In Love With Paris

The child in me still alive and kicking and has been dreaming of Paris Hilton for years.  So imagine my excitement, when I read that Paris Hilton will be coming to Mumbai.  I couldn’t stop myself from getting into paroxysms screaming OMG OMG OMG, till my daughter came to my room and said Maa will you stop it. 

 It was a Saturday night when I crash landed at the Chhatrapati International Airport.  What else can you expect when you travel Air India.  My journey was rather eventful.  First I got stuck in the aircraft’s toilet.  Then the airhostess who reminded me of my Math teacher in school, scolded me for waking her up from her siesta. I guess I was being greedy when I asked for a second helping of Rasmalai and look how God punished me!  He sent me scurrying to the toilet.  By the time I arrived at Mumbai, I had already lost 3 kgs. 

I was weak at my knees not because of reasons diarrheal but at the prospect of finally feasting my eyes on my American Ideal –Paris Hilton. I have a feeling that Paris must have been conceived at Hilton Paris. Why else would anyone name their kid after a city?  Her parents deserve applause for their imagination.  Has anyone ever dared to name their kid Jabalpur Jain, Patna Puri or Brussels Barua?  You require a special IQ for such unfettered creativeness. 

Hilton’s Parisian progeny certainly didn’t let her illustrious parents down.  It was she who singlehandedly spearheaded the use of live accessories.  Who on earth could had thought of a Chihuahua poking out of a purse!   And it was the awesomest idea for anorexic divas.  They could now share their meal of three carrots with their pooch nuzzling right under their underarms.    

When the super duper Diva – Paris did arrive at the airport, wearing all shades of blue and a bicycle chain on her head.  I fainted right there.  But not before I screamed Parisssssssss, you are so hot.  The dumb ass next to me commented, but the weather at Paris is just perfect!  Men I tell you.  

And some confused souls wanted to check in, when they read Paris Hilton is in Mumbai. What’s wrong with you people!

I read somewhere that Paris Hilton has come to India to peddle her purses.  What can a girl do when her meanie grand dad disinherits her.  A girl has to pay her bills no?  How long can she depend on panting men on the lower side of the evolution, to pay for her extravagances!  But I wonder why she calls her accessories store PHpurse.  Isn’t PH something that shampoos build up?  Why didn’t she settle for her trademarked – That’s Hot! 

And that’s what Paris said when she stepped out....That’s hot but only after she had said I love India 297 times.  Ask me, I counted.  PH is a simple girl, who leads a Simple Life and finds everything that she sees awesome, amazing and wow.   Wow! What an amazing turnout/ Wow! Such a long day/ Just had an amazing press conference.  

Amar’s Charitra Kathaa

Amar Prem

AIIMS, India’s premier medical institute has never tired of playing the magnanimous host to dengue spreading mosquitoes and crooked men of power claiming illness and memory loss - after all Atithi Devo Bhava.  A few days back this last resort for the sick was witness to an unusual spectacle – a re-enactment of the Ram-Bharat milap. No, not Ram Gopal Varma and Manoj Kumar meeting for coffee but Amar Sing’s tearful reunion with Bade Bhaiyya B(B3).  

When B3 strode in to enquire about Chote Bhiayya’s (CB ) tantrumy kidneys, CB’s joy knew no bounds. The moment his pug shaped nose picked up the all too familiar scent of Big B he started bawling like a baby.  In fact there was so much water in him that it came out gushing not only from his eyes but his nose as well.  So choked with emotion was Amar Sing that Bade Bhaiyya B had to growl in all his earnestness Yeh haath mujhe dede Thakur.  He held weepy CB’s hand for full two hours and had the hospital staff gush about this one of a kind Amar Prem. Not the Prem Chopra wallah prem ok? 

Of late the erstwhile Thakur of Azamgarh has been through a lot of emotional turmoil.  He, the savior of vote seeking, MP purchasing, wheeling dealing specimens has been unceremoniously discarded like yesterday’s tissue by these ignoble creatures.  To add salt to his injured heart, he was dumped in jail for a crime unusual.  While his illustrious neighbours, Madhu Koda and Lalit Bhanot were enjoying Tihar’s hospitality for their money grabbing ways, Amar Sing was made to cool his heels for disbursing cash to greedy MPs.   But Azamgargh ke Thakur is not the type to take things lying down. Once inside Tihar’s hallowed precincts, he managed to get on everyone’s nerves with his persistent whining about the lack of cleanliness and hygiene.  Two undertrials who had been tried for rape and mayhem were made to go on their knees with an extra large mop for Amar’s sake.  From dreaded Bhais to bais in ten minutes flat. 

The traumatized Jail authorities even offered a western style commode to facilitate Amar’s privileged motion

Mind Your Language
Cacofonix, my guest blogger is at it again.......
My dear Ajay Maken, I am bristling with indignation at Mani Shankar Aiyar’s suggestion that your BA(Pass) education prohibits you from using the word ‘dichotomous’.  Mani, as you now know, is of St Stephens and Cambridge lineage, or one of ‘oonche log’. The same ‘oonche log’ whose ‘oonchi pasand’ is a particular brand of pan masala.  An ad exhorts ‘mooh mein rajnigandha’ with the jingle lingering on the word ‘mooh’ or mouth, just in case somebody like Mani gets confused about which bodily aperture the comestible has to be stuffed in.  But I digress.  I want to come to your rescue with a handy guide on the English language.
Dichotomous:  This is the division between two completely opposed things.  Like coffee and mishti doi.  Like politics and honesty.  Like Obama and Osama.  Like Sheila (Dikshit) and jawani.  Like Rakhi and Ramdev.  Like Mamata didi and Buddhadev B.  Like Mamata didi and Pranab M.  Like Mamata didi and everyone else.  Almost as if her appellation ‘didi’ is dichotomous abbreviated, twice over.
Analogous:  No, this is not made up of the English word ‘anal’ and the Hindi word ‘log’, suggesting a translation to ‘asshole’. Nor does it pair ‘Anna’ and ‘log’ to mean his band of fast followers.  It is the elitist version of the word ‘similar’ which Mani finds below his class.

Freaked out about fitness

I have many pet phobias.  It’s not as if I love collecting them.  They land from nowhere and get terribly attached to me.  As I grew older and wiser, they altered in character and shape.  From tail-dropping lizards to cobwebs on walls to the fear of having nothing to do – I have been through them all.   The newest entrant to this exclusive club is my phobia of getting fat.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fat people as long as I don’t have to share a seat with them.  They are usually a jolly good species and can devour bucketfuls of fried chicken minus the guilt pangs.  An extra inch on two blends in harmoniously with their wide girth. Secretly I envy them.  It is me I have a problem with.  You see, I was born with a manufacturing defect.  I have wrists so thin that bangles slide down my arms like an avalanche in a hurry.  Europe doesn’t make shoes my size.  My dainty frame allows me no concession for extra kilos.  And to make it worse that stupid gulab jamun (ok make that two) I sometimes succumb to makes its way to my cheeks!   

Imagine your embarrassment when a more than well endowed Mashi of yours sizes you up and says...Aahh P has become fat!  Secretly you are sputtering with rage and dying to bellow How dare you call me fat! When was the last time you checked yourself in the mirror... you stupid Cow!  With your appetite buried deep underground, you barely touch anything at the party, while your dear Mashi’s face is strategically hidden behind the mountain of Biryani she’s ingesting.

It’s Delhi Silly

Courtesy : CNN IBN

Last week Delhites got a sneak-peak into the much awaited Apocalypse.  A bomb blast, an earthquake and then a deluge that submerged the city – Delhi saw it all.  Thankfully I am still alive to bring you an exclusive day by day report.
It was a Wednesday when the seekers of justice were in for a rude shock.  Yet again, the aam admi - he whose life is ‘cheap’, was the reluctant participant of the hate game.  It took only a couple of minutes to snuff out a future that could have been, leaving behind bewildered family members grappling with whys, the rest of their miserable lives.  
And the reaction was predictable. Like an action replay our leaders spouted robotic statements of sympathy, the HM blamed Delhi Police, Opposition leaders blamed the HM, grim and concerned faces making false promises. We have reconciled ourselves to the fact that our Intelligence Agency will continue to fail us and our Politicians will engage in pointless debates rather than action. My point is, if you can’t save us please spare us your hypocrisy. In fact I have a better idea, why don’t you entertain us instead. Do a hurdle race to reach the blast site or hospital and the winner gets to shed copious quantities of crocodile tears.

And please, can you stop saying…I condemn the attacks and we will not surrender to the scourge of terror! Even the terrorist bhaiya is bored of hearing the same old reaction. Why can’t our Netas come up with nattier lines? Even if their imagination fails them, our ministers can always borrow lines from Hindi film dialogues. MMS can ditch his weepy expression, look at the camera menacingly and say Agar Maa ka doodh piya hai to saamne aa….Chiddy can bare his fangs and Kutte!kaminay, main tera khoon pee jaoongaa…Even Arnab Goswami will be left speechless. And when the terror mail is traced to a cyber café in J&K Boss! Maal pakda gaya.

Who knows after hearing such heartfelt statements on television the gandi naali kaa keeda of a terrorist will be so plagued with remorse that he will go back to grazing sheep. Alas this is but wishful thinking.

India’s most desirable

The Old Boys Club (OBC) has called an emergency meeting in their Chamber of Secrets (COS) after receiving an unusual decree from their leader, the Silent Sardar.  They have been asked to declare their assets on his domain.  Now these are respectable men in their 60’s and 70’s, whose assets haven’t seen the light of the day in a very long time.  Please don’t be a presumptuous ass and assume that these bootylicious gents don’t have the balls to make it public.  They are but humble men engaged in selfless service to the nation and are averse to cheap exhibitionist tactics.  Damn Om Puri who thinks they are merely a bunch of nalayaks and ganwars.  The Congress of baboons made sure Puri ate humble pie even though he would have preferred Old Monk any day.  

Unlike the brash youngsters of today, the exalted ones do not believe in flaunting their figures.  They’d rather keep it under cover.  They are acutely sensitive to the delicate disposition of the suddenly enlightened middle class.  What if they find it too grisly to assimilate! 

And whoever said size does not matter was definitely a stickly loser. Of course it does, the bigger it is the louder the gasp.

The OBC usually meets to take pot shots at the Silent one - he who likes having long conversations with his beard.  Why, they even have his mugshot and practice throwing darts on his face and have I love you like I hate you playing in a loop.  They tolerate him for the sake of the fair Queen – she with an accent quaint.
But these are mostly fearless men who get jittery at the sight of fasting old men.  Instilling fear in others is their forte.  

Ageing disgracefully

Courtesy - Ray Album

You know your friends fear you, when they start wishing you days ahead.   You get irritated and explain that they are a tad early and you are in no hurry to get older. So they repost the same message with the date next to it. Ok...I get are desperate not to forget!

But then someone senses your irritation and tweets about it. And before you can say bwaaah, everyone is demanding a treat.  You retort with a You feast, I will pass the bill and secretly pat yourself at the back for this smart retort. 

The husband has been asking you for weeks So what do you want, honey?  You hmm and haw and look as vague as possible because you don’t have a effing clue. Actually you expect him to surprise you.  But you have conveniently forgotten that the first thing you told him after you got married was Darling, I hate surprises!  The poor fella is hopelessly out of practise and eventually needs your assistance for that special surprise.

On D day, when your phone starts ringing the first thing in the morning and you realize you have too many elderly members in your family. But then you are up too, sipping your morning tea and passionately cussing ministers for killing the sports bill.  Now your mobile is buzzing non-stop. You are delighted that so many remember your birthday and even more delighted that so many strangers know it as well. When you signed up for FB and put up your date of birth, you certainly weren’t expecting privacy were you?    As the day warms up, you are buried under an avalanche of greetings. You now feel like a bot that spouts 18 thank yous every 30 minutes. You have clicked on the like button so many times; you are worried that the FB team might demand a facilitation fee. 

An Indecent Proposal

A bizarre photograph album filled page to page with pictures of Condoleezza Rice has been found at the compound of Colonel Gaddafi.  As citizens ransacked the sprawling lair, for the first time discovering the extent of riches enjoyed by their bloodthirsty tyrant, a number of unusual items have been looted. Perhaps the most surprising, however, was the album, filled with glossy pictures of America's former Secretary of State.

Since I happen to have contacts in low places – my friendly but stinky courier chap arranged a stopover for Gaddafi’s pet pigeon in my balcony in Gurgaon, before it flew off to distant America. Attached to its gold plated leg was a letter – not just any letter but Gaddafi’s declaration of love for his beloved. I publish it verbatim for my readers.

Salaam my lovely Leezza,

As I was fleeing in the dead of the night for my dear life, I had crocodile tears in my eyes for my Condom-leezza, I was leaving behind.  Not the real Leezza but my scrapbook of her pictures that I had lovingly collected over the years.  

Actually I needn’t have scuttled like a startled rat.  I know I am invincible, Allah has sent me to the world with a life time warranty.  But why tempt God?  To make sure I don’t leave for hell in a hurry, I took my platoon of Killer beauties to protect me.   

I need to exist for my people – I am their God who will lead them to the path to salvation. So what, if I had to torture and kill a few of them - which father does not spank his child when he goes astray? And haven’t I always said Obeying parents is more important than doing what they say.  The misguided sods were claiming to be rebels but in reality they were drugged kids.  Al-Qaeda operatives gave them pills at night, they put hallucinatory pills in their drinks, their milk, their coffee, their Nescafe.

It was a conspiracy to bring down the greatest man alive. Yet the greatest man lives just for his Condom-leezza.

Don’t lose your sleep over me, my darling black woman, I will not close my eyes till I have planted a wet kiss on your thick black lips.  But girl you have been very-very naughty – you have given your love sick admirer many a sleepless night. I have woken up in my sweat soaked clothes, screaming your name.   I have always admired my darling black woman who leaned back and gave orders to Arab leaders.  Leezza, Leezza, Leezza. ... I have always loved you so very much.