Wha2do!

Once upon a time, there was a Helenji, and whole of India used to dream of her only. Cabaret shabaret she did. Also all other types of dance forms. Uncles and bhaiyyas and babalog all dreamed of her for years and years. There were some small small dance queens like Jaishri T and Padma Khanna too, for the mujras and gajras and thumka songs. Then Hemaji came, and became a dreamgirl only! Everybody whistling and crying Basantiii Basantiiiii.

Later, Sridevi aunty came and did Hawa Hawaiii and people went crazy! Also Madhuri aunty taught us to do Ek Do Teen... and these two ruled over the Indian libido for one decade! Choli ke peeche... dhak dhak... all sorts of Chaalbazi they did, and all dewars of didis were swooning over these Roop ki ranis and dying to give Tohfa to them. So easy for poster makers no? Madhuri Sri Devi Sri Devi Madhuri, that's it!!

But then they had to marry no! Madhuri aunty chose some doctor shoctor and went to Amrika! And Sri Devi aunty God knows why fell for that boneless meatloaf Bony. Then we all thought: wha2do now!! Sure there was that bong bomb Rani. And also Kareena baby. Cute they were, sometimes hot too. But things were changing only. How you ask? Wait no, I am telling.

Bollywood people became desperate. Story and all ghanta they had. No script also. Acting? Hahaha, joking or what? So wha2do now? Simple na! ITEM NUMBER! People now did not ask what is the story, who is hero, any dhishum dhishum or what? Only they wanted to know: Item Number hai kya!! And bygod, what raapchik item girls came! Shilpa Shetty, who was shut in some can or something, came and shook her booty so hard, that not only U.P. and Bihar but whole world was robbed of dil ka qarar! And then that yummy firang, Yana Gupta, drove all Baboojis mad while dropping her bijli! Isha Khallased all of us!!! Even the ice-cold bitch Aishwarya, who could not have attracted a horny Arab deprived of the sight of a female for a hundred years, sang durrty durrty songs like Isq Kameena and raised the temperature. Sush also swayed to Mehboob Mere, only one dance step she knows though! And Ramadoss uncle so very squirmed on his butt as Bips lit our Bidis and sprinkled namak isq ka on our wounded hearts. So we were all hooked onto this item song and all.

But now!???! God, now it has become impossible only! Everywhere now girls are like too good!! You go to a theatre and drop your popcorn when Deepika Padukone comes and smiles that peachy peachy smile on that almond-like face! Next Friday you have a frolicky Freida, showing latka jhatka as Latika. And then you have a sassy Sonam fluttering her lashes and all mawalis start maaring girls maska by doing Masakalli Matakalliiii. Also mast mast Mahie Gill, doing Emosanal Atyachar on poor poor boys and smashing aeroplanes in door des ke towers!! So cool no?? Every Friday some cool new hot thing! BUT DOES IT STOP THERE??? NOOOOO!! :(

Too cruel the scene is now! You do anything, and you have to fear being driven crazy by poster girls! Want to see sport? Save yourself from SaniAAH Mirza! Now there is even a Saina! And those Bhambri sisters, dusky and all! (Frankly though, my personal favorite was always Anju Bobby, with those legs that seemed to go on forever.) Wanna watch Biz news?? Arre what biz and whither news?? So tough to watch that ticker with such ticklish treats like Ayesha Faridi, Shireen Bhan, Mitali Mukherjee and Sumaira Abidi smiling coyly! Swoon! Cricket, you planning to watch? WHOAAA, lookatthose cheerleaders! Chee cheee what are they wearing... wowww actually!!! Politics, someone said?? Wokay! Priyanks, what a fab figure! Agatha K Sangma, India's youngest MP at 27 years, what a chink! :) And make way for Kanimozhi, sultry siren from sambarland, raising the political mercury.

And now, with this cable shable and multiplayx and all, life is only tougher for tapori log. Let me not even start R&Ring about the Gisele Bundchens and Jessica Albas and Jessica Biels and Jessica Simpsons and Rihannas and Sharapovas of the world!!!

SO TOUGH then, leching now no?? Not like the good ol' days, when one-two names everyone used to chant. Wha2do!!!

Superhero Stripped

Parental guidance: This post contains abusive language and sexual references. Not suitable for reading by minors.

THAAAD. “Madarc**d,” spat out the duty in charge (DIC) as his full-palmed slap landed on the cheek of the auto-wallah. “Dimaag theek karna padega tum log ka,” he continued seething. The auto-wallah looked thunderstruck. A few seconds elapsed before he found his voice and started: "Sir, ek ghanta se change dhoondh raha hoon… main ne inko mana thode hi kiya tha." CHAPAAAAD. Another bloody blow to the auto-wallah’s upper body. This one threw him off-balance, and he wobbled backwards till he hit the lone desk placed in the police post. “Naam aur gaadi number likh iska,” the DIC barked at the pandu sitting at the chair behind the desk, “karrwai hogi ispar ab.” He then turned sideways and muttered to me without looking at me: “Aap bhi apna naam aur address dijiye.” The auto-wallah’s eyes had begun to water.

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The 6:35 Dadar-Borivali fast local slowly pulled into Goregaon. The holiday crowd (today is Milad-un-Nabih, a Government and a Bank holiday, a working day for me though) bundled out cheerfully while I dragged myself out, loathing having had to go through the daily grind when the entire world was enjoying 48 hours of bliss (tomorrow is a holiday as well, Holi). I came out of the station and helped myself to two hot gulab jamuns and a plate of golgappas at Surabhi Snacks. They did nothing to improve my mood. After the snack-athon, I trudged towards the line of autos, hoping to catch one soon and return to my abode and get rid of the crumpled shirt sticking to my skin and the sweaty trousers biting into my groins and the soggy socks sticking to my soles and everything else reminding me of having been abused yet again by this ruthless bitch called Bombay.

5-7 autos whizzed past me, travelers having boarded them more than 100 meters away from the station. I walked the mythical-distance-which-gets-you-to-an-empty-auto-outside-Goregaon-station-at-peak-hours. Still no sign of an empty auto. The sticking, the biting, the sweating now knocking hard at my temples. Then I saw him. A plump, dark guy with a scraggly fuzz at his chin, with his thick mop of hair swept to a side in the manner of Tamil movie stars. He had a shifty gaze, not focusing at anything for more than an instant. He was driving an auto with a lone passenger. The posture of the passenger, with his feet pointing out of the auto, hinted that he would get off soon. I started half-running-half-walking alongside the moving auto. I asked the passenger whether he was about to get down, he confirmed that he was. “Chincholi Bandar?” I then quizzed the auto-wallah (AW). No reply. I continued sprinting alongside the auto till it stopped. The passenger got out and handed a 50 rupee note to the AW. I lunged and settled inside the auto while the AW was getting down to go and hunt for change. Realizing that I have already made myself comfortable inside his rampyari, he shot a questioning glance at me. “Chincholi Bandar,” I repeated. “Nahin jana hai,” he threw back the dreaded three words at me and ambled out of the auto. “Pahle kyun nahin bola jab main poocha tha….. kyun nahin jana….,” I shouted after him, the bile rising inside me. He looked back at me while he was moving towards a flower-seller and shrugged in the most humiliating and disapproving manner conceivable. I snapped. “ABHI YAHAN PAR HAWALDAR HOTA TO BATATA TERE KO KAISE NAHIN JAYEGA.” I did not realize then that I was screaming while ejecting myself out of the auto, with 25-odd people having halted in their tracks to stare at me. A bespectacled man dressed in white clothes slithered past me muttering to me under his breath: “Complain karo iska complain.” I looked around fervently, and by some divine arrangement, saw a man in uniform loitering on the other side of the road. I flew across the road and accosted him. “Sir, yeh Chincholi Bandar jane ko mana kar raha hai.” The uniformed guy, who was the DIC of the police post located outside Goregaon station, looked at me quizzically. I pointed towards the AW, who was looking at the two of us as well, the 50 rupee note still clutched in his hand. As soon as the DIC’s eyes settled on the AW, they lit up and he moved in rapid strides towards the AW. “Kya ho raha hai be?” the DIC snarled at the AW upon reaching him. No answer. I reached the two of them and repeated my version of what had transpired one minute back between the two of us. One minute back. “Chal andar, tere ko theek karta hoon, aap bhi aaiyye.”
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Inside the police post. THAAAD. Madarch**d. CHAPAAAAD. The AW is in tears now. He has cooked up a story that he had been looking for change for the past ‘one hour’, and that he never refused to take me to my destination. The passenger whose 50 rupee note is still stuck in between the AW’s fingers is now inside the post as well, and he says that the AW had INDEED been searching for change for sometime, and that the AW did not specifically refuse me. I let loose a full-throated verbal volley at him. The DIC is still glaring at the AW, itching to have another fling at him. The paandu intervenes, I ask the AW to go look for the change while I wait in the auto. We come out of the police post.

The flower-seller hands over the change to the AW. I am sitting inside the auto, with my chest swollen with pride and eyes glinting. A couple of guys standing beside the auto are looking at me with gaping mouths. An old lady standing at some distance is giving me a look of absolute and total reverence. The DIC strolls past me and looks at me with a hint of a smile at his lips. “Thank you, Sir.” I bellow at him. He acknowledges. The AW comes back inside after having handed the change to the slimy EX-passenger. He slowly settles on his seat and starts the auto. We start moving forward. I am the Superhero. I conquered this scumbag. Reduced him to rubble. Showed the whole world that thugs can be broken.

The AW starts muttering something once we are on our way. I challenge him to meet me at Malad, at Borivali, at any goddamn place on the Western Express Highway and I will have him crushed in a similar fashion. He falls silent. His shoulders droop, his voice loses its bluster.
After about 10 minutes, I start feeling sorry for the guy. He has not uttered a word in this interim. I play some music on my Nokia XpressMusic, hoping to relieve the tension. I enquire him about the route he intends to take. He motions and indicates with his head. No words uttered by him.

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We reach my apartment. 24 rupees is the fare. I hand him 50 rupees. He hands me back 30. I hand him back 4 rupees. I get down. The AW looks up at me. His eyes are wet. He tries to speak something. The lump in his throat does not allow him to. I wait and listen.
“Aap ne jo aaj mere saath kiya, who pichle 8 saal mein nahin hua tha,” he says.
“Achcha to mujhe bhi nahin laga, par tumne mujhe majboor kiya aisa karne ko,” I reply.
“Aapko pata hai us police wale ne mujhe kyun maara?”
I am quiet.
“Main pichle 2 saal se use uske ghar par chhod raha hoon, aur main us se roz bhaada leta hoon. 2 saal ki khunnas us ne aaj nikaali.” By this time, he is not looking at me, but through me. He starts the auto and it sputters away. I do not feel like taking off my clothes anymore. I feel butt naked right there, by the side of that busy street.

Poopistan

(Not suitable for reading by minors.)

Fakes. Liars. Tergiversators. Weasels. Compunction-less darned and rotten damned souls. Conglomeration of the accursed. Facinorous FUC*STERS. Pakis.

I wish a couple of those shifty Sri Lankans had had their brains blown to bits by the mad dogs that had been let loose upon them in Lahore. "Pakistan hosted six teams very well recently at the Asia Cup and I was there for the final. It was very well organised", thus had spoken the rotund Ranatunga while he was the Sri Lanka Cricket chief to sanction the SL tour to Poopistan. I am sure he must have been still more enthralled and delighted at how well-orchestrated the Monday attack was, wherein 12 heavily armed rats got wind of the changed route via which the SL team was to travel to the Gaddafi stadium in Lahore, intercepted them, shot at them and hurled grenades FOR 26 MINUTES, and then managed to disappear into the lanes of Lahore. The city police arrived on the scene a full 30 minutes after the incident began. Amazing synchronization! No wonder the pea-brained and pig-headed porcupine Ranatunga was so impressed with the organisational skills of Pakis!!!

8 days before this, on February 23, Dominic Cork, a former English fast bowler and current commentator for Pakistan TV had urged England to tour Pakistan. “I have enjoyed in Karachi a great deal and I met no difficulty here,” was his erudite comment. After the attack, he had this to say: "I won't be coming back here while I'm still living, there is no chance." HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He had un-Corked his enjoyment a bit too prematurely, by the looks of it. And after Cork lands in London and gets over his post-enjoyment blues, he should meet The British Foreign Secretary, a dick who goes by the name of David Miliband and who is touted to lead Britain one day, and try to knock some sense into his shriveled brains. While visiting India in January 2009 and after having traveled to Amethi with that son-of-the-soil/messiah-of-the-masses/apple-of-the-eyes-of-the-aam-aadmi Rahul coochie-coochie baba, Miliband had stated that durable peace could not be achieved in the region without resolving the lingering issues like Kashmir. After he got a severe whacking from his Geography teacher, and an even severe and far more painful screwing from his foreign policy advisors, he was left bleating thus: "Look, you learn everyday in this job. You've got to try and take that forward." So the British Foreign Secretary is still LEARNING, and so is everyone else who has ever tried to hyphenate a moribund and ill-directed imploding Poopistan with a struggling but resilient and value-based democratic India. And like Thilan Samaraweera who must be shivering with pain on his bed this very moment with a bullet shot in his leg, and Kumar Sangakkara who must be twitching with a sharpnel wound in his shoulder, all of them have had to learn it the hard way. Hope their learning is complete now!!!

IMRAN KHAN! Another fine specimen of this population of cheats and scoundrels, who made a career out of using bottle tops and vaseline to impart non-existent swing to the cricket ball. This self-stlyed rambo floated a political party called 'Tehreek–E–Insaaf' in 1996 with the blessings of Lieutenant General Hamid Gul, the former Pakistani intelligence chief famous for fueling the Taliban's rise in Afghanistan. Imran Khan, as well as all the other candidates of his party, lost their deposits in the 1997 Pakistan general elections. His party again put up 272 candidates in the 2002 general elections, and won 1 out of those 272 seats, securing a total of 0.8% of the popular vote. Imran had supported Musharraf's military coup in 1999, and then went on to reject his Presidency before the 2002 elections. In the 1970s and 1980s, Imran Khan was a regular at London nightclubs such as Annabel's and Tramp. In an interview given to Guardian in 2006, he claims: 'The thing was, I hated pubs. I could not tell you how much I detested them..... I hated the smell of a pub. I hated the look of it. And of course I never drank alcohol.' In the same nightclubs, he romanced nubile belles such as Susannah Constantine, Lady Liza Campbell and the artist Emma Sergeant. And I am sure all of you remember the headlines about the British heiress Sita White, daughter of Gordon White, Baron White of Hull, who became the mother of his alleged daughter. A U.S. court even ruled him to be the father of Tyrian Jade White. In 1988 he told Australia's Sunday Mail, "Pakistan society encourages marriage. There, I lead a very steady, comfortable life. Here, it is more exciting. The pace is faster. Because of the nightclubs and parties, it is a very good place to be single." And now, this once dastardly drunkard and famed frolicker, claims to be fighting for Islamic values, 'influenced by his conversations with a mystic from the Sufi sect of Islam that began in the last years of his cricket career'. Spurred on by his spirtual awakening, Imran rooted for the pro-Taliban Islamist candidate for the Prime Minister of Pakistan in 2002 and has also declared that he hates "... it when our leaders or elite feel that by licking the soles of the feet of foreign countries we will somehow be given aid and we will progress." This hatred of his supposedly went into hibernation in 2005, when Khan was in Washington, D.C. and raised $175,000 for his much-publicised cancer hospital from the same Westerners he loathes when back in Poopistan. (Something of an Advani, who hails Modi when in Ahmedabad, cries over Muslims masscared when in U.S., and hails Jinnah as a secular leader when in the vicinity of his mausoleum!) Imran Khan had stated in November 2008: "There is no problem about the security of cricketers in Pakistan. The terrorists will never target cricketers knowing that they will then lose the battle of hearts and minds of the people. Cricketers are safe in Pakistan." He has not cared to issue a statement in the past 48 hours.

Javed Miandad. Bundle of slime. Roach of the gutters. He had this to say after the attack: "It is so sad all this carnage and terror. What is worse is that all the fears expressed by foreign teams about coming to Pakistan have been proved correct. Pakistan cricket will take a long time to recover now." So Mr. Miandad is serious about helping Pakistan cricket and improving the security situation in Pakistan?? AweZum!! He desperately wants to end "all this carnage and terror"?? WonDraful!! One small query though! WHY THE FU*K WAS HE OK WITH HIS SON JUNAID GETTING INSIDE THE PANTS OF THE DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE MOST NOTORIOUS TERRORISTS OF THE WORLD, DAWOOD IBRAHIM, POST A WEDDING which was attended by '500 mostly unnamed guests feted to a lavish dinner in the most luxurious and colourful environment possible in Dubai'?????? ConfuZing!!

What is the objective of this Ranting and Raving (R&Ring) about Imran K and Javed M? Because the twin-faced lives of these two aZZholes denote everything that is wrong with Poopistan. That it has been built on a false notion of religious fraternity, which was blasted merely 25 years after its inception when it was split down the middle. That it has had to resort to lies and evasive tactics to hide the condemnable and destructive policies of its rulers, both political as well as military. That it is comfortable with disowning the bodies of its dead soldiers as it cannot agree to them having fought for Poopistan. That it has been LYING to the WHOLE WIDE WORLD about its ulterior motives for the past 62 years.

After so much blood has flown under the bridge, one would expect sense to supersede senility. Alas, the hopes of the sane have been dashed again. This is what the SL captain Jayawardene had to say after being airlifted in a chopper from the stadium where he was supposed to have been playing cricket with bullet and shrapnel injuries on the bodies of his teammates: “It's an unfortunate incident. In hindsight, this could have happened anywhere in the world”. AbZoludely machan! Annyywear att all! You could have been bombarded in a stadium in Herat, 650 kms from Kabul. Or in Palestine! Or in a patch in Pooneryn, the town which is doubted to be the last remaining stronghold of LTTE. Or at the sweet getaway of Kilinochchi, the ‘administrative capital’ of LTTE till quite recently. So the next time you are hosting your dear Paki brothers, please listen to your swollen herniated balls, and not your head, and choose a north Sri Lankan town as the venue- right next to Prabhakaran’s potty place- ‘cause if your defunct brain is to be blown to smithereens, it could very well happen annyywear, RIGHT?? So why choose a venue which appears to be safe, secure and conducive to a civilised sport like cricket??? That choice would make abZoludely no zenze att all, right!?!

But the star orator amidst the mayhem turned out to be the newly crowned Paki captain Younis Khan. His statements at a Press Conference post the attack were absolute shockers. Do find the
transcript below. The comments in red are of course my reactions.
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"Thank God we decided to leave our hotel five minutes after the Sri Lankans."
OH WOW, SUCH SYMPATHY FOR YOUR GUESTS, WHOM YOU ALLOWED TO LEAVE FIRST TO SWALLOW THE GRENADES! SUCH A SENSITIVE THING TO SAY, TRUE TO YOUR BENIGN PAKI SOUL!
"We are a young team and God forbid if both buses had been moving together it could have been catastrophic."
HUH! WHA! WHERE! HOW! SO YOU ARE OK WITH INZAMAM AND YOUSUF MOHAMMED BEING ROASTED?? :) WALLAH!
"This incident was very draining emotionally and we have been trying to keep our players calm."
INDEED, YOUR PLAYERS ARE USED TO LIVING IN SUBLIME AND SERENE SURROUNDINGS SINCE THEIR BIRTH! THIS MUST HAVE COME AS A REAL SHOCK TO THEM!!!
"We should all be thankful no one from the Sri Lankan team was killed."
OH YEAH! YOU SHOULD BE VERRRRY THANKFUL NOTHING THAT SERIOUS HAPPENED. AFTERALL, WHAT IS THE BIG DEAL WITH GUNS BLAZING AND GUARDS DROPPING DEAD AND GRENADES EXPLODING? THIS SORT OF THING IS NOW AS COMMON IN BOTH POOPISTAN AND SRI LANKA AS CHADDI-WALLAHS ARE IN INDIA.
"I was surprised by their reaction…. they took the incident in their stride and said they had no complaints with our people."
QUITE HEARTENING TO KNOW THAT YOU WERE ACTUALLY EXPECTING TO BE SPIT UPON.
And here is the top drawer remark: "We as Pakistani people need to change things and stop these terrorists from spoiling our cricket."
YOUR CRICKET??????? STOP THESE TERRORISTS FROM SPOILING YOUR CRICKET????? YOU ANTIQUATED ASININE ABOMINATION! YOU BLABBERING BRAINDEAD BOZO! YOU CLUELESS CRETINOUS CAVEMAN! YOU THINK IT IS YOUR “CRICKET” THAT IS IN IMMINENT DANGER OF EXTERMINATION?? YOUNIS, YOU CUN*, THERE ARE BARBARIANS HAMMERING AT YOUR GATES. ARE YOU DEAF TO THEIR CRIES? BEFORE YOU GET TO REALISE WHAT HAPPENED, THEY WILL DRAG YOU OUT OF YOUR REVERIE, BURN YOUR BOOKS, ASK YOU TO GROW A BEARD THAT IS AS AT LEAST AS BIG AS YOUR FIST, ROB YOUR WOMEN OF THE LAST VESTIGES OF HUMAN DIGNITY, BEAT THEM TILL ‘THEIR MOTHERS' MILK LEAKS OUT OF THEIR BONES’, ASK YOU TO SURRENDER YOUR SISTERS AND DAUGHTERS TO SATISFY THE ‘FIGHTERS’, AND RAPE THEM IN YOUR PRESENCE IF YOU REFUSE. AND WHAT YOU ARE BOTHERED ABOUT TODAY IS ‘TERRORISTS SPOILING YOUR CRICKET’!?! HOLY COW! HOLY GOAT! HOLY LIZARD, EVEN!!!!
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WHAT THE FUC* IS THE YOUTH OF POOPISTAN DOING? In response to the imperialist tendencies of the US administration in 1960’s and the Vietnam aggression, the youth of the US took to radical politics and metamorphosed into hippies. The SDS- Students for a Democratic Society- was set up and hordes of students went on strike or took over their universities asking for a control over their administration. in 1970, at the Kent State University in Ohio, four students were shot dead by National Guardsmen. On June 4, 1989, close to 3000 students and intellectuals were killed by Chinese tanks as they were protesting against the death of pro-market and pro-democracy official, Hu Yaobang at Tiananmen Square in Beijing. Closer home, youth demonstrators across cities shamed the Indian politicians across party lines after 26/11 and forced many cowardly Congress heads to roll. More recently, a single community on Facebook started by one Indian woman aged 29 turned into an international phenomenon, and covered leery fascists with truckloads of stinking, soggy pink chadhis. Paki youth seems to be content in migrating to the US of A, or lolling about on their feudal farms, or floating in the clouds soaked in the highs of chillum.

FUC* MAHESH BHATT. FUC* HIS DAUGHTER. FUC* NANDITA DAS. AND VINOD MEHTA. No amount of cultural exchanges can change the mindset of a society that sees being different from us as their raison d'etre. I say this despite having stood outside the NCPA in Mumbai, literally elbowing others for a ticket to the first ever Abida Parveen concert in India, and managing to coax a couple to hand me their spare ticket priced at 3500 bucks way back in 2004.

Japan had to be nuked. Germany had to be brought to its knees. This modern-day threat to world peace and stability, which is actually a making of the very powers that claim to be fighting it today, needs to be extirpated with absolute finality. And the powers that be in Poopistan are the last people capable of and willing to do it.

And last of all, FUC* the grandsons and granddaughters of Mahatma Gandhi who walk among us even today. Mahatma MY FOOT. I would have loved to see that moron Mahatma, with brains shrivelled to the size of his nuts, alive today. I would have loved to give him a kick in his butt and send him off to do his satyagraha shit before Osama, and come back with a Kalashnikov shoved up his behind. God knows for how long we will have to bear the brunt of decisions spurred by his idiosyncratic idealism, and further exacerbated by the naiveté of Nehru, the butthead who ordered a winning army to halt and retreat in Kashmir.

The Gandhi sham continues in this country to this day. Gandhi was supposedly a teetotaller and Gujarat, his birth place, is a dry state. Today, when a pair of Gandhi's rotten sandals and rusted pair of glasses and God knows what else crap has been purchased for 1.8 million dollars by a liquor baron, the whole country has exhaled a COLLECTIVE SIGH OF RELIEF! Hahahaha. Such a resounding SLLLAPPPPP Mallya has landed on the pallid cheeks of smug topi-wallahs.

TO HELL with Gandhi memorabilia. That shmuck called Otis should have swallowed them up and choked upon them and died an excruciating death, for all I care! WHAT difference does it make to this country of 22% of the population living BPL, if a goodie bag of Gandhi poop is brought back to this country? SCRE* the phony Gandhi lovers, bloody hypocrites and headline-seekers. And this toad called Otis wants India to reduce its expenditure on defence! I WISH HE WAS ON THAT BUS IN LAHORE AS WELL, AND HIS ASS WAS POUNDED WITH A MILLION BAZOOKAS BY THOSE COKE-PEDDLING 72-VIRGINS-CRAVING LUNATICS! That should have driven home to him the fact that mad dogs do not like the taste of olive branches, and that they NEED to be put on a leash.

Maybe there is a segment of Pakis that are still Pakistanis. I am told that there is indeed such a segment (told by my relatives in Pakistan). However, if this segment wants to halt the hurtling slide of Pakistan towards Poopistan, it needs to burn the fat off its bums. It needs to leave the deceiving indolence of Clifton in Karachi, shun the sickening riches on display at the LUMS campus in Lahore, stop loitering in the Lake View Park in Islamabad, and get ready to do what Sardars did in Punjab: FUC* THE FUC*STERS.

Susegad

Originally released as Goa Diaries in June 2007
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Hello people! If the trivia hasn't reached you yet, I am currently in Goa for a one month Sales Officer training stint, and this place is indeed as full of surprises as I had imagined it to be! Every hotel room has three taps- one for cold water, one for hot water, and the third one for booze. Prawns, squids and pomfrets hang from the trees- just extend your hand and pluck whatever you wish to! Man, is this for real or is this a fairytale!
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Goa went to the polls on June 2, and even the elections were quite extraordinary. No posters, no loudspeakers, and no rallies!!! The Election Commission had come down real hard this time due to Goa's reputation as a truant electorate. Anybody hoarding more than two crates of beer was hauled up for questioning. Goa has had a tradition of leaders defecting at the drop of a hat, and when I guessed the going rate for an MLA as 1 crore before a local, he burst out laughing, stating that 1 crore would be the rate for someone aspiring to be the part of the town panchayat in Goa. When I enquired as to how the panchayat member would earn back his investment, two most ready avenues cited were: granting permission to non-Goans to acquire land in Goa, and arranging for people to smuggle liquor out of Goa. Currently, only two bottles of booze can be taken out of the State's boundaries, and with Royal Challenge costing 310/- here (against over 500/- in Mumbai), the booze bounty game is BIG! A shot of brandy/whisky costs 10 bucks in the hotel I am staying in. Man oh man, talk of temptations! J Some people start hicc-ing as early as 10 AM, and some of the liquor shops open before the chemists. Also, the whole State shuts down from 1-4 PM, for reasons you can well imagine by now. ;)
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I went to Colva and Calingute beaches last week, and found them to be much cleaner than their Mumbai counterparts. There was a CCD right on the beach. Next weekend, one of my salesmen has promised to escort me to a beach which is off-bounds for Indians (I wonder why!). On Colva beach, I was accosted by a lady who ended up giving me a deadly King Cobra tattoo on my arm. Pity I have to bathe daily, and most of it has already vanished.
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Life here is so quiet at times that you can feel your eardrums humming. No wonder Charles Sobhraj chose Goa for his hideout. He was eventually picked up from a bar on the outskirts of Panjim (Ou Croquiere), and the owners decided to put up a bust of Sobhraj which is placed on the seat in the bar where he was having a drink when caught. Complementing the scenic landscape are take-your-breath-away cottages and houses and Victorian churches which are a treat to the eyes. Goa is a place where you can find a 'Cake Palace' serving croissants and soufflés on a deserted highway! No matter where you go to, there is a dainty little surprise waiting for you.
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Talking of dainty little surprises, I have to mention the million Marias that compete with the hills and the greens for beauty. Dressed in flowing skirts with their hair arranged in neat buns, they float past you like fairies. And these fairies are not just drop-dead-gorgeous, they are pretty efficient as well, as almost ALL the shops in Goa are managed by salesgirls. They order stocks, manage accounts, and even lock up the shops at closing time. When I enquired about the reason for this peculiar phenomenon, one of my wholesaler's staff quipped: "They are there to attract customers". When I pretended to be aghast at this, and pointed out to him that with all the shops having salesgirls, this incentive is nullified, he added that they charge less salaries, and are more honest. Whatever may the reason be, it is indeed a pleasure to be selling Horlicks to these lissome lasses.
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It was torturous to keep myself from discussing food for so long, but I intended to save the best for the last. This place does not offer food, it serves ambrosia! I look forward to trying out a new dish each night, and have never been disappointed yet. Fried pomfret, Prawn Xacuti, King Prawns served in hot garlic sauce, Chicken Vindaloo, Prawns Balchao, King Fish Masala Gravy, Shark steaks, Fried Squids… they serve it all with panache! And you can even munch upon Prawn patties ( 3.50/- apiece) and dip your fingers in prawn pickles! I have not been able to lay my hands on a crab yet, as they are caught only when the new moon appears. I wonder what good deeds my forefathers did for me to deserve these.

Recommended reading: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/travel/destinations/india/article565695.ece .

What goes of your father!

I hate them. HATE them. I want to slash their bodies with deep, bleeding cuts, sprinkle tabasco sauce on those cuts, then carve them up into slices the size of gum sticks, and sautee those slices in a pan of hot, boiling oil to be fed to Moninder Singh Pandher and Surendra Koli. I want to dress them up in Pak army attire, hang them from the ceiling dangling upside down, and let Sunny Deol loose upon them. I want to give them a free tour of the Michael Jackson mansion, ending with them spending a night with Michael himself. I want to reward them with a life-long free and compulsory entry to all Himesh Reshammiya concerts. I want to pack them off to Transylvania and shut them up in an attic with Count Dracula and his blood-thirsty brides. Such is my hatred for them- unmitigated, absolute and unrelenting.

I cannot recall how and where it started. It must be having its roots in my childhood, when 'servers' at weddings used to put just one piece- O N E teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy meeny-miny P I E C E- of chicken on my plate, and wait for me to move on, while I stood there, a meek kid, with my eyes imploring them to be awash with the milk of human kindness, rather, the gravy of human kindness, and load my plate with another fleshy leg piece. The abhorrence scaled greater heights with more of those servers finding divine pleasure in depriving me of more of God's wondrous creations at feasts:

• steaming gulab jamuns ["yes yes, just two; no no, no chashni (sweet syrup)..."],
• crunchy shahi tukdas (bread soaked in flavored milk) ["one only... come later"],
• maquti ["no extras..."].

And so on and so forth, I have been repeatedly made to crave, pine, and lust for the sundry variegated delights at ceremonial feasts by satanic, sadistic servers.

I spent two months in Coimbatore in the summer of 2003, undergoing TCS induction training. For 2 months, we survived on a diet of tamarind rice, curd rice, lemon rice, sambar rice, steamed rice, rice rice... and still more rice, as we slogged 18 hour work-days. Several people have confided in me that TCS provided consultancy to the US Army for setting up the Abu Gharib prison and torture base using its own Induction module as the starting point which it toned down to suit the specifications provided by the US Army. At the end of the Crucifixion, sorry, 'induction', at the "Graduation Ceremony", my jaw dropped to the floor as we entered the dining area. Chilly Chicken, Singapore Noodles, Chicken Butter Masala, Biryani, Paneer Bhurji and many other heavenly sights and smells stared at us from simmering containers. I wondered whether the thrifty tamBrahm Ramadorai and the parsimonious Parsi Ratan had had to undergo a heart transplant which resulted in us being served this ambrosia. We (me, and two equally demure friends of mine, mademoiselle Jyoti and monsieur Zafar) were the first in the queue, and we had to poke the sluggish servers with our plates to make them get about their business. Throughout the evening, their impudence drove me mad. They did their best to kill me by boring holes in my back as I walked back after another serving. They evaded, they grunted, they smirked. And they did that not once, not twice, not thrice, but during all the four helpings that I had. I wanted to scream at them, "Is this the way to treat a gentleman?" But being the good-natured pansy and pushover that I am, I suffered in submissive silence. The most spiteful snide remark was saved for the last, as I proceeded for my third plate of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. As I asked the server to cut a thicker-than-usual slice for me, he looked up at me, parting his lips to reveal the most demonic and darned set of dentures I have ever laid eyes upon, and hissed, "Your favorite flavor, Sir?" The query pierced my soul and cut me up irreparably forever. VANILLA? MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? HOW CAN PLAIN-JANE MUNDANE INANE VANILLA BE MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? Me, the King of Ferro Rocher and Choco Chip and Almond Fudge and Nirula's Nutty Buddies, being accused of favoring VANILLA! I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes, bit my lower lip, collected the plate he had proffered to me and walked back to my seat with a heavy tread, vowing not to go back for a fourth helping. (I went for it only after another guy had replaced the rude roach.)

That was 2003, and this is 2009. India has won a world cup. Sonia Gandhi has been canonized. Adnan Sami became gaunt. So did Lehman Brothers. A negro became the President of USA. Rahman got an Oscar. I got rid of my dandruff. But nothing has changed on the I-hate-servers front. I was in ITC (The Maratha), Mumbai, last week for a Sangeet party. The menu was delectable, and I was salivating in anticipation of what lay ahead for close to 2 hours before the start of main course. The servers moving around serving prawns, meatballs, kababs, chilli paneer- the works - warmed the cockles of my heart. But as soon as I picked the plate to start with the main course, I could feel the hair standing on the nape of my neck. I went for the continental and world fare first. I beheld a basket of chicken shawarmas (a middle-eastern wrap filled with meat shavings) on the first table, and was drawn towards them. I asked for one of them, and a dopey-eyed guy thrust one in a plate towards me. I asked him next for hummus (a dip or spread) to go along with the shawarma, and my ears reverberated with his shocking reply: "It is there inside the shawarma." INSIDE THE SHAWARMA??? WAS HE PEDDLING A SHAWARMA CART ON A BAGHDAD STREET??? DIDN'T HE KNOW THAT IN INDIA, THE 'EXTRAS' ARE FAR MORE COVETED THAN THE MAIN DISH. THAT WE LIKE TO INUNDATE OUR ROLLS WITH TOMAYTO KAYTCHUP?? AND MAKE OUR NOODLES TURN BROWN WITH CHILLY SAUCE?? AND SLOSH UP OUR BURGERS BY SQUIRTING SAUCES IN BETWEEN THE TWO BUNS TILL THEY DRIP FROM THE PERIPHERIES AND WET OUR FINGERS?? HOW DARE HE TELL ME THAT THE HUMMUS WAS INSIDE THE SHAWARMA! THE FRIENDLY SHAWARMA GUY AT TANGO'S CORNER AT MALAD NEVER TELLS ME THAT.... HE GIVES ME AN EXTRA SPREAD OF HUMMUS AND TOMATO/CUCUMBER FILLING WITH EVERY SHAWARMA. WHAT DID THIS SERVER THINK HE WAS? THE MONARCH OF BAHRAIN, TELLING ME HOW TO HAVE MY SHAWARMA!! I did not want to spoil my appetite, so I moved on without damning him to the firepits of hell. After stashing away a chicken and tomato pancake on my plate, I was drawn towards another mesmerizing sight- a whole steamed thin crust salami. The guy carving and serving the salami gave me a vapid look and then dropped a salami skin covering measuring 1 cm by 1.5 cm onto my plate. Was I supposed to place it under a microscope, and attempt to unravel the genetic secrets of the piscean populace? I gave him a look filled with such iniquitous scorn that he hastily carved out another meaty portion and deposited it upon my plate. After battling this hostile army of conniving assailants for more than an hour, I reached the desserts section, and my heart sank. NO CHOCLOATE PASTRIES!?! Pineapple, fresh fruit, strawberry, and blueberry pastries only. Strawberry, and blueberry... TOGETHER??? Why was gooseberry left out? And so unkind of them to have not invited mulberry! How racist of them to have sidelined blackberry! And if they were so serious about this berry berry business, who would have complained if Halle Berry was tagged along as well on a platter! Monsters like me would really have had a ball. If there hadn't been badam halwa, and khubani ka meetha, and 3 flavors of ice cream present alongside this prejudiced palate of pastries, I would have had a breakdown.

I am to attend two feasts tomorrow, on the same day. I am sweating in anticipation of what lies in store for me. In case I survive the double whammy, I shall add to this tragic account. In the meanwhile, all I want to ask the slimy servers is: WHAT GOES OF YOUR FATHER if you just gimme what I want!

One dumb thing leads to another...

Aim: to catch a flight from Mumbai to Delhi departing at 8:15 AM on Friday, 19th February 2009, to attend a wedding.

Thursday, 11 PM: I decide to leave at 6:50 AM on Friday morning . Average time from home to the airport (auto): 25 minutes.
Friday, 6:51 AM: I realise that I do not know the airline which I have to fly, logon to the internet and find out that the airline is Air India.
Friday, 6:55 AM: I leave home for the airport.
Friday, 7:01 AM: After sitting inside the auto, I realise that I have forgotten the wedding gift I had bought, decide to not go back to the house for the gift and buy another one in Delhi.
Friday, 7:03 AM: I realise that I have forgotten my phone at home as well.
Friday, 7:05 AM: After dawdling in indecision for several moments, I ask the auto driver to start back for my home.
Thursday, 5:00 PM: I think of getting the printout of my flight ticket, but then give in to laziness and decide to get it at the airport on Friday morning.
Friday, 7:11 AM: I retrieve the gift and my phone from the house and start again for the Mumbai Domestic Airport.
Friday, 7:29 AM: I reach the Domestic Airport (Santa Cruz), get down from the auto and ask the guard for the Air India counter. A taxi driver overhears me and says that Air India flights take off from the International Airport (Andheri). I dismiss him.
Friday, 7:30 AM: I reach the counter which says "Air India". Upon giving my PNR no. and asking for the ticket printout, I am told by the clerk (grinning sheepishly) that my flight will be taking off from the International Airport. He cannot cancel my ticket at the Domestic Airport, so that I can book myself on an Indian Airlines flight taking off for Delhi from the Domestic Airport at 9 AM.
Friday, 7:31 AM: I get inside an auto and ask the driver to 'hurry' for the International Airport. He looks at me from the corner of his eye, sees me sweating, and declares that he wants 150 Rs. for the trip; the auto is rolling down the airport slope.
Friday, 7:33 AM (flight to takeoff in 42 minutes from another airport): After having given the first auto driver a mouthful, I get inside the second auto that comes down the slope and start for the International Airport (to be charged by the meter). I pass the first auto driver, who is still waiting at the spot where I left him, AND DO NOT SHOW HIM THE MIDDLE FINGER AS I CROSS HIM!
Friday, 6:30 AM: I do not do tele check-in, something that my roomie has been trying to teach me for months, and which I have been stubbornly refusing.
Friday, 7:44 AM: I rush towards the Air India counter at the International Airport and get the printout of my ticket.
Friday, 7:46 AM: I reach the check-in counter, to be told that the 'flight is closed'. I tell the check-in executive that I was delayed because I had gone to the Domestic Airport first as the sms that I had received post online booking did not mention that the boarding was to take place from the International Airport. (When I checked later, the mail that I had received post booking mentioned that fact, but I had not cared to check the mail, and I had not printed the same.) The guy gives in after some haranguing, and starts issuing my boarding pass.
Friday, 7:48 AM: I ASK THE CHECK-IN GUY IF I CAN BE ALLOTTED A WINDOW SEAT. HE LOSES HIS SHIRT. THE PERSON WHO HAULS THE LUGGAGE ONTO THE CHECK-IN CONVEYOR BELT INTERVENES... I KEEP MY SHIRT ON...
Sometime in the first quarter of 2007: I agree to the request of a batchmate of mine, to be present at his wedding when he gets married to another batchmate of mine, who he was wooing at the time.
Friday, 7:50 AM: I am given a female escort (no fancy comments please, my nephews read my blog and my bhabhi thinks that I am not a good influence on them) to help me whiz past the security check (this is the International Airport, in case you have forgotten).
Friday, 7:50 AM: I reach the security check to find that there is a serpentine queue which I have to traverse. My attempts to slide past the Indians, Mexicans, Australians in the queue prove futile. My escort fidgets with her fingernails, her threaded eyerbrows glistening with sweat which also causes her rouge to peel off. I ask her to throw her weight around, she throws a look of unbelievable scorn at me, challenging me to point out any weight at all on her carefully crafted waif-like figure.
Friday, 7:52 AM: The escort walks off in a huff after having babbled incomprehensible directions about walking down an invisible escalator and moving towards a certain mystical 'Gate Number 4' to encounter a mythical 'Air India person' after my security check is over. The Mexican and the Australian try to suppress their chortle, while the Indians openly cackle.
Friday, 7:57 AM: EIGHTEEN MINUTES LEFT FOR THE FLIGHT TO TAKE OFF, AND MY HAND BAGGAGE IS PULLED UP DUE TO A SUSPICIOUS OBJECT SUPPOSEDLY CONTAINED THEREIN. I AM ASKED TO STEP OUT OF THE LINE AND OPEN MY BAG. THREE BURLY GUARDS TOWER OVER ME. I MEEKLY ASK THE GUY AT THE INSPECTION MACHINE TO TELL ME WHAT THE SUSPICIOUS OBJECT IS.... HE DOES NOT REMEMBER.... HE STARTS GOING BACK ONE-BY-ONE THROUGH THE IMAGES OF THE BAGGAGES SCANNED TO REACH THAT OF MY BAG.... I RACE MY BRAINS... "SHAVING FOAM??", I BLURT OUT.... "YES," HE SCREAMS.
Friday, 8:00 AM: I try to convince the security check platoon that I only resemble a terrorist, and perhaps am named like one, but I can be trusted with not blowing the AI-E348 routed for Mumbai-Delhi-Shanghai with a can of Nivea Shaving Foam with Moisturisers (20% Extra Free). I also remind them of my departure time, which has as much effect on them as the culpable Foam has on my recalcitrant stubble. They eventually give in. My pulmonary respiration resumes.
Friday, 8:02 AM: I am racing down the escalator which the escort fairy mentioned and which has materialised out of thin air... Gate Number 4 comes into my line of sight... the ominous Air India person jumps out from behind a screen and tries to shove me down another escalator which leads to the boarding bus that is waiting for me.... the bus driver thumps on a knob which opens the bus doors... my head is swimming and I can feel the ground swaying beneath me as I rush forward waiting to be sucked inside the bus by an intergalactic force....
Friday, 8:10 AM: I am on my seat inside the plane.... coiled up and clutching the armrests, afraid that I will still be yanked and thrown out of the plane.... the auto driver, the check-in executive, the escort, the security guys, the Air India person, are all floating in my peripheral vision and reaching out to get meeeeee.....
... to be continued.

The Consortium Of Pubgoing, Loose and Forward Women

The Consortium Of Pubgoing, Loose and Forward Women is a group on Facebook formed to protest the broad-brushing of the country of India by a bunch of boobs.

This protest is not a game of one-upmanship involving chadhis and saris. The point is that such a large number of people are OPPOSING the forceful imposition of a pseudo-culture upon them, and REJECTING the undue right of SRS to propagate their myopic and frog-in-the-well version of 'culture'. They are effectively QUESTIONING the authority of the SRS to function as a moral-meter.

Secondly, the plan to send saris to women from all over India by SRS PROVES that SRS is DISTANCED from the cultural diversity of the country. Will they send a sari to a Goan? To a Kashmiri? To a woman from the North East? To a woman in Leh??? And then declare her to be of questionable character if she refuses to don an attire she has never tried before!

If a pub owner obtains a license to operate upon a particular premise, and if an adult enters the premise to drink, then it is nobody's business to question their right to carry out business as usual. If you allow a rabid individual to start questioning the right of the women to drink today, he will go on to question their attire, their mannerisms, their speech, their right to make decisions for themselves, and will not cease till he has robbed them of the right to live as a free individual. There is no turning back on the road to madness, as a peek into our Paki neighborhood would confirm. The only institutional authority to check public conduct is the court of law, and any attempt to undermine that authority is a threat to the very idea of freedom as guaranteed by the realms of the law.