WITH AND WITHOUT

"Jis din in dono me se kisi ek ki bhi naukri lag jaaye us din meri moochen uda dena" - barked Virus with contempt and derision as he lay down flat on his stomach with his head tilted to the side, for the typical 15-minute session with his personal barber. He knew there was never a chance those two pricks could pocket a job even if they were the last two remaining to be placed with a hundred more employers due to pay a visit. But little did the poor chap know he would part with his dear moustache during his punctuated, cacophonous snores, and his undoing would be heralded by the very two of Rancho's comrades whom he loathed beyond words could describe, who themselves had been suffering in great turmoil as they knew it'd be ridiculously goosey to field any hopes of a job in the offering - atleast until that dreadful day.

Neither did I. It was there when I last saw it, perched on top of my lips, a black crescent resembling a bow crafted to precision for the most adept of archers, cultivated through careful grooming over several years, not a whisker out of place. The eclectic model which would make its way into the halls of fame once it attained its final dimensions after subtle 'machining' (the word I have so repeatedly been confronted with ever since my return from TATAland), and stimulate envy in men less tolerant towards facial hair especially that found in the region south of the nostrils.

And then in a trance of impulsive mindlessness, it was gone - rather forfeited, abnegated. As soon as I yielded to the misleading proffers of our 'Punk-ie' friend (who has continued to receive constant attention in my writings), it took him no time before he conjured his instrument of mass demolition and wielded it in all malice along the bushy contours of the terrain north of my upper lip, wiping out anything that interrupted its evenness, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Curious as I was to see for myself the results of this experiment, I prodded along without objection. It was only after the damage had been done beyond repair, that I realized I had committed a blooper. It looked as if I had suddenly recovered a few years in age - like a child trapped in an overgrown body, and I was overcome by the desire to become 'Baba' again.

The sands of time will settle down upon the emptiness and conceal it until blossoms of thin grass begin to grow from underneath and shed them away. The process will take its time, working slowly to regenerate what has been lost. This would probably strengthen my resolve to act with thoughfulness in matters relating to the foreseeable future. But as with every other story, there is a lesson to be learnt. Never heed the advice of a friend who, by any coincidence, happens to have an association with 'Pink'.