Sunday, September 25, 2016

Bharat and Pak – It’s So Damn Complicated!

It’s complicated – the relationship between Bharat-Bhushan and Pak Begum. It’s been over 67 years since BaaP broke up, yet Begum Pee continues to behave like a jilted ex. Guess, Pee never forgave Bharat for getting custody of their beti, Kishmish even though it was she who chose to stay with Pitajee. You can call them the original Brangelina, all jaanu-shaanu when together and throwing bartans and belans at each after they went their separate ways.

Bharat’s ex has made it her life’s mission to raise his BP to Himalayan heights by engaging in a bitter custody battle over their love child Kishmish, each accusing the other of abuse and neglect. Interestingly when they meet they behave as if they’ll patch-up any minute, going mwah mwah, singing ‘aman ki aasha’ in dulcet tones. But the moment Bharat turns his back, Pee turns into a demented chudail, constantly orchestrating covert attacks and creating pressure in BB’s nose (naak mein dum). B Bhushan responds with lots of angry condemnations and running to Uncle Sam to complain. It’s the same story every time. Pee continues to attack Bharat and his brood grievously while he’s all kadhi ninda and no action. These days Begum has become even more daring with the backing of her new boyfriend, Mr Chin Chin. Even Kishmish has also been acting all angsty like a pimply teen and constantly throws tantrums because she wants azadi. Kids, I tell you!

Sadly for Pak, the same story decided enough is enough and refused to repeat itself. This unusual occurrence was triggered by yet another behind the back, sneaky assault that had Bharat’s brood led by Angry Goswami (his favourite son) and social media warriors baying for her blood. Fierce battles were fought on Twitter and Facebook. Cunning war strategies were formulated on Facebook walls, nuclear submarines were deployed and fighter aircrafts roared out of hangars on Twitter timelines and brutal jokes were made to shame Begum Pee once and for all.

Bharat Bhushan goaded by the bloodcurdling cries of netizens FINALLY decided to retaliate with a stinging counter-attack that’s so covert that even his bacchas are not aware of it.

Only the writer of this post was cunning enough to sniff it out. She blames her fish-eating Bengali genes. Now before I astonish you with stunning revelations, let me add, the seeds of this covert operation were planted long time back. It started off as shedding our British legacy by getting rid of the silly names they had given our cities that sound good only if you sound like Piers Morgan. So Cawnpore became Kanpur and Jubbulpore became Jabalpur and so on. Somewhere down the line, a wily bunch of netas hit upon the brainwave of renaming almost all our cities. Madras became Chennai, Bombay became Mumbai, Trivandrum became a city than no one can spell. And now people are so confused, they often call Kolkata, Colkutta, which is the sound you make when you’re just about to vomit. Banking upon this growing confusion, Bharat’s new caretaker BJ :p has taken this renaming business to new lows and is giving his Dil a makeover by renaming its arteries. First Aurangzeb became Abdul Kalam, giving both these deceased gentlemen an identity crisis. Last week after the yet another fatal blow by Pee, BJ :p launched a stinging counter-offensive and changed Racecourse Rd, Dil’s most hallowed address to Intercourse road. Oops, sorry! Copulation is against Indian culture but Lok Kalyan is not. So yeah, Racecourse road is now Lok Kalyan Road.

Speculation is rife that Jor Bagh will now be called Kamjor Bagh, Greater Kailash - Hurr hurr Mahadev and Deer Park – Gau Udyaan. Dil will also acquire a new name, Jhuggi because that’s what it looks like these days since Kejriwal took over.

Now you’ll ask me, what the eff does it have to do countering Begum Pee’s terrorising ways? See, with all this renaming business, if an average resident of Dil can get hopelessly lost in a maze of new sanskari names, how can you expect Pee sponsored terrorists to reach the correct address given by their bosses in Islamabad! This, compounded by our autowallas who only say yes to a passenger who wears pink on full moon nights, commuters in Metros who try their best to suffocate you and Ola drivers who keep cancelling your rides, will drive any terrorist to self-detonate himself in the nearest dustbin!

Isn’t this the best thing since Gandhi jee’s Satyagraha for countering unprovoked violence with non-violence? Now if only we can rename Kishmish to Kaju, Pak may not want it anymore. And in a few years, when we have driven all beef eaters, pseudo intellectuals, Barkha Dutt, liberals, jhola, loving JNU students to ‘God knows where’ Bharat can finally call itself Haahaastan and nobody will be able to find Bharat on the world map! We will become like Airtel’s signal – dhoondte reh jaaoge.

With no Bharat in sight, Pee will start focussing on holistic pursuits, join Yoga classes and become an all new improved woman who believes in world peace and eats only shoots and leaves.

I hereby request UNESCO to declare our war strategy the best in the world.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

DJ wale Babu zara volume badhaa do!

We Indians love noise as much as we love our gais and demonstrate our dogged devotion to both by driving others mad. Why, we are even ready to kill if someone refuses to share our fervour for our object of affection with the same passion! Wasn’t it in Vasant Kunj where a gym owner killed his neighbour because he complained of the loud music playing at his gym?

One man’s headache maybe another man’s music but how dare he point that out and spoil the fun!

Well, I’ve often felt like killing myself at the gym instead of waiting for some irate Jaat to do the honours. Especially when I’ve heard ‘clap your hands now, you motherfucker’! at least 5 times during my workout interspersed with grunts from the hulk next to me trying to lift weights double his own. Thanks to this elevating experience, I’ve mastered my Nagin look, the same one that Sridevi gave Amrish Puri.
Google Images
But only after I’ve whined about the limited, unimaginative playlist to the management. They as usual have no clue as to what I’m talking about. I’m often brushed off as a pesky fly.

The scary bit is that the same playlist is shared by the world and its aunt. So, you get to hear Honey Singh woo his kudi namkeenaa, ambraan di queenaa, at the Pub, club, blaring from the water-park in the vicinity, neighbourhood shaadi sharing their joy via loudspeakers, and the party hosted by a dear friend. Sometimes I get so confused that I actually jiggle my hips in a drunken stupor at the gym and try to do push-ups at the hottest new brewery playing stale hits. By the end of the year, I’ve intimate knowledge of Mr Singh’s weird notion of romance that entails meeting kudi namkeena’s daddy so that his future son-in-law can tell him ‘Bas jitna aapki beti ek mahine mein udati hai, ek hafte me meri gaadi utna tel khaati hai!’ (keep your daughter away from me because I’m an asshole) Wow, how can any woman resist this charmer!

But isn’t that the beauty of music that catches the public’s fancy. It’s not a superhit till it drives you to the brink of lunacy. The first time you hear it, you nod your head with approval, much like a Kathakali dancer. The next few times you enjoy it and even try humming along with it. But when it starts stalking you wherever you go, whatever you do, you scream nahiiiin like a Bollywood Mom of yore who has lost her sons at a mela.
Google images

Friday, September 9, 2016

An Open Letter to all by a hurt Ms Baigan

Not so dear all,

Till a few days back I was just a Baigan, sitting on a rack, waiting for you to take me home, mash me, pulp me and devour me with relish. I suffered in silence even when you rubbed me with oil and put me on fire to roast in my own juices. I even put up with smelly onion and too-much-blusher-tomato because I wanted you to like me the way you like that squishy paneer. Oh, don’t you for a moment think I didn’t notice the look of tenderness when you picked her up and surveyed her lovingly, your drool moistening your lips! Yet, I looked on stoically, with a stone placed on my heart.

I know I am no superfood. I’m dark, plump and a veggie with many names – aubergine, eggplant, brinjal, baigan, begoon… But tell me, what did I do to deserve to become the butt of your merciless jokes and bad puns!

Mind it, I will never forgive Durex for besmirching my spotless reputation by announcing ‘spicy baigan’ flavoured condoms. Just as Mother Teresa’s Holy Spirit was getting canonised at the Vatican and demonised by the republic of Twitter, Durex got this brainwave to sexify me.

Durex, do you even realize that this mindless sexification of the baigan in pursuit of fame and riches has ruined my life forever! Had I been an American I would have sued you for millions of dollars for emotional distress. My besties Tinda, Tauri and Lauki have stopped talking to me after my new found notoriety. The other day when I accidently brushed against Tinds, she spat out – Who do you think you are, Sunny Leone! My sweetie pie, potato no longer responds to my loving overtures. Not even when I croon, aloo, is it me you’re looking for? *Please insert a plaintive wail here for added effect* Heartbroken, I tried line-maroing cauilflower who I had bro-zoned recently. When I whispered 'gobhi gobhi mere dil mein khayal ataa hai', he pretended to de deaf. Only that luchha lafanga Karela sent me a sext that read – aati kya Khandala! Like any sanskari baigan I proceeded to feel cheap and washed myself in Dettol twice.

 Now even Kela and Kheera won’t talk to me for stealing their limelight. Le sigh!

Monday, August 29, 2016

Wrapped or Unwrapped, Women Will be Rapped Either Way

Image Courtesy -

Till a few days back I was madly applauding the ban on Burkini imposed by France on its beaches in the Riviera. Since I fancy myself as more of a doer than a talker, I quickly started compiling a rather long list of unwearables that our junta insists on turning into beachwear that should be banned. For too long I have been traumatised by the sight of portly men flaunting their hairy selves in striped kachhas, snug boxers and demure women taking a dip in the ocean in their saris that promptly turn into parachutes. In fact, on my last visit to Hardwar which was a few decades back, I saw so many ladies bathing in just their petticoats tied over their ample bosoms that I exclaimed ‘Hey Ram’ and died. Haunted, I never went back for another pilgrimage.

Unfortunately my burkini ban euphoria did not last long. The ban was suspended by France's highest administrative court that’ll rather uphold fundamental freedoms than let the government go by its whims. Tcchh…had it been India, these men in wigs would have been charged with sedition and declared anti-nationals. Don’t they know it’s the state that gets to decide what should offend us? It’s pretty simple - what offends them should offend us and if that offends you, GO TO HELL, YOU SCUMBAGS! Oh, and the state also gets to decide what and where hell is.

After I was done with outraging, I changed sides since I prefer remaining on the right side of political correctness. The world is a stage and of what use are my acting skills if I can’t flip my emotions like an omelette on a pan. So, right now I am busy yayying for the French courts for acting in favour of liberty and equality. Why should only men get to decide that we are better off when covered up! Also, if women feel they should be free to expose without inviting judgement, they should also be free to slip into a garment that the world had no idea about till a ban was imposed on it. So, if certain femmes want to wear bikinis at hill stations, I will support their right even it means freezing to death. Don’t Delhi women dress in tiny summery dresses in biting winters and live to tell the tale? Or prefer death by sweating in black tights under a black dress in searing summers to save themselves from the ogle fest every time they step out?

Needless to say, this landmark judgement has come as a huge relief to a certain section of men who have always believed that an ideal woman should dress in a shroud to live a long uneventful life. Women who dress in flimsy, fashionable clothing deliberately provoke men into harassing them, who sometimes insert rods inside their vaginas and butcher their bodies for fun. So it is only natural that men protect themselves by banning women from their sight. Look what happened at Haji Ali. Women with breasts were deliberately bending over while praying, forcing men into having unholy thoughts and distracting them from their destined path of greatness.

What I don’t get is, if men are so fascinated by breasts, why don’t they try growing a pair of their own!

Had Dipa Karmakar attempted the death defying Produnova vault in a demure salwar-kameez and not that shameful one piece garment, she would have felt more comfortable winning a bronze. Had PV Sindhu smashed her way to the Badminton finals in a sari, and not that tiny skirt, she would have done our rich Indian culture proud. Does Sakshi know that by flaunting those amazing biceps, she has closed doors on lucrative matrimonial offers! Who will marry her now? Worse still, who will risk arguing with her? Tell tell!

So please instead of shooing off devout Muslim women in their Burkinis from beaches, let them feel comfortable covered from head to toe!

Monday, August 8, 2016

OMG, beta, you’ve become darker and uglier!

Growing up as a girl is tough. We have to fend off leery advances from unknown men in public spaces even though we don't fully understand what's going on. We are expected to be paragons of virtue because someone somewhere decided without even consulting us that women are meant to be the pride of the family. On top of that we have to face a battalion of aunties who constantly judge us as if we are part of a beauty pageant. God forbid if you're not fair and lovely, you are constantly reminded of it, as if it was your damn fault! They could be fat, ugly themselves but that doesn’t stop those aunties from passing snarky comments about your appearance.

Interestingly the boys are spared this agony. They could be gangly, pimply, with a hook nose, yet they were handsome princes according to their Moms. We had no such luck.

As you would have guessed by now, I was thin, dark, gawky and not conventionally “good looking” as a child through her teens. I hated the shape of my nose. My brother would often make sketches to illustrate what exactly was wrong with it. I wish I had thinner lips and would often experiment with ‘pursed lips’ look hoping it would make me look pretty. Everyone around me seemed prettier. Unfortunately I was not even spectacularly good in academics to make up for my lack of comely charms.

I had a mirror at home. I knew exactly how I looked and tried not to be too bothered about it. In fact I was a pretty happy child. It seemed it bothered others a lot. I had no dearth of concerned aunts who’d fret about how tanned I had become and how beautiful my Mom was and then glance at me in meaningful silence. Since this was a yearly ritual, I tried my best to turn into carbon. People often ask me where and how I got my sense of humour. Well, it’s time to reveal it all. I developed it at a very young age as a defence tactic. I used it to counter hurt. When on a sunny lazy vacation afternoon an aunt told me that I’d get married only because I had beautiful feet, I told her I’ll ask a burqa to adopt me and make sure the world wouldn’t have to see the rest of me. She of course didn’t get the joke.

As a gawky adolescent still hungry for approval from strangers, I believed every single one of them. Each snarky comment disguised as concern stung like hell. But I made sure I never gave anyone the satisfaction of knowing that they had managed to dent my self-esteem. Sometimes I felt there was a contest going on amongst Moms, each trying convince others that their child was the best thing to have happened to humanity by putting the rest of us down. As usual, we kids were caught in the crossfire. So, when a colleague of my Mom would rue about my lack of height, ma would enrol me for swimming or make me hang from a cold iron rod first thing in the morning, hoping I’d stretch like chewing gum. I spent most of my time at the pool chatting with hot didis lamenting about their voluptuous thighs. I refused to hang like a baboon from that rod after the first day.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Dear Gurgaon, It's time you accepted your fate and drowned in a pothole

Also published here 

Residents of Gurgaon took to social media to vent their anger after the city and its millions cars came to a grinding halt to a gridlock that lasted 20 hours. Triggered by heavy rains followed by flooding, WhatsApp, Twitter and Facebook were full of horrifying accounts of thirsty, hungry and angry commuters stuck in an ocean of muddy water and bumper to bumper traffic.

Predictably everyone donned their Grrgroan avatar and took to blaming civic bodies and the Khattar led government of happening Haryana. Haryana government took instant action and promptly blamed Kejriwal government for its watery woes. The CM went a step ahead and announced 1812 projects, that he has no intentions of implementing, to make Gurgaon great again. The civic authorities as usual had no clue what they were being blamed for. Especially when a lot of them are supposed to be doing the same job yet no one has a clear idea about the exact nature of their responsibilities. The sweet fellas they are, they promised they will make sure this will never happen again, like they did in 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012…..

What’s perplexing is this lashing from the public. It’s not as if the city that fancies itself as millennial hasn’t sunk in murky waters before. It’s not as if countless articles have not been written about a nightmare called Gurgaon and promptly forgotten the next day. It’s not as if promises have not been made and then broken. In fact we love this predictable pattern so much, we make sure we repeat it year after year. Who doesn’t love driving gingerly through swirling waters and miles of honking traffic in the company of irate drivers with murder in their minds after a stressful day at office! It gives an adrenalin rush that no bungee jumping can match.

This time though was slightly different though. The traffic refused to budge, like concrete with more cement than sand. But what is shocking is that Gurgaon residents who are still not sure whether they live in Gurgaon or Gurugram expect accountability from those supposedly in charge. They felt let-down when they saw no help in sight. Silly people, all you had to do was call a cow helpline and say moo and the gau-rakshak squad would have appeared miraculously and given a sound thrashing to everyone responsible for your plight!

Or better still, followed the traffic police advisory offering a simple solution to Millennium city’s woes - ‘Don’t come to Gurgaon.’ If you are unfortunate enough to be in Gurgaon, don’t step out, dammit!

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Death by Humidity

Courtesy - Google images

The last few weeks my hair has been behaving like Salman Khan (and his many controversies). It simply refuses to settle down. On a good hair day I look like Sai Baba (the one who dazzled his devotees by fishing out gold chains from his armpits). On a bad hair day I look like I have been freshly electrocuted. In fact if I can perfect my roaring skills, I can be easily mistaken for Lion King.

Gurgaon weather has become a copycat. It has started mimicking Kolkata’s horrible humidity. The type where there’s so much moisture in the air that you start resembling an Amazonian forest in full bloom. Your back hasn’t seen a dry day since May and you alternate between taking a shower in salty water that your body generates and water from the showerhead. Even the tiniest physical activity like a walk to the neighbourhood veggie store makes your body weep and you leave behind not footprints but tiny puddles. Unfortunately, Gurgaon is yet to adopt Kolkata’s lack of work culture where everyone treats work with disdain and prefers engaging in heated debates about Spain’s economic crisis in between sips of chaa and leisurely naps.

The good thing is that this muggy weather has taken care of my vanity. I avoid looking at the mirror at all costs – don’t want to see a hair-framed glistening blob of oil staring back at me. I’m not exactly doing my heart a favour when I scream a loud nahiiiiiiiiin and it races faster than Usain Bolt. Sometimes I have so many oil deposits on my face that I fear the all new fearless America led by Trump will invade me.

It has also turned me deeply religious. I am either praying to the Rain gods to relent and wash us away with its bounties or turn me into a plant so that I can soak in the joys of humidity.

Even god prefers multiple options.

Since I have started resembling a leaky faucet, I have decided to put myself to good use. If I have to move furniture in the house, I simply sit on it and wait patiently for my sweat to start working its magic. Ten minutes later when I get up the chair is firmly stuck to me a like a baby kangaroo to its mom, ready to move to newer plains. If I spot stains on the glass windows of our 16th floor apartment, I hang upside down like a bat and start rubbing my back against it till it becomes squeaky clean. I no longer reach out for the salt shaker when I discover our cook has forgotten to season the dal yet again. I simply stir it with my little finger. I have offered my services to Moms who are looking to scare their kids for not listening to them. I discovered this hidden talent when I semi-glared at a kid who wouldn’t stop fiddling with the control buttons inside the lift. One look at me and he clung to his Mom like fungus, his eyes shut in fear.


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