Delhi is turning modern jee

Sheila Dixit dreamt of it, our taxes paid for it and DDA in collaboration with MCD almost ruined it.  Delhites caught in the daily grind of generator fumes and traffic snarls shrugged it off as yet another gimmick.  But the megapolis with its many implants and cosmetic surgeries, courtesy fairy godmother CWG almost managed to make it.  If a few strategic implants can make Rakhi Sawant India’s hattest item garl, surely apni Dilli can become a world class city! 

Mumbaikars might try to dismiss it as yet another Behenjee-trying- to- be- modern endeavour but we know it’s a classic case of sour grapes.  Mere pass Ring Road hai, Metro hai, flyovers hai - tumhare pass kya hai Mamu? 

And to further strengthen our case, Delhi will have billionaire drivers vrooming on Budh International Circuit in nearby Noida this weekend.  I am petrified that some Dilliwasi will misconstrue it as broom...broom and reserve a seat at the grandstand for his maid as a Diwali bonus.   If Shiney, according to Spice ads, can buy a mobile for his bai, why can’t the cash-rich Delhizen book a seat for his? 

I am told they call it Formula 1 and no, it’s not another Govinda movie with Shakti Kapoor’s naadha grabbing eyeballs.  Neither does it have any correlation to Maths and Chemistry formulas which have eluded me all my life.  Formula 1 racing is actually a high adrenaline event, where one gets to race long-nosed cars at insane speeds, minus the headache of a traffic cop chasing you with a challaan.  Plus you get to crash cars just like in the movies, get an obscene pay check and carouse with the most glamorous women.

Hey! My husband drives menacingly and scares the living daylights out of people.  And all he manages is pleas for mercy and petrified looks. 

But I am not the type that goes on a fast against the unfairness of it all, especially when there is a plethora of stuff vying for my attention.   Gosh! There’s so much I can choose from.  I can do some head banging to The God of Metal- Metallica- playing in my neighbourhood, or burn a hole in my pocket watching drivers put their lives at risk on a race track.  Giddy with fun, my throat hoarse from all that screaming, I can then proceed to Arjun Rampal’s Lap.   Of course I’d love to spend the rest of my life in Rampal’s lap, but this is LAP the club, host to post-F1 parties.   And Delhi knows how to partyyy especially when drunk.  To facilitate the procedure, the club will have Champagne Sky Bars where firang apsaras will dangle from the ceiling, to top up our Champagne flutes.  Wowie...getting drunk was never this fun!  

An obituary for the dear departed Sari

Courtesy ->

I have fond memories of the sari.  Coming home to bury my face in the softness of my grandmother’s customary white un-starched taant, keys dangling at its end, inhaling the scents – a heady mix of incense sticks, and paan and kitchen spices.   Watching my Maa wrap herself in silken splendour, the intricate motifs shimmering under the lights, the aanchal flowing over her shoulder like a cascading waterfall.  

For me it was not just a sari but a six yard fantasy.  As a young girl, I badly wanted one for myself, to feel the swish of the silk as I would glide around the room feeling like a princess.  It is in a sari that I took my first step into womanhood, ready to take flight from my cocooned existence. 

There was a time when I used to wear one everyday – not because I was a six yard fanatic, but simply because it was the dress code at work. Initially I found it a menace.  Having to get up early in the morning, spending anxious moments in front of the mirror to get the pleats right.  Walking in an ungainly manner, tripping over the pleats at the most inopportune moments.  I felt it cramped my natural athletic style of climbing three stairs at a time.  So petrified I was of my sari coming undone that I would overdose on safety pins.  Yes, I singlehandedly managed to make even the lungi look elegant.  One look at me and my friends would shove me into the cabin, bang the door shut and re-tie it for me.   Slowly I mastered the art of draping - a tuck here, a nip there, the subtle dip that brings out the essence of femininity so beautifully. 

Very few attires hold as much mystery and allure as a sari.  One can wear it a little low to show off our newly discovered washboard abs, pair it with a backless blouse to bring out the diva in us.  And on days we feel like Mother Teresa and crave for world peace, we can drape it to cover every visible inch of our body.  Now which other garment can match such versatility?  

And the mind boggling variety of patterns, weaves and hues it comes in – each with its distinctive legacy. From flirty Chanderis, to elegant Gadhwals, to the opulent Banarasis, to the gorgeous Dhakai Jamdanis, to colourful Ikkats, we are spoilt for choice.  

This is Sita Reporting Live

Concluding Episode

Mommy love,

I can safely say that today was the most miserable day of my life.  Yes, I had a head on collision with the moment that every woman dreads so much.   We try hard to avoid it with yoga, zero carbs and botox.  Yet there’s no escaping its cruel inevitability.

I believe the animal kingdom, in collaboration with foreign hand, has hatched a conspiracy against me.  First a deer pretending to be golden gets me abducted then an ape-man dressed in Super- man gear, crashes my vanity into smithereens.   

Maa you won’t believe this, that Hanu-man called ME, Matajee! Imagine a grown-up ape-man calling me that! This is even worse than Aunty.  When I heard that god damn awful word, my entire neuro-sensory system stopped responding.  My world came crashing down.  All I could hear was the sound of my sobbing heart.  “Does he think I am old?” “Have I aged overnight?” “Is this the end of my youth?” “Why me??”

Just as I was preparing to launch into a tirade against men with juvenile aspirations, Hanu-man flashed his ID as Ram’s search engine.  My heart was split in half now- one half wanted to continue crying for a lost youth and the other half wanted to go “Yahooooo!”  Imagine my Ram, actually making efforts to send a snail-male to trawl for his missing wife! 

Guess all those hours on his laptop playing mindless games did not damage his brains after all. 

Sita Travels Abroad

Episode 2

Mommy dearest,

First the good news – I finally managed my first ever foreign trip and that too without a visa.  The bad news – I have been kidnapped.

Remember the golden deer I was soo excited about?  It turned out to be as fake as Aunty Sumitra's Louis Vuitton bags.  And trust Ram and Laks-man to go running after it.  Before I could scream Come back you imbeciles, I spotted that weird Abhishekh Bachhan lookalike winking wildly at me.  God! I was so mad that I had to come out of my eco friendly hut to give him one tight slap.  And you know what that moron does? Pushes me straight into his private jet.  Damn! Why did I leave my pepper spray behind?

Sometimes the universe conspires to give you hell. 

Weirdo’s private jet was kinda strange – an open topped thingy that totally messed up my hair.  Of course I was screaming and throwing a royal fit and that ass kept going hahaha.  Incidentally my dear abductor has a bizarre name – Ra-One. Bwahaha!

When Sita Clicked Write

Episode 1

Since Dusshera is round the corner, I thought I’ll give Sita a modern twist.


I am kicking myself for being so goody-goody.  I should have stayed back and gotten fat.  But no! I had to act like one those dumb belles in the saas-bahu serials and follow my husband to the forest like a loyal puppy.  What was I thinking!  Sigh… Life was so much cooler at the Palace – all those maids, the soft bed, the scented massage, the gorgeous Jacuzzi…I miss it so bad.  And guess what! I am even missing my MILs.   Yep, the same old hags I took such pains to avoid.   And it wasn’t that tough you know.  They mostly stuck to their rooms and all they did was play cards and watch TV. 

Actually it’s Paa-in-law’s fault.  He and his fetish for collecting wives!   Which dork sends his heir to the jungles just because he made a promise to his pretty young wife?  Promises are meant to be broken right? And if everything else fails you can always feign memory loss.  But no! You have to act all upright and send us packing to hell. Gawd! I am so maaaad at him! 
Maa, next time when you meet that jealous bitch Kaikeyi at one of your Kitty parties, just give her a tight slap will ya?  You know what, I often dream that I am pushing K and her ugly hunchback Manthra off a cliff.  They go down screaming as I grin widely.   I wish I could do that.  Will you ask Dad, if he can arrange someone to crush that bitch under a speeding BMW?  Please, pretty please?

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


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