Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Mad Hatters Party

Miss Tee had a life altering experience when she attended her cousin's birthday party.

Disclaimer: The following is based on a true story, though the author may have been liberal in her use of the poetic license.

One of the many revelations that accompany adulthood is a growing appreciation of your parents. It is when you live on your own that you realize that clothes don’t pick themselves off the floor, that bills don’t pay themselves. Our parents have seen some serious shit, literally as well as figuratively.

Let’s give some context: the setting is a pretty little cafĂ© near North Campus. Paper lanterns and arty mosaics adorn the walls. In the midst of this semi-bourgeois environment, clustered in a corner, a microcosm. It is a birthday party for a newly-minted 5 year-old. The table is encircled with mothers and their volley of children, and in the corner is little ol’ me, my possessions held close to my chest. Even as laughter erupts from the other end, the drooling demon baby seated on the table sends my phone flying from my hands and onto the floor, where it falls with a sickening crunch. There is one behind me, climbing my chair and one across me, chocolate smearing its face like war paint. The scene is strangely reminiscent of a horror film, gurgling laughter and satanic screams, emitted at a volume and pitch that seems disproportionate to the tiny body that is the source. The banshee-child’s friend suddenly starts a hip-hop routine on the floor, at which point its mother runs in, shouting apologies and dragging it off.

The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party is a cakewalk (though why anyone would walk on a cake is beyond me) in comparison. I feel as though all of those women are a little mad, their tired eyes screaming for help, switching between cursorily scolding their children and laughing raucously at one of those Whatsapp jokes.

“But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."
"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

*Uhh, so where was I? Oh yeah-*

As I sit in my corner (a different one from where I started, primarily because I wasn’t sure my phone would survive the demon child) in a trance-like state, a terrifying thought crosses my mind- Will I become one of these women? Will my life devolve into a series of mad tea parties? Most importantly- will I have to dress like a hermit for 8 years? A shiver runs down my spine and I look down at my pretty orange dress, a blood-red tiny fingerprint staining the fabric. The delicious tomato-based condiment that I knew and loved took on a sinister symbolism. And then an even more terrifying thought- Was I one of these children?

I learnt a few important lessons that day.

One- Children are bloody scary, and people should refrain from having them for as long as possible.

Two- There is no way I’m spending a chunk of my life cleaning puke stains from my clothes, crayon stains from walls and chocolate stains from demon baby faces.

Three- Appreciate the fact that your mum managed to stay more or less sane despite the ordeal you put her through. Seriously. Maybe also get her an appointment with a psychologist.

And finally, never, ever go to a kid’s birthday party.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Why Nice Guys Come Last

The end of innocence is when you realize that your knight in shining armour was more fiction than reality. Where friendzoned is a stigma worse than a woman running after you with a Rakhi. Where men make you feel guilty for not falling in love with them.

Miss Tee talks about heartbreak and douchebags.

www.troll.me   Image courtesy

Disclaimer: This is not a generalization, but rather an observation borne of some years of life experience, a few of which were spent in the dating circuit.

If I lost a brain cell for every time I’ve heard “nice guys always come last”, I’d be Rahul Gandhi. From whiny posts about the Friendzone to vitriolic rage in the YouTube comments section, females of the human species are frequently made to feel guilty for all the nice guys they reject in favour of apparent douchebags.

Let me clear up something before I’m accused of being a feminazi, or worse, an empowered woman who doesn’t need the validation of a man to live: douche-y people can come from all backgrounds, ethnicities, cultures and yes, genders. There may actually be guys out there who are genuinely nice, and got dumped for someone they perceived as undeserving. However, from overwhelming evidence based on personal experience, I have found the Nice Guy Hypothesis to be faulty. You may think you know a story, but you only know how it ends. So let me start at the beginning.

I grew up, like many girls, on a steady diet of fairy tales and in my naivetĂ©, I “dated” my first boyfriend when I was in middle school. He was the archetypal “nice guy”. Expressive, attentive, given to great displays of generosity. He called every night and even got me flowers on Valentine’s Day. It ended with quite a bang, with yours-truly being declared a “slut” for breaking up with a guy who used guilt as a relationship tactic. I was shamed; a “bitch” that did not deserve him. I felt something was warped in this whole incident, but it took years of perspective to truly understand my first mistake.

Law A: Nice guys, under close observation, are not as nice as they think

Sure, he drove you home, he talked to you till the sun came up, he bought you a promise ring. But how “nice” is he if he threatens to kill you for daring to break up with him? And that’s the problem, right there. The most terrible people raise the most hue and cry when they think they are wronged.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Al-Qaeda poised to launch itself as KFC of Terror Outfits

Courtesy - Google Images

Fugitive Al-Qaeda commander Ayman al-Zawahari announced the formation of a new wing of the feared terrorist group dedicated to waging jihad in the Indian subcontinent. This announcement comes close at the heels of Love-Jehad, a conspiracy waged by Muslim men faking love to get Hindu women to convert to their religion. Dismissing allegations that Muslim men are capable of love, Zawahari said “I call upon all unemployed Muslim men in India to join hands with us and spread hate”. “After all, this is our area of specialization”.

Al-Qaeda that has locations in Kabul, Jalalabad and Kandahar is on an expansion spree and has promised to open its branches in Burma, Kashmir, Bangladesh. Their new branches will offer special privileges like intensive training in duck and hide, hide bomb in garbage cans, how to survive in caves on a rat diet for its members. Their employee of the month will get an all-expense paid trip to Jannat and a night out with 72 virgins. Enquiries regarding the sex of the virgins were met with stoic silence.

Prospective employees have been requested to send their resumes attached to a hand grenade to HR manager Al-Gebra and email their latest unshaven mugshot to publicity and image manager, Al-Bum. Selected candidates will be made to clear stage two of the screening process – spot the drone. Only those who survive will be invited to join this prestigious organisation. Perks include undercover travel to foreign locations.

After losing their Lady Gaga status to ISIS, the organization that specializes in beheading innocent journalists and hiring terrorists with British accents, Al-Qaeda with its many wings hopes to become the KFC of terror outfits. As such only bucket cases enrol to be part of their esteemed organisation.

Al-Coholic, Al-Qaeda’s Spiritual Manager, announced plans to come out with a new fashion line featuring Beloved Leader Osama Laden’s favourite long sleeved, one piece dress that will be available in two colours - dirty and yellowed black. This garment is specially designed to keep Jehadis cool and collected. Anyone who buys more than a dozen Thowbs will be given beloved leader’s porn collection for free.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

When How You Look Is How You Feel

Image courtesy - stock-clip.com
When I was in school, I had this classmate who was spunky, fancied herself as a great singer, and was a bitch. As in someone who did an effortless job of hurting you with words. I still have this image of her, sitting on a hillock in our school’s backfield, with her head tilted sideways, singing ‘Dil ke arman aansuon mein beh gaye’ in a Salma Agha voice. Let’s call her B. B was a chubby girl with an infectious laughter and would often take digs at my skinny frame. In class IX, when a particularly emaciated lady was appointed to teach us Civics, B happily scampered up to me and announced I’d look exactly like her in a sari.
Despite being the girl who never made fun of someone’s extra girth, the Chubby Academy for some strange reason had appointed me as their ‘skinny bitch punching bag’. So, I was often compared to a hanger, my not so well endowed self, a fertile ground for jokes.

Whoever said that overweight people are generally happier and more cheerful was obviously not skinny.

It’s been long since someone has called me skinny. In fact, I’m the size that’s always out of stock and gets sold out first at a sale.

I met B a few years back. She hasn’t lost the extra weight she promised to lose all through her school years. In fact, she has put on so much of it that she can be safely called obese. But what struck me most about her that she’s no longer the B I’d grown up with. Gone was the spunk, her loud laughter, instead I saw a very quiet woman cowering in self-doubt, hiding herself behind the not so skinny bitches when it was time for group photos. During our talks, she told me that she paints. When she finally agreed to share her work on Facebook, I was stunned by its vividness and beauty.
An immensely gifted artist, yet she chooses to focus on how she looks, letting others’ perception of her overshadow her true-self.

Actually, how others see you has a lot to do with how you see yourself in the mirror. If all you see is your eye-bags, big butt, an expanding waist and wobbly thighs, that’s what your friends will see as well. If all you talk about is your extra kilos, the many diets that let you down and how slim you were when you were 20, you will continue to be perceived as just another fat woman. And God forbid, if an overweight friend drops a few kilos, it’s all she’ll talk about for months and expect compliments and praise.

Of course I get it, what a happy feeling it is to finally fit into a dress two sizes small! Your heart sings when you see a fit and toned woman staring back at you from the mirror. All your clothes sit better on you. You look fabulous and feel fabulous. I can’t claim to be any different. I work-out come rain, come shine, come knee-pain and fret when I put on a kilo or two. But if I don’t lose it, I do not let it affect my state of happiness.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Janaani, the story of a fearless cop.

Top post on IndiBlogger.in, the community of Indian Bloggers
This is a story about Shivaji Roye, a fearless cop with a fear of cockroaches, who works for Haryana’s Crime Branch and drinks a lot of adrak chai but without sugar because it’s bad for his figure. Shivaji or Shhh as his wife of 3.8 years often calls him when he talks too much and bitches about his colleagues, is no ordinary cop. He’s sensitive, loves watching romantic movies on TV, hates cricket , loves buying shoes with heels and never refuses to file an FIR. A passionate cook, he often gives his wife, his junior, loads of work so that he can get home first and cook piping hot dinner for her. A few weeks back when he went for a vacation to Mussourie with his wife and his loving mother-in-law, he would wake up every morning in tears. How could he not! The sight of the sun popping out like a glistening egg yolk from behind the mountains was sooo beautiful!

Shivaji had become a cop to make his parents happy. But, instead of blaming them for ruining his life, he dedicated his career in ruining the lives of misogynists that blame women for all offences meted on them and sympathize with the hormonally imbalanced culprits – in other words, the geriatric Khaps. Every week he would go to villages force-feeding chowmein to the custodians of women’s morality. Anyone who dared refuse him was subjected to a heeling experience by Shivaji’s six inch stilettoes and made to read Arundhati Roy’s 69 page essay ‘Algebra of Infinite Injustice’ translated in Hindi.

Other than gastroenteritis, no one had any other complaints. The hormone levels remained the same but the Khaps were now grudgingly accepting that men could be responsible for rapes. Women were still getting killed for honour and lust but they could now die in peace without having to put up with the ignominy of being held responsible for their own deaths. Shivaji was now planning to urge all the Khaps to ditch their pagdis and dhotis for Jeans. He felt, with the right part of the body getting aired, he could usher in winds of change and put an end to love within your Gotra or else die mindsets.

Life was rambling along peacefully like a tractor on mustard fields till one not so fine morning it was toppled over with the news of Munni’s disappearance. Munni, a young spunky girl from Jharsa, had won Shivaji’s heart by tying a Rakhi. She was the sister he never had. Both would often go shopping together followed by golgappas and lots of selfies.

Shivaji was now a man on a mission possible, ruthlessly interrogating Munni’s friends and Facebook friends till he stumbled upon a lead that takes him to the many lanes and bye-lanes of Chandni Chowk and a quick tasty stop at Paranthe wali gali. Just as he was preparing to click photos of the yummy thali with its assortment of chutneys and sabzis, he caught a glimpse of a pair of embroidered jeans that it could only be Munni’s, hanging from the telephone wires overhead. In retrospect, Shivaji thinks that it was part of God’a plan to make his stomach grumble just as he was passing Paranthe wali gali. Had he not made that fateful stop there, he would never had caught Bangaali, the dreaded bride trafficker, who exported Haryanvi brides, a novelty for ineligible bachelors in Best Bengal.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Bharat ek Shauch, No More.

 When Shakespeare said ‘all the world’s a stage’, he’d obviously not visited India where the world’s an open air urinal. Strangely, for a country that’s a great believer of covering up its women and misdeeds with a shroud of righteousness, and frowns upon open display of love especially when it’s not approved by parents, we don’t even lift an eyebrow at the sight of bare bottoms along railway tracks. Every open-field, barren stretch, dimly lit by-lane and brick on the wall is opportunity knocking against bursting bladders and aching stomachs, beckoning them to to come and relieve themselves of all their tensions. This special indignity is reserved for our poor who are only treated as humans when elections are round the corner.

It helps that we have more temples than toilets and the few public toilets that we do have are a playground for germs and diseases. Only someone with a death wish will dare use it.

At a time when India was smoothly transitioning from Bharat ek Soch to Bharat ek Shouch, our newly elected PM, Narendra Modi decided to play the party pooper with his clarion call for separate toilets for boys and girls in schools across the country. Now, these are not private schools that urban folks send their children to but the ones where kids die after having mid-day meals. But, if they are lucky to end up with just loose motions, Modi jee will make sure, they’ll not have to run out their Math class and out of their school in search of the nearest field to relieve themselves of their agony.

Mr Modi’s belief that his dream of ‘Swachh Bharat’ will help girls participate in education for a longer period of time and play a larger economic role has been strongly condemned by Khaps who make no distinction between women and buffaloes. Rahul Gandhi, the greatest champion of women’s empowerment has yet to come to terms that his signature theme is being taken away from right under his nose.

True to our Indian ethos that comes up with 10 different different problems for every solution, a tussle has erupted between the Drinking Water & Sanitation Ministry and the Human Resource Development Ministry over who will fund the construction in state-run schools. The government doesn’t have a Corporate Social Irresponsibility fund to draw on. They may approach the Finance Ministry to introduce a cess for tax payers. The DW&S Ministry has humbly approached Ajit Peewar, Maharashtra’s State deputy chief minister, to fill water tanks and not dams with his honourable urine.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Social Media Etiquettes for Dummies

  Image courtesy - http://socialmediasydney.net.au/twitter-trolls-what-is-appropriate-social-media-etiquette/

We are living in an age when we lead dual lives – on and off the Internet, where our carefully projected online presence is way wittier, prettier, happier and has hundreds of good friends we’d rather not meet. It’s hardly surprising considering our single-minded devotion to social media which lets us Photoshop our lives to picture perfection. We’d rather spend hours scrolling up and down assimilating information that we never need, than look up the ceiling and count the cobwebs or get up from the chair to investigate where that burning smell is coming from. And why not! As opposed to our dull and dreary lives, inhabitants of Instagram and Facebook lead a Utopian existence where everyone is always either partying, vacationing, having exotic meals or sitting around tables laden with food and drinks while smiling charmingly at the camera. On the other hand, Twitter is a land of the idealist where everyone has a perfectly clear idea about how governments should be run, policies should be made and how others should lead their lives.

And now that your Mom and her Grandma are flocking to Facebook, sharing vacation pics and calling each other sweetie, it does make sense that we come up with a list of do’s and don’ts on how to conduct yourself on Social Media.

The first cardinal rule that every social media enthusiast must abide by is the belief that you and only you are the centre of the universe. The sole purpose of your friends and followers existence is to be aware of every minute detail of your life and applaud you and your achievements at every given opportunity. If you love me, you have to love my dog, baby, poetry and motivational quotes. Use every given opportunity to flaunt your Googled knowledge, workout regime and don’t forget to post photographs of you reading a book, cycling, trekking and gently wiping the sweat off your face and wait for the avalanche of compliments. If some of your friends and relatives are too busy to take note of your busy life, make sure you tag them. Only a moron has better things to do with his life than take note of your latest achievements!

The more you praise and click like, the more you’ll be praised and liked in return. Also, only those who call you beautiful and gorgeous deserve your admiration in return.

Remember, your life’s aim is to make others envious of your happiness and successes. And if you don’t have much to brag about, fabricate it, for God’s sake!

Don’t be afraid to show your emotional side to the online world and make sure you add as many emoticons and !!!!!! to your ‘feeling angry, hurt and sad :-(’ status updates. Don’t bother with details and deny your friends the opportunity of asking – what happened, kya hua, you okay????? Wait for at least ten minutes and let them stew in their concern before saying ‘nothing’ and keep the mystery intact. Keep conducting these experiments to find out how many are gullible enough to fall for your theatrics.


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