Monday, May 23, 2016
Also published here - >
Not so long ago the Indian Aunty discovered an unhindered, unclasped and drawstringless existence in her nightie. In this stifling world of patriarchy that’s constantly trying to suffocate her with its custom-made list of do’s and don’ts and only-meant-for-her morality, she found liberation in this one piece wonder garment. She boldly turned it into a cool daywear that smelt mostly of sweat and spices.
What the Indian woman does today, her male counterpart thinks of tomorrow. Even as she was outgrowing her fascination for this tent-like apparel and switching over to no-nonsense tracks and tee, the Indian man went ahead and found boxers. True, the lungi discovered him much earlier. But a garment that parts willingly at the slightest hint of a gust or lust can have hazardous consequences for the beholder, especially female. Unlike the male that gets excited at the slightest show of limb and imagines the rest of the anatomy, the female is more horrified than filled with desire as she espies upon his lush Amazonian foliage on his limbs and upwards.
The boxer in its cottony soft splendour is its perfect substitute. It comes with cute fly buttons that do a fairly competent job of containing his excitement. Unlike boring trousers, boxers come in bold colours, graffiti, floral and cartoon prints that let him express his naughty side. Its dangerously short length ensures it keeps the beholder’s pulse racing. You never know which part of his appendage will pop out this time.
Understandably, he fell for it hook, line and sinker and like his female counterpart set out to conquer the world in it. While mankind elsewhere continues to wear it as a roomy undergarment, the Bhartiya bhaisahab has turned it into a versatile pair of shorts that can fit into any role he wants. One day it’s a cool gym wear as he huffs and puffs on the treadmill in it. Never mind the incredulous look a certain lady named Purba running on the machine next to him continues to give. Perhaps he mistakes it for adoration. Ever since he was a baby boy his mother made him believe he was the best thing to have happened to womankind. And mothers are always right.
As he prowls around the gym constantly checking out his imaginary biceps and rotund belly, he realises the boxers need to travel more of the world with him. He turns it into resort wear, evening by the pool wear, ‘let me have breakfast in it at a public place’ wear. He knows his good looks and charms can turn even an ordinary chaddi into a fashion statement.
Don’t know why Adidas, Nike and their ilk spend millions on Climacool technology. The Indian man doesn’t need any technology sheknology. He can keep his cool in his boxers. No wonder he’s not scared of global warming. He’s ready to face it in his chaddis.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Also published here
|Image courtesy - Hinduphobe Purba Ray|
With the advent of the great leader who can do no wrong but is always wronged, India’s timeline can now be divided into BAD (before acche din) days and SAD (super achhe din) days. During BAD days being a patriot was like being a blogger. Anybody could be one as long as you were Indian. It helped if you loved almost all things Indian, swore by Bollywood, supported the Indian cricket team by heckling Pakistani cricketers on field, looked for Indian restaurants (usually called Taj Mahal) when on a foreign trip and not complain when you ended up with diarrhoea the next day. Since we were governed by a corrupt dynasty, it was perfectly okay to fret about the country’s future which seemed to be wandering aimlessly like a cow in the city. We’d often critique the lawmakers who’d break laws with impunity and crack a few jokes at their expense even if it meant going to jail.
Despite all misgivings, candle marches and angry Facebook posts against all that we felt was wrong with our country, we could take her love for granted. It was a ‘tedha hai paar mera hai’ kind of love.
Not anymore. Now that our great leader has banished all evil with a flick of his finger and even taken selfies while doing it, we are living the SAD days. This is the golden era where everyone’s tolerant towards each other and their beliefs, debate is actively encouraged and we can express what we feel without getting lynched by trolls online. Yet, there’s a section of ungrateful citizens who think otherwise. They create controversies by finding faults in our faultless leaders, return awards that nobody’s heard of and write scathing articles questioning our elected, to spread dissent.
This cannot be tolerated, especially by proud Indians.
So, they have decided to take matter into their own capable hands and made patriotism the new Maggi. Like Maggi, patriotism has to pass stringent quality tests, but can still be declared suspect at the slightest slight that can be imagined as insulting to Mata B. The MSG is clear, Mata’s affection cannot be taken for granted. It now comes with terms and conditions. We have to prove our love again and again to not one but a rising number of hyper-nationalists who are crawling out like termites from woodwork.
Mata is now behaving like a bombshell who demands unquestioning devotion while you place her on the pedestal and worship her. Like any complete package, if you adore her, it is your duty to pay obeisance to her Daddies in saffron and her many pets who spend an awful lot of time barking. Dare you have reservations against her many Daddies, you are obviously a moronic Hinduphobe traitor.
Beam them to Pakistan, Scottie! Or is it Satyaveer now?
Monday, May 2, 2016
|Courtesy - quickmememe.com|
A common courtesy in any part for the world but certainly not in Gurgaon.
In a city where everyone’s is always in a rush but no one ever reaches on time, we are forever engaged in mortal combat. We push, step on each other’s feet, honk louder, raise our middle finger and are ready to snap at even the slightest provocation. Rarely do we stop to let someone else pass at a busy intersection. We are like raging bulls, ready to charge at anyone who dares challenge us. When an odd soul does stop to let other raging bulls pass, let the hassled lady take the coveted parking-spot, all he gets is a dead fish look. The husband makes it a point to hold the doors of the elevators for women with kids in our apartment building, yet I’ve seen no one turn around to give him a grateful smile.
It’s as if saying thank you and sorry is a bigger sin than hurling expletives at strangers.
I get it, you’ve had a bad day. Your new boss is a fire breathing dragon and a blood sucking vampire rolled into one. The last time you got a bonus was before the big bang. And your girlfriend who can’t even spell loser just called you a looser. Of course you are &*%#&*)&$ mad! And the only way you can restore order is by making random people around you (usually lower in social hierarchy) as miserable as you are. Who in turn dutifully pass on their angst to yet another hapless soul. Sooner than you can say ‘tere baap kaa…,’ the world around you is like a cauldron of negativity. You hold your aching head in your hand and wonder, why is everyone one around me so nasty?
It’s like being stuck in traffic and complaining about it. Dude, you are the traffic!
Add to it a strange persisting mentality that equates aggressiveness as a show of power and niceness as a sign for ‘come trample all over me and take advantage’. So it comes as no surprise why people are almost afraid of being nice.