TOUR DE TRANCE

| 4 burps


The cloud cushions of the Gods grinned at us – pass the first person – They continued grinning at us – NO FIRST PERSON, YOU AIN’T FUCKIN’ CHETAN BHAGAT.

Hanuman and Ganesh statues looked down at the sight of 12 BJMC students, sane enough to arrange a bonfire amidst a hill – and that too when the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. The cushion clouds moved to and fro. The Gods could feel the jerks on their heads. Hanuman turned angry. He grabbed one of the clouds, messed it up, transformed it into a camera and captured the BJMC students in a group photograph with all those forced smiles that could scare away the kids of peacocks. In fact it did scare a few of them. Half of them fled away because of the sound generated by the shutter, the flash was even worse. In normal terminology, it could be called “lightning”.

The BJMC students looked at each other in amazement, focusing on the hair, focusing on the “late hair”. The updated their facebook relationship status to “widowed”.

While returning down the hill, they found some Ghost Rider, whose name wasn’t Nicholas Cage. His name sparkled on his chest – Kilojoule Mehta. The rain which immediately occurred after the snapshot washed away the hair that made most of the students itch like bitch… and extinguished Kilojoule’s fire – He was draped in four colours namely Red, Blue, Black, and Green.

‘Sorry but I am totally a media person’ he roared and acted like Kane as the four lights sprang out of his arm pits and pubic pit(s). Red, Blue, Black, Green exhaled their presence. Even the heavy rainfall couldn’t wash off his colours. ‘See, I emerged from some place called FART (Fake Allahabad Radio Transmitters) and all I wanted to say was that whenever you find some security  guard, traffic policeman, engineer, doctor, prostitute, cricket player, Chauhan or even the goddamn’ prime minister – don’t argue, remember don’t argue, just say sorry and fuck off’

‘Both sorry and fuck off?’ replied one curiously retarded girl, nibbling her chappals.

‘No, no, no, no, no …seriously, are you media persons or what? Say sorry and then leave, isn’t that called fuck off in Queen’s English?’

‘No’ replied a curiously frustrated guy beating the hell out of himself with a leather belt.

‘Fuck it then’ mentioned Mehta.

‘Sir, what if he doesn’t talk to us and we don’t talk to him?’ queried another curiously hallucinated girl.

‘First stop being a feminist, he might not always be he, he could also turn out to be she or hee hee or even chi chi. Think before you speak’. She nodded. ‘And you need to interact with everybody; journalists interact with everyone – from grasshoppers to tortoises to Bani G or Vani J or whatever.
All nodded lunatically.

‘Start your conversations with sorry and end them with sorry. That’s the basic essence of journalism. YOU MUST APOLOGIZE FOR YOU GODDAMN’ EXISTENCE’

Ho gaya? ’ one guy asked, with curiosity levels smooching Bachendri Pal.

‘No,no,no I was actually searching for a bush to… you know’ smirked Kilojoule.
All nodded.

‘A thorn to clear the residue left over, and of course rainfall if the thorn doesn’t work, and the thorn can be painful sometimes’

Some of the students were trying to escape stealthily.

‘WAIT’ he cried.

The scared expression paused on their faces.

‘SORRY’ he said and ran away.

Few minutes later, they slid off the peaks, bruising their legs, arms, posterior etc.

Trudging on the Amity route, they found two local habitats, dragging their Royal Enfields. One of them was Ashoka Koka Chauhan (AKC), the other was Warden Warden (W2). W2 whistled at the sight of girls and AKC contributed his sounds in favour of boys.
‘You guys from amity, yeah?’ grunted Chauhan
‘BJMC’ face-farted W2.
‘No we are from DU’ replied a non-curious girl.
‘But DU teaches Bachelor in Journalism Honours’ interrupted Chauhan.
‘Then we must be from Amity only’ replied a depressed guy pulling his nose hair.
Chalo then, we’ll drop you there’ insisted W2
The ever so diplomatic BJMC students agreed at once. One guy stood at each rear end of the bike, tied a mutual metallic rakhi connecting the bike with the waist. They formed a semicircle with intermingled herd of boys and girls shouting ‘Chuk Chuk’ and dragging their semicircular trains as the super-rogues sped up.
Within seconds, the group reached the threshold of Room No. 302, without changing the semicircular shape. Before they could get in the classroom, Bani G/ Vani J stepped out and blocked the door.
‘KEYWORD PLEASE’ she uttered in a Rajnikantish Robot tone.

‘Chabad Chabad’
‘ENTER’

‘Cutiepa’
‘ENTER’

‘Arshiritis’
‘OUT’

‘Arshiritis’
‘OUT’

‘Pokemon’
‘ENTER’

‘Culture is Vulture’
‘ENTER’

‘You are a bitch’
‘PLEASE ENTER’

‘Tadpole Tortilla’
‘ENTER’

‘Moose lotions’
‘ENTER’

‘Bhen ki bahu’
‘ENTER’

‘Brad Pitt is Shahrukh khan’s stepmother’
‘ENTER’

‘Bwoo woo zapelley como’
‘ENTER’

‘National Chowkidars’
‘COME ON BABY’


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| 34 burps

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