There’s this friend of mine, Ganesh (name changed for anonymity’s sake). He’s a school-college-buddy and lives near my place. We’ve known each other for over over sixteen years now. He’s a guy I adore and admire a lot, mainly for some of his principles which he holds strong. Even though fate’s played some nasty games with him, he’s come out of all adversities bearing a characterestic smile on his face (and a tika on his forehead – our friend’s a devout ‘Shiv-bhakt’).

Like me, Ganesh always depended on KSRTC for his transport needs. That is, until he secured a well-paying job. He decided to put an end to the qualms of daily-commute by buying himself a good motorcycle. And he had no second thoughts about the model – he went for one among the best bikes in the market – The Yamaha R15 Limited Edition. Now, there are only a thousand of such bikes in the market which upped the oomph factor of the bike.

The sudden step-up from mundane commuting to stylish biking was a shot in the arm for Ganesh. He would flash his new toy, zipping through the crowded streets, showing off his beauty. He was too humble to flaunt his bike. Yet, his babe was the object of our collective envy. Ganesh handled his ‘babe’  with utmost care. He would wash and clean it every day, following every rule in the owners manual down to the last dot. In fact, he was obsessed about the R15, albeit in a healthy way.

One fine morning, Ganesh was all set to leave for office. He had an early appointment that morning, hence he’d woken up early to give his bike its daily wash. Making sure that every part of the macho bike gleamed like a new pin, Ganesh mounted his stallion. It was time to hit the road. Turning on the ignition, he pressed the start button. The familiar ignition rattle was music to his ears.

The bike did not start.

His faithful warrior always responded to the first attempt. Ganesh tried again. The ignition-noise emanated again and died down. He tried again. And again. And again.

The bike didn’t respond.

One of the few cons of the R15 is that it lacks kick start. Ganesh remembered his friend recommending him Pulsar 220 because of the same reason. He’d then decided to go against his friend’s advice. Ganesh wasn’t worried. It must be a temporary problem, he decided. He thought he’d wait for a while and try again.

He waited, and tried another hand, to no avail. No matter however hard he tried, the bike failed to respond.

Beads of sweat started pouring down from Ganesh’s forehead. He was running late for his appointment. After a few more tries, Ganesh threw up his hands in despair. He kept his bike back into the shed and took a bus to office. He was fifteen minutes late for his meeting, and his boss was certainly not impressed. After an abnormally-long day, Ganesh reached home, tired and panting. Before he retired to his bedroom, he pulled the bike out of his shed and tried another attempt, in vain. Dejected, Ganesh decided to call it a day. Bikes always have starting problems, he reassured himself. It’d be alright by tomorrow.

For the next two days, Ganesh switched back to KSRTC for his daily commute. Day-in and day-out, he would try starting his bike, only to stand dejected and depressed. How could his brand new bike fall ill despite his careful attention? Machines have the same indiscretions as do humans, he realized.

The very next day, he decided enough was enough. Ganesh called the nearest Yamaha service center. The mechanic said he’d drop by that evening. Ganesh was relieved. His baby’d be back in action within no time, he told himself.

The mechanic promptly arrived, that evening (on a Yamaha RXG, nothing less). Brash and young,  he was a Rajnikanth-worshiping chap, oozing ‘style’ in every movement. Humming a Rajni song, he gingerly unveiled an array of spanners and started work on the bike. He examined every part possible, trying to start the bike every two minutes. The ignition would sputter, and then stop. For a brief instant, the bike made a slight ‘vroom’ sound, much to Ganesh’s excitement. But then it died down, as soon as it started.

Fifteen minutes later, the mechanic stood up and took a stretch. He took a casual glance at the bike’s right side. Suddenly, he fixed his glance at one point. He beckoned Ganesh towards him. His right index finger pointed towards the side of the bike. Ganesh saw it for himself. No sooner did he saw what the mechanic pointed, a smile, or rather, a sheepish grin developed on his face.

The mechanic had pointed his finger at the petrol knob of the bike stood pointed towards the ‘OFF’ position. Ganesh had switched off his bike’s petrol knob in all his punctiliousness to keep his bike ‘perfect’. How in the world would his bike start, when its petrol was turned off?

Ganesh looked at the mechanic, who was now grinning back at him.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. This is MY third time,” he smiled.

P.S.

This post is written as part of the Close Up “Fire Freeze” Contest. Check out their Facebook page, where you can post your own stories. Pour your experiences here as comments. Set the ball rolling.

I owe this ‘blunder’ to my friend Lokesh (name changed for reasons obvious).

Lokesh is not exactly the best of my buddies, but we’re certainly more than casual acquaintances. He’s a fun dude, and his sense of humor is obscene (<– pun). Loku, as we know him, enjoys quizzing the way he relishes successive pegs of Absolut Vodka. He has all the information under the sun (err… he’s close, really) in his fingertips. Which means, he knows enough about worldly vices too, if you know what I mean.

So one fine evening in Winter 2009 saw Loku and his buddies roaming about the byzantine streets of Bangalore. They’d hit Bangalore as part of a mandatory-act of the ‘engineering’ drama – The Industrial Visit a.k.a. IV. All engineering students who mouth cuss words (that would put a B grade villain to shame) at the higher authorities, profusely thank them for including the essential IV as part of the course. “Practical Theory’ was the original idea in policymakers’ minds. But the students effortlessly twist the ‘guidelines’, using gaping wide-loopholes, hence converting the IV into a full-fledged excursion. Thus, we have students visiting Doordarsan Kendras in Ooty, Garment factories in Goa, and even Tyre Factories in Bangalore and Mysore; conveniently avoiding hundreds of better-equipped ‘industries’ in the neighbourhood. A few well-versed souls toil their ass off to actually visit the industries, while the others diligentlypursue other satisfying activities that involve alcohol and practical ornithology (yes, the IV is all about putting theory to practice!).

That evening, Loku and his two buddies were back after a healthy does of both. Practical ornithology was a success – they had actually caught a couple of ‘birds’ by their wings. One ‘bird’ even flew to them; they assumed her to be a dove, but she was actually a hawk in dove’s feathers! The trio ran for the sake of their (sex) lives, to Brigade Road, from where they had  ’healthy’ shots of Vodka (Absolut, nonetheless – all sponsored by Rich Loku!), from a pub. It was ‘high time’! Now, when Loku is high, he comes up with out-of-the-world ideas. Legend has it that, Loku’s main project (which got featured in the papers) was a result of his post-inebriation brainwave. Such an outlandish plan struck Loku’s brain as soon as he his cronies alighted from the pub. Sober and steady as Ayyappa Baiju, Loku narrates his plans to his buddies, who agree without a second thought. Without much ado, the trio get themselves into action!

Their first ‘target’ was the famed KFC outlet at Brigade Road. The dudes barge into the counter. Loku takes lead and petulantly ask:

“Eda p***** mone…. enikkoru chicken roast thaaada m****e!”

Which is  Malayalam for: “Hey mother f**ker! Get me a chicken roast, you as*hole”.

The waiter looks back at them in amazement

“Pardon, sir?”

“Chicken roast!!! Ninakkonnum chevi kettooodedaa tha***li?”

The waiter gets the point and:

“Sure sir. Please take your…”

Before he could complete his sentence, the trio laugh their asses off and escape!

Mind you, these folks spoke in such a calm way that the receptionist DID NOT understand that his parents (and ancestors) were being severely ridiculed!

Spurred by the spectacular success of their gag, these folks  tried it out successfully at nearly half the shops in Brigade Road. They’d get inside, order/inquire something in “nice” language, and before the proprietor/waiter/receptionist/salesperson could respond, they’d laugh their asses off and escape, while Mallu-shoppers would join the laughing spree. The salesperson would require an explanation from the nearest Mallu to get a remote idea about how their parents (and their forefathers) were being ridiculed at the trio. By then, the trio would’ve taken their onslaught to another shop/retail outlet.

After a spree of gags, these folks returned to their hotel by auto. They successfully employed the gag upon the auto driver too; but he was luckier, he at least got paid, unlike plenty of hapless others. Clinging onto their tummies in a bid to control raucous laughter, falling over each other, the inebriated trio trudged into the hotel’s reception to get their room-keys. It was about 9.30 PM and the rest of their batch mates had already arrived and settled into their rooms. Loku, the self-proclaimed ‘gang leader’ placed his arms expansively over the reception counter and winked at his buddies. One last attempt of the gag; they got the cue, winked back, and donned the same innocent expressions that beguiled hapless Kannadiga shopkeepers. Loku put forth his best performance yet,

“Eda panna kazhiveri po******mone, can you please give me the keys for room 204?”

(You bloody motherf***ker, can you please give me the keys for room 204?)

His buddies had already started guffawing, hands covering mouths; Loku tried his best to control his laughter, trying to look serious.

The receptionist  instinctively and reflexively cocked his eyes up from the computer monitor, to face them:

“Enthaada paranje??!!!” (What did you just say?)

Strike One.

Unofficial statistics say that 40% of Bangalore’s populace consists of Malayalees. The laws of probability went against Loku’s gang, the waiter proved to be a Malayalee, and he understood EXACTLY what Loku had said.

Before anything  untoward could happen, they bolted. Loku and his buddies were screwed – they couldn’t go to the receptionist. The nab had the keys and they didn’t have any spares with them. If they faced him, they’d be beaten up black and blue for sure, and would certainly not step foot into their hotel room. For over three hours, the trio hid themselves at the parking lot, shivering in the winter cold. They returned at 12 AM, making sure that the mallu receptionist had left home, and obtained the keys from the late-night-duty receptionist. Loku quietly asked for the keys (in slow, careful English, this time), and quietly trudged to their room, shivering.

These days, Loku makes it a point NOT to speak in Malayalam, if he’s out with friends.