Time to sex it up.....

Sex talks and how – look how it worked for this write-up.  All of you came looking for a steamy write-up and look what you ended up with! Yet another edition of Jhalmuri Times - Tch tch... But since I didn’t want to disappoint you too much, I decided to keep this three lettered word that makes the world go round as the theme.     

 If you thought only our leaders are a class apart here’s good news for you.  Politicians are the same the world over.  Look what’s happening In Belgium, its leaders still can’t agree on forming a government, even though then went for elections 263 days ago.  Senator Marleen Temmerman has proposed an age old remedy to break this impasse – a sex strike.  No, you don’t strike people with sex, you simply say no to it instead of faking a headache.  Ask any woman and she’ll tell you how effective it is.   In Columbia, girlfriends of gang members held a widely publicized “strike of crossed legs” until their partners gave up violence.  In Naples, women went on a similar strike to protest against notoriously dangerous New Year fireworks display. From Kenya to Turkey, women have protested against political infighting – even lack of running water – and it has always worked wonders. 

Ladies, the future of your country does not lie in your hands, but elsewhere!  But before you start popping champagne and your ego starts inflating, here’s a reality check.  A male passenger travelling by Indigo refused to let the plane to take off, the moment he heard it was piloted by a woman! Marna hai kya? Ghar nahi sambhalta, plane kya sambhalegi!!  And we all know what he WON’T be getting when he gets back home to his wife.

But in India, things don’t always work the way you would want them to.  In fact, a Delhi-based man had to seek court’s intervention to rescue him from his over-sexed wife. He was finally granted divorce on humanitarian grounds.  He couldn’t keep up so he asked for a way out!

I know, most of you must be thinking what an asshole that guy must be!!  She should have been anointed with the title of Savita Bhabhi. Yes, India’s favourite bhabhi, Savita is making a comeback. Bhabhi jee who became an online rage with her unconventional antics is now making her onscreen debut in Sheetalbhabhi.com.  Did I hear a loud yaayy from all the cubs?

Chatpati Batein

Delhizen is the typical Punjabi kurhi from the city of Chandigarh.  Fearless, passionate, she speaks her mind and writes from her heart.  A busy career woman who has now shifted her loyalties to Delhi, she lives to eat and in this post lets her taste buds do the talking.....
There are few things Purba and I  have in common; our names start with the letter ‘P’, we are Virgos, we can ‘talk’ and most of you who know her would know what I mean. We also share our love for writing, (though I am not half as good as her) Delhi and of course FOOD!  

Since no celebration is complete without good food and to keep up with the spicy content of A-Musing, my post is dedicated to ‘Street Food of Dillli’.  I read this ode, a 55er actually written by someone who is a foodie by heart & soul and thought it’s the right recipe to start my post which being with food and ends with it too.

“People eat out for various reasons: hunger pangs or for a change,
Some want to try what’s new while for a few it’s about taste,
There are also God’s chosen ones ‘who eat because it makes them happy’,
Food to live or food for mind; I chose the latter which adds zing to my life!”

Google Images
First draft of this post was trashed, so was the second and third. I realized its time to bunk the gym and instead walk down to Sriram Sweets, Malviya Nagar (btw they have the best Gol Gappas or GGs in South Delhi) for some inspiration.

Six gol guppas, 2 deep fried aloo tikkis and a plate of shakarkandi ki chat later I was ready to write about the second love of my life, food!

Just like a wine connoisseur can differentiate between a Sula and a Vintage. A gg Gulper can tell a good guppa from a regular one… Take the whole filled-up to the brim guppa to your mouth, bite into it, did you hear the pucchak sound? A burst of flavors, sweet followed by tangy and then the teekha-pan tingles the throat and you have just sampled a perfect gg, go on don’t stop at one!

Mrs. Ray, I Am Banning You....

His online moniker is Snow leopard... At 23, he is just a cub but with a mind of his own. Nopes, he takes no garbage but composts it instead.  A budding environmentalist, passionate about photography, a comic freak and with many dreams. Presenting Prateek Varma to you.....

That was one of my earlier jokes with Purba and I was wearing my Ray-bans....

When I came to know that A-musing will turn a year old by the end of February, I had to write something.  But then I was stuck. What do you write for a blogger who is so good and popular? You can be a damn good blogger and not be popular.....or sometimes you write shit but are quite popular.  But Mrs. Ray here...writes excellent stuff and is equally popular.  So what do you do? I couldn't rip her writing apart for the fear of being lynched by her fanatic fans (there must be a handful of them). And I couldn't write a humour post for her, since she is damn good in that department and I would have been ripped apart by the readers.

So, what do I write? I remember the first post I read at A-musing. It was about her driving lessons she was taking. And my first reaction was....ho hum....till I started reading. And then I came back. There was a strange force that compelled me to come back...again and again. A hypnotic effect, something ethereal.  I was having a hard time, trying to fathom the reason, but to no avail. And then I read a guest post by Miss Ray, which told us how her dear mother is actually a vampire.  And all the scattered pieces of the puzzle came together. 

Mad About Me.....

When Bryan Adams wrote “18 till I die” it was with him in mind.  A finance guru nurturing his myriad interests in amchi Mumbai – life is a celebration for him.  Today in honour of A-musing turning 1, he descends from his pedestal (or rather the golf course)  to take pot-shots at me.  Presenting what goes on in Madhusudhan(Mad) Menon’s mind........

Maxmayur is a lucky man. He beat me to the punch by interviewing the eastern sun before I woke up. And he being a recognized blogger got access to the award-winning celebrity blogger. I am sure he was assisted by the Blogger Gods. While licking my wounds, I decided not to feel sorry for this perceived blogger apartheid, and do my own interview. So what if she is not available for the interview? I have read all her posts, and feel I can answer all my questions, on her behalf without inconveniencing her and insisting on her presence. So the interview, with apologies to maxmayur, and the famous A-Musing blogger went like this:

Me: Madam, can I call you madam?
Purba : Of course not. That is what you call school teachers and the ones who run bordellos. I have also heard that that is what they call the fearless leader of the party that rules our country.

Me: Then, is it ok to call you Behenji?
Purba: Arre, are you insane? That is what they call Mayawatiji, the fearless leader of our downtrodden.
Me: Then maybe I can call you Purba ji?
Purba: I hate the Jee word. It makes me sound like a scam..2G, CWG and Blogger G

Now I already am at my wits end. I rule out Mataji, Rayji, Bloggerji etc. Now I have a brainwave.

Me: Why should I call you any names? Let me just ask my questions then. How do you select what you blog on?
Purba: That is a trade secret. It is like asking Coca cola for their secret recipe. But I will tell you this much. I have my eyes and ears in very high places. The last post for instance was inspired by a late night telephone caller from Lucknow. She was upset about the media furore over her simple desire to keep her footwear clean. And I felt that nobody should be deprived of his right to remove dhool from her Bata sandals.   

Me: How did you get started on blogging?

Purba: Arre, Menon...what kind of a blogger are you? If you are one, you should know how one starts. The problem is not how one starts, it is where you finish that is important. I always think of the end before the beginning. And if you know your Indian philosophy, the beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning..
(Now I feel like calling her Guruji, but am afraid to start on that track again)

Me: Have you ever suffered from writers block?
Purba: What is that? No blocks. Only blogs.  Anyway if there is a block, one can always bypass it and I’m not suggesting surgery!

A-Musing turns One.............


A-musing turns one today - a blog that had no intention of being born.  It was only after Desicritics – a forum for aspiring writers, decided to put the spotlight on me, I realized much to my alarm that I needed a blog.  Thankfully I had a collection of nearly a dozen articles that I had written in the past three months. And so precisely a year back, A-musing made its tentative entry.  I managed a scintillating debut and foolishly created 11 blogs, one for each article.  It was not until someone who had been following my write-ups regularly, wrote me an alarmed mail did I realize my mistake.  Bless you HarshVardhan, my first follower, the first someone who believed in me. And of course Desh Kapoor who got me to write in the first place.

It’s tough to write an anniversary special without sounding like an Oscar like speech. I want to thank him, her and it goes on.... Yes, there are many dear friends and my long suffering family I should be thanking but I decided to let others speak on my behalf.  Friends who know me through my blog. Some get gushy, some have fun at my expense, while some are still thinking.... 

This week I get a well deserved break as I sit back with my cup of coffee and let my friends take centre-stage. 

Come join in the fun. 

The Unsuitable Bride


Gods conspired to make my wedding truly eventful and brimming with suspense. Barely days before I was supposed to become a Missus, Rajiv Gandhi decided to get assassinated (may his soul rest in peace and damn you LTTE). The entire nation went into mourning and all public functions were banned for two weeks. It elicited mournful reactions from our many relatives Shushantor meyer biyer ki hobe!! (Whatever will happen to Sushanto’s daughter’s wedding!) My dear relatives were more concerned about my wedding and so was I.

To make things worse, the weather gods thundered and enveloped the entire city with heavy rains. Just a day before my wedding, I witnessed a heavy downpour reduce a magnificent Pandal to a pathetic, soggy mess. For God’s sake, God, can you please try and help!

Your wedding is an event that changes you and your life forever, for better or for worse. I was more than willing to embrace this change, I was desperate. For me, this was my ticket to freedom, to adulthood and all things wicked that I had only read in books so far. It helped that I was getting married to someone who was everything I ever wanted in a man.

The first time I met him, I was far from impressed. Gosh, he talks too much. I don’t like his sweater. Did he just finish all the sweets on his plate! He in turn found me too snooty, cold and fell for my boisterous dad and amicable brother instead. It was years later he finally admitted that he had fallen in love with my photograph before he actually met me. Yes, we had an arranged match, aided partly by providence and enterprise.

Our age-old wedding rituals were created by ancestors who had too much time in hand or perhaps it was their grand idea of permanently etching this momentous occasion in our fickle memory. Designed like one of the reality shows that you’d rather not watch - you are made to binge and starve in turns. Your privacy goes for a toss, since your house is jam-packed with relatives who you had last met when you were not toilet-trained, running around in a red frock. They never let you forget that and insist on regaling the whole house with squirm-worthy tales.

On the D-day you are woken up even before your neighbourhood cock had cleared its throat, have food shoved down your throat since you are expected to fast until your wedding vows are solemnised. In the name of beauty ritual, your loved ones insist on slathering you with copious quantities of turmeric and then drench you with water in full public view. On your most special day you have to bear the ignominy of seeing your near and dear ones hogging away to glory, while your stomach growls in protest. Everybody has fun in a wedding except the bride and the groom. They are made to sit on a stage, smile till their sides ache and shake hands till they are ready to collapse. And yes they are also the last ones to be fed.

At barely 22, I may not have known what I wanted but I definitely knew what I didn’t. I didn’t want to look like an assembly line dolled up bride. The salon was quite taken aback with this chit of girl who didn’t want a jooda and almost gave the make-up girl a nervous breakdown with her long list of vehement don’ts. When I insisted that my short hair be simply arranged in curls, the lady asked me whether I was a Christian. How can a self respecting Hindu bride not prefer red and maroon all over her face!

My Maa was too busy playing the gracious hostess to notice my unconventional hair-do and make-up and by the time she did she could only express helpless outrage. In the evening, guests invited for the marriage ceremony saw a bride who talked non-stop with her hair done up like a school girl. In fact in most of my wedding photographs, my mouth is wide-open, my face contorted with myriad expressions. Yes, not even a minute’s break did I take.

Maqbool is Fida again

Courtesy - cartoon exhibition.blogspot.com

Hussain’s dil to bachha hai. The artiste’s fascination for tinsel town ladies is no secret. He usually picks them up from the larger than life Suraj Barjatiya family flicks. The great Indian parivaar that has at least 52 deliriously happy members who hardly work, they sing and dance with gusto, have an undying passion for Antakshari, get married with alarming regularity and give bling a whole new meaning. The cute Pomeranian completes the picture. How sweet. Now I am deviating, I was talking about Maqbaool’s fascination for women young enough to be his granddaughter.

An artiste is always in search of a muse. Take Picasso, the world’s first rock star artist. The bohemian Casanova used a string of women (Marie-Thérèse, Olga Fernande, Eva, Dora, Francoise, Jacqueline to name a few) for their youth, beauty, suffering and humiliation to pave the way for his dizzying success. He wrung them to the last drop before he moved on to other beautiful women.  Pablo Picasso may have been the father of cubism and modern art, but he certainly was the king of use and throw.

Thankfully the Picasso of India, MF Hussain’s track record is not as evil. The artiste now on a self imposed exile in Qatar, is content with painting horses, Hindu goddesses in the buff and watching movies starring his femme fatales. The incurable romantic and the lover of mush, watches them not once, but again and again (he watched Hum Apke hain Kaun 73 times!). Once is not enough to get a glimpse of his Apsaraa in her purple sari doing her jhatka and matkas, fluttering her eyelashes on the 70mm screen, smiling coyly as she tugs at her dupatta - how sweet. Yeh dil abhi bharaa nahin. His last victim was Anushka Sharma, apparently he watched Band Baja Barat 8 times. Buss?

Just when you thought the world acclaimed artiste at 95 has hung up his non-existent chappals, the man comes up another ace. Vidya Balan, the thinking man’s sex symbol, has bewitched Hussain with her ample charms. And no, he’s not satisfied with just watching her movies, this time he wants more. He wants to paint Balan in the altogether.


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