Shakti Kapoor AKA Crime Master Go Goa Gone
What happens in Goa doesn’t stay in Goa.
I now know first hand what it is to bask in the glow of Shakti Kapoor’s unbridled celebrity aura. A fortuitous bumping of souls, I’d like to think, en route to Goa at the Delhi airport. You can imagine how that boded for the trip.
The man, nay, the screen legend’s epicness couldn’t be contained by that innocuous face mask he wore, hoping to hide the fact that it was indeed him, Crime Master Go Go. But seeing that it proved too effective, he removed it. A move greeted immediately with nudges and coy looks not unlike a bride waiting to discover the joys of post-coital bliss. Strangely appropriate, I thought, for Goa virgins to give Shakti that look. He who has deflowered many a maiden on-screen must certainly get looks such as these from virgins off it.
Content with the achieved effect, Shakti then proceeded to remove his bag from the X-ray machine. A parting shot of “Aauuuuuu” to the gawkers was enough to send them overboard with laughter. I could now die in peace.
On that elegant note, my escape to Goa had begun. A sign of close encounters of the insane kind that lay ahead.
Is it a Bird? Is it a Plane? No! It’s a Selfie!
It’s been widely debated whether the urge to take selfies is a mental disorder. One look at the manic selfie-takers around me and I’m convinced our problems as a nation can be solved if we tackle this one. At the airport, in front of the plane, inside the plane, outside the plane, hanging from the bus, at baggage claim, outside the airport , inside the cab. It goes on like this for most of the trip. Except when photo-bombing/chatting up bikini clad ‘phoraners’ and introducing oneself as “Hello myself Rakesh, which country you from? Can I taak selfie with you?”
Feeling Happy at Sher-e-Punjab in da Wagah Border
The chooda-shorts-mehndi-hat combo-fest is best avoided if you stay the hell away from Baga and Calungute, which has the highest density. If you want a taste of what a nightclub in Lajpat Nagar would feel like, park yourself with a one plus one at Cape Town. You’ll be rewarded with the sight of a woman dancing with wild abandon in boxers, a feat I thought only the Indian male had mastered. Stick around longer and you’ll find yourself face to face with double-dating West Delhi newlyweds. The girls wear frothy prom dresses in floral satin with glitter pumps and choodas and the boys are decked in the exact same ensemble of matching turbans, bermuda shorts and neon T-shirts. Clearly the minimum-effort maximum-impact way to make a fashion statement. #JabRajouriMetGoa #GiftFromDaddy.
“Hello Excuse, How Much You Charge?”
Consider this a warning. When in Goa, you and friend should stick to non-dark bylanes. If dropped by male friends, insist on being walked to the very end. What you should not do is think you’re Rambo and walk the alleys at 2 am drunk out of your skulls. You may come across unsavoury characters tripling on a bike who will follow you on it, asking you questions like “Excuse excuse...where is Calungute?” and “How much you charge? For one night I give you ten thousand OK”. Things to do in such situations:
1. Look like you know where you’re going
2. Prepare to wake the dead and dogs by screaming
3. Dial a friend
4. Pick up a metal pole and take a swing
I confess the first three options didn’t occur to me immediately. What did was the urge to beat the crap out of the village idiots with the metal pole. My bad. What can I say, molesters, lechers, and crotch-scratchers bring out my homicidal tendencies.
Republic of Racism
I’ve never been at the receiving end of racism in my own country. Till our hankering for Chinese food led us to Republic of Noodles. Empty apart for two couples and a family, the place looked like it needed to stay afloat among the sea of eateries outside.
A waiter turned up to inform us that we had to sit at an uncomfortably-placed table for two because as you know, we were taking up space that would be occupied by invisible guests. *Eye roll*
We complied till my friend pointed out a European couple snugly seated at another table for four. When questioned about their seating arrangement and the accompanying concession to rules, he agreed to let us sit at the table of our choice. The food turned out to be as insipid as the ambiance and attitude.
Our Lady of the Gays
How can I put this in perspective? It’s one of those times when writing about it is a sad version of what you need to experience. Our gay friends had informed us that they were taking us to a gay club. No stranger to them in Delhi, I knew the drill. Drink your cocktail, try and behave. Try till the alcohol takes over. Then God help the gays.
Nothing prepared me for a Moti Mahal-style dining replete with kitsch fountains, butter chicken and garlic naan. All this was a decoy for the mirrored glass doors. Outside the doors, guarding the innards, sat Our Lady of the Gays, resplendent in her Sunday best, and with a sanctimonious look only Roman Catholics seem to own. There she was, stamping wrists, giving us the once over, doing brisk business on a Saturday night.
“Hindu, Muslim Sikh Isahi. Sab Ke Sab Total Tharki!”
Judging by the crowd that returned on the packed plane it’s safe to assume that Goa is the place to
a. Lose puberty
b. Lose virginity
c. Make friendship with ‘phorenar’
d. Think of sex with ‘phorenar’
e. Party like it’s Punjabi Bagh
f. Slyly take picture of Vegas-stripper-looking air-hostess
g. Think of sex with Vegas-stripper-looking air-hostess
h. Go home and yank for the next 12 months about one or all of the above.
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