The Security Check Confusion

Have you ever been through a Security Check and wonder what are they really checking you for? Why do take so much time? Can’t they just let you go through and save everyone a hell lot of time?

They ask you for your ticket and your identity card. Then they look at the ticket, the ID and then you, repeating the process a couple of time, much to your irritation. You want to tell them “Ya right that’s me, do you have any doubts about that? Do you have any problem with it?”

Inspite the annoyance on your face they still continue. Slowly a doubt begins to creep in your mind. Have you carried the right ID? Have you given them your ID only? Slowly your arrogance turns to tension. Beads of sweat slowly make an appearance across your forehead, and as they say, you begin to shit bricks (damn I sure am a big nautanki). But then you calm yourself down, trying to reassure yourself that if there was a problem he would have surely let you know.

He still totally continues to ignore you and continues to stare at your ID, you wonder if he’s wondering if that’s really you in the ID? Making you wonder, Oh God! Have I put on weight (with the dread slowly creeping in your mind)? But then you think, have I lost weight (now that dread is replaced with a pleasing smile)? But then let’s face it, when have we ever looked like our photo ID.

He finally ends the cycle, and hands you your ticket and your ID. You breathe a huge sigh of relief and rush to complete your check in, hoping your not too late to catch your flight.

Well i may have exaggerated a bit for dramatic effect. It doesn’t take more than 30 seconds before your true, unless your doing some gochi, then god save you. But then on the other end of the spectrum you have the security check at the Metro

station. They check you front and back and let you pass. Must be making sure you’re male and you have the tools to prove it (if you know what I mean).

Helmet ki atma kata

I was born in the summer of the 27th year (if I could dare borrow a couple of lines from John Denver) with brothers and sisters in tow. Well we couldn’t tell who was who cause we all looked the same. Some big, some small, some sturdy, some strong, some dainty and small. It took a manufacturer to come and determine who was who, and paint us in shades to differentiate our gender, our purpose.

I was sold to, or rather given away free, with a brand new shiny bike (bike key saath helmet free, free). Much to the disdain of master (well that’s what I shall call him, though moron would have been a more suitable term) who thought he was too cool to look like fool wearing me on his head. And here lay the crux of my confusion. What exactly was my purpose? Was I meant to protect his head or other parts of his bike? For the amount I spent on the handle was thousand fold the time I actually spent on his head.

I somehow clashed with his image, didn’t really go with it, and his item too thought so. He saw himself a rebel against the rule and to wear me on his head would be betrayal of his rebellious streak (for nam key vaste, cause the only streak he had were the ones in his hair). Wearing me would mean that she wouldn’t be able to run her finger through his highlighted hair (I wonder how she could run her fingers through those heavily gelled, porcupine like hair of his).

So he drove fast, he drove rash. He zigged and he zagged, crisscrossing through the traffic. Much to the squeals of delights of his item, or any of his lukka friend (or friends, cause sometimes they went triple seat, and even dared at four, much like cirque du soliel). The only time I found my way to his head when he spied a traffic cop, and out compulsion wore me on his head, grudgingly. The only time I was of any use to him was when he used me as a weapon to attack and defend against the external forces.

Then one day while he zigged and he zagged and drove rather rashly (like he quite normally did) he lost control and did a flip and skidded all the way. He got a bad gash on his forehead, while I got a broken visor. He was lifted and taken away by the bystanders, while I went rolling away to edge of the road to be forgotten. I guess he learned a bitter lesson that sar salamat to pagadi hazar (if I am using this muhawara correctly).

Well I lay there, at the side of the road, all forgotten and lonely, with my broken visor as company for me. All dirty and dusty, gathering dirt, till rodents decided to make their home in me, and so I found myself of more use to them than my master had of any use for me.

Then one day I saw him speed by. A brand new shiny bike he rode, with the same item as pillion. But no helmet on his head. So guess the saying “once bitten twice shy” didn’t really apply to him.