are simply at our best during our last. And why? In simple words... BECAUSE OUR A** IS ON FIRE!!

I don't know about the Westerners, but we Indians cannot perform without being under pressure. That tension at the back of our heads, those sweat beads at the front, the thumping-as-thunder heart and the huge sigh of relief after it's all over. Don't you think the excitement is too much to be missed? I mean, why do it in time and miss those last minutes you will remember forever?

Just imagine if everything in your life was done in time. Waking up, going to bed, lunch, dinner, exercise, potty, movie... life would become such a big bore without all that rushing around. Yes, it does sound like an ideal condition, but even in science, ideal conditions are only hypothetical. The real picture is the real challenge.

So the next time someone asks you to be in time, just tell them they should chillax and enjoy the last-minute rush!

The JOKE called Driving License!

Even if you cover my car with 'L' on all sides, it won't suffice for the danger on the roads in the form of me.

Even if you leave him in the Kashmir Valley in his Maruti 800, he would zoom past you at 80 kmph, without a scratch on his car, ever.

But the irony is... I carry a permanent driving license, and he has an 'L' in his pocket. Because, well we live in India!

Why do you need a driving license in the first place? In my case, I needed a photo ID proof, that's all. And what did I do for that? Dug out one contact in the RTO of my area, didn't stand in any queue, failed EVEN in the written test, and got my driving license the next day. That too, when I didn't know where is the clutch, break and accelerator. Had I not known the 'RTO uncle', I could have still managed the same feat, by paying Rs 2000 to any middleman.

And what did he, the master driver do to earn only a learner's license? There was a theft at his house and the foolish thief made away with the license. Getting a duplicate one was a bigger pain than applying for a new one. So he did the latter, only to be handed a learner's license. He will have to go and prove his driving skills the next month for a permanent one.

Mr Baby!

I don't understand how can people give their kids hideous names like BABY! I mean, dad & mom, please understand that your 'Baby' is going to be a big man one day. He will be a boss. He will be a father. And he will be a grandpa too. Imagine him still being 'Baby' at 78! Why on earth would you call him Baby?

Yes, he would always be your baby, but he will have babies too. And his babies would curse you for naming their dad Baby. They would curse you everytime their class teacher will ask them their father's name. Not just that, their driving license, their PAN card, their passport... all of them will curse you too!

Last week, I had gone to get my car repaired at the service station. The head technician who was looking after it was called Mr Baby Ranganathaswamy. When I imagined myself calling him by his first name as I usually do, I realised it would sound so cheesy. It would be as if I was flirting with him! 'Baby, is the engine oil full?' or 'Baby, can you ensure the car gets a good wash?'

And to top it all, he was not even good looking. Tall, dark (almost black, I would say), and definitely not handsome! He had stadium on his head. If you don't know what that means, well, it's a person who is bald from the centre with patches of hair on the edge.

Anyway, the scene looked cheesier when I heard his manager calling him Baby. I mean, to some extent, a girl calling a man Baby is fine. Imagine two grown-up, ugly fellas in a conversation, and one of them using the term 'Baby' for the other every now and then! Yaaaeeeeeeeeee!!!!! Even an unsuspecting person would doubt their orientation.