Welcome to Melbourne

There are two types of people who read my blog. One is the type that’s thinking, “What!!?? No drawing on this one?” Then there’s the other that’s thinking, “Whose case is he on this time?” If you’re thinking neither, then you’re like a hermaphrodite - the type that possesses neither male nor female sexual organs. If both the thoughts crossed your mind, you’re still a hermaphrodite – with both male and female organs. Go gonads! And, if you’re thinking “Where the hell is he going with this?” Well…. Errr… Nowhere! I just wanted to call a few of my readers eunuchs!

Kuch Bhiiii…………

Anyway, enough of the stupid and mindless nonsense and let me start with the more important and intelligent nonsense.

As his handsome self sits down on his toilet paper wiped ass and begins writing this blog post, he begins to think to himself, “Why am I referring to myself in third person?”

So, this is my first post from Australia - the land down under. Or, as the Indian media likes to call it - The Slaughterhouse! Just as any cow, goat, pig, hen, or any other yummy animal, has absolutely no clue what’s in store for it when it’s being led to the butcher, I started my journey to Melbourne chaste and innocent (He he). After the two totally unnecessary stops at Bangkok and Hong Kong, the pilot of my Cathay Pacific flight finally realized that I had to be dropped off at Melbourne and very reluctantly landed the plane there.

Melbourne Airport is awesome.
It is awesome because the immigration fellow doesn’t even check if you have a visa. He just stamps your passport and thinks “Hahahaha, one more Indian not getting out of this country alive!”
It is awesome because the unattended sniff dogs smell you and your bags and walk away thinking “Hahahaha, one more Indian not getting out of this country alive!”
It is awesome because by the time you realize that you’ve been waiting an hour for your luggage, you’ve considered the possibility of your bags not arriving at all and you slowly start seeing yourself having to sleep in the buff because the only clothes you have are feeling up the insides of a washing machine. We all know someone who has been-there-done-that, don’t we? ;)

Finally my bags tumbled down the shaft on to the conveyer belt and a huge sigh of relief later, me and my bruised bags headed towards the taxi stand.

Taxi Drive: “Are you Indian mate?”
You know you’ve outlived your welcome in Australia when you say “mate” with a Punjabi accent. That is the reason why Mr. Khattar is going back to Ludhiana after the summer. “Summer mein Melbourne ki kudiyaan kuch kapde nahi pehenti. Dekh ke jayenge.”

“Summer mein Melbourne ki kudiyaan kuch kapde nahi pehenti.” This time I am saying it. I honestly do not know what the reason is - the sun, the heat, the desire to undress, or the longing to die young of skin cancer, but the girls here do not believe in the concept of covering themselves. It’s an absolute nightmare for those (weird men) who like to have a little left to the imagination. I, on the other hand, am not complaining! :D

Now, coming back to Khattar saab. The man gave me the creeps. Five minutes into the journey, he very casually mentioned “Abhi radio pe suna, ek Indian ko jaan se maara.”
@#$%^@&*%!!!!!!!!!!!!????????
His nonchalance can be explained. He didn’t want me crapping my pants in his taxi. Then he followed up with a “Yaar, tu dar mat. Tu toh city mein rehta hai. Wahan kuch nahi hoga.” Yes I believe you, you human enema!

Then in true Indian style (I refrain from using ‘Punjabi style’ for fear of sounding racist), the bugger cheats me. When the taxi pulled up in front of my hotel, the meter read $45. Reasonable. So I hand him my credit card and say “Receipt lagega.” Aaaahhhhh.. That was just the opening that Khattar needed. “Receipt??” and he jumped on to the meter and the console below it. Several seconds of arrhythmic ping beep beep beep ping ping pong ping beep pong ping ping ping beep beep beep passed by nervously. Suddenly the printer showed signs of life and out popped a receipt for the full amount of $59!!!! The meter glanced at the receipt, got the joke, and decided to play along. So, right there, in front of my eyes, the big red $45 disappeared and to take its place on the electronic display came our old friend Mr. Big Red $59.

Score:
Khattar 1
Amdocs 0 (Yeah, yeah, they’re paying for it)

$59 - $45 = $14 = Rs. (14*42) = Rs. 588/-

GO KHATTAR, GO KHATTAR, GO!!
GO KHATTAR, GO KHATTAR, GO!!

I felt so proud to be a ‘desi’ and as I heaved my bag out of the boot, I glanced up at the smirking crook and I swear that I could hear him think. “Bevakoof saala!! Hahahaha, one more Indian not getting out of this country alive!”