Grand Theft Cheapo

We all know that there are two types of people on this planet – Bongs and those who wish they were Bongs.

And an essential part of Bongness is to like – or at least pretend to like – poems.

And one of Bongland’s greater – if not the greatest – poets was Mr. Sukumar Ray.

And one of his most bestest poems is Gonf Churi (moustache theft)

 

aboltabol_gnophchuri

Mustache Thievery (translated by Prasenjit Gupta)

Head Officer Chief Babu was a very peaceful man–
And then he turned mental–who knew how it began?
He sat drowsing in his chair, smiling a happy smile
When suddenly, it seemed, something drove him wild.
He leapt up and flung his arms about, his eyes red as brick,
He shouted out, “I’m lost, I’m lost, do save me quick!”
Some ran for a doctor, some yelled “Police!” with all their might,
Some advised restraint: “Careful, he could bite!”

Everyone was rushing frantic, leaving letters untyped–
Then the Babu cried, “Oh help, my mustache has been swiped.”
Lost his mustache? Incredible! How could it be?
But his handlebars were just the same, plain for all to see.

They tried to explain things, held a mirror to his face:
His whiskers weren’t stolen, that couldn’t be the case.
But angry as fire, an eggplant in hot oil, he sputtered and shook:
“I don’t believe a single man, I know each of you crooks.

Dirty and ragged, an over-used broom–an obvious pretender!–
This kind of mustache was kept by Shyambabu’s milk vendor.
I’ll shoot the whole lot! if you say this mustache is mine.”
And right away he proclaimed for all a rather hefty fine.

Getting hotter by the minute, he wrote and underlined in red:
“Give anyone an inch of rope, they’ll climb up on your head.
These monkeys at the office, with brains of dung and hay–

Where my perfect mustache went, not one of them can say.
I should grab their whiskers and dance them up and down
Or shave their sorry heads with a spade upon their crown.
They claim the mustache is mine–as though it’s something you can own!
The mustache owns the man, my friend–that’s how we all are known.”

 

It basically talks about a boss in the head office who one day suddenly jumps out of his chair and claims that his moustache has been stolen – to the natural consternation of his subordinates. They try to convince him that its not possible to steal a moustache; he fines all of them for being useless (typical boss, eh?).

 

Why am I harping on this kind of theft all of a sudden?

 

Well, you may or may not know, I am in the Himalayas.

6750 odd feet/2000 odd meters up in the Himalayas to be precise.

And boy is it cold.

Days are fine, nights are, well, fabulous.

At 2 PM yesterday, it was 18 degree Celsius.

At 9PM yesterday, the temperature dropped to 3 degrees Celsius.

And it kept on dropping and dropping and dropping.

116_0116 116_0118

Fat Uncle Cheapo loves the cold. The colder it is, the healthier and more agile and fitter he becomes. The man collapses if he tries to walk for 500 meters in Kolkata and Hyderabad.

He was buzzing around Darjeeling yesterday night faster than a speeding bullet* with not even a single second of panting or impending collapse.

 

So far so good.

 

However, yesterday night, tragedy ahoy.

As Michael Jackson said,

“It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark
Under the moonlight you see a sight that almost stops your heart
You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes,
You’re paralyzed”

 

And why?

Because Fat Uncle Cheapo got up to pee and found that someone has stolen his penis.

Grand Theft Cheapo indeed.

He immediately opened the net and tried to find the nearest police station to report the theft.

But then he figured, there has to be another explanation.

Imagine a turtle among a bunch of eagles. It takes one look at the impending doom and then runs into its shell faster than you can say chimichanga.

Well, my penis took one whiff of the cold and mysteriously disappeared.

I tried cajoling him out by singing lullabies and Michael Learns to Rock’s Sleeping Child and then U2’s Sweetest Thing and Bon Jovi’s Keep the Faith, but nothing helped.

So I switched on the bed warmer.

 

And that’s where the Horns of a Dilemma came into being

If I switch on the heater, the bed becomes hot, my ass becomes toast.

If I switch off the heater, the bed becomes cold and my penis runs away.

The night was not comfortable people.

 

Ah poor Cheapo. Trouble never leaves him alone.

 

*may actually not have been faster than anything or anyone

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