I have managed to be alarmingly consistent when it comes to making a fool of myself in public. When I am behind closed doors, and I’m sure not a single living soul is watching, I behave like a complete Aristotle. When the doors open and I am in company, the Aristotle disappears. Mr. Bean takes over…what a pity!
Today at lunch, Mr. Bean made a grand entry, messed up with my public image big time, and made a slow exit, as the whole world guffawed with mad laughter. Here’s what happened:
I was at the cafeteria with a couple of friends, buying a simple dosa, making a ridiculous effort not to look at the chocolate pastry counter. This was when my eyes caught a black attaché case, lying unclaimed at one of the lunch tables. What the hell is that, I wondered. One of my friends was sitting at the next table. ‘Do you hear a ticking sound from the case?’ I asked her. ‘Should I?’ she asked. ‘Well…I am a little concerned. You see, you can’t take things casually…what if another 26/11 occurred?’ Dreadful images of terrorist attacks, maimed people, and ruined buildings flashed on my mind. ‘Do you think I should raise an alarm?’ I asked her. ‘Chill…have your dosa. Maybe the person has gone to the loo.’ Smart…maybe he really had gone to the restroom.
I dug into my lunch and thankfully, soon forgot about the attaché case. But I am a fast eater. The moment my dosa was over, (took me 10 minutes at the most), the paranoia rushed back. There was still no one to claim the case. That’s when Mr. Bean pinched me hard. ‘You know what, I am sure there is some good amount of RDX in there. It’s unbelievable how no one else is noticing this obvious truth.’ And before my friend at the table could stop me, I dashed for the emergency alarm and pressed it passionately, feeling rather heroic, having saved so many innocent lives, dreaming of a Red and White bravery medal from the President. Within minutes (I never believed Indian security men were so efficient) commandos were all over the place like a swarm of bees, looking for the issue. I pointed gallantly at the attaché case.
One of the men, after some explaining, came forward with a bomb-detection tool and punched the case open. All it contained was an oily lunch box, a set of old ink pens and a wad of official papers. My friends had already disappeared, deeply ashamed at my idiocy. I began to look for a place to hide.
The man behind all this finally returned, looking surprised that his attaché case had created such brouhaha. He seemed to be suffering from diarrhea, and my friend was right.
Needless to say, I was reprimanded by the grand panjandrum of those commandos, for having been so stupid. ‘Please madam, be sure of all these things before raising such an alarm. You are wasting public time.’ Feeling angry at Bean, I made a hasty exit. I hope everyone at the cafeteria suffers from amnesia on Monday.
Today at lunch, Mr. Bean made a grand entry, messed up with my public image big time, and made a slow exit, as the whole world guffawed with mad laughter. Here’s what happened:
I was at the cafeteria with a couple of friends, buying a simple dosa, making a ridiculous effort not to look at the chocolate pastry counter. This was when my eyes caught a black attaché case, lying unclaimed at one of the lunch tables. What the hell is that, I wondered. One of my friends was sitting at the next table. ‘Do you hear a ticking sound from the case?’ I asked her. ‘Should I?’ she asked. ‘Well…I am a little concerned. You see, you can’t take things casually…what if another 26/11 occurred?’ Dreadful images of terrorist attacks, maimed people, and ruined buildings flashed on my mind. ‘Do you think I should raise an alarm?’ I asked her. ‘Chill…have your dosa. Maybe the person has gone to the loo.’ Smart…maybe he really had gone to the restroom.
I dug into my lunch and thankfully, soon forgot about the attaché case. But I am a fast eater. The moment my dosa was over, (took me 10 minutes at the most), the paranoia rushed back. There was still no one to claim the case. That’s when Mr. Bean pinched me hard. ‘You know what, I am sure there is some good amount of RDX in there. It’s unbelievable how no one else is noticing this obvious truth.’ And before my friend at the table could stop me, I dashed for the emergency alarm and pressed it passionately, feeling rather heroic, having saved so many innocent lives, dreaming of a Red and White bravery medal from the President. Within minutes (I never believed Indian security men were so efficient) commandos were all over the place like a swarm of bees, looking for the issue. I pointed gallantly at the attaché case.
One of the men, after some explaining, came forward with a bomb-detection tool and punched the case open. All it contained was an oily lunch box, a set of old ink pens and a wad of official papers. My friends had already disappeared, deeply ashamed at my idiocy. I began to look for a place to hide.
The man behind all this finally returned, looking surprised that his attaché case had created such brouhaha. He seemed to be suffering from diarrhea, and my friend was right.
Needless to say, I was reprimanded by the grand panjandrum of those commandos, for having been so stupid. ‘Please madam, be sure of all these things before raising such an alarm. You are wasting public time.’ Feeling angry at Bean, I made a hasty exit. I hope everyone at the cafeteria suffers from amnesia on Monday.
