Dhinchaak Dhinchaak

I'm extremely scared of performing in the public (In fact, starting this blog was itself a frightful experience). So when our class decided to farewell the 10^th graders in a traditional manner (read dancing), I freaked out. I was shy of dancing in front of my own reflection, let alone a hundred familiar students! Then another thing dawned on me, dancing. It was one skill that had always managed to escape my outstretched begging hands. Of course, I thought, I could always raise my index finger and yell balle balle, just like a Punjabi, but then I remembered Bal Thackerey. What if one of his Marathi manoos fanatics saw me dancing like a wretched North Indian, surely then I would have to face his music! No, I'll dance like everyone else does, to the beat.

How wrong I was.

Understanding the song they'd selected was difficult enough. I just couldn't get the hang of the music, it sounded as if it had been pumped out of the smoke exhaust present in one of those government Ambassadors, which was probably last serviced when the British were packing up their suitcases and getting ready to go. So I started imitating everyone else. Their hand and leg coordination was perfect. I tried, but soon realized it was looking foolish. Then I understood the reason. My limbs had gone stiff. They just couldn't handle the attention of a dozen pair of eyes.

So I gave up, returned to my desk, which was laughing with mirth at me, and started writing this. I felt this was a much better way to communicate with people, rather than wildly rotating the hips. I finally understood Thackerey's sentiments. His hatred towards them North Indians wasn't because he thought of them as intruders, it was because they could raise their index fingers anywhere in the universe (even a black hole) and yell balle balle.

So much for the dhinchaak dhinchaak.

-Bluaaks

Mad-ear.