I was never able to wrap my mind around the concept of trauma. It seemed a bit childish to me that you developed a phobia of Mozart just because a piano fell on your head when you were walking down the road humming one of his symphonies. And it came across as extremely silly to me that purely for the fact that a couple of planes flew into a building where your entire family was present and killed them on September 11, you feel sad on that same day every year. Silly, I said. I scoffed at those who fostered a fear of sharks merely because their newborn baby was ripped into shreds by a shark or a marine biologist in a shark-suit. It never made any sense to me. Until a few weeks ago when I saw something that perturbed me to the extent of developing paranoia; something that pushed me into an abyss of trauma; something that happened when I was watching the Bollywood movie “Love Story 2050”.
               The promos of the movie that had been flooding the television screens, like lepers outside a metropolitan shopping mall, generated great expectations within me. With graphics measuring up to great movies like “Dandruff in my ass hair“, “I did it with your mother” and that mesmerizing Ridley Scott navy-movie “You got semen in my nose“, this highly anticipated Bollywood flick definitely managed to surge my enthusiasm. Since I owed a couple of my friends a few thousand bucks, I decided to invite them to the movie and call it even. I paid for my ticket, of course. As soon as the movie began I realized this one was going to be such a refreshing change from the usual bird-shit Bollywood made. “Love Story 2050” didn’t have a guy and a girl falling in love in Mumbai or London; it had a guy and a girl falling in love in Australia. That’s the kind of creative innovativeness I expect when I go to see an Indian movie. And by God, I was getting it. However, a few minutes after that magnificently conceptualized, “so-not-fucking-lame” scene where the hero professes his love for the heroine Priyanka Showbra on top of a speeding rollercoaster, something caught my attention, something outside what was happening on the screen. The rows of seats at the theatre were not all at the same level; it rose by a couple of steps as you went backwards almost like some lecture halls. I had just given the teenage lovers sitting behind me a “go-get-aids” look for kicking my seat when I noticed the dark, indiscernible figure of the guy sitting in front of me squirming in his seat. To his right were two women, who were Indian but looked Chinese (you know the kind), as engrossed in the happenings on screen as if it was a Jackie Chan movie. The dark, indiscernible figure seated next to them appeared to be busily messaging someone on his mobile phone. I thought to myself “What a dork! Coming for a movie like Love Story 2050 and spending time on his phone?!” I decided to redirect my eyes back to the exhilarating action on screen where the multimillionaire hero was lamenting the fact that he had everything including fast cars, money, and every gadget imaginable but was lacking those daily hugs from his daddy which as we all know are so significant to a twenty-year-old guy’s life.
                  A curious thought entered my mind. The dark, indiscernible figure’s mobile phone apparently had no backlight. It was strange that in an era and a country where even the beggars used Bluetooth headsets for communication, there was this guy, rich enough to afford a ticket for this spectacular movie, sitting around fiddling with his low-tech, cheap-ass, no backlight mobile phone. I elbowed my friend and did the obvious. I said, “What a loser!” He followed the same procedure to pass on the information to my other friend. Then suddenly one of my friends, let’s call him Fatass, observed that the dark, indiscernible figure was messaging at an unusually high frequency on his backlight-less phone. At that precise moment- call it divine intervention, call it seventh sense, or call it a heap of light from the movie screen- the three of us realized, Fatass, Dumbass, and I, that the dark, indiscernible figure was not messaging on his cheap phone. He was massaging his fucking cock. Panic struck us as if we were trapped in an airplane that was being hijacked (or jacked off in this case). One thing you have to know about guys is that there are very few things that we wouldn’t mind looking at. We can sit back and endure two Asian chicks shitting and puking inside each other’s mouth or a truck colliding with an old lady turning her into mangled shit but if there’s one thing we cannot stand it’s the sight of another man’s penis. It’s got nothing to do with inferiority or superiority complex. It’s just because penises are like ugly babies: you love yours and you play with it till it stops crying and goes to sleep but you will do all you can to avoid seeing one that belongs to someone else. We realized we had to get the fuck out of this hijacked aircraft. There was nothing more I wanted than to ensconce myself in my seat and enjoy the Bollywood masterpiece that was unfurling on screen but not when a fucking dick was on the loose. The strangest phenomenon was that the two Chinese-Indians had no idea that merely inches away from them slithering and prowling was a dick that had surfaced practically out of nowhere (well, it surfaced from the guy’s pants but you know that I mean). Fatass, Dumbass, and I were shell-shocked. That was when Dumbass suggested that we report it to the cops. But I didn’t know how practical that was. Then Dumbass, living up to his name, made a follow-up suggestion. He said that we should collect photographic evidence so that the case could hold up with the cops. Sure, I could see how that would turn out. We would walk up to the wanker and ask him to hold his position so that we could turn on the flash on our mobile phones and take some snaps of his cock. Easy as a pie. Then we would go to the cops with the dick-photos and tell them “Arrest this penis!” I could also picture how the cops would respond. “Well, all we see is a dick. There’s no theatre, there are no women seated next to it, there’s no face. It’s just a dick. So why don’t you boys come to the slammer and taste the long arm of the law?” So in short, Dumbass’s plan was out.
                     Precious seconds ticked away. I felt like Jack Bauer struggling to figure out a solution as the spunk-bomb edged closer to the point of explosion. I didn’t want to get too close to see if there was a timer strapped to it. I had two options: get the fuck out of there without wasting another second or enlighten the Chinese-Indians of the peril that was lurking adjacent to them. Being considerate, social, compassionate fellows my friends and I decided to just get the fuck out of there without warning the Chinese-Indians. We didn’t want to interrupt their movie-viewing. Besides, there was a high chance that we would be burdened with the responsibility of standing up to the guy with his dick dangling out. I could perhaps confront even Hancock but not a guy with his hand on his cock. We executed the first option. We got the fuck out of the theatre. And as we let the door swing behind us, we let escape deep breaths of relief like hostages who had just been let off by a suicide-bomber. We stood around discussing how lucky we were to be still alive, how we would now start living every day to the fullest, how much we really felt the presence of God. Then, suddenly, out burst through the theatre doors the two Chinese-Indians shouting in some language that was probably Indian but sounded Korean (you know the kind). It didn’t take us long to figure out that either the bomb had been detonated or these ladies had somehow noticed it (it was after all a centimeter away from them) before it went off. Either way, being survivors of the same disaster, Fatass, Dumbass, and I walked up to the Chinese-Indians to share our trauma and ease our collective pain. But they responded with the strangest of suggestions. They said, “Call security!” I knew immediately it was a bad idea because Fatass, Dumbass, and I would undoubtedly be treated like witnesses of any other crime. And the first thing they would probably make us do was identify the suspect, and his dick. However, Fatass and Dumbass, being slightly thick in the head had already set off and were returning with the security guard, who looked like he was only slightly younger than Aristotle if he were alive. Of course, since it was improper to let the women explain what had happened Dumbass volunteered and explained with the articulateness of a barnyard animal, “There’s a guy in there doing his thing, you know, touching there, you know, his package.” By the time he had finished communicating and the security guard entered the theatre the masturbator had disappeared. There was no sign of him. He had gone without leaving a trace behind. Which was probably a good thing for the janitor who would have to clean up later. Aristotle’s contemporary promised to take action if the wanker was somehow identified. And shockingly, the ladies agreed to stay back and watch the rest of the movie. IN THE SAME FUCKING SEATS. I gave them my number and got theirs incase they wanted further help and then Dumbass, Fatass, and I got the fuck out of there for good. We haven’t yet watched a single movie in a theatre after that day. Now, I realize what trauma really means.
                  But more than what that day did to my psychological disposition, the important thing to ponder on is the depravity of men. I would give my vote to masturbation in case of an election but not in a public place seated next to strangers. If there was a Hollywood movie on Masturbation the voiceover would be similar to that of every other Hollywood movie “One Man, One Mission, He will take all the action into his own hands. And he’s coming this Summer“.  The despicable act of the dark, indiscernible wanker, who unfortunately escaped, shows the lack of respect men have for women, the degree to which they treat women as nothing else but a means to get a wank. Things have to change, we have to show women more respect than that. Imagine what those two women would’ve thought of our country if they really were out-of-towners. Is that the way we treat our tourists? Is that the we pay respect to our guests? Well, thankfully, you don’t have to worry about it anymore because I called the women up and apologized to them on behalf of all men and all Indians who don’t look Chinese. And just to be really nice, I took them out, got them drunk, and fucked those bitches.

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