The Question

May 2006
Hua Hin, Thailand

Writers of the Damned

Writing is something I enjoy when I'm going with the flow and flowing with a go. So easily do the words slip and slide out from the little nooks and crannies of my soul. How simply does my literary muse, who praces around naked flaunting her bold beautiful perfect body, in the playground of my mind sensually caress those words from my tortured and twisted mind like a master guitarist stroking those clear liquid notes from a cheap plywood guitar. Expressions of divine clarity fall upon my head like a tropical shower leaving me soaked to the bone, but fresh, alive and not a little soggy. Each sentence that I embrace again soon after I have manifested it, drape themselves like harem concubines on their plush velvet sofas, beckoning me to play with them a little longer, touching them that much firmer, provoking me try different positions perhaps and even spending the night with them. O Kaliope, may I follow behind thy shapely form through the forests of the bewildering. Lead this fragile though portly writer of ill repute away from our nemesis.

The trouble is that muses are fickle, finicky and malicious as they are inspirational and money spinning. Sometimes they strip the remnants of any talent (even its faint echoes) and leave me naked in a crowd of poets. Or perhaps, they whisk away my wings in midflight, as my spirits soar those great wordy heights letting me spin uncontrollably and inevitably to my doom far below. Or they go quiet, leaving me alone to stare at a big white empty screen with the cursor winking mockingly at me as if challenging me to even type a sentence worth re-drafting. Damn you, I sometimes wish I could cry out to it as I do to the heavens during those twilight hours as the sun blazes itself in a quiet fury of orange, pinkish red and streaks of deep dark blue into the dark cold silent night. I'd advise against doing it in the afternoon especially under the tree. Ye gods are known to reply rather swiftly during those times. My fingers ache to roam free on the keyboard but it knows not where to go, so it sits like a Buddha but isn't one for it sits not in reaching towards enlightenment but in waiting for inspiration. Like an old man who wasn't told that the bus does not pass by that bus stop anymore.

In moments like these, these blindingly dark moments of empty voids, these feeble and futile mechanical attempts at creation, I run into a damn. It's not just any damn. There is no flow although there is go but the go is to no. No one that can save you here. No one can hear you scream or write when damned. Your eyes will take on a glassy indifferent texture. Your skin suddenly becomes dry. The potency of your sex drive disappears refusing to erect itself in one of the body's most prized organs. Give up already. It's too late. The grim reapers coming. Soon your flesh will peel and fall off. You will fart embarassingly and uncontrollably with great stench. Your teeth will rot and drop down your throat when you sleep in that cardbox house of yours. You will mispell. You will only get up at night and scrounge for works of good literature but only be able to read the contents of your nocturnal cartons. You will carelessly fling your punctuation marks like a man amok. If you don't have a huge gut with your intestines spilling out, don't worry, you'll get one. And then you will become a Writer of the Damned, rising from the dead to churn out ill suited words to be placed in ill fashioned sentences in magazines so cheap you need to split your five sen coin to be read by nobody except those squishy eyes balls that sit precariously in your skull threatening to spill out. Or worse, end up writing in one of our local mainstream newspapers. Hiss...

in the presence of stoopeeds!

I was reading the Star today. Whoa…on the cover it is announced that building plans for the Iskandar Development Region (IDR) could be submitted, and approved, online. Meanwhile, in KL, the DBKL launches what they term as “e-licence”. It simply means that advertising and premises licence applications could now be made online as well. Approval letters will be issued online and printed by the applicants. Congratulations to both agencies.

We are a country which initiated the Multimedia Super Corridor. During the Mahathir administration, we made a vow, a resolute one at that, that we would not exercise controls or censorship over the net. That was a definite packaging and marketing exercise. It was made for obvious reasons. Rumour has it that Microsoft would not have supported the MSC had we not made that non-intervention policy. As our country prepares for its 50^th independence celebration, the above move by the 2 agencies should be lauded. Online applications no only help to save time for applicants, but they also help to curb, if not eliminate, corruption. It is time that other agencies take a similar step to improve efficiency and delivery. This is a small step, but a step in the right direction nevertheless.

But when I turned the pages of the Star, I just could not help but to feel bemused by the rhetoric in the Parliament yesterday. Deputy Energy, Water and Communications Minister was reported as saying that bloggers using locally hosted websites may have to register with the authorities in the future. Like, duh? This was a measure being considered by the government to prevent the spread of negative or malicious content on the net. I almost choked on my roti kaya! Whatever words the government use to spin this utterly astounding, and in the face of the non-intervention policy made by the previous administration, ridiculous plan, would not be good enough to conceal the government’s real intention. And that is to exercise some sort of a passive censorship of the net by instilling fear into the minds of bloggers. It’s like saying, you bloggers are registered now and if you say something wrong we would know who you are and we would take action! Cummon’, that’s it isn’t it?

There are other ways to curb malicious, negative or misleading contents on the net. But what the authorities must do first is to understand why our society thrives on rumours. When a text message was, for example, sent and circulated about a supposed plan to baptise some Malays at a church, a motley crew of characters began congregating at the church showing anger. Then there were rumours of a tsunami. Then there were rumours surrounding the Altantuya murder. Our society seems at all too willing to embrace rumours. Why? Is it because we are a gullible society, unable to exercise our discretion to filter news from rumours, no matter how stupid the latter may sound? Or is it because we are a society bereft, and deprived, of any usable information which is deemed sensitive by the authorities? Or have we become numbed with cover-ups so much so we choose to believe rumours rather than official news? After all, there is a saying on our streets and that is, rumours are not true until they are officially denied!

Assuming a blog comes out with such negative contents about a government agency or any person within the government or authorities, can’t the agency or the person log onto that blog and explain himself? And in this era, almost every other agency has a website. Can’t that negative content be addressed on the agency’s website? There are sufficient laws to deal with untruth or malicious statements. These laws could be used by the aggrieved party to seek remedies. Why the need to register bloggers? If this is done, I am afraid to say that, in these days when we have intelligent 400k toilets which clean itself, Malaysia would be ridiculed by the international community. And oh ya…Microsoft would not forget the policy which we so avidly announced before.

As I flipped the newspaper, I saw another disturbing news. Remember the 4 gorillas which were smuggled to the Taiping zoo in 2002? As it was found out that those gorillas were brought in using false documentations declaring that they were captive bred specimens instead of wild ones, a decision was taken to relocate them where they came from, ie Cameroon. Well, of course there were a thousand procedures which needed to be complied with and in the meantime those 4 were sent to the South Africa as some sort of a transit. The latest attempt to relocate them to Cameroon failed because, it was reported, that the Malaysian Government had not given its go-ahead! Apparently, our cabinet sanction was needed and the Cabinet had not sanctioned as yet. It’s been 5 years, for God’s freckin’ sake! But of course, the Cabinet will have to wait for a report, or further report I suppose.

The Natural Resources and Environment Ministry was quoted as saying that it will send a note to the Cabinet to get the latter’s endorsement.

Hmmm, can’t they do it online?

ps I was just thinking. Why can't the relevant Ministry issue a one liner letter saying that we have no objection to the gorillas being relocated to their home country? I mean, the fact that the gorillas do not belong here is already settled in 2002. So, whatever Ministry in charge could issue the letter. Why must there be a cabinet decision? Afraid to take responsibility? I can just imagine next wednesday, the Cabinet having discussed the 30 billion dollar Iskandar Developement Region; the twin rail train project and heard Azalina Othman's report that Singapore's proposed F1 race is doomed to failure, the secretary to the cabinet meeting would say, "Yang Amat Berhormat Yang Amat berhormat, Yang Berhormat Yang Berhormat, agenda berikutnya ialah keputusan kabinet mengenai 4 ekor gorila yang ingin balik kampung....." Awesome!

The Malaysian Deejays (A narrative descent into madness)

The Malaysian radio and I have a very indifferent relationship. I only tune in during moments when I'm infected by extreme ennui. And when I do so, it is as a man who has lived in the cozy darkness of his own careful listening suddenly and violently thrown out of his warm and familiar cave into the full glare of slick neon melodies, repetitive lyrics and perfect harmonies, but worst of all, for me anyway, are the deejays. I don't hate deejays per se. Seriously, I don't. Just the Malaysian ones.

The first thing is that they talk to much. Our deejays don't just talk. They yelp, they bark, yap and flap. And the worse part is that they feel they have to do it within a very narrow band at the higher volume levels. Can they go on? Yes, they can and do. As if the music was there merely to decorate what passes for the deejays as witty and intelligent banter. Then there are those with exaggerated accents. Where do they come from? Why are they on the radios? Those fellas are like a screeches from a blackboard. Then there are those popular call in programs that are now a regular part of the show. Those are pretty much hit and miss sometimes. The problem sometimes is that our deejays talk more than the caller does. They are only too ready to sacrifice the caller for a cheap joke and hope people don't notice it for what it is.

Deejays for me are merely there to usher the music, apprise us of some interesting trivia about the song and its performer(s) then to shut up and make sure they play us good music. They are not the program. They merely embellish the song or the program. And they should do so in a calm and clear manner in a gentle and pleasant voice. Not in a cackling cacophony. They are like our air hostesses on Malaysian Airlines that make our musical journey pleasant and comfortable. They are supposed to take care of our listening habits. Ensure that we truly know what it is we are listening to and what to look out for when we listen. Not sell us out like five a dime whores to the music industry, forcing us to listen to corporate-driven compositions designed to sound good but empty of proper healthy musical ingredient like intelligent or beautiful lyrics and subtler and cleverer melodies. The music served up is as disposable and current as a freshly used condom.

Truth be told deejays are the guardians of music, the gatekeepers of the Apollo with each of us, the sentries of our musical souls. Theirs is not just any duty; it is one divinely ordained for music is the food of love, and God is Love. If seen in this light, how lightly now do our deejays look upon their duty! Hear how they soil themselves with their cheesy jarring chatter, play up their manic and artificial interest like monkeys that just snorted four six inch lines of cocaine each (think that's just four cups of strong coffee?), and bellow and laugh at their own jokes. Oh ye, Malaysian deejays! Repent! Oh repent! For Satan hath a taste for those that know not when to shut their mouths and play the music. Lucifer loveth those that bellow over the microphone like a water buffalo in heat or speak with unnecessary inflexion in their tongue. If not, off with their heads! Their heads, dammit! On a freaking pike! Argh.

(Breathe. Doctor told you to breathe.)

Hm.

(Stretches)

Wonder what's on the radio?

Click.

A Dream of Death

Just now, in the afternoon, when I think I was sleeping, I dreamt. The unusual part about it was that I dreamed at all because I rarely dream. And as mine usually tends to go, it was so vivid as to feel real and hinted at some kind of fatality, usually relating to me. It began with me being suddenly being aware I was in a car. I was driving along a road that curved to the left and sloped gently uphill. I could not tell whether there was anybody in the car because all I could see was the gravelly black smooth tarmac rushing below the front of the car. The car was nondescript, but I felt it was a car I was confident with because it was one I handled regularly. For some reason my dream sight was only on the road. What little of the sky I glimpsed seemed grey and forbidding. I felt as if I was not supposed to look up.

The car is speeding along for what felt like a short while before I was suddenly attacked by a mood of impatience. I could even remember angrily asking in my dream, why the car was not moving fast enough. It felt purely automatic because right after that I felt my right foot, of its own accord, push deeper on to the pedal. I felt like someone given an opportunity to experience and feel the entirety of events unfold in unparalleled intimacy but prohibited from participating. The curved road gradually became steeper and steeper. But instead of slowing down, it was speeding up.

Soon after I felt the car very slowly and gradually start to lose control. Its grip on the road became more tenuous. I could feel its body drifting to the right hinting at the terrors it would unleash once it has committed itself. About this time, the road was rather steep because the sky could not even be seen. All I could see was the inky blackness of the road. Strangely, despite all these warnings and feeling everything so keenly, I felt indifferently distant. Then the road disappeared from view. The car skidded out of control. Its body spun off the road to the right into space, if not an emptiness. I could not see above or below. There was a moment of calm where everything seemed to freeze in mid-flight and for some reason I was looking at the roof of the car which was a creamy white. My attention was fixated on the car ceiling light. I remembered vaguely wondering whether it worked or not before suddenly the creamy white was violently shoved aside by a torrent of dark blue, green, brown although the creamy white did flash occasionally. I think the car was tumbling and when it did I began to ask whether this is how I would die. I felt nothing.

My eyes opened suddenly. I found myself staring at blank whiteness wondering in that instant whether it would be replaced by those darker, sinister colours. Then my field of vision quickly expanded as it took in my surroundings as the sensation of feeling rediscovered the rest of my body. I found myself in bed but there was no sense of relief. That sense of indifference I felt in my dream must have crossed over. Because it still lingers on my skin and face.

moments of madness...

As I drove downhill towards the junction leading to the main road, I peered through the window at the midnight moon. It was there, in all its bluish white glory. The night was cold. And the cold dense air made the engine smoother with a nice low note grunt emitting from the tail pipe. I was doing about 140kph, easing the tacho to around 3500rpm in 5^th. The car lazily walked itself on the undulating tarmac outside the imposing silhouette of the F1 track. In the rear view mirror, I noticed a pair of searing hot HLDs. “Oh, that must be Kris…” I said to myself. As I neared the traffic light at the t-junction, it went green. It was midnight and the road was bereft of vehicles and so I decided to take the 90 degree right turn like real men should, namely, at about 90kph. I tapped on the brake, slap the heavy double plate clutch to the floor and downshifted to 4^th. As I de-clutched, the tacho jumped to about 5500rpm and the tailpipe exuded a low rumble, which would later change into a rhapsody of high notes screams…hmm…beautiful stuffs! As I de-clutched, I clipped the apex of the turn and my right foot feathered the accelerator until the car straightened itself at the left edge of the main road. Soon after, my right foot floored the accelerator and the car lurched forward to my normal midnight speed. I saw the bright bluish HLDs behind me doing the same. The night was beautiful, almost alluring.

And why not? I was in a beautiful car. The car which arrived at Bathurst sometime in the mid 80s. The car which made the Australians giggled at the thought of it racing with the mighty Ford and Holden V8s. The Japanese must have been mad, right? What was a 2.6 litre inline 6 car doing racing at Bathurst against the mighty 6 litres pushrodded V8s muscle? The car which soon won almost every race at Bathurst that year. The car on which was imposed a weight penalty but yet won almost every single race at Bathurst the following year! The car which was, the year after, banned from racing at Bathurst because of, erm…its ”undue advantage”! The car which is now exhibited at Bathurst Museum. The car which the Australians later, grudgingly loved and, for the lack a better term, called “Godzilla”!

I smiled as I recounted the history of the GTR in my head. Almost instinctively I suddenly turned my head to my right. I could almost saw Kris smiling at me in the dark. Within a second or two, his souped-up 535i breezed past and park it’s big fat ugly arse in front of my nose and pulled away. Bloody hell! I was doing 150kph and he just walked passed me! And he was fast pulling away. The naturally aspirated 3.5 litre inline 6 was not as loud as the GTR but with loads of low end grunt, it shredded the tarmac with its immense torque in whatever gear it was. The wide 6 lane and straight road beckoned…

It was time to have fun. And I was born to have loads of it! The Godzilla was not to be cowed by some German behemoth. I reached for the boost controller and pushed button number 3, which would cause the twin turbines to work at its maximum programmed boost, ie at 1.55 bar of boost. I looked at the speedo and it was about 150kph in 5^th. I slapped the clutch to the floor and quick-shifted to 3^rd. As I de-clutched, the tacho jumped to almost 6000rpm and I could almost felt the GTR’s deadly intent. The loud pedal was floored to the floor pan and with an almost masochistic growl, the car lurched forward fully intent of achieving warp speed in a second or two. In no time the tacho was rapidly climbing to 7200rpm, at which point the whole 603 bhp would be transferred to the rear wheels. At this point of time, the GTR’s electronic, sensing that the rear wheels would skid under the power load, would automatically transfer the power to all 4 wheels in a 4-wheel-drive mode and planted the car on the tarmac without any power wastage. Within seconds, the bright green LED in front of me was beeping, signalling that the rpm was at it’s programmed maximum of 8200rpm. It was time to upshift to 4^th. Up to 4^th it went and I was kissing the 535’s tail pipe. I was so close that the 535i was in real danger of being sucked into my intercooler!

We stayed that way for some distance until the road went uphill near the exit ramp where we would take a left sweeping turn on the ramp and entered the KLIA highway towards KL. That was a nice tricky point, in pure speedster’s book. The wide road would suddenly go uphill and before one reaches the top, one would not be able to see the ramp. In normal layman’s term, that’s a pure stupid and dangerous road design. When one touches the top of the hill, one would notice a downward ramp consisting of a long sweeping corner where an F1 car would normally do 240kph in 5^th gear while the traction control would go into overdrive mode leaving the exhaust to pop and crackle like monsoon thunders. The Beamer’s brake lights came on and it was obvious that Kris was slowing down to downshift in preparation of taking that nice, luscious sweeping left downhill turn. I gave the 6-pot calliper some tight squeeze on the 14 inch rotor and the car slowed down so rapidly that my eyeballs almost came off their socket!

Downshifted to 3^rd, de-clutched and the car roared with the tacho jumping to 5000rpm again. After going to the right of the tarmac, the car plunged itself downhill and I steered to the left while feathering the loud pedal all the way. As I steered to the left, the 4-wheel steering would cause the rear tyres to be steered 1 degree to the opposite direction to put the nose assuredly along the cornering line. The car hugged the inside (left) line all the way until we almost exited the ramp. While the car was hugging the sweeping apex, the inside (left) tyres began to slip. At this point, the limited slip differential sprang into action by taking away some power from the inside tyres and pushed them to the outside (right) tyres to prevent the inside tyres from losing their grip and cause loss of traction. The fat Beamer was still in front with my nose right at its derriere.

We entered the KLIA highway and both cars were deliberately allowed to be pushed by the g-force to the right lane. Just as my car straightened itself and sufficient grip was available, I floored the fun pedal in 3^rd and I knew Kris was doing the same. The huge 3.5 litre powered to the front aided by its humongous low end grunt. The GTR instead took its time to build sufficient momentum before the turbines kicked in and propelled itself to warp speed. In a short straight battle, the GTR would always struggle to keep up with the large capacity Beamer. 3rd went to 4^th. The tacho moved steadily from 5000rpm in 4th to about 7500rpm while the speedo was registering 200kph to 230kph. At this point the Beamer loses its breath and was struggling for air and oxygen. The GTR was just warming up!

Okay. Time for me to smoke the bastard, I thought. Coming from behind in 4^th, I nailed the loud pedal flat out to the floor pan. The growl coming from the 6 inch tail pipe had to be heard to be believed. The twin turbines went into a frenzy. I could hear their impellers moving at unimaginable speed, sucking the air from under the bonnet through the air filters and pushing and cramping 1.55 bar of pressure through the huge GT intercooler into the intake manifold. One second, two seconds and moments later the GTR was beside the 535i and flew past it like it wasn’t there. At about 250kph, I upshifted to 5^th. I looked at the rear view mirror and I could almost saw Kris giving me the middle finger. Hahah…suddenly I thought I saw reflection of a flash on my rear wing, not once, but twice. Oh shit, I had been filmed by the cops, I thought. Hell, it was midnight and the cops were there? My God, what story could I conjure to escape a summons, or even a night at the lock up this time?

Suddenly, my cell phone beeped. Instinctively, I took it up an answered. “Hello…”

“You know what, you had not only smoked me, you had flamed me! Art, I had seen the biggest and brightest tail pipe flames, the mother of exhaust flames from your car! Not once but twice!”, enthused Kris over the phone. And so, it wasn’t flashlights from the police’s cam after all. It was my car puking flames through the exhaust pipe! Phew….

“Eh Kris, you must be mad! We are doing 250kph and you are calling me from your cell phone!”, I remarked!

“Hahaha…”, laughed Kris aloud, “and you are answering this call…!”

WARNING: SMOKES AND FLAMES ARE DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH.DON’T DO THIS AT HOME!

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Vindaloo

Uncle Veloo has a restaurant up Boogaloo Street which serves the best mutton vindaloo in the country. Today, Uncle Veloo has a visitor. His niece Letchoomi.

They are in the kitchen. Letchoomi is learning about the restaurant business, hoping one day that Uncle Veloo will pass on his chain of restaurants to her. Not that Uncle Veloo has no children of his own - he has 6 sons and 1 very precious granddaughter, Anjooli. Letchoomi is undaunted. She has her little ways to get what she wants. She learnt this when she was 14. A luscious 14 year old if ever there was one in our town. Quite the Lolita our Letchoomi was. Her first target was her stepfather whom she calls "Mr Buttons" to her friends - based on the size of his lil' knob. It was so small it looked like a button she swears to her friends at school. Perhaps its deformed she thought when she first saw it. After all, Mr Buttons was based in Iraq when those bloody Americans first attacked Iraq 15 years ago. It must be from drinking the water contaminated with depleted uranium. Poor Mr Buttons... she had to muster as much enthusiasm as she could when she was with him even though she could hardly feel anything. When he left her room, she had to finish the job herself with the school flute. Just as well she was a member of the school orchestra. She has fond memories of the school flute. It was unfortunate that she had to return it to the school when she left the orchestra.

And how did a 14 year old learn the art of seducing men? you may ask. She watched a lot of MTV. All those hot chicks in tight pink hot pants with half their apple butts sticking out whilst gyrating and rubbing themselves up against some black geezer in an all pink velvet suit, his neck weighed down by the chunky bling blings with the obligatory large diamond encrusted dollar sign pendant.

Yes, little luscious Letchoomi shuttled straight from childhood to womanhood, by passing being an average teenager altogether. Now at 18, she is the luscious, lascivious, licentious, lubricious Letchoomi - the curse of the double-O family. Let us now move on from my unhealthy obsession with the "L" word. Uncle Veloo is not quite the libertine but there are spurts of libidinous activity spattered indiscriminately in his otherwise dull vindaloo life. (As you can see, I'm still trying to wean myself off the "L" word).

And now back in the kitchen with Letchoomi, Uncle Veloo is watching Letchoomi intensely, the heat of the afternoon mingled with the mutton vindaloo he consumed for lunch causing a slow burning sensation to seep to his loins. He feels Mootoo stirring in his pants. Mootoo, is the affectionate pet name given to his crown jewels by his wife. "My little Mootoo", she would purr lovingly before she takes him into her mouth claiming he tastes of her favourite mutton vindaloo. Letchoomi does not realise she has a formidable task ahead, wresting Uncle Veloo's affections from his deceptively dull looking wife.

Letchoomi continues kneading the dough, leaning forward, bending over slightly above the dough, pretending to be oblivious to Uncle Veloo's enraptured gaze. She has chosen her attire for the day carefully. A traditional saree. You may think that it is pretty inconvenient to wear a saree when one is planning to spend a day helping out in the kitchen of a busy restaurant. But Letchoomi has studied her prey well. This is a man who fantasises about deflowering a young village vestal virgin. The saree depicts her as a girl with traditional values and yet, it has many advantages. Wear a saree blouse which is a little too tight and tie your saree skirt a little too low below your navel ... et voila, you have the desired effect of portraying innocence & naivety and yet, at the same time, exuding a strong sensual appeal.

Uncle Veloo's eyes follows the drop of sweat trickling down Letchoomi's neck, tracing its way down the cinnamon tinged skin of her bosom and finding its way into the deep cleavage at the center. A sigh escapes Uncle Veloo - how clever a drop of water can be, he thinks to himself. His eyes then dart to a sudden flash of pink. In her vigorous act of kneading, her hot pink bra strap peeks out of the striking lime green tight saree blouse. Letchoomi leans further forward over the dough. Uncle Veloo can now catch a glimpse of the hot pink lace. He feels a sudden stab of irrational jealousy against this offensive material. How can such a delicate inconsequential piece of material be entrusted with such an enviable task? To spend the entire day encasing and cupping the luscious breasts of his Letchoomi. Yes, he had decided at that moment, to make Letchoomi his.

His eyes take note of the damp patch slowly spreading out on the underarm of Letchoomi's tight lime green saree blouse. Uncle Veloo likes a woman with a sweaty armpit. He breathes in deeply, wondering what it would smell like if he buried his nose into that damp patch. He imagines it to be similar to the smell of chopped garlic thrown into a pan of hot ghee as it is just turning brown. Yes, that would be perfect he sighed.

Little Mootoo is little no more. Straining within the confines of Uncle Veloo's used-to-be-white Crocodile briefs which now morphs into a cruel prison - Mootoo's very own Guantanamo Bay. Uncle Veloo's own sharp voice abruptly breaks the silence of the hot lazy afternoon, startling himself from his reverie. He commands Letchoomi to take herself to the room upstairs to change into something more comfortable for kitchen work - claiming that her saree might catch fire from the nearby stove if she was careless.

Letchoomi quickly obeys her uncle's command, hiding a smile. She runs up the stairs flushed with excitement. Playing the game of seduced village vestal virgin is rather exciting. It takes skill to perfect it and our Letchoomi has perfected it to an art for she has played this role many times. She would be the dream actress of any Tamil movie director with her long dark tresses tied in a plait and her charcoal eyes framed by those thick dark lashes.

She unravels her burnt orange saree and was in the midst of unbuttoning her lime green saree blouse when Uncle Veloo burst into the room, driven by his lust, driven by Mootoo who has now taken over his thinking process. He rips off the lime green blouse, hesitates slightly before throwing the garment to the floor. He was half tempted to smother his face into the wet underarm patch of the garment but one must not linger on trifles when one is about to deflower a virgin. He glares at the offending hot pink lace material still guarding her breasts protectively. He barks orders for her to remove them. You may wonder at his lack of finesse in the art of seducing a young virgin. But Uncle Veloo understands only too well that one must take charge like a commander of troops in these situations. To ply her open with gentle words and caresses would put her in a dilemma - forcing her to take responsibility for her actions and thereafter deal with her ensuing guilt and shame that she has succumbed to temptation. It is best to dominate and let her feel that she had no choice in the matter. This is a very dangerous game to play as there is a thin line between this act of domination & submission and rape. Uncle Veloo could sense from the way Letchoomi's pupils were dilated that she was excited, that she welcomed him, that there is consent...

He quickly removes his shirt and pants, leaving his Pagoda singlet and Crocodile briefs, which by the way, he has been wearing for the past 3 days, only turning the briefs inside out when it got too damp yesterday afternoon. He pushes Letchoomi onto the nearby bed and hovers over her, commanding her to look at him as he peels off his Crocodile briefs.

Oh what joy Mootoo felt, released from the filthy confines of his own Guantanamo Bay, no longer a suspected Al Qaeda member. But wait, what is happening to him ?? .... Mootoo screams in horror, the silent scream of one who has no voice of his own to be heard but we can nevertheless hear his awful screams in our thoughts and shudder at its horror. Uncle Veloo has taken the role of Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Sassaman, the evil commander of the U.S. Army Fourth Infantry Divisions 1-8 battalion who is well known for having his Iraqi prisoners wrapped up tightly in barbed wire. The engorged Mootoo is now tightly wrapped in rubber sheath. "Made in Malaysia" says the torn golden foil wrapper thrown carelessly on the floor. Mootoo is screaming for Amnesty International to bombard Uncle Veloo with letters demanding his immediate release. What kind of man conquers his vestal village virgin in protective gear??? he screams at the injustice.

Whilst this battle between Uncle Veloo and Mootoo ensues for a few seconds, Letchoomi reaches down and surreptitiously removes her own protective gear and drops it carefully onto the floor. It is that time of the month for her. You may think this is most unfortunate for her but our Letchoomi has planned this with the precision of a CIA agent embarking on a covert operation. Uncle Veloo will expect to see blood and blood he will see.

Without much ado, Uncle Veloo plunges the still protesting Mootoo into Letchoomi. Letchoomi lets out the desired whimper of fear and pain (all an adept act of pretense on her part). She found difficulty concentrating on her role in the game as she is distracted by Uncle Veloo's frayed Pagoda singlet which has seen better days. (Mootoo is also not quite enjoying his role in his deep sea diving outfit.) There are several holes in the Pagoda singlet where Uncle Veloo's thick unruly chest hair has managed to spring out of, struggling to escape. Imprisoned without a fair trial. These rebellious insurgents who have sprung out of Uncle Veloo's Pagoda singlet are creating havoc on Letchoomi's delicate cinnamon tinged skin, acting like an abrasive loofah, causing her skin to burn. Letchoomi notices that the singlet is mouldy green at his underarms. What kind of wife would let her husband walk around clad in such filth she wondered. Why can't Auntie Roopah wash her husband's undergarments properly or throw them away before they deteriorate to such dismal conditions, cultivating a funghi plantation on their own accord. There is just too much anarchy going on, she thinks to herself, on Uncle Veloo's complicated body - presenting a whole continent by itself, full of rebellious inhabitants.

Indeed, what kind of woman is Auntie Roopah, you wonder. She is the sturdy, strong, dependable type of woman. Strong and reliable. Yes she sounds like an advert for Standard Chartered Bank. She is the kind of person you would send to your borders to defend your country should a skirmish occur with a neighbouring country. You would feel safe with Auntie Roopah guarding your borders. She is the glue which binds the family together. Not the weak, easily distracted Uncle Veloo whose only love is his grand daughter Anjooli and his mutton vindaloo - not particularly in that order of priority.

The whole deflowering process did not last very long. There is no reason to linger. One cannot evoke pleasure from the recently deflowered. It is an act of dominance and submission. Uncle Veloo's "Shock & Awe" treatment specially reserved for vestal village virgins (if he could find any!). Yes, Uncle Veloo watches too much CNN. He should be dragged to the town square and flogged in public. But one suspects that he might enjoy that too much. He rolls off the bed, still in his Pagoda singlet, carrying its own horticultural lifeform, to head for the bathroom. He steps on something warm and moist. He looks down at his right foot. All he could make out is something partly white, mostly covered with blood, its limp white tail visible from the other side of his foot. Uncle Veloo lifts his foot in horror, not wanting to look down at the squashed object as he rushes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his body and his foot.

Back in the kitchen, Uncle Veloo is in the midst of cooking mutton vindaloo. Cooking is the only thing that can calm his nerves. Uncle Veloo is racked with guilt and full of remorse. How is he going to tell little Anjooli that he has stepped on, squashed and killed her pet white mouse, General Noosh???

Meanwhile, in the room upstairs, Letchoomi picks up the squashed bloodied object off the floor by its tail and flushes it down the loo. Her game is up, she thinks to herself. Uncle Veloo has discovered her farce.

Uncle Veloo had stepped on and squashed her earlier discarded .... super tampon...