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)

                                 

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.

Flash What Yo Mama Gave You!

Mumbai learnt an interesting lesson this week, i.e. a flash mob does not involve a bunch of angry web designers wreaking havoc through rollover ads. Nope, a flash mob is completely different. It’s a group of people that gathers at a predetermined place, does something bizarre, and leaves in a jiffy. For example, Parliament.
When done right, a flash mob is art, it is randomness and most importantly, it’s a great way to get Youtube hits without being a cat that plays the piano while doing the Hitler salute.
The Mumbai flash mob, performed at CST last Sunday, was all this and more. Two hundred everyday citizens, between the ages of 4 and 60, broke out into a choreographed dance at CST, after which Anil Kapoor scared the hell out of white people by going all Ram Lakhan at the Golden Globes… hang on, I may be a bit confused here.
No, the flashmobbers danced to ‘Rang De Basanti’ (which is Punjabi for ‘Suck on this, you Kolaveri freaks’) much to the surprise of commuters whose idea of local train music so far had been confined to bhajan groups that could make God turn atheist.
Now at this point, let me clarify that I’m not one of those overly happy people. Not while I’m sober anyway. You know the kind I’m talking about – those upbeat dingbats who claim to be high on life, vomiting sunshine and rainbows every time they open their mouths and generally going about their day as if they’d just woken with Sharad Pawar’s bank balance.
Having said that, when I watched the flash mob video, I couldn’t help but grin like those very idiots. Seriously, just look at the people in it. What’s the one thing that you notice? Yep, that’s right – some of the dancers are hotties. No wait, I mean they’re happy. Even if it’s just for five minutes, everybody at the station is happy – the dancers, the commuters, the pickpockets – everybody.
Let’s be honest here. If there’s one thing that Mumbai needs (apart from flyovers, wide roads, a metro network, more AC buses, a drainage system that was designed for not more than just four Englishmen and their pets, and politicians who have more brains than the aforementioned pets) it is random bouts of happiness like these.
It takes a special kind of Mumbaikar to look at VT and think, “I want to get 200 of my friends and dance in front of the toilets here.” I applaud that Mumbaikar, Shonan Kothari, and also request her to pass whatever she’s smoking. Of course, as far as stations go, VT was the perfect venue. It has character and history and is an iconic Mumbai location, unlike, say, Dadar which is a station built entirely out of rotting vegetables glued together with sweat.
The video reminded me of the last time I saw Mumbaikars erupt with unabashed joy. This was right after the World Cup victory. The sky was a riot of colours, with people singing, dancing, laughing, getting smashed, making out with strangers – it was like a Punju wedding on steroids. But since we can’t fix, I mean, win a World Cup every time, I’ll take these little substitutes instead.
Of course, not everyone shares my enthusiasm. There are many who’ve been cribbing about the quality, nature and purpose of the flash mob (this was after they managed to spare time from their busy schedule of kicking puppies) Ok no, if you’re one of those people, I wish you could lighten up. If not, may Kolaveri play in your head till your brain explodes.

WHY DANDIYA WHYYYY?????

Every now and then, I like to sit back, relax and ponder some serious philosophical questions such as, “What is the meaning of life?”, “Why do some people always have moist palms?” and most importantly, “When did people decide that it would be fun to whack two sticks together to the tunes of a band whose musical style seems to be ‘Bollywood hits as sung by a cat that is being skinned alive’?”
   
So clearly, I’m not a big fan of dandiya, or as Gujaratis like to call it, ‘mating season’. Think about it – just like birds and animals that surface once a year and strut around, showing off their colourful plumage to attract potential mates, Gujju males too emerge at night, decked up in attire that makes their usual Charagh Din shirts seem funereal in comparison. And then begins the dance, wherein they make the women go around in circles until the blood flow in their heads is all messed up, causing them to willingly hook up with guys called ‘Viral’, ‘Pinal’ and ‘Anal’. (I imagine that names like these would render kids celibate for life. You might as well call them ‘Pustule McFungus’ or worse, ‘Amar Singh’)

If you think I’m exaggerating about the mating season bit, then you underestimate the power of repressed hormones. A cursory glance at news reports will tell you that there is always a surge in the sale of emergency contraceptives during this period, so unless i-Pills are exceptionally tasty, you know what’s happening. And so do many paranoid parents, who resort to hiring detectives to trail their child. This makes me feel truly desi, because only in India would parents willingly hire strangers to stalk their kids.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against dandiya – I just find all festivals boring and/or annoying (unless we’re talking about beer festivals)
For example, Holi overstayed its welcome when I realised that I could use the holiday to sleep, instead of spending it trying to scrub half of China’s lead output off my skin. And since many of my friends agree, the only other option is to spend Holi smearing colour on the faces of neighbours I last spoke to in 2005 or so. In terms of social awkwardness, this would rank right up there with ordering Chinese food at a ‘Free Tibet’ meeting.

Now consider Diwali – a festival wherein we worship some of the biggest names in the pantheon i.e. Big Bazaar, Vijay Sales and Croma. No seriously, I hate the shopfest this season has turned into, as opposed to when I was younger and actually got to learn about my culture and my roots by blowing things up.
(I gave up on crackers altogether as a teenager. I’d like to say it was for environmental reasons but honestly, it just got boring. And now that I’m older and wiser, I use that time to focus on the things that really matter, like Scotch and gambling)
In fact, a lot of urban youngsters now pick their celebrations based on two factors: the amount of preparation required, and how blasted one can get. This explains the rise in popularity of foreign festivals such as St. Patrick’s, wherein all you need to is a functional liver and the desire to live with bad decisions.

You also have Indians celebrating Thanksgiving, thereby displaying an IQ lower than the stuffed turkey on their tables. And post-ZNMD, many people across India decided they wanted to celebrate La Tomatina. This sycophancy never works the other way around. I don’t mean to condone irrational abstinence, but you’d never see a bunch of Spaniards give up meat and alcohol for a month because the moon is in the wrong place.
These Scroogeisms aside, I do wish you all a Happy Navratri. I genuinely hope that you find peace and happiness but most of all, I hope you find a dandiya location that is far, far away from my house.

Dude, Where’s My Immune System?

As a kid, I couldn’t wait to turn into an adult (and if my parents are to be believed, this is yet to happen) I imagined adulthood to be one constant party, where I could stay up all night, getting wasted on Pepsi, and if anyone tried to stop me, I’d blow them to bits with a wrist-mounted laser cannon (What? I’m sure Apple is already working on these apps for iphone 5)
However, the future has turned out to be slightly different. For example, nobody told me that I’d have to become a drug dealer just to be able to afford petrol, or that 20 years on, L K Advani would still be in love with the idea of rath yatras (It’s probably a nostalgia thing, given that he was around when the wheel was invented)
But most importantly, nobody warned me about the fact that once you hit adulthood, the world around you begins to resemble a waiting room in a giant hospital, with invalids of all kinds going about their lives with all the vigour and vitality of a post-lunch Goan shopkeeper.
Seriously, so many people I know – and these are 20-somethings I’m talking about – are suffering from a wide variety of lifestyle-related health issues, ranging from chronic backaches, bronchitis and insomnia, to more serious mental conditions, such as the desire to actually watch Bodyguard.
On the plus side, we’re all in this together, as revealed most recently by the ‘Mission: Fitter Mumbai’ campaign, being run by The Hindustan Times, a newspaper that believes in constantly rewarding its humour columnists with hefty pay hikes *hint hint*(hire me) So let’s take a look at some of the findings of this campaign:
Of all the people surveyed, 88% felt that the city did not have sufficient playgrounds, open spaces and amenities for staying fit. The other 12% lived in New Bombay.
Also, about 65% of professionals felt that the Mumbai lifestyle wasn’t conducive to fitness. Well, duh. That’s like saying the Vatican isn’t conducive to abortions. A typical day in Mumbai involves braving a swarm of armpits in train compartments that even the Gestapo would’ve considered inhumane, with the rest of your time spent at a job that you hate from the bottom of your cholestrol-laden heart, but you dare not quit, because you need to pay the rent for an apartment the size of a Delhiite’s handbag.

I’m very much a part of the Urban Dead as well. At any given point, my backpack contains painkillers, antacids and if I’m in the mood for a wild party night, a bottle of cough syrup as well. I’m sure my immune system was made in China by 9-year-olds who could probably take me in a fight.
Furthermore, as a writer, my job allows me to explore various seating positions until I find one that’s really comfortable, only to be told that it is harmful and in the long run, is the equivalent of having Sunny Deol dance on your back. Since when did sitting become so complicated? I used to be able to do it just fine at an age when I thought mud was delicious, but now apparently I need a medical degree just so I don’t end up accidentally paralysing myself while sneezing (Pro Tip: Whatever you do, never ever look up your symptoms on Wikipedia. You could have a fracture, and it would, through a maze of links, tell you that your symptoms correspond with AIDS. I’ve had AIDS about seventeen times now.)

I’d love to go on, about colds, coughs and the occasional bastketball-sized tumour one develops after five minutes in Marol traffic. But honestly, that bottle of Benadryl isn’t going to down itself.

Yogaarrghh!!!!!!!!!!!!

India is a strange country. In some parts of the country, hundreds of people are dying of hunger, when they really don't want to. And elsewhere, one man has sworn he wants to die of hunger, even though he really doesn't need to. Baba Ramdev has decided that he's had it with corruption and he's going to bring all our black money back to us, and he's going to do it by not eating. Of course, if not eating solved all the problems in the world, then Africa would be the happiest place in the universe, but don't tell Baba that.


  And then there's the sheer, unhinged lunacy this entire fast has unleashed ever since it began. Let's recount;-

1) He stopped eating.

2) The cops showed up at midnight to shut his fast down, just like they do with all good parties.

3) He tried to hide himself from the cops by putting on a sari. Because that'll fool 'em. ("What? This? A beard? Noooooooo! I just haven't done my upper lip in a while officer!")

4) A branch of The Sri Ram Sena, the same guys who said Valentine's Day was immoral, have joined in with him. I guess the pink chaddis they get in the mail should go great with the sari.

5) He threatened to raise his own army, consisting of 11,000 of his followers. Though I'm not sure what you do in battle with an army of 11,000 heavily breathing people whose deadliest move is putting their left leg over their own neck.

6) He took a vow of silence.

7) A sari. He actually thought that'd work.

And fascinated we watched, because how could we not? You can't, as they say, make this shit up. There isn't a script-writer in the world who could put those elements together in a manner that's half as entertaining as what's going on right now. And while Baba seems to be sticking to his fast with much gusto, I suspect he snuck out one night to get a snack. I'm worried he ate our prime minister, because I haven't seen him since this madness started.

And it all got piped into our home 24/7, in all its lurid glory, because everybody loves it when the circus is in town. And that's really all this is. A giant circus. Because as a people, we're incapable of conducting our public affairs with any dignity. Some poor half-wit follower has to take a lathi-charge, some government-lackey has to get fired for shooting his mouth off, and some journalist has to get a story, because this revolution will be televised.

So we watch, on and on, this pantomime against corruption. Which, ironically enough, eats into all the news space we could have spent shining a light on the 2G scam, CWG scam, and whatever scam our government's decided to rob us with today.

Me? I'm done. I don't care about the Baba, I don't care about the government,

and I don't care about black money. And that's the sad thing. In a country like India, you have to be REALLY annoying to get me to stop giving a shit about the fight against corruption. But I don't like circuses. Especially not ones in which the clowns got their jobs through the democratic process. Somebody please pull the plug on this whole charade. Or I'm going to go on a fast unto death. Anyone got a sari to lend me??

     

BADVERTISING !!!!!!!!

 

 

My internet died the other day, and I was forced to do something unusual. I was forced to watch TV. On TV. Which was weird because I had to suffer through commercial breaks, where I learned that if you don't have an iPhone, you don't have an iPhone. Or the cardiac-arrest-inducing 3G bills that come 

with it. And that Katrina Kaif is so done with men that she's just going to make-out with seasonal fruit now. And that if the 3G Zoozoo and Ranbir Kapoor had a stand-up showdown, the Chennai Super Kings would win.

I got so sick of the commercial breaks, I couldn't focus on watching a thing, and eventually I fell asleep. And woke up six hours later, at 3 am, after all the good shows, bad shows, and MTV shows had gone to bed. Which left me alone to explore the television equivalent of the Twilight Zone; the world of teleshopping ads.

Teleshopping ads are what happens when advertising gets the India TV treatment; on teleshopping networks the sales-pitch meter gets cranked up from hyperbole to outrageous, and then all the way up to "Wait, did she just say that spy-camera pen + mixie (with juicer) will protect me from the evil eye? At a discount?"
My favourite teleshopping ad is the one for the Nazar Suraksha Kavach (NSK), whose makers say, nay, insist, that it is an amulet that will protect you and yours from the evil thoughts that your neighbours, family members, jealous "friends" and enemies direct at you. I have not bought a Nazar Suraksha Kavach because I a) am sentient and b) already have a device to deflect those thoughts. It is called "an awesome kick in the 'nads". And yet, the innate hokeyness of the Kavach is irrelevant, because the ad is one hell of a party, all by itself. It begins with an out-of-work TV celebrity (cocaine-mound just out of shot) who narrates to you the "true" story of the "Insert Generic Indian Last Name" family. We see their idyllic, prosperous existence, usually inside a house so expensively gaudy that it looks like they're living inside Bappi Lahiri. We then cut to an interview with said prosperous person, intercut with shots of his prosperous, Evil-Eye Free ™ life. We must ignore the fact that the NSK camera-crew just miraculously happens to be there, filming this person's completely normal life exactly five seconds before it all goes to shit.

And then a friend comes over one day and admires the Prosperous Person's wealth in the same way Shakti Kapoor admires women in Mithun Chakrobaty movies. Five seconds after the friend leaves, bad things happen to Prosperous Person. His business collapses, his factory catches low-rent CGI fire, and the man that was supposed to marry his daughter chooses Dimpy Ganguly on live TV instead.
While Prosperous Person  ponders over why his life has come to such a terrible pass, the NSK camera-crew rewinds the footage to reveal the truth. Using their patented EvilEyeness Detection Film, they show us that this has all happened because of the Laser Rays of Evilness that emanated from the eyes of the "friend".

We must now assume that all friends who marvel at our good fortune are only jealous warlocks that have been trained by Cyclops from the X-Men.

Luckily, Prosperous Person  has a good Indian wife, played by the spotboy's cousin, or, if budgets are really low, the spotboy. She orders a Nazar Suraksha Kavach (CALL NOW AND WE'LL SEND YOU A NAZAR SURAKSHA WALL-HANGING FREE), an amulet designed by The Global Institute of Badly Photoshopped Fake Institutes, essentially a religious IIPM. The Nazar Suraksha Kavach, once placed in the home of the Prosperous Person  protects the occupants from Laser Rays of Evilness by emitting what looks like WiFi.Following this purchase (CALL NOW CALL NOW CALL NOW), peace returns to the jungle, wife of Prosperous Person  preens because she saved the day, and Laser Rays of Evilness now bounce off what appears to be a glowing shield of goodness. Or a fatal dose of radiation.And yet, I watch riveted, every single time it's on. Because through all the nonsense, and godawful production-values, and through all the, well, lies, there's an epiphany to be had. Thing is, when I watch a Nazar Suraksha Kavach ad, I'm finally watching a piece of TV programming that tells the truth about the peccadillos, obsessions and neuroses plaguing this crazy, crazy country we live in. Our obsession with financial success, our regressive terror at not finding our daughters a good match, the perceived petty jealousy of our extended families, and most of all, our conviction that there's no reason to place any faith in reason and common sense when we can place blind faith in the gods instead.

Especially when the gods take Mastercard.

Watcha gonna do when they come for you?

Let’s get something straight. Osama bin Laden, the head honcho of Al-Qaeda Pvt. Ltd. and Pakistan’s most profitable resident since Veena Malik (although more respected because his career didn’t involve sucking face with Ashmit Patel) is dead, and that is a good thing. Sure, his death does not signal the end of terrorism, and yes, Al-Qaeda will soon find a dynamic, strong and fearless leader (Sources say that they are keen on Sourav Ganguly)
But spare me the wishy-washy, pseudo-liberal quotes about how it was wrong to shoot an unarmed man, because the only thing worth saying now is this: Dear Pakistan. Let’s talk. Face to face. Even though that may be difficult for you, having been in a bent-over position since America stuffed that first dollar bill down your G-string.
The facts are simple: Contrary to popular expectations, Osama did not die in some Waziristan cave due to goat-transmitted herpes. No, he had been living in a million-dollar home in a cantonment town, barely a kilometre away from the Pakistan Military Academy, which may as well be renamed to the Pakistani Mujra Academy.
As expected with an event of this magnitude, there has been an unrelenting barrage of reports all week. So let’s take a quick look at some key incidents:
1. Sohaib Athar, an IT professional who had moved to Abbottabad seeking peace and quiet, hears choppers and gunfire in his neighbourhood. And compelled by his internet addiction, he unknowingly live-tweets the assassination of the world’s most wanted man. As a reward for his efforts, Poonam Pandey offers to strip for him.
2. Barack Obama announces to the world that Osama is dead, taking credit in a way that would make Vidhu Vinod Chopra proud. George Bush, who actually launched the manhunt, now feels like the guy who walked up to the hot chick at a bar and plied her with drinks, only to have her leave with the black guy.
3. Following the announcement, Obama’s approval ratings go through the roof. Later that night, he and the missus celebrate with a special role-play night involving a Navy SEAL outfit and a bin Laden mask.
4. In a rare display of honesty, America admits that Osama was actually hunted down and killed by Arnab Goswami.
5. Digvijay Singh, the Congress’s version of the loudmouth uncle who gets shitfaced at every family function, now steps up to the plate, expressing “regret” at Osama being buried without proper religious rites. What the hell are proper religious rites for a terrorist? Giving them a wildcard entry on MTV Roadies?
6. Pakistan denies having any prior information about Operation Geronimo, and insists that it was a violation of “Pakistan’s sovereignty”, a phrase about as meaningful as “Kanimozhi’s innocence” or “Kamran Akmal’s fielding”.
7. Pakistan also warns India that any Geronimo-like attempts to take out Dawood (who by the way, is totally not living in Karachi) will prove to be a huge mistake. This is the equivalent of a leper threatening to rip *your* face off.
8. Osama’s youngest wife seeks to begin life afresh with another man – someone with similar interests, someone who has a comfy home and most importantly, will not die on her anytime soon. In other words she will soon start dating Kasab.
The only way Pakistanis can turn their fortunes around is if they submit to the will of the Almighty, and realise that no matter what they do, He will be watching them. Once he’s done hosting Newshour............yes of course i m talking about Arnab Goswami 

Waiter, there’s a snob in my coffee!

I feel like you should know that while writing this column, I was not wearing any pants. That’s because I often use an ancient writing technique known as ‘working from home’, which is also what Rahul Gandhi must feel like every time he’s in Parliament. (Although he must keep his pants on at all times, unless there is a secret deal with the DMK that stipulates otherwise)
However, this work-from-home business gets weird after a while, especially when I start hearing voices in my head, all of which are telling me to go shower. That’s when it’s time to head to the refuge most favoured by nomadic professionals – the coffee shop.
Except that there’s no damn coffee to be found.
OK, I’ll rephrase. I can’t seem to find coffee that tastes like the stuff I used to drink years ago, i.e. in the pre-coffee chain days, when people thought ‘Macchiato’ was some Punjabi swearword.
Over the years, I’ve tried to make my peace with the mud-flavoured bile they serve in coffee shops, simply because I need caffeine like Kamran Akmal needs catch practice. Without caffeine in my system, I’m just a life-sized paperweight (Like Sohail Khan, who also doubles up as a door-stopper)
But this means having to deal with a bunch of flavours and add-ons that I’m sure are intended as a ‘happy’ distraction, sort of like your stalker having the courtesy to wear your favourite cologne.
So there I am, in line at a coffee shop, with a deadline looming large and my brain functioning at the speed of Andheri traffic.
Me: *hnnnzzz* Want… coffee… I… do.
At this point, the Universe unleashes upon me an attendant with extraordinary morning cheer, the kind that is acceptable only if your mornings involve waking up next to Scarlett Johansson.
Attendant: Sir, what kind of coffee would you like? You should try out the Grande Muchas Frappacino Hazelnut Ethiopian Ninja Nitrate Mpumelelo Mbangwa Blend -
Me: Don’t you have regular coffee? Y’know, just coffee, milk, sugar…
Attendant: No Sir, but I’ll throw in some coca leaves picked by Columbian midgets and top it off with fresh cream derived from Angelina Jolie’s breast milk.
Me: Sigh. Yes, whatever. I’ll have that.
Attendant: Sir, what size do you want? It is coming in Small, Medium, Large, Extra-large and Holy Mother of God, What Are You A Buffalo?
Also, if there’s one thing that fuels creativity apart from caffeine, it’s food. The right food does wonders for the imagination. In fact, the great sculptor Michelangelo was inspired to create David after devouring a sausage platter. (However, as you can tell, the portions were quite small)
In that respect, one of my favourite writing haunts would have to be the erstwhile JATC at Bandra. It scored over most coffee shops simply because it offered options other than ‘chicken-flavoured rubber strip between two slices of sandpaper’.
Of course, now it has transformed into the fancy EATC, boasting of a lovely, gulag-style boundary wall, and a management that wouldn’t take kindly to writers sitting around for hours, refining their anatomy-based punchlines.
With no other options in sight, I guess coffee shops will continue to be my workplace for a while. So if you’re out at one, and notice a convict-type fellow hunched over a laptop, feel free to come up and say hello. In fact, get me a coffee while you’re at it. Home-made, please.

So You Think You Can Scam?

I’ve always assumed that politicians are, to put it nicely, soul-sucking leeches. Of course, by this I mean no offense to actual leeches. I’m not alone – ever since the birth of the first political system in Greece (93% of which is currently owned by Sharad Pawar), people have placed politicians on the top end of the Scumbag Scale, followed closely by telemarketers and people who call you ‘Dear’.
But now, in 2011, even cynics like me are marvelling at the likes of Kalmadi, Chavan, Raja and co., who’ve exhibited a brazenness otherwise seen only at wet T-shirt contests (try getting that image out of your head).
An analysis of the various scams will take a while, but I have beer to drink, so here’s a quick look at some of my favourite happenings from Scamfest 2010/2011:
1. Reports claim that the now-empty Games village flats are set to be handed over to the same officials who scammed the nation while building them. Legal experts agree that this is like handing over Shiney Ahuja’s bai back to Shiney Ahuja.
2. Manish Tewari, after having extricated his face from his bottom, denies the misappropriation of the flats. It seems India is not the kind of country that goes around providing free, comfy housing to criminals (unless their name is Kasab)
3. Soon after, Open Magazine reveals that a top journalist (herein referred to as Darkha Butt for the purposes of media silence) was in constant touch with lobbyist Nira Radia, spending hours discussing important matters such as Karunanidhi’s uncanny resemblance to Ray Charles, and where to get the best ‘Middle-Aged Justin Bieber’ haircut.
4. Darkha Butt bides her time, finally inviting the editor of Open, Manu Joseph, into her TV studio for an unedited debate. Manu agrees, only to find himself being whipped by Darkha’s jockstrap on national television.
5. Meanwhile, the UPA is under pressure to act on all the scam-accused. Since this is about 98.7% of their workforce (the rest were on holiday) they have no choice but to try and distract the Opposition. Limited success is achieved with a Rahul Gandhi wardrobe malfunction.
6. The Opposition, appalled at the prospect of actually having to work, decides to press for a joint probe into the telecom scam. The Centre refuses, claiming that there are bigger issues plaguing the telecom sector, such as that fugly new Airtel logo. (A phone tap reveals its origins: The Vodafone logo had sex with the Videocon logo, and the resultant mess on the floor became the new Airtel logo.)
7. Amidst all this chaos, the UPA also has to be a gracious host to Wen Jiabao. Bored reporters play a cruel joke on the Chinese Premier by asking him to watch the back to back episodes of "amul masterchef india"and Navjot singh sidhu's orgasam inducing commentary(pun intended)
8. The CBI kicks into raid-mode, hitting more than 34 offices and residences of the 2G scam-accused. It turns out that all these properties belong to Ashok Chavan. Manmohan Singh’s head explodes.
9. In keeping with its tradition of not giving a damn, the Congress changes its symbol from an open hand to a middle finger.
This pretty much sums it up at the time of writing. Maybe things will change if Manmohan Singh mans up. Darkha should be able to help him out with that.

Idiots Killed the TV Star

Every generation grows up with a defining image; one that stays etched in its collective memory long after the generation itself has gone senile and joined the BJP. For example, people in the ’70s grew up with ‘free love’, believing that the key to world peace lay in unshaven female armpits and – OHMYGOD I’M RIDING A GIANT UNICORN! WHEEEEE!!!
Of course, the psychedelics wore off at some point in the ‘80s, but it was too late – 80s fashion had already been created. While women walked around sporting huge plastic earrings that men were trained to jump through, my ‘90s generation was shedding its diapers and becoming aware of the phenomenon that would shape its world for a long, long time. I’m talking about paradigm shifts in the erstwhile neo-socialist Indian economy.
OK no, I’m talking about TV.
The ’90s were a simple, yet glorious time for Indian TV, because Ekta Kapoor was still in school, giving English teachers a stroke with her kkkspelllinggg. As a result, people on TV did not look as if a jewellery store had thrown up on them, and cameras were not operated by epileptic monkeys.
But modern TV raises a lot of questions. For example, why has law been outsourced to Rakhi Sawant’s bosom? Who pissed in the gene pool that Raja Chaudhary crawled out of? And most importantly, what is a Dolly Bindra and why is it stomping across my TV screen?
Things were better in the ’90s. With fiction programming that included Circus, Fauji and Byomkesh Bakshi, it was clear that the TV industry could produce quality content that, unlike today, was not about some underage bride getting married to a Thakur, who also had a half-brother married to two women, one fair and one dark, both of whom were having an affair with the midget woman next door, who also happened to be a manglik, thus causing their ‘Baa’ (Gujarati for ‘old women who look like sheep’) to die and be reincarnated as Pamela’s implants.
Even Mandira Bedi – a woman who thinks ‘leg slip’ is some kind of lingerie – managed to appear normal back then with the critically-acclaimed Shanti (which I would’ve watched if they had incorporated ninja turtles into the story)
Then there was Sea Hawks, Surabhi, Malgudi Days – shows that, if you were to try and pitch to a channel head today, would result in him rolling up your script and using it to do blow off a sponsor’s arsecrack.
Remember, all these shows aired on just two DD channels (which, today, are the TV equivalent of a Chilean mine.) And now, with 100+ channels, there’s no room for fresh ideas, thanks to “market research”, which is a technical way of saying that a watchman sitting outside the gates of K.j. Somaiya institute of management and research studies in  Ghatkoper will not like them.
It’s scary that kids today will grow up and nostalgize about present TV shows. They’ll talk about the good ol’ days, when an ‘undercover agent’ seduced a guy, then had a sex-change and seduced his girlfriend, or about how Arnab Goswami created history by sitting silent for thirty seconds.
I, on the other hand, will be the incontinent geezer at the retirement home, harping on about DuckTales and Talespin, until somebody shuts me up, or better yet, gives me a BJP ticket.