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)

                                 

KOLAVERI DIDI

                                                         
As India's favourite insane asylum outpatient, Mamta Banerjee celebrated the first year of her reign of terror and darkness, the kind folks at Sardesai TV had a bright idea. They decided to stop shouting for a couple of minutes and hold a Q&A session with the newish overlord of West Bengal. And then, in a scenario which even a casual viewer of a badly plotted sitcom could foresee, during the session, the minute someone asked her a real question, Ms Banerjee not only refused to offer an answer, but for good measure called the person asking the question a Maoist (as you do!) and then walked out.
It takes real talent to share a stage with Sagarika Ghose and still come out looking like the crazy one, but, if anyone can accomplish this arduous task, then it's the Commie Crusher of Calcutta. This is what happens when you surround yourself with yes-men and don't allow any contradictory opinion to even wander near your frontal lobe. Maybe if she left the padded room they keep her in once in a while there would be hope that maybe one day she would have a tiny grip on reality? It seems that delusion is an important part of public life in this country.
Perhaps it is why human tub of lard and Information and Broadcasting minister Kapil Sibal was able to stand on the 'sacred' floor of Parliament and be able to claim, with a straight face, that India is perhaps more liberal than even America or Western Europe. So liberal it hurts! So liberal that we ban books without reading them. So liberal that we send the most number of takedown notices to Google. So liberal that we deny visas to foreign journalists who are critical of our policies.  Maybe he actually does believe the constant obfuscation he offers in lieu of real answers?
Although, that was nothing compared to the travesty that was the 'celebration' of the three years in government of the second iteration of the UPA. That is like throwing a party to commemorate that drunken night three years ago when you had a one night stand with a random person and they gave you syphilis. Though no one was surprised because this government has turned tone-deafness into an art form.

Not only have they spent each excruciating day in the past three years muddling from one crisis to the next, they are so barren that every time some wayward ally threatens to pull the rug from beneath their feet, a small part of you kind of wants them to go ahead with their threat so that this mass of diseased puss pretending to govern the country for the past few years can finally be put out of its misery. Only a deluded party would look at the drubbing it received in the assembly elections, held in the country's biggest state and try to convince itself that it was not a repudiation of its policies; that it would have won the elections had it not been for infighting. That it decided to stay the course is a testament to the long distance relationship between reality and the leaders of the Congress party.

    

Of course, if we had a proper opposition they would capitalise on such brazen incompetence. However, our principal opposition party is made up of a rag-tag bunch of jokers — bereft of any ideas — who cannot even stand the sight of each other yet still persist with the pretension of being a cohesive unit only because of their unmitigated and naked lust for power. An opposition party which continues to offer nothing but empty, unproductive gestures instead of any legitimate debate or any useful policies. The opposition parties in this country are so weak and helpless that they forcibly ceded their space to desi Robin Hood and his merry band of tax evading, expense fudging, and invective throwing minions.
Now, nobody currently embodies the collective delusion of our political class more than P.A. Sangma. A politician who was important for a few minutes in 1996, and is on what many observers would describe — if they want to be really, really kind — as a quixotic quest to be President. In his shamelessness, he has even managed to sell out the very people whose interests he claims to care for. According to Sangma, letting him mangle English words for five years in Rashtrapati Bhavan would right all the wrongs of the past.
The profound distance the North East has felt from the mainland, the years of being ignored by the central government, it would all be fixed if they make a guy, who even members of his own party aren't aware of, the President. The most incredulous claim he has made is that a President Sangma would bring down Naxalism and hurt the insurgency. Yes, a President Sangma would also find a cure for cancer, fix the imbalanced gender ratio, singlehandedly bring an end to the corruption that ails the country and make it rain cute puppies and edible confetti all the time.
Which brings us back to Mamta Banerjee. She ended her week by leading a protest against the government. This was an act of such bravado that it caused a fissure in the space-time continuum. Even though she is in government both at the centre and the state, she figured that the best plan of action would be to lead a procession against both these entities. Usually she is just judge, jury and executioner; however, this time she was both Chief Minister and the Leader of Opposition. There was even an awkward moment when she, in her capacity as chief minister, called herself, in her capacity as leader of opposition, a Maoist.
Somewhere in famous people heaven, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung are looking down on her and going "Even we can't cure this."

                                                                  

Don’t Talk About Sex Baby!

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Why So Snobbish?

A long, long time ago, the first humans set foot on Earth, invariably stepping in sabre-tooth tiger poop, because the BMC was inefficient even back then. The human race then adapted and evolved from cavemen who asserted their superiority over their lesser brothers by bashing their heads in with a rock, to the more refined specimens of today, who have learnt to identify the weakest of the species based on the phone they use.

At the forefront of this phone snobbery are two major camps – the Android fanboys, who gloat about the superior tech that allows them to access weed and stripper-related apps, and Apple fanatics aka Mactards, described by sociologists as being ‘absolute tossers’. (There are also Blackberry fans, but they just sit around picking lice out of each others’ fur.)

Of all the phone snobs, I find Mactards most amusing. I’m not talking about regular Apple users – I mean the ones who make it a point to refer to their phone as their ‘iPhone’. The common noun is swept aside to make way for the Grand Proper Noun: “Call me on my iPhone”, “Text me on my iPhone”, “My pee-pee is smaller than my iPhone”.

This is about as classy as referring to yourself in third person. Would you like it if Parag Sawant did that to you? Parag Sawant most certainly would. Parag Sawant  thinks this is fun. Parag Sawant is the son of God. Parag Sawant Parag Sawant . Parag Sawant Oh, and in case you didn’t get it, Parag Sawant  .

This battle took on farcical proportions recently, when Instagram, so far an exclusive iOS app, launched a version for Android. For those of you who just woke up from a long coma, Instagram is an app that allows you to take pictures of your food, add various effects to them and then share them with other lovers of half-eaten-food photos. Mactards all over the world welcomed the Android version the same way you’d welcome the arrival of cockroaches. In your mouth.

I would totally understand if the Apple fanboy stand began and ended with ‘I’m better because I can afford to buy more expensive stuff and you can’t, nyah nyah nyah!’ That’s pretty much the cornerstone of capitalism, and it’s fine. But no; they act like they built their own devices from scratch. Dear Mactards, all you did was walk into a store and buy shiny things. You’re like a Gujju aunty at Tribhuvandas Zaveri. Get over it.

Another kind of snob I don’t understand is the Militant Meat Eater. Now I love a good beef chilli fry as much as the next guy, except that I don’t, because the next guy is the kind whose love for dead animals is second only to his love of spitting at vegetarians.
Go out for a meal in a mixed group, and there will always be that one idiot who thinks it’s hilariously original to go on about ‘ghaas-phoos’ for twenty minutes. I suspect that these repeated jibes have led to the rise of crazy vegetarians. Case in point: the Jain-infested areas of South Bombay, such as Walkeshwar, wherein eating meat in your own home can result in you being evicted. The trader communities that own the area equate meat-eating to some heinous crime, like murder, or paying taxes.
I’m a realist. I have no fantasies about living in a world where people aren’t trying to show off their superiority using any metric possible. Snobbery is an inescapable human trait, like lying, or watching  porn videos. I just think it’s wrong to judge someone on the basis of their phones or dietary preferences. Why use cellphones or food as tools of hate, when you can judge people based on their spellings, honking habits or their belief in astrology? Feel free to send in hate mail if you disagree. Parag Sawant will read it on his IPHONE!!!.

A Totally Useless Guide to The Budget

This has been an important week for India, what with Mamata Banerjee biting off the Railway Minister’s head for doing his job, followed by Pranab Mukherjee presenting the Union Budget in an accent that can only be described as ‘Bengali man coughing up a hairball’.
As expected, the country was assaulted by a barrage of information as news channels went into hyperdrive, beginning with speculation about the budget that showcased experts with the predictive skills of a roadside fortune-telling parrot, which was followed by a detailed analysis of how the UPA could have done better (Answer: By resigning)
As regular people, I know that you need a real expert to cut through the clutter and the jargon, and tell you in lucid terms, what the budget is all about. I believe that I fit the bill, given that I often stumble upon business channels while surfing, and even watch for a few seconds if the anchors are hot enough(its not imperative for a MBA to watch it seriously). You can’t go wrong with credentials like that. So let’s begin with a simple Q & A format:

Q. What is in the briefcase that the finance minister brandishes about in Parliament on Budget Day?
A. Antacids, porn films for Karnataka politicians, and a signature cologne distilled from the tears of the middle class.

Q. Ooh, porn. Tell me more.
A. The titles include ‘Fiscal Fantasy’, ‘Subsidy Studs’ and the classic, ‘Plug My Deficit’
.
Q. What is the history behind the budget?
A. The practise started in 1728, when the King of England asked his financial adviser to tell him what the Crown’s money would be spent on. “Silly wigs”, said the adviser, and there was much rejoicing.

Q. I can’t watch the budget. Parliament sessions are boring as hell.
A. Not if you play the Meira Kumar Drinking Game.

Q. What’s that?
A. Do a shot every time Meira Kumar says ‘Baith Jaaiye’. Very soon, you’ll find yourself stumbling about, shouting inanities and basically making a Digvijay Singh of yourself.

Q. What are the key economic issues that India needs to focus on?
A. From an economic point of view, it is imperative to uncover the origins of that thing growing on Lord Meghnad Desai’s head.

Q. I am a 22-year-old man from a respectable family. I like to touch myself while watching Baba Sehgal videos. Will this affect my married life?
A. Dude... Wrong blog.

Q. What do you make of the FDI debate?
A. It’s no surprise that Congress leaders are gung-ho about FDI. Always have been. They chose Sonia, didn’t they?

Q. What are the long-term measures taken by the Congress to protect Indian farmers?
A. The long-term idea is to let them die, and then hope they’re reborn as something whose existence is less wretched, like lepers, or the guys in charge of waxing Shekhar Suman’s chest.
Q. That’s disgusting.
A. Wait till you hear his jokes.

Q. What about the BJP? They claim to be fighting for farmers.
A. Yes, but their strongest idea involves leasing out Nitin Gadkari as a scarecrow.

Q. Is it true that Rakhi Sawant visited the Parliament on the first day of the budget session?
A. Yes, this actually happened. Next up, Poonam Pandey to strip at the Supreme Court.

Q. THIS BUDGET SUCKS! YOUR MOM IS A TRAMP! I WILL SET FIRE TO EVERY HAPPY MEMORY YOU HAVE AND TAKE A DUMP ALL OVER YOUR SOUL!
A. Go away, Mamata.