Drugged Out Indian Wedding

There is nothing quite as eye-catching as an Indian courtyard wedding. Set in the centre courtyard of a house, it brings together the convenience of being indoors with the touch of wild found outdoors. It was the reason why even white people had started trying to infiltrate such things; of course Indians being Indians were happy to sell tickets to their own weddings to white people.

This particular wedding, complete with guests seated next to a godamn elephant, was in the Mysore area, which was close enough to the more civilized northern part of India from where the bride’s guests came, as well as not too far for the elephant procuring to happen. There aren’t elephants just walking all over India waiting to be invited to weddings.

The guests were starting to mumble about the lack of starters, which was causing hunger pangs. They were hoping for at least some huge biryani to sate them since most had not eaten all day. Why go to a wedding and not plan to eat?

“Hey guys!”

Everyone looked around and saw a red sari-covered leg on the door sill. The guests became quiet, and then confused as they realized the bride-to-be was already in the courtyard, sitting at a table.

The rest of the sari’d body hove into view. It was the groom, Amrit.

“Hey guys!” he shrieked again, walking through the doorway, wearing a blood red sari and swinging his hips from side to side. He was a short, squat man in drag.

The eyes of the guests fell on Amrit’s stomach which was exposed on one side, bulging. They all threw up at the same time, that vomit that comes from empty stomachs that is completely made up of bile.

The elephant, seeing the stomach also, roared and reared its front legs. It then vomited enough to cover 2cm of the ground.

“What kind of bullshit is this?” a guest shouted.

“Hey baby!” Amrit waved and yelled at the mirror as he saw himself. “You look so hawwwt.”

“This man is on hard drugs,” one of the guests whispered.

“It’s the problem with being so close to all the drug places on the coast,” another guest whispered.

Amrit continued to wave, not noticing his future bride had fainted.

“Are you a trans?” a less knowledgeable guest asked.

“Maybe his wife is the trans,” another guest said.

“Shut up!” Amrit yelled. “Don’t talk about my babe that way.”

As he pointed, the part of the sari pallu fell off his shoulder. Guests all vomited again seeing his full belly. The more religious guests that had brought their Genesha statues from home covered the idols’ eyes. One guest tried to cover the elephant’s eyes with his body but got stamped as thanks.

Amrit pulled the pallu back up.

“Why won’t one of his friends take him away?” one guest asked.

The friends in question were sitting on the floor, all chanting kill me and save me alternately.

“Yeh lokh kya karega? Yeh Amrit to drugs lokh ka badshah hein,” one guest murmured.

“Let’s do this wedding guys!” Amrit yelled, his pallu again falling off.

One of the drug-addled friends got up off the floor and walked up behind Amrit.

“Let me help you bro,” the guy said.

He took out a long safety pin and stuck it in the pallu and blouse. However, he also pushed it deep into the shoulder.

Amrit screamed quickly, like a whelp.

The friend kept driving the pin into the shoulder till it came out of the armpit.

“What are you doing?” Amrit screamed.

“Bro, just securing your pallu.”

“What the fuck is a pallu?” Amrit screamed and pulled away.

Looking at the mirror again, this time Amrit screamed and yelled “Who is this bitch?” not recognizing the figure in there.

“This whole wedding’s just ghastly,” summarized a white guest.

The Adventures of David: Evangelical and Obese Man

This by the way is a man who had been featured here before, the Charismatic One with the big belly.

PART 1: GETTIN’ THE JUMP ON CHAPS

Kayo was enjoying some relaxing time doing breathing exercises and also a bit of mindfulness meditation before having a good wank.

His mind snapped back from the Tokyo drift it was on. He could feel breath on his shoulder.

He jumped and twisted in the air, landing a second later.

“David!”

“Hi Kayo.”

The clinically obese man stood like he was supposed to be there in someone else’s living room.

“Fuck are you doing here?”

“Kayo,” David said slowly moving his arms up to show peace, and then dropping them because they were too heavy to keep up, “Have you ever heard of a good man named Jesus?”

“Yes,” said Kayo, “And I’m sure glad you’re more excited than a trans man with a new cock and can’t wait to show it off. But get the fuck out.”

“No wait, let me-”

“Wait,” Kayo put his hand up and sniffed. His nose wrinkled to the extreme. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” David asked, trying to seem nonchalant. It was hard because he was also crinkling his nose.

“It smells like shit and sewage at the same time,” Kayo said as he backed away. “Is that you?”

“There’s no smell,” David insisted, but also vomited at the same time.

Of course there was a smell. He could ignore it until someone else mentioned it. And then it hit him like recollections of the night before to a drunk man getting a loving text from a man in the morning.

David vomited for 30 seconds, until the smell of vomit in his nose cleared the smell he wanted to get away from.

He looked up with his hands on his sides for balance. and knew it was time to go. With Kayo throwing curios from the living room showcase at him, he stumbled out of the flat holding his side.

What a way to spend a Thursday evening.

PART 2.1: HOME GROUP

David sat is his big white cushioned wicker chair and looked at the many people seated before him, ignoring the protesting squeaks and creaks of the material under strain.

“Jim, tell us about the last Bible verse you read,” he asked the wiry tall man sitting on the edge of a sofa seat.

“My name is Jeevan!” thundered the man as he got up quickly. “What the fuck am I doing here? I keep coming because you keep offering me leads for jobs. Fuck this shit I’m going home. Shove the job and your Bible up your huge ass!”

Jeevan/Jim slammed the door behind him.

“We don’t need him,” David said. “There are so many of us here with our hearts pure and set on Jesus.”

“Actually that guy is right, fuck this shit,” said one short man getting up, wearing shorts and a t-shirt like the informal kind of guy he was. “I’m just here to eat. Mission accomplished.”

The short man walked off with his wife rolling her eyes.

“Yo I’ll be straight,” said a hipster type thin fellow as he slowly got up, “I’m just here to steal your furniture every time.”

He picked up the coffee table and walked out.

Others slowly began to get up too, each mentioning a reason they were all there.

“Now hold on guys,” David said as he got up, on the third attempt since the wicker chair was a low one, “Let’s have some decorum and remember we’re all here for Je-”

“What’s that smell?” someone shouted.

“There’s no smell,” David began, and immediately gagged.

“God, it’s awful,” someone else said.

“What is it? Is it Satan?” a third asked.

David blushed and took a breath through his crinkled nose.

“Well guys, since it’s you, I can confess,” he said, putting down his Bible.

David pulled up his belly flap, exposing the area underneath that used to be his waist, but now was a discoloured area that included a lot of flap. There were many items stuck to the grease in there, including an iPhone and remote control as well as bits of Chips Oman. A green slime hung over everything and oozed down.

People in the room vomited.

“Holy fuck, it’s worse than Satan,” someone screamed.

“Oh come on guys,” David said, blushing more.

People began to leave. David was able to coax some back with phone calls to the next Home Group. All of his furniture began to disappear at the end of each home group, so he had to keep going to HomeSense to buy a whole house of stuff after each such group. Still he kept going, convinced of the importance of home group.

PART 2.2: CONVERTING THE HOUSEBOY

Shahul was dusting the big-screen LCD television when David called to him across the room.

“Shahul, are you a Hindu? Your name sounds like Rahul.”

“I’m Bengali sar,” Shahul said, not stopping dusting. “Muslim.”

“Well,” David said with impatience, “Have you heard of Jesus?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” was the reply, with an unusual American twang to it.

“Shahul,” David screamed as he got up out of the sofa on the second attempt, “I convert thee in the name of Jesss”

David extended the word as he walked slowly from the sofa. Shahul turned around and waited. And waited.

In 5 minutes David was only half-way across the room.

Shahul went into the master bedroom and jerked off with his back to the wall, still listening to the “ssss” in the living room.

Coming out of the bedroom after a jerk nap, he saw David was still not quite across the room, since he had also stopped to rest, wheezing and sweating.

Shahul went to the bathroom, took a shit, and went home.

PART 3: MASSAGE PARLOUR

On a hot night, David sat as his highly modified white Nissan Maxima as it glided, even with his weight in it, through Ajman. He listened to some Christian rap tune that went on about cars and Jesus. He nodded his head.

He was cruising by the sea, looking at the villas made to look like it was Jumeira, when he saw the bright blinking sign.

Massage. Thai.

He knew what was up.

David steered the car into the parallel parking space. On the fourth attempt, he got out of the black bucket seat.

“Don’t forget to unbuckle, Jesus,” he said before he closed the door.

David walked into the attached villa and rang the reception bell.

“Two girls, four hands,” he told the receptionist with confidence.

Walking into the pink room, he undressed and lay down, sighing. Two women walked in, Chinese and wearing hot pants. They both looked incredulously at him.

“Don’t worry,” David said, smiling. “No need to touch this.” He flipped the flab up and showed off the area where his cock would have been. It was encased in steel – a virginity belt.

“Just massage this,” he said as he indicated the area towards the top of the exposed flab region.

The girls left the room and came back wearing gas masks. After pouring a litre of sanitizer on his waist, they began rubbing the top area.

David’s eyes rolled back. He shivered in ecstasy.

“Ahhhhwaaaa!”

The girls stood back. There was no cum dribbling out of the steel head of the virginity belt through the little holes. But a brown sludge oozed from the belly button area, slowly making its way to to David’s chest.

Even with the gas masks on, both women vomited into them, the sick covering the eye areas.

David began the slow process of getting up, cleaning and leaving. That was why he paid for 2 hours.

The Hierarchy of Kanduras

It was a bright, hot day as Ibrahim Ali Sultan Al Habib pulled into the car park, which was emptier than usual due to the ongoing recession, or slow-down as was the preferred term.

He got out of the car and instantly felt the heat. It was going to be tough to walk slowly to the office in this scorching temperature. However, his family lineage insisted that he not walk at more than two paces per second.

Ibrahim adjusted his boxer shorts under his kandura from having gotten pre-work head from a Vietnamese masseuse. He also straightened his gutra from having given head afterwards since he was bi.

As he closed the Pajero door, he noticed there was a small spot on the front bumper. He made a mental note to scream at the servant Balraj. Luckily he had parked among several cars that had been abandoned for months, waiting to be towed to the abandoned car lot.

He heard the sound of tyres screeching. Turning around, he saw a Pajero like his roaring toward him. It did a 180 and screamed itself into a parking space.

A small man in a kandura and golden guttra jumped out.

Ibrahim felt unsure about the man. However, he said almost inadvertently, “Salaam wa’aleikum.”

“Ah hallo hallo,” the man replied, with a dirty smirk on his face. He waved some wooden prayer beads.

“Excuse me,” Ibrahim called after him. “Are you…Malbari?”

The small man switched around and laughed. “Yes yes.”

“Kandura only for us.” Ibrahim felt weird talking in English to a man in a kandura.

“Only for you?” The man now fully turned around. “Where is rule?”

Ibrahim could not think of where there was a rule about this. He had seen some British tourist at Dubai Mall wearing a guttra.

“Your Pajero,” the man continued, his smirk growing bigger and making his eyes small and deadly, “older model na? Not latest like me.” He tapped the Pajero that was certainly a year ahead of Ibrahim’s.

His face fell and he looked at the parking lot asphalt.

“Clean your car, bitch,” the small man dropped a final insult.

Or at least, Ibrahim hoped it was the last one as he felt blood rushing to his ears. Balraj would pay dearly for his mistake.

Ibrahim remembered tales his father had told him of how the second wave of Indians had come to Dubai with so much money to launder and were clearly richer than Emiratis. He never imagined that he would live in a time where Indians would have more than him, and on top of that even wear kanduras.

He heard the sisk-kisk of the small man’s kandura walking away. The sound indicated clearly that the kandura and the sandals they rubbed against were of much higher quality than his own.

Ibrahim stood, sweating in the heat of the sun and the Pajero engine, not wanting to walk and give the small man the satisfaction of hearing his less expensive sisk-kisk.

How Tiffins Changed the Metro

Few know about the events that led to the Dubai Metro stations being placed where they are currently. Western visitors, upon coming to Dubai might wonder why there are no metro stations in chic Jumeirah, where exists all the high-price-same-quality shopping and beach areas.

The reason is due to an almost unknown incident that happened just a few months into the planning for the transit service. Metro station planner Jumaid Ali Essa Abu Baker (real name changed because this man is the only local in Dubai who is shy of publicity) was taking his lunch after looking through final station location approval forms on a cool November day. He walked past many open-concept offices that he was starting to get used to, listening to the skisk-skisk of his kandura and sandals, both of which were of supreme quality to denote his high rank and tribal name.

He stopped as if he had been hit by a bullet when he got to a giant plastic azalea plant near the entrance of the offices. All his thoughts of treating himself to KFC on cheat day vanished.

Tshsh-tshsh!

A sound worse than the clap of a pistol.

Tshsh-tshsh!

Even more of them!

He knew it well. It was the sound of tiffins being opened, each successive container being freed one after the other.

He remembered far back to his days at transportation conferences. On a hot summer day he was at one such conference where he walked into the buffet room. Before he saw anything he heard.

Tshsh-tshsh!

Thinking it was a silencer pistol, he rolled on the ground, and then sheepishly got up, dusting off his grey slacks and pin-striped shirt. Why the fuck would someone be shooting at a transportation conference?

No, it was the sound of the tiffins being opened behind the buffet table.

As he watched, a large Indian woman wearing a green and red sari which could not hold back her ample stomach began ladling out some kind of brown curry.

Jumaid walked up and held out a plate suspiciously.

“What is this? Looks like kaka.”

“Kaka la. It’s not kaka. Sambar,” the lady said with a giggle that one would not expect from such a mountainous frame.

The smell was definitely different, but hard to hone in on because of all the other smells coming from the 20 tiffins behind the woman. He was feeling faint.

The sambar splashed on the plate, and hit hit shirt.

“You bitch!” Jumaid yelled.

“Bitch alla! I’m not a bitch!” the woman screamed.

Ramu, the orderly who had been banging the woman, swiftly stabbed Jumaid from behind using a plastic knife. Jumaid stumbled back and fell into a seat, reeling from the smell as much as the pain between his back ribs.

A white lady walked up and instantly screwed up her nose.

“Eww what’s that smell?”

The lady in the sari giggled again, and threw idli on the white lady’s neck. These bounced off harmlessly.

“What are those darling?” the white lady said as she watched the idlis fall and bounce on the ground.

Ramu, unable to contain himself seeing white idlis on a white neck and the interaction between his lover and the white lady, stood in the corner and squeezed his cock through his violet-grey work trousers.

And the whole time there was the smell.

Jumaid came out of the reverie to the sound of the tiffin containers clinking as they were removed one from on top of the other.

He imagined the metro stations in the plan – the ones in Jumeirah. They were so serenely sitting in the afternoon. Lunch time. Then the sounds hit.

Tshsh-tshsh!

A million times over the sound could be heard as lowly staffers got ready to eat lunch. The smell emanated through the exclusive Jumeirah area.

A dog in one of the flats that at first looked like a villa woofed. The white man that obviously owned the dog got up from his day-after-weeknight-drinking sleep.

“What’s that boy?” the man asked.

The dog woofed again.

“Yeah, what is that smell?” the man asked, wrinkling his nose.

Jumaid could see and smell it all clearly. The exclusive neighbourhoods, with that smell of Indian lunches hanging over them like the Sword of Damocles (Jumaid had taken one Ancient Literature course as an elective alongside City Planning).

He snapped out of his reverie and ran into the lunch room, where the tiffin opener was washing his hands. Jumaid gave the surprised clerk a huge hug.

“You don’t know how you have saved Dubai, y’ahi,”  Jumaid said, ruffling the clerk’s curly hair.

And that incident was what led to metro stations being put along Sheikh Zayed Road instead of Jumeirah.