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