So I rock into a bar, plant myself on a bar stool and start discussing some cricket with the gang.

I am in the middle of an animated conversation, explaining the finer points of the Indian cricket team in chaste hindi, when a kid who looks like a sponge disturbs me.

No, not a bathroom sponge, the “Dad, gimme fifty bucks an’ your car keys man!” kinda sponge. Typical 18-20 or something year-old Indian, a vaguely-military haircut, rings on every bodily protrusion. Pumped up on weights and ephedrine with a cute “show-me-your-wallet-size-first” girl friend at hand.

“I was sitting there”, he says.
Not a chance bud, not when I sat on it, ‘twas vacant.

The Kid now comes and stands closer to me, I get the unpleasant whiff of brylcreem and benson and hedges.
“Well, I still wan’t you to get up, that's ma place”, now jabbing a finger in my face; a veritable Ja-Rule on a roll. This guy obviously doesn't take no for an answer, or just wants to impress his chick.

Smugly, I decide to refuse again; Not because I want to get into a brawl, but because there is an eagle-eyed three hundred pound bouncer at the opposite end of the bar.

The sponge also seems to realize that.
He spits his leathery bubble gum into the ash-tray.
Clearly, he is passionate about bubble-gum and fighting, and now he is out of bubble-gum.

“You know you are a fuckin’ rocket”, he tells me in the most mocking voice he can muster.
He wants me to hit him first.

Let me digress, for a bit.
The Kenyan Indian is a strange variety of Indian. While a large number of them came here in the early part of the 20th century, many have been around for even longer than that. They have still managed to retain a strong “Indian identity” in terms of language, accent, culture and religion. While all this seems very nice-n-happy, some Indians have evolved into bigots(Now that's not new, is it?). Indian expatriates (people like me) and first generation indians are sometimes termed as “Rockets”, I am not certain as to the origins of the term – but it is always used in an inferior context. Actually there are terms for all kinds of people, but lets just worry about the rockets for now.

OK, now back to the main story.
Why is he calling me by that name, I enquire politely?

“Aren’t you from India?”, he asks, frowning.
So I am.
The cute sheila with the Kid, is sniggering now. I notice she has her tongue pierced. Kinky.

“Well, then you are a fuckin’ rocket”, he blusters again. Now he's feeling good. Good.
Where was he from? I respond with bluff outrage.

“I am from Kenya, I was born ‘ere”.The fake accent is like the icing on the cake.
Where was his daddy from?
“Even my dad was born ‘ere! And so was his dad”
And great-grandpappy?
“Uh….from India”, now a bit hesitant and suspicious.

“Well, you know what….”, I am grinning when I say it, “ maybe I am just a rocket, but you are a great-grand fuckin’ rocket!!!.... And yeah, I am not getting up!” and I turn my attention back to the warming beer.

Kid tries to think of a rejoinder, he thinks really deeply, but nothing comes out. And the girl looks like she wants to catfight my brains out.
Yeah baby, bring it on.
The bouncer walks by us, the floor creaking under him.
They think better of it, and decide to evaporate.

Later, S. gives me a dressing down on the way I handled the moron. She thinks I could have been more diplomatic and “sagacious”. Well, how do you go about having a sensible argument with someone, who only uses his head as a hat stuffing for FUBU baseball caps? I didn’t end up in a medieval blood bath of fisticuffs, did I?

But no, I am still wrong. What can I say? Sometimes women sound like miscreant police officials -- “You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you, so please SHUT up!”.

I ask her if she will consider getting a tongue piercing?
Now, Now, that’s red bull being poured over my head….