Thursday, May 21, 2015

A Selfie Made PM

India’s greatness lies in its great leaders. As history will testify, leaders are not born great. They are either born with great last names or achieve greatness through the eternal cycle of scams and clean-chits and the many yojanas named after them. Our leaders of yore did not have the luxury of appropriating public money for private gains, they had to mostly rely on good deeds, years of struggle, and policies that shaped our today for everlasting greatness. But when you’re long gone and become a statue at a busy traffic intersection, silently collecting bird poop of all hues, you need that extra something that sets you apart from the also-rans. Nehru appropriated the high necked sleeveless jacket, the rose and made that his own. Gandhi immortalized the dhoti, charkha and left behind great quotes for world leaders and Hollywood stars to borrow. Netaji’s monocles are as much a part of his legacy as his mysterious disappearance that gave rise to generations of Kakus and Jethus who insisted they had spotted him on Elgin road just last week. 

Just like political parties have symbols, our elected also need a style statement to claim their space in fickle public memory. Since corruption charges, insensitive comments and lunging at each other’s’ throats while the assembly is still in progress is de-rigueur for our netas, they are constantly looking for a USP that will set them apart from the cattle class. Not everyone is blessed with lush Amazonian growth sprouting out of their ears like Laloo, so they have to resort to capes, mufflers, rath rides and pee on plants to claim their rightful place in the electorate’s heart.

Which is why I don’t understand why some of you find Modi’s penchant for taking selfies at every given opportunity so funny. Don’t we all do the same – fish out our phones, pose and preen, the moment we sense company?

It requires a great leader like NaMo to adopt our selfie addiction as his own and use it to his advantage. How many nations can claim to have a PM who not only forges ties with world leaders but also their doting Mom and adoring bhakts by clicking selfies with them?

And when you are leading a nation with the world’s youngest population, you can no longer rely on tight churidars and bandh-galas to worm your way into their hearts. Especially after you have promised them acche din and then let your colleagues go on a banning spree depriving them of their little joys!

While ordinary mortals like us travel all over the world only to return with made in China mementoes, PM Modi Jee goes globe-trotting and returns with thousands and thousands of priceless memories, all captured on his phone camera. Only NaMo knows, when it comes to selfies, there’s scope for one more and more and more. 


Pic Courtesy - Narendra Modi

Even a hardened leader like Chinese Premier Li Keqiang could not resist Modi’s childlike enthusiasm and smiled for his first ever selfie. If only Modi had pouted and tilted his head sideways, the Chinese government would’ve been wracked with remorse for welcoming him with a map of India without Arunachal Pradesh and J&K on state TV and sent a sorry faced selfie as a note of apology.

While our friendly neighbours resort to border incursions, stealth attacks and harbour terrorism to keep our friendly ties alive, our PM believes in conquering hearts with the power of selfies.

No wonder, Indians who felt ashamed of being born Indians, coloured their hair peroxide blonde, slathered their face with Fair and Lovely, moved to the land of dollars and shortened their names to Ken, Jen and Pen, are now proud to be called Kalpesh, Jignesh and Paritesh, while they chant Modi Modi Modi and beat up Rajdeep Sardesai.

Fifty years later when they’ll erect a 700 feet statue of Narendra Modi along Gujarat’s coastline, honouring the ascent of a self-made man to a selfie-made PM, we all know what he’ll be holding in his hand as he smiles endearingly at the sky.

In the same vicinity, where tourists will trample over each other to get a better selfie with this great man, there’ll be a chaiwala simmering tea for his customers and dreaming of a future as bright as the towering presence.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

You Don’t Mess With The Metro-wali Aunty.

Image courtesy - Colors Channel

If you Google ‘aunty’, your search results will throw up astounding findings about her sexual appetite for neighbourhood boys on her charpai. The real life aunty is as different from the virtual as mathri is from crostini. She bears no resemblance to the hormone-fuelled fantasy of the Indian male searching furiously for her underarm pics in sleeveless blouses.

In India more so in Delhi, the term aunty is more a state of mind of the one who bequeaths her with this title and less of a relation. She’s the thirty kilos later version of the Behenjee who’ll elbow you out of her way and try her best to throw you into the ‘mind the gap’ as you try to board the Metro.

Being an Aunty is a lot like stupidity – everybody other than you is aware of it. No Aunty even in her wildest dream thinks of herself as one until she gets auntyzoned by Sunny whose backyard she uses to dump the remnants of chholey and chawal that she cooked lovingly for her family. When he dares to protest, she anoints him and his ancestors dating back to the days when they still hung around on trees, with choicest expletives. As he beats a hasty retreat, his face a beetroot red, he spits ‘aunty’ once he’s out of her hearing range. The last time, his best friend, Bunny, dared call her Aunty on her face, he was felled like an emaciated tree by her ‘dhai kilo kaa haath’

If you still don’t have any idea about what I am talking about, I suggest you board the Delhi Metro. You are most likely to spot her in the ladies coach. If you are unfortunate enough to find an empty seat for yourself, you’ll find her hovering over you like a pollen thirsty bee, ordering you to ‘thoda adjust kar lo’ as if it’s her birthright. 'Thoda adjust' simply means, you better seat yourself on one butt-cheek so that I can seat me, my big ass handbag and many shopping bags comfortably. God forbid if you’re seated between two such specimens, your pelvis will get pulverised by their bump and grind routine.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Why Plants Are Greener on Gadkari Jee’s Side of Fence




Goumutra - the elixir of youth and all things good, is under threat from another serious contender for its yellowed halo, Gadkari’s bladder. Union Minister, Nitin Gadkari, while addressing a gathering in Nagpur said that instead of wasting their precious pee on public walls, people should use it to water plants for their healthy growth. ‘Daily, I collect urine in a 50 ltr can, it is then used to water plants in my Delhi residence.’

Gadkari now has the unique distinction of being the proud owner of rows and rows of pissed off plants. Once he reveals what he uses as manure for his garden, he can stake his claim as BJP’s number 1 and number 2 minister.

This comes a huge relief to farmers in Maharashtra who have been waiting for over two years for Ajit Pawar’s urine to fill their dams. They can now rely on Gadkari’s brand new farming technology to irrigate their crops.

Gadkari further claimed that plants that got urine therapy showed better growth than those nurtured on plain water. Thanks to Gadkari’s revelation, women who were previously condemned as vindictive for pissing in their guests’ and MIL’s tea are now being hailed as ‘peelanthropists’. They are now being urged to mix pee in their family’s tea as well.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Blockbuster drama, now playing in a movie hall near you



Image Courtesy - Google images

There’s no one more foolish than a person who goes to watch a movie in a multiplex for the simple pleasure of cinema. The movie is just a means to soak in the liveliness and chirpiness of people who accidentally ended up in the same hall as you. You can close your eyes and sink back on your cushy seat as you tap your feet to the mellifluous symphony of a gaggle of kids screaming in unison. Surprisingly, their parents, oblivious to their progeny’s talents, continue to stare poker-faced at the screen. Just as your attention is diverted by the antics of a certain Bakshy out to save Kolkata from the evil clutches of the Japanese army, a tiny head will sneak in from behind and startle you with, Pappa, potty janaa hai. Overcome by guilt, you will immediately get up and offer to take the hapless soul to the restroom to unburden him from toxins playing havoc in his tiny intestines.

You can learn pick-up tricks from Rakesh Jee on how to negotiate as he strikes a business deal on loudspeaker mode on his phone. If possible, give him an encouraging smile and wave, so what if he can’t see you in the dark! Wearing a neon coloured lipstick helps.

I still can’t fathom why our filmmakers invest so much money and passion in making movies when all we need is a bucket of popcorn, litres of Coke or Pepsi, a cool dark hall reverberating with chatter of merry men and women, to have a good time! It’s so much fun to be seated on time and be able to offer your feet for the stamping pleasure of a bunch of giggly college girls who arrive fashionably late.

Thanks to my many sojourns to movie halls, I now know intimate details about strangers who insist on gossiping with Dolby surround sound. Sometimes when I’m in a genial mood, I walk down and offer them advice on where to procure top quality diamonds at reasonable price and dealing with demanding mothers-in-law by mixing pee in their tea.

I also get to test my long distance vision by reading status updates on mobiles 5 rows ahead of me. Most of them are busy critiquing the movie, pointing out the flaws in the script, the poor editing and pathetic acting skills of the lead actors.

Wow, you have to be really talented to analyse a movie without even bothering to watch it!

Once upon a time I was a fool like you, who’d bemoan the complete lack of consideration many of our countrymen display for fellow movie-goers. I had little patience for people who’d treat movie halls as their own private space, moisturising your hair with their spit as they noisily munched tonnes of snacks and exchanged pleasantries on the phone with long lost relatives. I would experience extreme emotional distress when my loud sobs, empathising with the doe eyed heroine’s anguish (as her sadistic Ma chopped off her finger to teach her errant daughter a lesson), would be rudely interrupted by loud guffaws from insensitive louts. I would often end up trying to shush these specimens and unfairly subject them to my dagger eye treatment in an attempt to reform them. A few times I even had the audacity to wonder why parents drag their toddlers to Adult certified movies and subject them to blood and gore and other hanky-panky stuff? Why does the Censor Board spend weeks on certification when everyone, including movie management, treats it as a RaGa or Aliya B joke?

Not anymore. Thanks to a new me, I never have a dull moment, irrespective of how bad or good the movie is! Because I have little expectation of etiquette from others, I sit back and enjoy the show, on and off the screen. My favourite part is when Sunny Leone shakes her inner booty on the silver screen. I whistle and woot loudly and kick the back of the seat with my heels to express my appreciation. If I accidently walk in for an artsy movie and discover it’s dull and boring with no masaledar sex scenes, I start reading WhatsApp jokes loudly to anybody who’d care to listen. At a philosophical level, such rude reminders of reality keep the viewer stay grounded, helping them stay uninvolved with the stuff on the screen, all of which is virtual and maya twice removed. I mean, how many villages have the likes of Bipasha in fully made-up splendour, crooning huskily? 

 
Also, I’m seriously considering having another baby, raise him to be a brat and let him loose on all those poker-faced parents whose kids I took to the restroom.

Why be the long suffering bahu of a saas-bahu weepy, when you can choose to be the scheming saas?

Once you become the uncouth nincompoop you’d been dying to change, movie watching will no longer be an agonizing affair. If you can’t change them, become one of them and torture them with the same behaviour they subject you to. As such, enjoying a movie for sheer cinematic pleasure is so last century. 


Monday, April 20, 2015

The serious business of Bhalobasha, the Bengali way



Image courtesy - TelegraphIndia.com


There are certain words in Bangla that have no equivalent in any other language. Like nyakami, a trait peculiar to Bengali women especially if she’s beauteous and aware of it. Nyakami is her way of conveying to you, she knows that you know she’s beautiful, with maximum effect. A tilt of her head that gives your gaze the felicity of looking at her neck tad longer than necessary. A knowing smile, a lethal combination of innocence and coquettishness, engineered to feel like shrapnel on your heart afflicted by affection of the tingling kind. Emboldened by her playful antics, you make flirtatious advances, only to be rebuffed with - isshh, uff, kee oshobho (how shameless you are). Suitably reprimanded and filled with remorse at misreading her signals, just as you beat a hasty retreat, she will dart you a come hither look that’ll leave you as confused as a deer caught in headlight.

She will make you revolve around her as she blazes like the sun. Only when she’s convinced enough of your slavish love for her, will she let you into the inner sanctum of her heart.

Phostinoshti is yet another term that is peculiar to Bangla and Bengalis. It is a Bengali’s way of having an aphair (affair), without doing much about it. Just like the revolution that he plots from his armchair, hoping to change the world without lifting his finger.

If there’s anything that a Bangali is more passionate about other than phish, phootball and phriends, it the business of prem-koraa (sweet lovin’). The grooming starts at a very young age. While the young male prefers spending his youth doing adda on a rock, his female counterpart is busy showering love on mankind. For her prem-kora is a day job, along with chaan kora, ranna kora and kaaj kora (bathing, cooking and working), exactly in that order. 

So, when the Bengali male nurtured on Horlicks, Kalmegh, fish-head and Ishabgol decides to woo the nayika of his dreams, he engages in 'phostinoshti’. This consists mostly of thinking he is having an affair without actually having one. Poetry and Rabindra Sangeet feature at the top of activities, some holding of hands, exchange of coy glances, stolen hugs and loud sighs to express helplessness. All through this, neighbours will be told 'o amaaar bonner moto' (she is like my sister). Not suggesting incest, but to just convey there is no actual phostinoshti.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

A True Welfare State (Cows Only)


As disturbed as the saffron brigade that advised me to wash my mouth with Harpic, and go back to my motherland for daring to compare cows with women, Cacofonix my guest blogger has decided to repent on my behalf. In this post he comes up with cow welfare schemes that'll show the world how much we cherish our four-legged Mom. 

Each cow will have a 12-digit unique identification number". The aim of this scheme is to establish identity of cows, their security and provide them benefits of health schemes.” 
 
Indians have really nailed it when it comes to quadrupeds. Okay, the cow is holy there, and the cow knows it. They have generally been roaming around with an air of insouciance all these years – on the streets, in the fields, in market places, through narrow gullies, jumping over cow catcher grills at IIT hostels. Pooping anywhere they liked. Mooing anytime they pleased. But now, the administration has taken up their cause, like never before. Because, the cow is like their mother. Can be a tad confusing because human mothers have two breasts and cow mothers could have several – it is hard to tell how many. But that’s another matter.

Critics of the government machinery, who just don’t understand Indian heritage, have been shouting needlessly from the rooftops, saying that cows now enjoy greater legal protection than women. What they don’t get is the fact that this is one territory where India has trumped the most advanced country on earth, the US. I mean, the US sulked when India sent a spacecraft to Mars (the second time after the one sent up in 3500 BC, just read the frigging Vedas), but they are having a hard time now on what to do for their Jersey herds to be one up on India. The White House has approved funds for developing an upgraded version of unique IDs that will carry the complete biometric profile, lipid profile, BMI, political affiliation and dietary options in a microchip that can be etched like a wafer on a neck piece – how fetching! The better off bulls will get color options for these tags, maybe purple, black and magenta, hanging from Swarovski encrusted gold chains.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Why Cows Deserve More Protection than Women

Also published on Huffington Post, India.


Image courtesy - Google.com

It is now safer to be a cow than a woman in our country. Thanks to the over-zealous saffron brigade enforcing laws ensuring her safety and long life, they are also the more empowered lot. While the Fadnavis government was busy earning brownie points, passing motions to ban consumption of beef, Haryana government went a step ahead and covered itself with cow dung by taking a historic step deciding to issue unique identification numbers to its indigenous cattle. While women in Haryana will have to live with desi names like Saali, Nikammi, Kalmunhi, and beatings from their men, cows will be anointed with cool 12 digit names, entitling them to free healthcare benefits. Moov over Jaat bois, Haryanvi gais are the new beefcake in town.

Cow slaughter in Haryana will now attract a rigorous imprisonment ranging from three years to 10 years and a fine of up to Rs 1 lakh, while girl child slaughter and rapes will continue to be a socially acceptable norm. Mumbai girls have ditched their pepper spray for beef steak to shove it into the mouth of anyone who dares molest them, since consumption of beef invites a stricter punishment than treating women like a piece of meat.

Before the unreasonable gender of the human species goes around blaming our Netas for pandering to the cattle class to gain political acreage, while they have to master the art of using pepper sprays, martial arts to keep horny men at bay, I’d like to present my arguments as to why it makes more sense to protect cows than women.

Every Cow is your Maa, hence every Maa is a cow. Like every dutiful Maa, her love is as pure and pristine as her milk. She’s not only the milk of humanity, even her poop and urine, as swachh and holy as her heart have medicinal properties. You can glug cow urine to cure yourself of cancer, diabetes and tuberculosis or any other disease you may have incurred as karma for your past sins. Once cured, you can use the extra supply to replace environment unfriendly Phenyl and swab your floors clean. RSS has developed a cow-urine-based soft drink called Gomutra Ark. The drink is a "healthy" alternative to Coca-Cola, Pepsi and other soft drinks, which are part of a wider problem resulting from corrupt Western influences. Cow dung on the other hand is fuel cum fertilizer cum purifier cum sanitizer cum skin tonic cum tooth polish rolled into patties and can be safely hailed as the Elvis Presley of excrement.

Even your biological Mom cannot claim to be so udderly useful!

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