Category Archives: TAN Tales

Party like a rockstar. Or maybe not.

We at Tantheta don’t like December very much. This month reminds us of our inability to party like pseudo-high ‘bangla’ band rockstars. It reaffirms to us our lame, non-kewl, firgin-like existence. But like true sado-masochists we trawled through the city hotspots at night, cursing the higher beings with shitloads of cash picking up hot-n-stupid bimbos with the calmness and ease of Amol Palekar’s acting. This time around we were in Park Street.

Waiting for someone alone in Park Street anytime after 6 automatically converts you into a sex-hungry young/old professional with fond affection for school girls and college girls. (For the uninitiated, Park St pimps generally approach potential customers with a rhythmic chant of “school girl, college girl” .) Or maybe some of us just emit the “come hither pimp” vibes that attract the sex merchants. Whatever it is, it’s pretty fuckin irritating. At 16 if the same pimp approached me, I would feel a sense of dark thrill, perhaps. But at 23 the courtship of a pimp translates to “You look like you need sex and haven’t got some in a long time”. Which maybe true but that’s not the point.

where's the party tonight bhenchod?

Anyway, we ended up going to a disc in Cal (-cutta, not -ifornia). Excited like a bunch of horny hares, we shelled out 1500 bucks as cover charge. We ran out of this money in the next 25 min, following which we danced like fucktarded monkeys doing Pranayam and dard-e-disco at the same time, hoping to make it to the next Mimoh starrer (ayyee saala, woh Mithun ka laadkaa haii, agar tum bhula nahin toh ). Or at least to the bedroom of one of the many sloshed women gyrating like Johnny Lever on the dance floor. One hour and several epileptic dance moves later, we realized that the Gods have spoken. No sweet love for us for the night.

I switched on my razor sharp chick-vision and located 3 chicks promoting fags. Cigarettes I mean. A fellow Thetan was quick to spot them as well and immediately declared: “naati waali meri hai” (the short chick is mine). In a state of I’m-drunk-as-fuck-but-you-won’t-notice-it, he zig zagged his way to the girl with remarkable alacrity. Then, with all the panache of Shakti Kapoor ripping open the blouse of a mortified lead actress and the subtlety of Prem Chopra’s lustfull expression, he delivered the pick-up line of the century “I saw you standing alone and I didn’t like it.” He is still a Firgin.

Thetans never give up. They may procrastinate like hell, but never give up. So when it was my turn to score some points, I waited for 20 mins and made a mental flowchart that could be most appropriate for such situations. But such is love (or sexual desire) that all flowcharts are forgotten and all pick-up lines blurred when you are faced with your beloved slut. And when I walked up to the slut of my dreams and asked like a third-world James Bond look-alike “Are you as bored of this party as I am?”, I knew I had overcooked the chick.

“Yes” was the monosyllabic reply that had a get-off-my-friggin-face-jerk ring to it.

I was in damage control mode immediately and pat came my witty observation:

“So…do you, like…get commissions on each packet you promote or is it a per cigarette basis thing?”

Did you ever taste your foot as it entered your mouth? No? Well I did that instant.

“No” came another monosyllable with another get-off-my-friggin-face-jerk ring to it. Only the ring was louder this time.

Another Thetan, the most practical and methodical amongst us, was making inroads into the hookers circle. Realistic expectations are always easier to live upto I guess. Anyway he liased with some regulars and located 2/ 3 hookers who were quite eagerly looking for customers. We resumed our tribal dance and got as close as possible. The hooker, lets call her Miss Khanki, joined in too ! Oh the joy !! But before attraction could turn into action, a middle-aged man, with of course way more cash and sexual deprivation than us (at his age) started franctically grabbing his crotch and thrusting his hips sideways in a pendulum like motion. All the while his eyes were closed in a trance-like state, so we assumed he had a third inner eye to sense hookers around him. There are indeed superpowers in all of us. We were alarmed at first but realized later that he was only dancing.

The weight of rejection by sluts and hookers alike crushed us and we were about to go out and watch Twilight to end our lives when God showed us that good things happen to good, and horny, people on new years’ night. Two Russian women came out of the shadows and refreshed our sagging carnal desires. They took to the poles and displayed their flexibility to the enthusiastic and drunk crowd. Some articulate Bong muttered behind me : “amake amar moto thapate dao” (Let me hump it my way) a sly variation of a song with similar lyrics, almost. The raucous crowd seemed united in the appreciation of beauty in fishnet stockings on a pole.

Thus ended our night of glorious debauchery.

Happy new year to all Thetans !!

And to all our idols indulging in regular bang-o-rama sessions throughout the year: Spread love not AIDS.

(no apologies for PJs will be made)


pic courtesy Elin Elisabet (flickr)


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The misadventures of Dhamna

“Happy independence day !” moaned a woman right infront me.

What-   “high-profile social gathering.”

When-   August 15, early morning. Really early morning.

Where-  in a land far, far away.

She is 30 something. Actually she is 30, something… wearing louder make-up than Rakhi Sawant on overdrive and with a smile as seductive as a Johnny Lever lopsided grin. Wearing a translucent saree with transparency at appropriate places, like she used Photoshop on it, she sashays forward like a tipsy giraffe on heat and plants a kiss on some random geriatric.

Dekho...magar pyar se.

The Smile

“Ah, Mrs. Khanki, what a pleasant surprise !” croaks the oldie as he attempts to kiss her back but fails to crane his neck for the purpose. “ Were you here when the flag-hoisting was going on? I felt something deep inside me… I really did… sometimes I just feel like giving it all up and going back. ”

But he doesn’t. He never did. The air is always pervaded by a pungent hypocrisy in such gatherings. Patriotism dripping thicker than a gorom rosogolla ( syrupy Indian sweet) from people who only go back once a year to take their regular supply of Indian masala, aanchar(pickle) and Rupa boxers. Probably not the last one as much but still.But if you ignore the general facade, things become much more interesting to observe.

Meanwhile at another corner two young boys make an appearance. One a tall, imposing Punjabi and the other, a shorter version of Govinda but skinnier, wearing pseudo-intellectual glasses and sporting a nascent goatee. “Dhamna beta, meet XX and YY”__ introductory reference line by anonymous jovial uncle.Dhamna proceeded to shake hands sporting a smile as fake as Koena Mitra’s whole anatomy.

The Punjabi, XX , as he cared to explain in great detail, studied medicine in Russia. And he did not like Americans. And he did not like Bollywood. And he did not like the fact that there was no booze at the party. I will skip listing his other dislikes due to shortage of space and selecetive amnesia.The short Govinda, YY, was relatively quiet. Because he was an arrogant asshole and the doctors had probably pleaded him to keep his mouth shut for the greater good of society__ and YY had obliged, but only after the doctors, his family and the entire neighbourhood where he lived probably sang “you’re the best/ you’re the best/ YES you are the best” a la Shahrukh Khan ( who is not a terrorist). Two inches above his nascent goatee, was visible a fully formed smug smile. A smile which complemented the sceptical look in his beady eyes as he shook Dhamna’s hand. Then he proceeded to explain that he was from Delhi and had travelled a lot around the world and was interested in advertising. “I like creativity in my life” he stated quite clearly about 12 times in his 11 & half minute monologue. “I have attended a lot of consular parties…boring man.. no chicks..” Dhamna was about to offer his POV when “hey there’s the food !” and like a schoolboy who first discovers the joys of masturbation, YY’s face shows an orgasmic delight as he rushes to get his plates.

Another time, another ‘party’ :

Our hero Dhamna treads cautiously into the room. It is an all-Bong affair and the ambience couldn’t have been more kaalcharal ( sodomized variant of the word ‘cultural’ used by Bengalis).

“Amar pishi mishti doi eneche moshai…. Heaven ekebaare bujhlen toh ! ” ( My aunt has brought sweet-curd from Kolkata…and it feels like heaven). __ this was from a man with receeding hairline and a Shaan-like smile always pasted on the face for no apparent reason. He went on to explain where exactly in Kolkata you get the best curd and how much the quality has plummeted and the price gone up. Before Dhamna could sneak into a quiet corner he was confronted by another middle-aged woman whose ‘pallu’ seemed engaged in a desperate balancing act. Oddly appalling how such entities are so frequently found in such gatherings. Anyway, Dhamna was accosted by this lady and asked what he felt about the recent political situation in Bengal. “Umm.. I guess now is not the time to ..” and right then Dhamna gets cut mid-way ( of the sentence). “You young people never think its time….and you will be a journalist too after some time…you HAVE to have an opinion.. *cowshit**cowshit**cowshit**cowshit*”

But as Dhamna could recover from this rape of the senses, came another onslaught. “Ananda Bazar Patrika has beaten Jyoti Basu to death, even after his physical demise!” observed a pensive looking gentleman with what appeared to be a glass of Scotch in his hand. “ I take printouts of this paper always…it keeps my intellectual roots in place, ” he explained further. Shit, Dhamna thought, an imminent political discussion with a Bong drinking Scotch. “aapel juice ta ki tasty” replied the same gentleman( “the apple juice is good”). But Dhamna did not take chances and slipped away with some effort.

Yet another time; yet another gathering:

“Hey meet my friend Dhamna….she is a promising model,” said Baal and Dhamna expectantly turned to face the beauty. The beauty had applied a ton of white stuff, like bird-shit over her face. Only the area around her eyes were darkened. “I apply only XXX kohl you see…it suits me.” Yes indeed. Wearing a low-waist jeans which revealed nothing of interest and a sleeveless top kinda thing which reflected her carromboard-esque assets. She squeaked, “you’re doing journalism aren’t you? You could be taking my interview next year or so you know…ha ha ha wish me luck…”  She squeaked again, “Nice to meet you Dhamna…ignore Baal..he always exaggerates!” Dhamna nodded and followed her advice for the rest of the evening.

Dhamna’s encounters with such socialites shall continue later, as and when he is subjected to such atrocities. TANk You.


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