Sunday, May 25, 2014

An Open letter from Rahul Gandhi to a nation that refuses to acknowledges his genius


Image courtesy - Google Gandhi



Dear countrymen,

It’s been over a week since Mossad succeeded in their plans in annihilating the best thing that ever happened to your country – the Gandhis. Rahul Gandhi and his team has known for long that Israel was not happy with my Mum’s government. But boss, since when did our party start believing in anybody’s happiness other than ours! Our loss as usual is zero, Congress FTW.

Our employees on the other hand are convinced that it was Dentsu, the Japanese communication agency hired to sell me to the cattle classes that caused our downfall. Honestly, I don’t blame them. Rahul Gandhi has always known that India was not ready for his genius. Yet, he chose to make the supreme sacrifice for the sake of his subjects. Just like Grandma and Papa. It’s in our jeans.

He chose to dress in crumpled white kurtas when he could have worn Armani, campaigned in the dustbowls of the country when he could have gone go-karting. Ate dinner with Dalits, rendered India speechless with his speeches and forced the nation to look beyond his dimples. It requires the mind of a genius to calculate Jupiter’s escape velocity just for the sake of my Dalit bros. Who do you think I did it for! My Mom?

What’s more, I was always specific in a broader sense.

Rahul, India’s youth icon, its biggest hope, had a dream for India. He wanted to open up the system, empower its youngsters, and give them a voice. I empowered my Mom and gave her the reins of my career. Mom empowered herself and silenced Mannie Singh forever. I empowered my sis, and let her steal my thunder. She empowered her husband and made him a farmer. I promised empowerment to our people and transferred Mom’s poisonous power to that old man from Gujarat - the one who shall not be named.

Empowerment runs through our blood like a raging bull.

Rahul Gandhi disembowelled himself for his people and never let the smile leave his face. Just like any Supreme leader would have done for his people.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Why Boobs are Important


Courtesy - Pinterest.com

We all have mammary memories, both wonderful and embarrassing. The times when we lusted for them, the many times we cursed their existence. These bulbous mounds of fat, the appearance of which changed us and others around us. They made us feel powerful and weak at the same time. The constant tussle between hate and love for our twins as we navigated through crowds with our handbags clutched close to our chests.

But what if women didn’t have boobs? What if all of us were uniformly flat chested! I can imagine catastrophic consequences for humanity. Besides being denied the opportunity of staring at cleavage and passing it off as deep thinking, men will be forced to make eye contact while they engage in a conversation with us. We understand how relaxing it is, just staring and interspersing it with an occasional hmm and haww, just to clear any doubts she might have of the existence of your vocal chords. It’s as comforting as watching TV, as you recline on your couch, munching that huge pack of crisps – mesmerised like an insect trapped in a cobweb. You know something is not right, yet you don’t feel like doing anything about it because it feels so good. And why not! In a world full of harsh realities, these soft mounds of flesh are a welcome change. They do not challenge you and your intelligence.

Boobs are reminders of your babyhood, when mothers protected you from all evils. Plus, when you stare at bosoms, you can prove those nags wrong who keep making fun of your inability to focus on two things at a time.

Add to that the thrill of doing something that’s considered uncouth and lacking in manners and it becomes infinitely more exciting! Women being the heartless creatures make it more challenging by covering them under layers of clothing. As Jerry Seinfeld has so adroitly pointed out, if women kept their heads covered instead of their breasts, we'd all be heading down to the corner store to pick up the latest copy of Heads Illustrated. We always want that which we cannot have, and in that regard, breasts are the ultimate forbidden fruit.

And why deprive men of the opportunity to flaunt their maturity by cracking boob jokes! I mean for how long can you crack potty, fart jokes and makes others laugh. Boob jokes are like a breath of fresh air. They are proof that you’re now grown-up enough to make fun of a woman’s anatomy.

It is a natural progression of the male psyche- poop jokes, boob jokes and marriage jokes.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

And the Cookie Crumbled



Inspired by Ritu’s peanut butter cookie recipe and the urgency to get to rid of the jar of cashew-almond butter that I’m supposed to finish since I bought it
I finally did IT. 
I mean I lost my baking virginity
Like a true Twitter addict, I announced to the world my intentions before doing IT.
It started off well, the mixture of almond-cashew butter with Maple syrup smelled divine
The egg married to vanilla was beaten so badly that I fluffed-up with pride
Just like a true Haryanvi
Now was the time to delicately fold in the wheat and the baking powder
I was already adjusting yet another feather in my cap as I plunged my electric beater in the jar. And lo behold, there was instant Chemistry 
Sparks flew. Only this time it was the wheat and the sticky butter
Oh, what a loose character! 
To teach me a lesson that I’d never forget, it proceeded to splatter itself all over the walls, door, floor and even the electric kettle
I was finally looking fair and lovely, only this time I was on my knees with wheat all over me
Making the dough was far from easy-peasy. It continued to harden the more I pestered it
But I am Aam Aurat who doesn’t give in so easily
I churned the mix till my eyes were bulging out and I was panting with exhaustion
Finally it softened, caving in to my grim-determination.
In went the cookie mix inside the oven but alas, it refused to rise to the occasion


I may have gotten rid of the almond-cashew butter, but I am now stuck with a batch of cookies that I’m supposed to finish because I made it.
 

Damn, this is is divine injustice. 

Top post on IndiBlogger.in, the community of Indian Bloggers

Monday, May 12, 2014

We Are Maid For Each Other.

Image Courtesy - www.123rf.com


The last two years have been blissful. Ask me why? It’s my angel in maid’s disguise who is the reason behind my happiness with an expiry date. She’s everything I could have ever dreamt of – punctual, sickeningly sincere, never takes a day off, does all the housework without a murmur of protest. She cooks, she cleans, irons my clothes, shops for groceries. What more could a woman ask for. There are days when I wish it was she who I was married to.

Agreed, when she started, she was a little cranky, complained a bit and her cooking was sometimes “meh”. But not anymore; she cooks better than any cook I have hired, irons better than Ram Prasad and keeps the house so clean that you can literally eat off the floor and not feel diarrheal. These days she’s even threatening to make mithai at home. I’m not complaining! Even the husband is in love with her. He cares for her so much that there are days he offers to do the housework just to make her happy.

Nah! That doesn’t make me jealous at all. After all, love is all about sharing your husband.

A part of me dreads having to let go of her. I know the separation is inevitable once I come back to India but I’d rather not think about it. I have been trying to convince her though, tempting her with peace of mind even if it’s at the cost of a lot of hard-work. I’ve even offered her to buy a dishwasher, a robo-maid as assistants. But New-me is not too sure.

Oh, did I not tell you her name? It’s New-me, my soul-maid for the last two years.

I think I know what’s playing in her mind. New-me is afraid that she’ll turn to Old-me once she gets back to India.

Let me tell you a bit about Old-me before I proceed any further with this story. Old-me was this lady who lived in a tiny castle up in the air with her dear family and many helping hands. Even though the hands were many, she felt stressed all the time. She felt trapped in her castle, forever at the mercy of helping hands and their many moods. She was sick of managing their sicknesses, their children’s and their aunt’s sicknesses and the sick world at large. Every time she heard one of them cough loud, she would have a heart-attack, imagining herself down and dirty on her knees, stewing in sweat as she made stew for her dear hungry family.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

My first Kerala Massage



N.Prasad, of Desi Traveler ,one of the most popular travel blogs on blogosphere, was in God's own Country when he decided to take a massage-therapy recommended by God himself. Needless to say he had a heavenly experience and is now dying to share it with the readers of A-Musing. 


I suggest to hold on tightly to your seat as you read this hilarious account....

 

I was traveling in Kerala from villages to cities, crossing mountain and rivers to backwaters and thick jungles to spice plantations we were learning various aspects of Kerala.

Every now and then somebody will talk about the benefits of Kerala massage and how it can rejuvenate everything from the lost luster of your skin, to hair, to lost appetite and a few more things, that are better are unsaid, I was wondering when my chance of experiencing the divine magic of the aromatic oils on my callused skin will come.

Finally we were in Kumarakom where I was informed that our hotel is one of the best places in Kerala to experience the magical Kairali message. I immediately agreed for the same, but was told that before experiencing the message I need to meet a physician and answer a few questions so that he can suggest the appropriate therapy.

Well the physician looked at me from top to bottom just like a butcher looks happily at an overweight “ Bakra” and smiled, which meant only one thing that I was about to be assassinated and I will not even get choice if it will be halal or Jhatka.

Statutory warning: The Vegetarian types can stop reading here

After analyzing my health the physician recommended a rejuvenating message that will open my pores and let my skin breathe. I was not sure what all this breathing business by skin meant, as in my class VI biology, Miss Malhotra has taught us that we breathe from nose. Any ways after giving a pat on my back for remembering not only Miss Malhotra from class VI biology class , but also the lessons in biology besides the chapter that she asked us to read on our own I proceeded towards the therapy room. Remember that “message “looks so cheap, just like our heroines like Katrina and Karishma, never do “ITEM” number, they only do special appearances, in Kerala you don’t get message you undergo Therapy. No wonder more than 90 percent of the guests in the hotel were Americans.

Once I entered the haloed chambers, with a central altar just like the operation tables of 5 star hospitals, I was instructed to remove my clothes, only the guy (YES He was a guy L ) forgot to mention what is his definition of clothes. Hence I removed my clothes except for the last line of defense, trying to be as modest as possible, but the therapist wanted me to remove that also, and I flatly refused.

To which the therapist said ok, if you want I can give you our special therapy clothes.

I was a bit relieved on the offer, though my relief lasted only for a few seconds, as the therapy cloth was a piece of langot (loin cloth) that must have been designed by the same designer who designs clothes for Poonam Pandey G. 


Sunday, May 4, 2014

Searching, item not found - A Guest Post for Dagny Sol



When Dagny Sol, she who soothes and inspires with her immense wisdom asks you to do a guest for Serenely Rapt, you try your best not to let her down. Then you read her glowing introduction and you faint with delight.

Here's a sample of what to expect.

What do you do when you lose something? You start looking for it, right? Searching for things I’ve misplaced is my favourite cardio. I jump high, I stoop low, I move up and down the length of our apartment at frenetic pace, not once but many times, hoping that the offending object that had the temerity to get lost will finally show its face. I then add some strength training to my search routine – lifting mattresses, sofa cushions, moving dressers until rivulets of sweat start trickling down my back. I behave like a woman possessed till I find the ‘missing credit card’ nestling peacefully in the deep cavernous folds of my skirt’s pocket. 

God forbid if I can’t find the misplaced article! Being a great believer in equality, the size or the value of the ‘missing one’ is immaterial to the intensity of my grief. 

Click here to read more......

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