Must-ache

Moustaches are excellent for hiding long nose hair. They are also great for getting food stuck in them until your upper lip resembles the starry night sky. That's assuming you have a thick one. If you don't, shave it off. Mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, non possessors of the growth will alternately mention how mature or young you look.

In my case, growing the bristle added a few years to my face. My grandmother was all praise. "Having a moustache at this age is very manly. You look just like your grandfather did when he was your age."
* Sudden rush of pride *
My sister was less enthusiastic. "Ewwwwwwwwwwww!"
Mom and Dad took one look at me, then returned to their paperwork.
* Sudden rush of short-lived pride *

Three weeks and two inches later, my symbol of manhood came off. Symbol of manhood. Read properly. I looked like some misplaced descendant of Genghis Khan, damn his spelling. It was longer on one side, shorter on the other. No, now shorter on that side, longer than the other. It's difficult being a well balanced person.

I missed the moustache today though. Them bristles are considered regal. You'll rarely see a bus driver, rickshaw puller or (my personal favourite) cabbies without their filament. It gives additional character to personalities. Note that I don't mention politicians, businessmen or movie people. That's because it's our drivers who take the country forward, contribute to wolf whistles in movie theatres and complain about pot holes. No self-respecting politician will complain about potholes. No businessman will take a national onus. No actor will whistle in a theater.

So back to moustaches. They are important when you want to cow someone. That's why I missed it, really. Thing is, we've got a Marwari infestation. They live in colonies in groups of four-five families scattered all over Lake Town. This particular infestation resides just behind my house.

It's a five storeyed apartment. The second storey is getting a boob job. You get the simile. They've got masons, electricians and marble cutters working in there 7 days a week. The masons and electricians are fine. The marble cutters are not. A marble cutting machine makes a high pitched whining sound, then cuts into the slab. Imagine a mixie trying to blend iron filings on Dolby Digital Sound and it gives you an approximate idea of what a treat to the ears it is. Our infestation is considerate. They work only on Sunday afternoons. That's when a peaceable retirement community like Lake Town sleeps. It sleeps at other times too, but that's not important now.

It takes two to operate the cutting machine - one to guide the instrument, another to hold the slab in place. At 2 pm, our dynamic duo got to their sound engineering. Cutter and squatter assumed their positions, drill in hand, marble between legs. Electricity flowed, sparks flew and the moans and groans started. All innuendo apart, I wasn't in any mood for afternoon shenanigans. Marched to my balcony (it overlooks their backyard), and hollered for them to stop. They looked up.

"Oi! Stop! How many more times will I ask you people to not work on Sunday afternoons?!"
"Just one slab more bhaiyya. 15 minutes."
"The last time you said 15 minutes it went on for 3 hours. Nothing doing. Stop!"

They looked at each other and continued. Me too.

"Look fellas, I know you have work to do. Do it over the week when it's time to work. You can't expect an entire locality of senior citizens to stay up just because your Marwaris want a different shade of marble."

More blank stares.

"All right people! I'll continue shouting at you. The older ladies and gentlemen will never raise their voices! But tell me, do you want to have their silent curses on your head? You who by doing your work destroyed their few snatched moments of well earned peace? You who have no consideration? Will you be prepared to live the rest of your life under those curses? I'll still be screaming, but you two will have an indelible blot on your existence! You'll go to hell for disturbing their peace!"

I've never seen anyone pack up and leave so fast.

And that's when I missed my moustache. It would've been so satisfying to give it a twirl. And no, twirling long nose hair isn't half as satisfying.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't blog. This post is a testimony to the fact that it was egg shellical. Maybe it should be testimoney. More on that later. Or not at all. There are some deals that shouldn't be disclosed.

Like the one with myself. But that isn't working anymore, touchwood. Or touch woody. Never touch woody. It's the British equivalent of the American weiner. Good grief, my sense of humour seems to have taken a permanent squatting position.

So a cheer to the pal who paid more in terms of attention. And the double essed techie who got the first glimpse into the spot anyway. But here's to some more irreverence, siphoned memories, untouched woods and copping feels.

Feeling cops is never a good idea.