somedays

some days you just want to go postal. bang, muthafucker. of course that's never going to happen, so you take it out on the people you love.

okayyy. leaving the random thought behind...

i crossed the road to the cigarette shop. as i passed a few rowhouses, a row erupted. no, this is not a tommy cooper joke. it actually happened. anyway, two neighbouring couples are slugging it out over something that involved the water supply. or possibly, given that this is bombay, the lack thereof.

by the time i had moved not more than five steps forward, a crowd had formed. first a couple of kids who'd found something more interesting than the dead cat in the gutter. then a few of the nearby shopkeepers. and finally, the rubberneckers. it's amazing how many of them are around. i think they're attracted to loud noises or something - one crash, one loud voice, and there's fifty of the fuckers crowding around to get a look.

there seem to be a few rules. if there's two guys involved in the fight, the crowd doesn't necessarily get involved. if there's a woman, and she's driving, she's fucked. if she's been hit by a car, then the driver's in for it; but of course, there's always a couple of happy-go-lucky types who will try and cop a feel. yes, even if she's injured.

on the whole though, they're there only for entertainment. so they stand around, picking at their nostrils, their teeth, cleaning their ears, scratching their arses, vigorously combating their jock itch and of course, the north indian classic, holding hands. if you ever need to study vacuous stupidity, look no further. their expressions are so blank it's like being at a zoo full of bored monkeys.

so the couples are fighting away and they notice that the crowd is only growing. one of the men involved asks them to fuck off. one of the guys in the crowd says something that he thinks is witty. the man takes a swing at him. the wit staggers, regains his balance and decides to fight back. the two of them are literally flailing at each other. it's a chick fight. people move aside fastidiously, just in case one of those windmilling arms lands on them. nobody does anything. then the man's wife weighs in. with one mutha of a right hook right in the wit's nuts. i think they must've fallen out of his ears, the way his face goes.

suddenly the crowd disperses. the man gets in a few kicks at his writhing opponent. he's strutting like a rooster. fuck me, i'm he-man. his wife, having settled that issue to her satisfaction, goes back to haranguing the neighbours. they've lost the will to fight after that exhibition, so she wins. she's exuding self-righteous triumph like a beacon.

her husband is still (ineffectually and effeminately) kicking the downed guy. obviously his balls were kicked out of his ears a long time ago. the wife marches up and drags him away, yelling at him for making such a scene in front of the neighbours. she's one of those magnanimous victors.

the crowd clears. the guy's friends, who had retreated to the rear out of respect for the lady, help him up. they stagger off, supporting their friend.

i head on to the cigarette shop. i guess i could be accused of rubbernecking too. sure, but at least i got a real story out of it.