The summertime summertime madness!!!!!

I love the romantic image of summer that’s been perpetuated through the ages by white people who will never know what it’s like to be a human popsicle in India. You see it all the time in the form of stock photos of bikini babes and dudes on sailboats, sipping rainbow-coloured drinks and grinning because they’re obviously in the south of France, where visas are denied to sweaty people.
                                                                                                                                                    I’d love to see the more realistic image, where the sailboat dude is trying to get an auto on Linking Road while a torrent of back-sweat pretends to be Magellan and goes exploring in places that are otherwise explored on incognito mode. I’d like to see him shake hands with people all day, this harmless social greeting now transformed into a Woodstock for germs, which you counter with routine hygiene measures like cutting off your hand.

Don’t mind me. I’m just cranky because I stepped out for ten minutes and now I feel like something the cat dragged in out of a coal mine. Thankfully, I have science to back up and quantify my whining. Humidity levels reached 81% in South Mumbai this week, a phenomenon scientists refer to as ‘Just Stay Home And French-Kiss Your AC’.

This is how I know I’ll never be a great person. On the one hand, you had people like Nelson Mandela, who stayed unbroken after 27 years in prison. And then there’s me. I wouldn’t even need to be tortured or anything. If you want to get state secrets out of me, just put me in a room with a fan that the bai forgets to turn on after jhaadu. In three seconds, I’d confess to everything from killing Kennedy to being that guy who let the dogs out.

Another thing better people do is realise that they’re so much more privileged than most people out there. It seems a bit stupid to tweet updates like ‘UGHH SO SWEATY I COULD IRRIGATE HALF OF INDIA WITH MY ARMPITS’ and then look out of your AC cab to see a handcart puller lugging a load the size of a house without cribbing because he doesn’t have a Twitter account the luxury of doing so.

The only bright side of summer is the arrival of mangoes, a fruit known worldwide for its ability to drive Indians nuts. But I have to mess it up by being possibly the only Indian person who couldn’t care less about Katrina’s make-out partner. It makes things awkward in social situations. There’s always that moment where someone lovingly serves you a mango dish for dessert, and you tell them that you would rather eat your toes. As a result, I’m less welcome at dinners than the one friend who gets drunk and starts saying things like, “I’m not a bigot, but the problem with *those* people na…”

I guess the only good thing about summer is that you see way more women in summer dresses, which is really the hottest, most bad-poetry-inducing thing women can do. There’s just something about that look that makes you ignore the glossy finish that all Mumbaikars come in. As men, we have nothing even remotely classy going on. Our greatest fashion achievement is successfully resisting the urge to take off our pants in public.

There’s about one more week  of this nonsense left, so it would be best to remember the wise words of Plato who said, “Screw this, I’m going to the hills.” Unfortunately for Bombay people that means Lonavala, the hill station brought to you by Maganlal Chikki, starring Maganlal Chikki and introducing Baby Maganlal Chikki. What I’m saying is, just take a break and go to a nicer place, like a coal mine.

On Your Marks, Get Set.........................Pizza!

If you’re reading this in the morning, then congratulations on being one of the four people not running the Mumbai Marathon today. Seriously, the last time I saw thousands of Mumbaikars run in one direction, it was for a local train seat.
                               

But what I like about the marathon is that every year, it gives so many people a chance to wake up and seize the day by vowing to run next year pakka I swear boss this year was full hectic with job and baby and winning Nobel prize and licking schezwan off my chin and all.
The Mumbai Marathon has grown spectacularly since its inception in 2004, mostly because new generations of women kept discovering Milind Soman and his short shorts. The fandom is completely understandable. For starters, Soman is a friggin’ Greek god whose idea of light cardio is jogging from Mumbai to Pune. And the heartless monster that he is, he probably doesn’t even stop at the Panvel McDonalds. Also, when it comes to sexy studful studly stud-type men, Milind Soman is pretty much the only Maharashtrian option on the table. The only other hot Maharashtrian is Chicken Kolhapuri.

The reason the marathon is so popular is because it’s accessible to everyone who’s not lazy. It features categories like the Senior Citizens’ Run aka You Can’t Say Anything Mean About This Because You’ll Look Like A Sociopath, the Champions With Disability Run aka This Will Make You Feel Small and of course, the Dream Run, which supports the most important charity of them all i.e. the I Just Wanted A New FB Display Picture Foundation.

I don’t know how this happens, but at some point in your late 20s, a bunch of your friends – people whose idea of exercise was picking up the phone to call the wine shop – will start running seriously. This is a good thing because when done right, running develops the most important muscle of all – your credit card. Because you can’t just go out and run anymore. What are you – a caveman? First, you need the right shoes, something with basic features like “AdiBok Nano-engineered Oxyrich air granules embedded in a lightweight sole made entirely from the burps of god.”

The clothes that you wear need to have been designed at NASA, because if they aren’t high-tech enough, your body will put on fat in protest. And of course, you’re a real runner only if you strap on some sort of activity tracker bracelet that connects to sixteen social networks to let everyone know about your vital signs, the distance you covered, your deepest and darkest fears, which Sex and the City character you are and so on. I wish these devices and apps would broadcast more honest updates, like these:
“Champak just checked into Potholed Running Surface Buzzing With Kamikaze Autowallahs.”
“Champak just slipped on dog poo. Impossible is nothing ki mother-sister, he says.”
“Champak just spotted a cute girl up ahead. He quickens his pace because girls like nothing more than a guy racing at them from behind.”
“ABORT ABORT ABORT! Girl is wearing trackpants that has the word JUICY emblazoned in bling across her butt.”
“Champak’s lungs are screaming for mercy. It has only been one kilometre. Screw this, he says.”
“Champak just updated his FB: Ran 5 kilometres today! Feeling alive! <Protein Shake Selfie.jpg> #Motivated #BornToRun #JeSuisPistorius”

The marathon is also a giant fancy dress party – it’s like Halloween for people who’re off candy. But when it comes to fantastical costumes, nobody can beat Anil Ambani, who turns up dressed like he’s one of us. I imagine him running across the city thinking, “Yeah, I own that… and that… and this bridge over here and all the slum-dwellers over there… and that white building at Nariman with the flag on top” until he spots Antilla, at which point he wishes it were the monsoon, because nobody can see his tears in the rain.
But my favourite marathon moment has to be the one where I wake up after it’s all over and everyone has gone home. It’s not like you need to watch it to know how it ends. Two things will happen: an African guy will win, and Rahul Bose will become relevant again.
Jokes aside, the marathon fosters a sense of community and bonding that this angry, overworked city so desperately needs. That is reason enough to run. I’ll do it next year pakka,"aai shapat kharach".

LOOK BEFORE YOU SIT!!!!!!

Look before you sit!!!

These are troubled times for the nation, seeing as how the most popular choices on our voting machines this May will be LOL and ROFLSCREWED. Sure, there’s something called a Third Front which pops up once every few years, but just seems to be the political equivalent of the Eclairs that tollbooth attendants try to palm off when they run out of real money. Given such dire circumstances, it is only natural that I address the most pressing concern facing the nation today, i.e. there could be a snake lurking in your toilet.This is a real thing. It happened in the Mulund suburb of Mumbai this week, when a family discovered a 6-foot-long cobra in their toilet and did what any normal human being would do: they gutted all of Mulund with a flamethrower. At this point, let’s observe a minute’s silence for the fact that nothing good has ever been associated with Mulund. The only nice thing about Mulund is that it’s not Vikhroli, but that aside, it’s just another pimple in the general rash that is Central Mumbai. For long, its name has been a source of much amusement for 12-year-old boys, but that may change now, what with builders giving it fancy monikers like Lower Powai, Lateral BKC and Groin of Thane.


Anyway, as it turned out, the cobra had been living in the sewage pipes and occasionally surfaced through the toilet to get some air and transform into Sridevi. It was eventually rescued by a team of people who are trained to go from toilet to toilet and rescue snakes, as if they were the love child of Steve Irwin and Aman ‘Harpic’ Verma. Although anything that can survive in Mumbai sewage doesn’t really need to be rescued. I’m sure the cobra was doing just fine, and had managed to score an Aadhar card, domicile certificate and a “setting” with the local corporator.This snake-in-a-toilet thing sounds like one of those urban legends that we all heard about while growing up in Mumbai. For example, there was one popular story about a faceless gang that skulked around crowded theatres, quietly pricking people with HIV needles and stamping a message on their arms that said “Welcome to the AIDS Club” (which just sounds like a rejected slogan for South African tourism).

This incident also has to be the cheapest, tackiest remake of the masterpiece that is Snakes On A Plane. I can already see the desi version unfold before my eyes:  Snakes In A Sandaas, starring Nana Patekar, who’s basically the Maharashtrian Samuel L. Jackson, standing there slapping his own head while saying things like “I HAVE HAD IT WITH THESE MOTHERF****** SAANP AADMI KO HIJRA BANA DETA HAI!”The problem is that this has ruined my relationship with toilets forever. There are things that toilets are great for: snatching a few moments of solitude, waiting for creative inspiration to strike, cussing out the creator of Flappy Bird, being bulimic and so on. Here’s what toilets aren’t great for: surprise prostate exams. That’s what Dadar locals are for.In more wildlife news, the citizens of Meerut in U.P had a terrible week, probably because they are citizens of Meerut in U.P. Also, a leopard strayed into the city and attacked some men after -  and I quote – “Some of them went close out of curiosity”. Why would these guys see a leopard and then walk in for a closer look? What did they think it was – a woman?

One suburb of Mumbai that has seen its fair share of leopards is – surprise surprise – Mulund. It’s not the leopards’ fault though, because we’ve been encroaching upon their forests for ages. It must be terrible, as a mighty predator, to come home one day and see that your hunting ground has been replaced by MANDAR BUILDER AND DEVLUPPER SPACIOUS 26 SQ.  FT. FLAT FOR 4 CRORES BECAUSE APPARENTLY THESE FLATS ARE MADE OF COCAINE. It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to go away to a nice, quiet place, like my bathroom. But I’m going to need a flamethrower.

Of Kumbhs and Popes

Big week for the religious. (And Liverpool fans)

 Given that it’s Valentine’s week, everyone is talking about just one thing: Afzal Guru. And teddy-bears holding hearts, because nothing says I love you like a freshly-severed vital organ in the hands of a mammal that can swat your head off. But given that everyone’s being all mushy, I’ve decided to go the other way and adopt a strategy that Hollywood calls counter-programming.

 In fact I’m also certain everyone else calls it counter-programming, but everything is cooler when you connect it to Hollywood (except Mallika Sherawat). Counter-programming is simple; everyone expects theatres to be full of romantic films in a week like this, so I release a horror movie to capture the audience that’s sick of romance. In summer, everyone expects action films, so I release a rom-com to change things up. And in 2014, everyone expects Rahul Gandhi or Narendra Modi to be PM, so I move to a place with brighter prospects, like Sudan.

 And so, in this season of nauseating love, I’d like to counter-program this column with the exact opposite: religion. This is an exciting time in the world of religion. For starters, the Maha Kumbh is on. For the ignorant, the Kumbh mela is a Hindu pilgrimage, made once every three years at one of four sacred spots. It is the largest gathering of Hindus from all over the world.

 And the Maha kumbh is like the Kumbh, but with extra cheese. Over three crore people were present on just one day last week. I’m told it was the most auspicious day for a dip in the Ganga. Or Swedish House Mafia were playing. The Maha Kumbh is a confluence that attracts a multitude of people. Some have strong, unshakeable theological beliefs; most have DSLRs and no work.

The Maha Kumbh brings us a variety of colourful images, like the one of the semi-naked, stoned sadhu, or the other one of the semi-naked, stoned sadhu, or that other one of twelve semi-naked, stoned sadhus. And these paragons of Hinduism all gather in a dust bowl on the banks of the Ganga for a holy dip. I haven’t seen that many semi-nude unwashed-looking people in the same place at the same time since I stopped watching Splitsvilla. But people also come to the Maha Kumbh for important spiritual rituals like cleansing, purification, and dying in pointless stampedes.

 In other religious news, the world was stunned this week when Pope Benedict XVI announced that he would be stepping down from the papacy to spend the rest of his days being the subject of the next Dan Brown book. While news of the Pope’s resignation is no doubt sad, we must be grateful for his stewardship, and glittering career.

 And he ends it on a high, having scored over a hundred 100’s in test cricket and having passed 25,000 first-class runs. And while he has cited health concerns as reason for his sudden retirement, there is speculation that he will be present at the launch of the next iPad before handing the reins over to Tim Cook XVII.

 Seriously though, what happens next? It’s simple. 118 Cardinals of the church will gather in a conclave to vote on who should be the new Pope (rumours suggest he will have HD graphics and a better camera). What is important is that five of these cardinals are Indian, according to my sources at the Department for Finding Indian Connections To All Major News Stories.

 The cardinals must agree on a candidate by two-third majority vote. At this point, it is unclear who the next real candidate is. Some people say Narendra Modi, but other factions insist Nitish Kumar has a chance. In my last piece of news in this week’s religious round-up, I’d like to talk about the holiest event in centuries: Liverpool drew 1-1 against the mighty Zenith, taking an away goal with them as they go into the next leg at Anfeild. And so, in the end, all I want to say is, Steve G , will you be my Valentine?

Happy Independence Day

Friends, Indians, countrymen and six million illegal Bangladeshi immigrants living under my sink, I want to wish you all a very happy Independence Day. Independent India is soon going to be sixty five years old, or to put it in politician years, foetus. It’s weird to think that some of the people ruling us today were around during the British Raj, dreaming of the day when India would no longer be under the thumb of a white lady. They’re still dreaming.

Anyway, it’s a great time to be Indian, as long as you’re not Kashmiri, North-Eastern, poor, Dalit, a minority, a farmer, female or worse, from Kolkata. On the bright side, we did put up our best show ever at the Olympics, especially with Mary Kom teaching India about grit, grace and more importantly, Manipur. She has inspired a whole generation of women, such as small-time model Gehna Vashisht who went nude to celebrate the spirit of India and Photoshop. Having googled Gehna Vashisht, I can honestly say that I’m reminded of Helen of Troy, because Gehna’s is the face that launched a thousand STDs.
This year, as always, we will indulge in our usual display of patriotism and military might, also known as Ek Tha Tiger. Fun fact: Pakistan had reportedly banned the promos of the film, which means that every man, woman, child and goat in Pakistan has seen them. Let’s face it – the only Pakistani ban that worked was the one they put on democracy. Anyway, the promos were banned because Pakistan felt that they showed the ISI in a bad light. Hey, you know what really shows the ISI in a bad light? Kargil.
Meanwhile, our idea of celebrating freedom is nursing a hangover while watching patriotic films on TV. And by patriotic, I mean any film that shows us pulverizing our neighbour, be it in ’71, ’99 or even ’47, when Sunny Deol killed all of Pakistan with a hand-pump and got Amisha Patel in return. If you’ve ever seen Pakistani women, you know that is a rubbish trade off.


Then at some point, you take a break from the movies and start surfing news channels, and this is what it sounds like:
*CLICK*
Rajdeep: Hello and welcome to CNN-IBN. The hard-hitting question we’re asking today is ‘Is Independent India A Sexy Sexagenarian?’ And to answer that, we’ve dusted off and brought out our famous historian, Ramachandra Guha.
Guha: Before we answer this question, we must recollect the events of August 1947, 1912 GMT, 33 degrees East, 72 degrees North, when Pt. Nehru took a deep breath, and uttered the now-historic words, “Boss, Dadar kis side aayega?”
 *CLICK*
Hello and welcome to yet another edition of Newshour aka ARNAB IS AMAZEBALLS. Today The People demand to know: Are we really free? Are Suhel Seth and Mahesh Bhatt the same person? How come we never see them together? Are you Pakistani? Am I Pakistani? Is India Pakistani? And why the hell is baby nappy mein bhi happy?
 *CLICK*
KYA QUEEN ELIJABETH IS A MAANGLIK? KYA MIDGETS HAIN BHAGWAAN KE PAPERWEIGHT? DEKHTE RAHIYE INDIA TV!
 *CLICK*
The biggest spectacle is still the Independence Day parade, wherein the Prime Minister gets on top of the Red Fort and does the Macarena. OK, I don’t know what happens because I haven’t actually watched the parade in years. I mean if I wanted to watch Manmohan Singh speak, I would just stare at his picture really hard. As usual, he will make a speech listing out all of his government’s achievements in the past year, so try not to blink or sneeze.
Then a bunch of different floats will go by, each representing a different Indian state. Let’s be honest: if it weren’t for these floats, you wouldn’t even know about the new states that keep cropping up, like Uttarakhand, or Orissa (Odisa? Orisha? Oreos?) Also, I can’t wait to see the U.P float just sitting there, refusing to move until someone promises them “half-return”. And I bet the Haryana float is just one giant ultrasound machine.
So everything said and done, spending Independence Day in front of the TV is not a bad thing at all. It involves sitting around and living off the hard work of our forefathers. And what could be more Indian than that? Jai Hind. Or as Manmohan Singh puts it, (THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK)

May I Have The Pleasure Of Stepping On Your Foot?

                      

So I went to a party on the weekend, and it was awesome, because there was music and dancing. But it also sucked, because there was music and dancing. What I’m saying is that I cannot dance. And this is no ordinary lack of talent. No siree. I am unable to dance in the same way that Vasant Dhoble is unable to distinguish between regular women and prostitutes.

But before we get into that, let’s just accept a few facts. Firstly, all the smooth, sensual dance forms that yuppies go nuts about today – be it the tango, the mambo, the salsa, whatever – are just extended foreplay. Also, for most men, dance is just an excuse to put on some music and rub up against a woman in the hope of seducing her. This is supposed to be hot, but when I put on my iPod and do the same thing on the bus, it’s suddenly frowned upon. OK relax, I’m kidding. I don’t use an iPod.

It’s no wonder that women love the idea of dance as foreplay. Because women love doing simple things in the most complicated way possible: “OK, before I hook up with this guy, I want him to spin me around 500 times, dip me, hold me, thrill me, fling me, lift me, bench-press me, hoist me up like a bazooka and pretend to fire RPGs out of my bum.”
This is a problem for me, because the only dance I know (and badly at that) is Bollywood dance, which is a certified woman repellent. The only way it could be more repulsive is if I wore a necklace made out of all the female toes I’ve stepped on.

And it’s not just me – most Indian men are rubbish at dance. We have a fixed set of steps that get increasingly stupid with each drink, and we just don’t care. Our approach to dance – be it at an office party, wedding, birthday or funeral – consists of various gems.
First up is The Nagin. You know a step is a winner when you see it being performed by sweaty guys at every engineering festival. This wonderful tribute to Sridevi involves raising your hands up above your head in the shape of a cobra’s hood, and swaying about with the grace of Hrithik Roshan. From Guzarish.

And then we have the Indian Man’s Overbite. No pelvic thrust is complete without it. It involves scrunching up your nose, and biting your lip seductively in the hope that the woman you’re trying to impress has a Tinnu Anand fetish.
Soon it’s time for the step that you’ve seen every uncle do at every party ever: the shuffle-about-while-balancing-alcohol-filled-glass-on-head step. The only time it is okay to balance drinks on your head is if you’re a poor village woman who has to trek 100 kilometres to the nearest bar to stock up on booze.
As the night progresses further, we unleash The Chammak Challo. Arms outstretched, and hands rotating as if to say, “Who knew turning imaginary taps could be so much fun!” While doing this, in my head, I’m convinced I’m Shahrukh Khan, whereas I actually look like a hawker offering you a breast exam.

I blame our lack of style on India. Our culture has no room for sensual dances. We have bhangra which, while fun, is about as sensual as a gunshot wound. At some point, they stop bothering with lyrics and switch to ‘bhhrrrrrwaaah’. Every time you make that sound, somewhere in Punjab, a buffalo gets turned on.
In Maharashtra, we have the Lezim, which is performed using what I can only describe as musical nunchucks. You should learn it if your lifetime ambition is to be featured in the background of a DD Sahyadri documentary.
And what in the name of holy Mohanlal moustache is kathakali? It’s a dude with green face paint who looks really angry. Then again, I’d be angry too if my face looked like something the Hulk might dig out of his nose.
I’ve actually decided to stop being a boor and to “get with it”. I’m going to learn as many cool dances as I can. And ladies, if you’re paired up with me in dance class, remember: wear survival boots.

I Want To Make Fraudship With You

Unless your name is Kapil Sibal, I think you’ll agree with me when I say that the internet is awesome. It is a place where even the most degenerate, depraved and desperate souls on the planet can find sanctuary. But enough about Orkut.
And just like the real world, the internet isn’t safe from scams. In fact, it’s worse, because we’re more used to fraud in the real world. The signs are obvious. For example, you know you’re being suckered when you’re paying ‘chanda‘ for festivals, or voting for the Congress.
I was reminded of all this recently when this paper carried a four-part campaign on online safety. I like how such campaigns begin with cautionary tales that go something like this:
Priya Rai (name changed on request), aged 24, was just an ordinary girl going about her day when she signed into her Facebook account. She was browsing through her albums, creatively titled ‘RANDOM CLICKZ’, ‘PARTYYY!!! LOLZZ!!’ and ‘AFTER PARTYYY VOMIT! YAY!’, when she realised that something was terribly wrong. This was because a truck had rammed into her stupid face. This happens when you check FB while driving.
It surprises me that even after all these years, people are still clueless about basic online safety. Then again, if you’ve seen kids or old people use the web, you’d understand why. For example, my mother is a very smart woman, but I think she believes that the internet is run by a magic goblin network. (I had to explain to her that it’s actually operated by Chinese kids living inside your computer.) Thankfully, here’s a set of FAQs that might just help:
Q. I am on Facebook. How do I protect my privacy?
A. First, delete your account. Then fly to California, lobotomise Mark Zuckerberg and feed his brain to Myspace users.
Q. I’ve put up my phone number online. I also like to check in to various places using Foursquare, thus broadcasting my location details all day. Is this safe?
A. If by safe, you mean ‘something that attracts emotionally-unhinged heavy-breathing enthusiasts with easy access to mineral acids’ then yes.
Q. I am a mother of two teenagers. I sent them friend requests on Facebook six months ago, and they still haven’t accepted it. What do I do?
A. This is not your kids’ fault. The BMC accidentally hit some transmission cables while digging, so your friend requests leaked out and could not reach your kids’ computers. They’re currently lying in a pothole in Marol.
Q. I have an e-mail which says that I just won 750,000 British pounds in a lottery. I just need to send them my bank details. How do I proceed?
A. The recommended procedure is that you march up to your boss, spit in his face and staple your resignation letter to his nipples.

Q. I am a 15-year-old boy. My friends in school morphed my face on to Poonam Pandey’s body. Everyone makes fun of me now. What do I do?
A. This is known as cyber-bullying and can be quite traumatic. But you know what’s more traumatic? Being stabbed with a compass wielded by your oversized classmate who started shaving in the fifth standard. You kids have it easy. Suck it up and get back at bullies with better Photoshop.
Q. I’ve heard of cyber cafes installing keyloggers on their PCs. What’s that about?
A. A keylogger is software that stays invisible while recording whatever you type. The information thus gained can be used for malicious purposes. For example, do you really want everyone to know that your last search term was “balloon fetish”?
Q. Haha. Shut up. Surely there’s no such thing.
A. Look it up if you want your childhood destroyed.
Q. Dear Friend, you should try our herbal penis enlargement pills today.
A. I’m sorry, I don’t know what a ‘herbal penis’ is.
Q. Can I buy three packets of those pills please?
A. Oh hello, Mr. Sib – (THE REST OF THIS COLUMN HAS BEEN CENSORED BY THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA)