Just You Wait

Today, while chilling out at the coffee machine in my office (enjoying my 'screen-saver moments" as Russell Peters elegantly puts it), a mellow voice floated in the air and brushed my ears. As I searched the corridor to find the young woman whose singing had caught my attention, I was disappointed. There was nobody on either sides of the corridor, except a janitor mopping the floor.

Before I'd dismissed it as a figment of my imagination (perhaps one of those "audio-enabled-screensavers"?), a closer inspection revealed the true owner of the voice.

The janitor herself.

There she was -- making deft strokes on the floor -- each stroke meticulously dampening every square inch of the floor -- each stroke meticulously following the rhythm of the song.

I couldn't help but witness the office floor be transformed into a Leicester Square stage (complete with strobe lights and live musicians), showcasing the musical of a discreet broom-wielding star.

I soon landed back on the office floor and decided to get close to hear her better. Keeping in mind of her discreetness, I walked towards the lift on the corridor, pressed the button to summon the lift and waited, unaware. Moments before the lift had arrived, I turned to her and said:

"You sing well, akka!"

"Sir?" she cried, with alarm reeking from her eyes.

"I said, you sing very well!"

"Me? What was I... Was I singing?"

"I was having my cup of coffee and I heard you sing. You sing well, seriously."

She blushed. Profusely. And I began to wonder, if there is any jewel in this world which can embellish a woman more than her unfaked blush.

"I head our company's music troupe. Would you like to sing on stage?"

"If I sing, the audience will run away!", she quipped, blushing all the more.

"I think the audience would love to hear you. May I ask your name?"

"Malath..." she stopped, bit her tongue and said, "Usha".

I smiled and took the stairs, knowing for certain that hiding her name can't possibly hide her talent.

I doubt if Henry Higgins has set foot on this world in my shoes, but I sure do look forward to have her singing on stage; only this time, wielding a microphone for a change.


UPDATE (March 03, '11, 17:40 hrs):

Spoke to Usha today. Learned that she has become the laughing stock amongst all of her fellow workers, after one of my colleagues (?!?) inquired my company's facilities team of her whereabouts and if she sings well. All of Usha's coworkers, she laments, now believe that the idea of her singing on stage is a joke!

I spoke to the clearly upset Usha (who now confesses that she can't sing more than two lines of a song), assured her that her coworkers deserve a mighty revenge, and that she must practice hard, get on stage, grab a mic and steal the show!

Hail Higgins!!!

I Wish I Had An Erection

It's a beautiful Sunday evening, and I am waiting for a bus (to take me just two stops from the Perambur railway station), standing 'under' a heavy backpack and carrying a package which I am to deliver to my uncle's colleague who in turn is to deliver the same to my sister overseas. The package is a jute bag weighing a little over 10 kilos and I am late by a little more than 2 hours. A bus arrived - reminding me of the overly-stuffed-and-about-to-pop bag I am carrying myself. As I (barely) place one of my feet on the foot-board, the other dangling mere inches above the asphalt - one of my hands tightly clasping a window-sill and also holding the package at the same time, with the other hand free to buy a ticket - I can feel the pride in my own dexterity as the bus picks up momentum.

And then the unthinkable happens...

As I reach for the coins inside my pocket, as though by the Devil's intervention, the only straps that hold my trousers unfasten themselves completely in a snap! All that now prevents them from falling straight down to the moving ground below (leaving me butt-naked in a moving bus) is my hand inside the pocket. I know I am in serious trouble.

As I try to "hold my trousers from inside my pocket" while I pretend to reach for coins (and evade dirty looks from the bus-conductor), I learn that the next stop has already 'arrived' and that I, along with the other fellow dexterous foot-board passengers, ought to first get down from the foot-board, in turn allowing the not-so-dexterous 'inside' passengers to get down. With my hands still "searching for coins", I alight from the bus.

With just seconds to spare before the bus would start off, I now re-position myself on the foot-board, only this time with the package I have been carrying to remain a few inches below my own 'package' with the former now holding the trousers from falling down with the aide of my vice-like legs. Alas! My hand can 'finally' take out the coins and buy myself a ticket. I come to the realization that I am now a human laundry-clip!

 And then more unthinkable things happen in split-second processions (best concieved in slow-mo):

1. The conductor hands over the ticket as I reach my hand towards him.

2. A man who has been witnessing my ordeal decides to 'help' by yanking my jute-bag free from the clutches of my legs to place it in a safer place inside the bus.

3. A stray-dog instantly fallen irresistibly in love with a... well... 'bitch', decides not to waste time but to run towards her, risking being crushed to pulp by a moving 50 tonne bus.

4. My bus-driver slams the brakes forcing people to fall 'gracefully' towards the exit upon the souls standing on the foot-board, forcing me to brace myself with my hand that reached for the ticket or fear falling head-first on the asphalt below. I wisely choose option 'A'!

5. My trousers begin their glorious free-fall.

With both my hands 'occupied' - and being someone who does not give up easily, I decide to use my wiener to brake the fall of my trousers.

I WISH I HAVE AN ERECTION!!!

(Ever heard of Masters and Johnson's Light-bulb and Iron Theory?)

Quickly, I scan for a female who is (anything close to) sexy who I can 'use' to "turn-on my light-bulb". Aha! I spot one... Time to focus hard... hard... hard....

And that was the time I made a shocking discovery.

MEN DON'T FIND WOMEN TO TURN THEM ON WHEN FACING A LIFE-OR-DEATH SITUATION!!!

(...although research has shown that the reverse is true for women!)

...

Saddened by my inability to perform under pressure - Performance Anxiety as experts elegantly call it - I somehow manage to alight from the bus once and for all "in full piece", with my trousers now poised precariously in an ultra-low-waist (or rather low-bottom) fashion. My "trendy outfit" only provokes a contemptuous look by the hot 60 year old 'auntie' who I had previously "laid my eyes on"...

"Kids!!!!", she scoffs, as she adjusts her pink spaghetti-top......