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.