Satirical prose - Pandorathon #2
Don't know how many of you have heard of Adidas. He used to be famous once upon a time for his sexcapades, oops, sorry, escapades. His name, as you all know, is an acronym for All Day I Dream About SEX, oops, sorry, Sports. But it also has many philosophical dimensions. Adidasan. First Servant. Now you know the first servant of the land is supposed to be the President in USA and the Prime Minister in India. But Adidas was first servant just as his parents gave him that name, and he had no idea whose first servant he was or the whats, whens, wheres, and whys or hows, if such words like whats, wheres, whens and hows are allowed in English, of such misnaming. Adidas was not sure if to apostrophe or not to apostrophe, either, or how to use or in such a sentence. He was nothing like K, his author or creator, in other words. Adidas, in other words, had an existential angst about his identity.
Adidas walked around with writers, artists and such like people, though he did not want to be any such thing. He read desultorily and saw movies his friends asked him to go to. In short he was a ne'er do well but women had a strange fascination for him precisely because of this or so he thought. He thought wrong, as usual.
At one of the big literary to dos Adidas landed up by accident or design, he is still not sure which. No one noticed him, as most of the attention went to his creator K. But a few did. One girl somehow came up to him and said, I am from DU. Adidas was surprised, not that she was from DU but that she had spotted his existence and come forward to talk to him on her own initiative and not to K. It made him feel almost real, which he wasn't! He asked her what she thought of the present situation there. She was downcast.
Are you for them or against them", she asked conspiratorially. Adidas lowered his voice too. To nothing more than a whisper. He had no idea who 'them' was yet.
"I am against 'them', always, whoever they are or where'er," he said, "damnit, to hell with 'them'!"
Her eyes lit up. She would almost have kissed him, he felt. He would willingly have let her.
She smiled. She took his hand in hers and said "let us go talk."
They were serving drinks somewhere. They both took a large. Adidas drank his in one go. She was talking animatedly. Their glasses were almost touching each other and soon they clinked! Come on, drink up, baby, he thought, while their hands brushed each others' more often and their faces loomed closer to each other's each minute or hour or second. Adidas was fast losing track of time. The air felt hotter. He had three more largesse's. To apostrophe or not to apostrophe? Large has a plural? She was pouting or opening or closing her mouth like a fish gasping for breath or speaking or her lips were asking for a kiss. He could not quite make out which. Maybe their drinks were laced? Like shoes? She said: "There are more of them than there are of us now. My father is one of them and I am one of us " This was very illuminating, Adidas thought. He was struck dumb or dumbstruck with illumination,
he was not quite sure which. Syntax, syntax, like his nun of a teacher, not dunce of a teacher, had told him long back, he told himself again, rapping himself on his knuckles mentally. He wondered if he kissed her would it make him one of them or one of us. He leaned closer, it was disconcerting as he could count every single hair on her eyebrows. She didn't seem to mind. He thought maybe his time to be first servant had finally come. It had many times before but had gone too as mysteriously. He was always seeking for an end to the quest but quests never end, he knew, in these times, unless with death or by being turned into a cockroach like Kafka's Gregor Samosa. Samosa or Samsa? He was not sure. To test his luck he suggested to himself saying lal salaam to her and then if that did not work vande mataram to see which side was safer to be on in this instant. Afterwards he could try Hail Mary full of grace, Allahu Akbar and Wahe Guru and if nothing worked there was always Shiva Shiva or some such thing. But before all that he suddenly felt the urge to pee, fortunately or unfortunately for him. So carrying his bag he went to the loo and relieved his bladder but forgot his bag in his excitement to get back. Would have been worse if he had forgotten his bladder and left it behind there and remembered his bag. What alliteration with b and it happens e'en in prose!
Are you for them or against them", she asked conspiratorially. Adidas lowered his voice too. To nothing more than a whisper. He had no idea who 'them' was yet.
"I am against 'them', always, whoever they are or where'er," he said, "damnit, to hell with 'them'!"
Her eyes lit up. She would almost have kissed him, he felt. He would willingly have let her.
She smiled. She took his hand in hers and said "let us go talk."
They were serving drinks somewhere. They both took a large. Adidas drank his in one go. She was talking animatedly. Their glasses were almost touching each other and soon they clinked! Come on, drink up, baby, he thought, while their hands brushed each others' more often and their faces loomed closer to each other's each minute or hour or second. Adidas was fast losing track of time. The air felt hotter. He had three more largesse's. To apostrophe or not to apostrophe? Large has a plural? She was pouting or opening or closing her mouth like a fish gasping for breath or speaking or her lips were asking for a kiss. He could not quite make out which. Maybe their drinks were laced? Like shoes? She said: "There are more of them than there are of us now. My father is one of them and I am one of us " This was very illuminating, Adidas thought. He was struck dumb or dumbstruck with illumination,
he was not quite sure which. Syntax, syntax, like his nun of a teacher, not dunce of a teacher, had told him long back, he told himself again, rapping himself on his knuckles mentally. He wondered if he kissed her would it make him one of them or one of us. He leaned closer, it was disconcerting as he could count every single hair on her eyebrows. She didn't seem to mind. He thought maybe his time to be first servant had finally come. It had many times before but had gone too as mysteriously. He was always seeking for an end to the quest but quests never end, he knew, in these times, unless with death or by being turned into a cockroach like Kafka's Gregor Samosa. Samosa or Samsa? He was not sure. To test his luck he suggested to himself saying lal salaam to her and then if that did not work vande mataram to see which side was safer to be on in this instant. Afterwards he could try Hail Mary full of grace, Allahu Akbar and Wahe Guru and if nothing worked there was always Shiva Shiva or some such thing. But before all that he suddenly felt the urge to pee, fortunately or unfortunately for him. So carrying his bag he went to the loo and relieved his bladder but forgot his bag in his excitement to get back. Would have been worse if he had forgotten his bladder and left it behind there and remembered his bag. What alliteration with b and it happens e'en in prose!
When he got back she was nowhere in sight or even on site. He cursed, not his luck, but his bladder. He was still unaware that his bag was lost.
Pandorathon #2 Part 2 of
Adidas Returns
Bladder empty, girl gone, bag too gone unknown to him Adidas wandered disconsolately for some time and then headed naturally to the other comfort station, the one that served drink. Another large downed at one go fortified him against his loss - of the girl and not the bag - somewhat. Off he went looking for something to eat, fresh game, venison, licking his chops. As luck would have it he wandered straight into the arms, oops, sorry, eyes, of a beauty dressed all in black, a fairer than the famed ten thousand lilies in the Bible one kind of one. Whether from the valley or the one in the field more beautifully clad than Solomon he was yet to find out. He knew why he was approached, though. He had a striking resemblance to K, his creator, especially in dim light and people often mistook the one for the other, to both their utter chagrin, leading to hilarious episodes in both their lives.
What's your name, he asked her.
He was completely sloshed by now. Or again, if one counted having gone to pee as a way of getting unsloshed.
Rita, she said.
Lovely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come between us, he thought.
Give us a kiss and stow your ... meter...away.
She smiled and said I am so happy to meet you. Have heard you are a very good writer,
He blanched. Write? He?
Covering up quickly, hoping his face had not turned green, he said, yes.
Do you know something weird? he said.
What?
I'm writing a book on the Beatles.
Fascinating? And?
They have a song with your name in it .
Oh, she said.
She looked at her watch, suddenly.
I have to go, she said, it was nice meeting you.
She sidled away.
So much for the second line of the song " nothing can come between us" he thought.
He went back for the next large. Having downed it again at one go, he suddenly sensed a vacuum by his side. Shit! His sling bag. Where had he lost it? Cursing and swearing to himself never to get drunk again, he remembered a line someone had written under one of the stories about him. Adidasinu vendathu nalla oru adiya. Onalla, palathishta~
He retraced his steps back to the bathroom but his bag was not there. No longer there. Memory came back to him the way dead characters come back to haunt their author that he had left it there last but was too useless to help him reclaim it. Gone with the wind, with the copies of the story book full of stories about him by K.
He was completely sloshed by now. Or again, if one counted having gone to pee as a way of getting unsloshed.
Rita, she said.
Lovely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come between us, he thought.
Give us a kiss and stow your ... meter...away.
She smiled and said I am so happy to meet you. Have heard you are a very good writer,
He blanched. Write? He?
Covering up quickly, hoping his face had not turned green, he said, yes.
Do you know something weird? he said.
What?
I'm writing a book on the Beatles.
Fascinating? And?
They have a song with your name in it .
Oh, she said.
She looked at her watch, suddenly.
I have to go, she said, it was nice meeting you.
She sidled away.
So much for the second line of the song " nothing can come between us" he thought.
He went back for the next large. Having downed it again at one go, he suddenly sensed a vacuum by his side. Shit! His sling bag. Where had he lost it? Cursing and swearing to himself never to get drunk again, he remembered a line someone had written under one of the stories about him. Adidasinu vendathu nalla oru adiya. Onalla, palathishta~
He retraced his steps back to the bathroom but his bag was not there. No longer there. Memory came back to him the way dead characters come back to haunt their author that he had left it there last but was too useless to help him reclaim it. Gone with the wind, with the copies of the story book full of stories about him by K.
He stumbled out disconsolate again. This time he ran into a third damsel. Were there only damsels in this damned damnable hall of mirrors or Hotel California?
Hello, he said.
You look green, she said.
He tried to blanch brown to look normal.
Didn't work.
I am distrait. He muttered. Distraught, distracted, disturbed.
She started laughing.
You who are so good with words, she said, still laughing.
Joan Baez? he muttered, automatically.
Yes. What's your name?
He decided to risk it, what did it matter after all?
Dylan, he said, extending his hand, Bob or Thomas. At your service, madam. Any service? That was what they asked him in the Gulf, to show they knew a smattering of English, it was considered polite and compulsory. He wouldn't know what to do if she asked him to service her, though.
She laughed again, louder this time.
You are funny, she said. Why are you looking worried?
I lost my bag, he said, in the bathroom.
She burst into peals of laughter this time.
Your bag?
Yes?
You are lucky, she said. Imagine if it had been your bladder and not your bag!
Gawd! He had never thought of such a thing! In his entire life! He anxiously felt for his bladder. It seemed in place, alright, not lost. He sighed in relief, thanking his stars or God or the Force for small or big mercies. Bag remained lost, all the same. Damn bag, had got bagged or bogged or was in somebody's bog, no, gob...
Can I sit down here, he asked.
Sure, she said,
He sat down next to her
What do you do?
I am the local president of the Lion's, she said.
He looked at her a trifle anxiously.
Was he Bertie Wooster? Was she going to set the lions free , out on him? Even before there was anything between them and he proposed.
We came to scout this place out for our annual beauty competition.
Oh.
He felt a stirring of interest.
Rita's face danced before his eyes.
Listen, he said, please hold it right here. And in this locality lives a girl called Rita. She is tres beautiful, tres beautiful. Like the lily of the valley or the field, fairer than ten thousand such lilies.
He went into ecstasy at how poetic he was sounding and thinking how fair she was. Every second her fairness took on more and more fairness, as if she had bathed in fair and lovely from the womb. In milk and white honey, if there was such a thing.
The lady she was talking to gave him a strange glance.
A queer glance. A, queer, no, are you off your rocker glance
Oh no. Was there some dirt on his face? he dabbed at his nose, hoping it was there and he had got it off.
He went on in a rhapsody, lost to all propriety.
Find her like Cinderella, reward her like the Prince, he said.
Her stare got more and more pronounced.
Hey, let me get this straight. You want us to rent out this place for the Lion's and - she stuttered
He looked at her apprehensively at the word Lions not knowing if it was in apostrophe or not, his usual problem.
- and hold our beauty competition and call this girl Rita here if we can find her and give her the beauty queen crown.
Yes, he said blissfully.
She got up laughing and went off still laughing. Her laugh became louder and louder and soon sounded for some reason like a lion's roar. Or like lions roaring.
Hello, he said.
You look green, she said.
He tried to blanch brown to look normal.
Didn't work.
I am distrait. He muttered. Distraught, distracted, disturbed.
She started laughing.
You who are so good with words, she said, still laughing.
Joan Baez? he muttered, automatically.
Yes. What's your name?
He decided to risk it, what did it matter after all?
Dylan, he said, extending his hand, Bob or Thomas. At your service, madam. Any service? That was what they asked him in the Gulf, to show they knew a smattering of English, it was considered polite and compulsory. He wouldn't know what to do if she asked him to service her, though.
She laughed again, louder this time.
You are funny, she said. Why are you looking worried?
I lost my bag, he said, in the bathroom.
She burst into peals of laughter this time.
Your bag?
Yes?
You are lucky, she said. Imagine if it had been your bladder and not your bag!
Gawd! He had never thought of such a thing! In his entire life! He anxiously felt for his bladder. It seemed in place, alright, not lost. He sighed in relief, thanking his stars or God or the Force for small or big mercies. Bag remained lost, all the same. Damn bag, had got bagged or bogged or was in somebody's bog, no, gob...
Can I sit down here, he asked.
Sure, she said,
He sat down next to her
What do you do?
I am the local president of the Lion's, she said.
He looked at her a trifle anxiously.
Was he Bertie Wooster? Was she going to set the lions free , out on him? Even before there was anything between them and he proposed.
We came to scout this place out for our annual beauty competition.
Oh.
He felt a stirring of interest.
Rita's face danced before his eyes.
Listen, he said, please hold it right here. And in this locality lives a girl called Rita. She is tres beautiful, tres beautiful. Like the lily of the valley or the field, fairer than ten thousand such lilies.
He went into ecstasy at how poetic he was sounding and thinking how fair she was. Every second her fairness took on more and more fairness, as if she had bathed in fair and lovely from the womb. In milk and white honey, if there was such a thing.
The lady she was talking to gave him a strange glance.
A queer glance. A, queer, no, are you off your rocker glance
Oh no. Was there some dirt on his face? he dabbed at his nose, hoping it was there and he had got it off.
He went on in a rhapsody, lost to all propriety.
Find her like Cinderella, reward her like the Prince, he said.
Her stare got more and more pronounced.
Hey, let me get this straight. You want us to rent out this place for the Lion's and - she stuttered
He looked at her apprehensively at the word Lions not knowing if it was in apostrophe or not, his usual problem.
- and hold our beauty competition and call this girl Rita here if we can find her and give her the beauty queen crown.
Yes, he said blissfully.
She got up laughing and went off still laughing. Her laugh became louder and louder and soon sounded for some reason like a lion's roar. Or like lions roaring.
K put his hands down. He only had to type in the name of the story now.
Adidas Returns, Drunk he wrote at the very top of the story, clicked save and fell asleep, tired, instantly.
Adidas Returns, Drunk he wrote at the very top of the story, clicked save and fell asleep, tired, instantly.
He slept and he dreamt of lions and Lion's, with and without apostrophes.
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