Dnivash’s Weblog

1993 was the year of Jurassic Park, experimental cloning, the Latur earthquake and news involving Michael Jackson, some little boys and absolutely no music.

1993 was also the year I heard my first dirty joke. That’s a bizarre snippet of statistic though, since I’m yet to meet someone who remembers exactly how or when he heard his first dirty joke. Dirty jokes have a way of virally working their way into your system. You never know when you caught them first or how you got so full of them but they’re all over you before you know it.

Especially when you’re eleven and extremely impressionable!

Despite possessing a mind which used to get rebellious on the double, I had always been a fairly obedient child. They’d tell me to look both ways before crossing the road and I’d look both ways while crossing the road! They’d also make it a point to ask me to stop burping at the table and I’d stop burping at the table! On the whole, I had been the least of hassles as I grew up.

I had always had an overwhelming sense of taboo on account of an overtly functional and often paranoid conscience. One fine morning in 1993, a narrative sequence with questionable undertones made it through my taboo filter under the guise of an innocent story and before I knew it, I was beginning to feel funny as a reaction to what I’d heard.

Hearing my first dirty joke… laughing at it…

It actually happened when I was sitting with The Gang for lunch. One of them had proudly proclaimed how he had extended his tastes to Indian authors and had started off with Khushwant Singh and how his life had changed overnight.

I had heard quite a bit mentioned about the great man and had considerable reason to believe that he was one of the main proponents of Indo-Anglican literature and was braving ahead with the baton of the English Novel in India. A pair of innocent ears perked up on either side of my head. Reviews of literary geniuses were always welcome!

“He is a master of humor!” started The Much-Improved Reader.

“Tell us more!” I heard my innocent lips and mouth sync out those words.

“So he uses words beautifully! He knows how to weave stories around simple words and they hit you right at the end!”

“Oh! So that’s like O’Henry? Or Somerset Maugham?”

“Yes! Yes!” he hushed me impatiently, “All that and more!”

I waited eagerly! We were talking partition literature here! Train to Pakistan! Maybe a dozen more on that country-rending event!

“So there’s this story about a man who’s trying to get into a bus, you know! And then he’s using a walking stick and he slips, you know! And there is another man with 12 kids, you know! And both miss the bus, you know! And the man with children tells the other man to put some rubber at the end of the stick, you know! For grip, you know! And well…”

And he continued narrating the masterpiece in his unique personal style which involved a whole deal of ‘you knows’ substituting the commas.

And I listened, munching on every word, till the recounting came to an end with a punchline and before I knew it, I was smiling for I’d heard something fairly naughty!

I hated myself! How could I ever fall to such levels where I could laugh at things which were not supposed to be talked about?

The Conscience took me to court for the rest of the day.

“Yerr honor! I would like to present before you the principal accused in this case!”

I looked around myself, as if rudely awoken from a dream, and found only three people in the room: His honor, The Conscience and Me.

The principal accused? Surely he couldn’t be talking about me!

The Conscience continued. He had no reason to stop.

“The accused has never had a criminal record in my books except for some secretly stolen cookies and an equal number of secretly stolen moments with a lady of his age whose hair seems to be a matter of prime obsession with him!”

I couldn’t believe my ears! I had no clue The Conscience had issues with my harmless games with The Childhood Sweetheart.

“The accused has been charged with extraction of unwholesome pleasure from the consumption of an addictive substance, namely a dirty joke, in the current case of offence. Yerr Honor! With your permission, I would like to interrogate the said accused!”

“Permission Granted!”

I looked around in disbelief. I had no clue whatsoever about the identity of this permission-granting judge.

“Where were you at five minutes past noon today?”

“Err… The Football Field!” I mumbled.

“And would you care to describe the nature of activity you were indulging in at that point of time!”

“We were talking!”

“What was the subject of discussion?”

This was getting uncomfortable in hindsight.

“Literature!”

“What kind of literature?”
“Indian… err… Indo-Anglican!”

“Which author in particular?”

“Khushwant Singh!”

“Did you get excited at the mention of Khushwant Singh?”

“I guess.”

“This is a court of law! Not a game of dumb charades! Quit guessing! Did you or did you not get excited?”

“Yes, I got excited.”

“And did your ears stand up?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you at that time?”

What did he expect me to say? Where was I? Attached to my ears? Where else?

“In the field!”

“And what did the discussion comprise of thematically?”

I felt cornered. “Partition?”

“Are you sure? Wasn’t it something different?”

“Uhh… Buses… Public Transport!” I had to wiggle out of this one.

“Was that the central theme of the discussion?”

“Yes!” I said confidently. I needed to take a stand to wiggle out of this one.

“OK! Let me ask you another question! Was there a one-way narration in progress?”

“Yes!”

“And did you happen to laugh at the end of this narration?”

This was getting tricky again.

“I might have smiled! I usually do! It’s pleasant!”

“Did you or did you not laugh at the end of this narration?”

“I did!”

“Was it because you found it funny!”
No! It was heart-breaking, gut-wrenching, blood-curdling! That’s why I laughed! What a NUT!

“Yes!”

“Would you say the part on which you laughed had potential for innuendo?”

I was getting cornered once again.

“I don’t know! I couldn’t be sure!”

“Very well! I’m going to tell you a joke and you shall tell me whether you’ve heard it before.”

And he proceeded to recount the joke word for word.

And like a giggly fourteen year old who has recently heard his first dirty joke, I felt the urge to snigger starting to overcome me.

I bit my cheeks! I was in a court of law and every giggle would be taken as evidence against me!

The Conscience reached the punchline and despite my efforts, I let out a chuckle!

“Ah! You laugh! Yerr Honor! He laughs!”

Of course I laugh! What was I? Some horror movie freak?

“Did you find this funny?”

I couldn’t help it. “Yes!”

“And what, in your opinion, is funny about two people entering a bus?”

This was getting tougher. He knew he had me so he continued!

“Would you say that you find the innuendo towards the end amusing?”

“Yes!”
“And have you heard this joke before?”

“Yes, I have!”

“Were you present when you heard it?”

No, I wasn’t! I was doing telepathy! Seriously, The Conscience was taking the Prosecutor role a bit too seriously for his own good!

“Yes!” I replied dutifully.

“Yerr Honor!” he started, turning to the judge dramatically and gesturing as if shutting an open case, “We have our man!”

A conscience on the rampage is worse than a long-term suspicious nagging wife laying hands on incriminating evidence.

Dont just laugh and leave coment something about this.