I planned my Christmas Holidays with the precision of a military campaign, investing all my free time and a little bit more on it that the whole exercise would shame the efforts of Eishenhower for his D- Day assault.  I spent all my spare time scheming and plotting to squeeze the most out of an arrogant boss whose mission in life is to turn my best laid plans to naught.  All my waking moments are utilized in fantasizing about the probabilities of an early leave that will not count as an official leave, with the possibility of a late return that will surely blew the lid off my already annoyed boss.  With much dread and trepidations, I finally approach the bull of the herd for a much needed understanding, which is an almost next to impossible mission.  Even then, I still prefer to tackle a difficult but predictable boss than a volatile and complex mob of morons, who called off a bandh for one minute and enforced the same the very next minute, without any sense of sensibility. Considering my diplomatic and bargaining skills, the outcome of the fateful meeting within that cubicle is not hard to guess.  With a careless wave of his greasy fingers, that self-righteous pharisee tore down my dreams of a Pre-Christmas mad shopping spree in the malls of New Bazaar, without batting so much of an eyelid. His impish and holier than thou grin at my grief pissed me off so badly that my utter dislike for anything Indian multiplied tenfold from that very instance.  But I am not the least bit surprised with his response. What else should I expect from someone who took bizarre gratification in kicking my behinds every now and then anyways? (No, I’m not! Don’t you dare even think about it, you perv.)  These Indians are so predictable when it comes to us chinkies that I almost cried out in relief, in spite of my disappointment.  So, it looks like I am getting exactly what the rule book says, nothing more nothing less.  At least I can finalize minute details of my itinerary.  Hah, So much for my efforts!

I booked my ticket to Imphal for December 24, 2012, 1245 hrs.on a JetKonnect flight with one stop between my residence and the airport.  I won’t insult your intelligence and imagination by spelling out that mysterious one stop.  So with the efficiency and cupidity of a south Indian gentleman, I proceed to my next objective, which is to find enough time before I left for home to scroll my signature in that dog-eared register, placed so strategically in one corner of His Highness the Greasy Fingers’ chamber, that tells so much about my punctuality or rather, lack of it, that too without the express knowledge of You-Know-Who.  Being an avid reader of Hadley Chase of the sexy-cover-and-disappointing-story line fame, I could easily accomplish my mission.  From there on, everything is smooth sailing till that ominous touchdown at Imphal airport, where travelers like me are greeted by a deafening silence, a silence inspired by none other than our dear Lady of the Livingstone era.  No, I didn’t slap her, nor did I molest her or insult her innocence (whatever that means).  Still, I had to contribute to satisfy her quest for justice, and sacrifice I did!  A noble gesture indeed, for scums like me who don’t give a shit about who slapped who.  After four hours, seven cups of coffee, a packet of cigarette and a few contradictory messages from friends and foes alike, we were given a ride in to the heart of Imphal town in a crowded and ‘not-so-low-floor’ bus to refresh our aching limbs, and to gain firsthand experience about tackling the intricacies of a bandh and a curfew imposed simultaneously. Though reluctant at first, we eventually board that heap of junk they called a bus, for at least we’ll be leaving the airport, though moving in the wrong direction. Believe me, Imphaaan did not disappoint us.  With all the burning tyres and boulders that adorned the streets on this Christmas Eve, our ten-minute journey to Bengali HS is truly an out of this world experience.  After hearing all the hao thus and hao machas from the stone pelting mob of irate Imphanians, who brave the chilly wintry night for reasons that is beyond my comprehension, I began to frantically search for a mug shot of Livingstone to ascertain that he doesn’t have any resemblance with me.  I want to be two hundred percent sure that I don’t look anything like him, dress like him, speak like him or much less even think like him.  For that would be a disgrace to him; a scumbag like me looking like the famously infamous Livingstone, who, of late, had become a celebrity of some sort, though for all the wrong reasons, thanks to a damsel in distress who is hell bent on reclaiming her chastity or whatever she felt she had lost (I wonder what else she still had to lose), from any tribal from the hills who is homesick enough to go home for Christmas  at this time of the year, including me. FYI, my new year resolution this year is to go home for Christmas either during Yaosang or Ningol Chakkouba!!!

Our sojourn in Bengali high School, a mandatory stopover or more appropriately, a ‘makeshift safe-zone’ for marooned travelers, reminds me of those shitholes they called Refugee Camps in some far off trouble-torned African nations like Rwanda or even Somalia.  With all due respect to my Somalian friends in the by lanes of our RAPE CAPITAL! (Forgive my Geography, if I’m wrong). In spite of the cold December weather that chilled us to the bones, the efforts of the Imphal Police department to make our wait most memorable in that dinghy high school were praiseworthy.  Even though the dinner was not exactly up to OK standard, the steaming hot laal chai & bread served as a balm to our wounded sentiments.  Even after much grumbling, the escort party from our beloved Lamka still didn’t show up.  But we were positive that they will eventually turn up for we had been given verbal assurance from none other than the President of Siamsinpawlpi himself.  And so we waited.  And we hoped.  And much to our dismay, the police brought one truckload of mattresses that dashed all our hopes of leaving that wretched HS as soon as possible. Hah, it looks like the cold kiss of a bug infested mattress is going to be my only companion on this Christmas Eve, rather than the warm comfort of my beloved’s loving embrace. So I began to grumble some more and smoked even some more……..and since we were left with no other option, grumbled some more, atleast for the sake of grumbling, if nothing else.. Out of sheer desperation, I even contemplated ‘walking’ up to Lamka. I started to curse everything and anything; Livingstone or Non – livingstone, Momoko or Docomo…I don’t care….I just don’t care anymore….besides, it’s too damn cold and all I wanted at that moment was….…….. And then, as if in a dream, the escort party from Lamka showed up, and I stopped short of cursing them as well, because in my ecstasy, I actually had forgotten all about it……. and our wait was finally over. Unbelievably fantabulous!!!!  It was already 2:00 a.m. in the morning when I reached the loving arms of my angel.  Now I am convinced that it’s not about Momoko nor is it about Mimicry;…….it’s all about disrupting the Sweet Christmas Celebrations, and so I say………….. f#$%ing bigots!