Mistaken Identity

I was born by mistake. A product of failure of contraceptive trudged along life. Failure is my second name and on my face has a permanent address. I encounter failure at every junction like the Pandu waiting to get 100-200 out of your drought struck wallet. Journalist for namesake in a career of ten years no sansani or tehelka to my credit. Five boyfriends but none has walked upto the altar.

Here again I'm in the wrong lane. Stuck in the chaotic lanes of Mumbai. Oh, sorry a mistake again. This is a highway.

Tap Tap.. An intruder to my musings.

'Allah ke naam pe de de Mai! Bhagwan bhala karega!' 

How can Bhagwan issue the receipt for bill paid in Allah's name? But I dare not ask the offender taping incessantly on my Nano's glass plane. Despite, shooing off this poorly clad, determined gentleman, he keeps approaching me again and again. Can someone please explicitly explain to him that Nano owners are poverty struck in an occult way. Who drives a car where only the driver can breathe sufficiently? Where two is a crowd and three is an entire nation being thrust into a car. 

But I have no energy to educate this persistent man awaiting my persual. 

There is a major traffic jam on western express highway and my thoughts are jamming any sensible thinking. My foul sarcastic mood must have told you the entire story by now. The untimely rains and persistent potholes are piling up like laundry in a bachelor's pad. 

Wow!! What a simile has struck me! Yet, I can't go Eureka dancing on this congested street. I wish I had my writing journal with me. Nevertheless, gold mines are struck after massive explosions and here I am exploding at every two-wheeler that is criss-crossing the sane streak of space available for my personal Lamborghini to make way.

'Mai, kuch dedo na. Do din se kuch nahi khaya.'

Oh, he is still here. Such a cliche dialogue- Do din se... He must be some marketing executive in the last birth or who knows even this. The tattered vest must be an outcome of bad sales. 

'Jao Baba, kuch nahi hai.' My cliche reply. 

My muffled voice must have not reached him but I am blessed with expressions that do the needful. Maybe this is just the expression I give to suitors on matrimonial dates. Thanks to this stone-face I'm still single!

The jam is getting worst. We all are standing like the Egyptian pyramids, soon inside we will be Mummies. Nothing moves or stirs. No one is bothered for the other. Only the gentleman taping at my window, continues on improvising his begging skills. Like the unfazed Totto Chan, I too continue watching but do not respond a bit.

The stupefied mummies in their respective pyramids are honking - a rhythm less orchestra! Why do people honk when they can see the ahead? Freud should have addressed to this psychological disorder. Poor fellow must have never been stuck in a jam like this. 

'Mai dedo na..' There is a glint in his eyes and the throaty voice sounds poetic.  Must say Allah and Bhagwan together have blessed him with enough testosterone to attract my attention. 

Unable to take these begging atrocities, I glide down the window plane and hand over a ten rupee note to my Shammi Kapoor who was persuading me like I was his Mumtaz! 

But before I can thrust the charity in his cracked palm, he throws a paper ball on the seat. Then like a Junglee my Shammi Kapoor runs away.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage. It is jumping like a caged monkey. What is in the paper ball? Some nano bomb in paper fabric?

BHUMB!! Did it explode? From the corner of my anxious eye, I watch it. It's still lying bovine there. One frazzled car has bumped on another. The automobiles are kissing. 

With sweaty shivering palms, I dare to open it.

TURN TO THE RIGHT

Gosh! How does anyone know I'm supposed to take the left? Someone is definitely following me. My profile as a journalist attracts such threats but never such begging threats. My dull life demands an adventure. My mangled nerves are starved of adrenaline. This is my chance to be my own hero. Plunge into the mysterious abysses, Ms. Veda. The time has come for the world to see Ms. Sherlock Holmes. There is nothing exuberant at home. 

GO RIGHT

The shivering has stopped and the traffic is clearing. On the next turn is the most awaited right of my life. The wheels turn right. Obedient Mechanics! Who knew the right would be the worst fulfillment of my thrill. Biggest mistake of believing in me ever becoming Ms. Sherlock Holmes. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUU 

My m


oron friends are croaking like frogs in mating season. The beggar is now in suits and boots. A handsome hunk for sure! Allah has blessed him but now no Bhagwan can save him from me. The birthday surprise has murdered my desire for some thrill. Friends smear cake on my aghast face.

The beggar is watching me with a mischievous smile. Who knew then that this Shammi Kapoor would definitely possess his Mumtaz. 

Freud calls this Mistaken Identity. I call this falling in love. 

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