BRING BACK THE TRAFFIC

(A sanitised version of this blog appeared in my humour column – Urban Bourbon – in The New Indian Express. If you’re touchy about subjects, or generally the kind who feels people shouldn’t say things that hurt others, you’re on the wrong site. Please check out the original column. Thanks!)

You know how they speak of mental age? I have always had the mental age of a septuagenarian. I don’t mean it in the way I spoke or acted – by those barometers, I was always an immature asshole who went through life like it was a video game with many lives. But in terms of pet peeves and things that ticked me off, I always thought of myself as an old man.

Pet peeves rile me up, everyday occurrences spite me. All my life, I have complained and cribbed about traffic in cities. A firm believer of public transport (while not a frequent commuter), nothing annoys me more than people stuck behind each other in vehicles. There is something inherently inhumane about having to sit on the road for hours. I have tried to listen to nostalgic songs, interesting podcasts, make conversation – within a few minutes, I begin to feel like GD Bakshi in an NDTV studio. Road Rage? ‘Rage’ is a strong word, but I admit to suffering from a mild case of Road Irritation.

That’s me whenever I am in traffic.

With IT companies calling their employees back to offices, traffic on the roads is beginning to resemble pre-pandemic levels. The Deja-phew comes sweeping back – of waiting hopelessly in traffic while staring at nothing in particular. Of looking at the time a few times and eventually leaving it to destiny. It’s become the new small-talk across the country:

‘Damn, the traffic has gotten terrible, eh?’

‘Yeah’.

‘But what Will Smith did to Chris Rock was good only. You can’t make fun of baldness/religion/disability/nation/beliefs/intelligence/weight/my grandmother/their neighbours/my dog/anything in general’.

‘Yeah’.

But after the pandemic, instead of cribbing, I’d like to welcome the traffic back with open arms. If I’m being completely honest, I had begun to miss the traffic.

When the pandemic was announced, I used to step out once a day for smokes. One of the sights still flashes in my memory. It had been a few days since Modiji announced the lockdown. I had stepped on to the roads. There wasn’t a soul in sight. My favourite shops were shut, even the stray dogs did not wag their tails to greet me. The streets looked like the sets of a zombie-apocalypse movie starring Tiger Shroff. It made me both sad and scared at the same time. That’s when I realised how much I miss the traffic.

How much I missed the long hours of waiting, the incessant honking of cars – a Morse code of its own. If aliens visit us, they’ll think we honk to communicate with each other. A honk when someone overtakes, or when the light turns green. A honk when the clock strikes 4.20 PM, or if it’s a Wednesday, or the birthday of a local MLA. Honking is a morse code with absolutely no code of honour. I want to hear the white noise of frustrated drivers again.

And how about all the idiots on the road. The folks who gulp down a can of energy drink and graciously leave the last few drops for co-commuters on the road. Or those who occupy the window seats in buses, and spit benevolently upon those on the road. People who park bikes, and quickly run to relieve themselves by the side of the road. Or those cousins of Doctor Strange, who pause all traffic by stretching out their hand in front of incoming vehicles. Give me back that one genius who decides to reverse at a U-Turn, causing the traffic behind him to metamorphose into a gigantic snail. The cow chewing cud nonchalantly in the middle of the road, musing about its increased status in society. The people who sell stuff at traffic spots – analog versions of Instagram influencers. I wonder how they are always in the know when it comes to trending objects – like fidget spinners, or 2 feet long pens.

Increased traffic is a sign of people returning to cities, of humanity crawling back to normalcy. Shops and bars will be open again, playing songs loud enough for Martians to headbang to. Strangers will share drinks and step out as friends. Pubs will echo with the independent voices of young singers. People will gather to listen to comedians with mics in hand and fears in their hearts. People will look at their phones at 11.30 PM and do a mental calculation of how much they drank, how far they must drive, and where the ‘police checking’ might be set up.

I will have to cover my face to avoid leaking drains. I will have to ensure that I’m far away from bus windows, incase someone wants to bolo zubaan kesari all of a sudden. But give it all back to me.

Give me back the traffic – that constantly throbbing lifeline of the city. That vein pumping through the city’s heart – buzzing, honking and smoking. Give me back the chaos, the noise, smoke, and the intermittent spikes in blood pressure. Give me back the traffic. Let me watch my city thrive again!

***

A Very Achievable New Year’s Resolution

It happens every year.

By the time November ends, and you’re browsing for jackets, you suddenly remember that all the resolutions you had set for yourself have vanished out of the window. 

Well, not all of them, you tell yourself. You achieved SOME of them. Some of them, you reason, were too unrealistic to begin with. The rest were all frivolous anyway – get fit, quit smoking, eat healthy – utopian desires in dystopian times. 

By December, you go easy on yourself. Just a few more days, and you’ll reset your life. Well, not like Instagram influencers do – they’re an alien breed of positivity-exuding creatures. You’ll do it like a teenager on Orkut – half circumspect, half-excited. 

And then, the last few days of the year whizz by, and here you are – reading this blog on a weekday in the middle of work. Off the top of your head, you know you haven’t set extremely rigid resolutions for yourself. But you can’t deny it – you’d like it if this year was better than the last. 

Don’t be hard on yourself. It’s only human. 

If there is one good thing about the pandemic, it has made us realise the futility of New Year resolutions. Earlier, you had to watch television or step out on the roads to see the hydra-headed grip of Christmas and New Year marketing in your life. Today, it resides next to your bed, on your phone. Ads for gym equipment, diaries and planners, entrepreneurs and fitness coaches asking you to turn your life around. 

But the pandemic proved that new year resolutions are a vague creation by marketing companies. That to be alive and well, to report to work, to get paid, to have someone to talk to – these are all wonderful things in themselves. On 31 December 2020, for the first time in decades, millions of people discarded New Year resolutions, counted their blessings, and stepped gingerly into the new year. 

As much as I hate to admit it, I am a sucker for new year resolutions. I know, I know. You can roll your eyes. But I can’t help it. The tiniest sliver of hope is enough for me to latch on to. 

There is something warm and wonderful about the ability to reset. To start afresh. And I’ll take it. Even though I know the course. 

I’ll stick to it for a few days, and then the 100 meters walk from my home to the gym will seem like the Tour de France. Sankranthi will come knocking in a few days, and I’ll stuff myself like a vegetarian pig. And yet, I do make a wish list for myself. 

*

But what does one wish for oneself in the times we live in? Just when we thought the worst was over, we realised that COVID has adopted another avatar and is all set to pounce upon us. Just when we had all got vaccinated twice, and were beginning to step out of our homes, we found ourselves going through the same loop again. Reports of cases rising, warnings across hoardings and headlines, the distressing reports of hospital shortages. 

As someone in my mid-30s, I am allowed to dole out advice once in a while. If you’re younger than me, humour me like I’m a drunk uncle at a wedding party. If you’re older, think of me as the annoying, talkative kid at a birthday party. But here is what I have realised over the last few years. 

It is going to sound like an expansive statement, and you will roll your eyes so far back in your head, you’ll like The Undertaker stepping into the wrestling ring. But hear me out. 

This is what I have realised. Happiness really, is a choice. 

Yes. I know what you’re thinking. Fuck you, you smug asshole. People have lost their lives, millions have lost their livelihood. And I’m dishing out generic, Osho-like lines. 

I understand all of that. I have come to learn that we actually are not as much in control of our lives as we assume. Our family and friends are mostly products of chance. Our health (even though BKS Iyengar’s book says otherwise), is not really in our hands. Our wealth is also a byproduct of circumstances, upbringing and effort. We don’t choose the nation, religion or ethnicity we were born into. We did not choose when we were born, and when we are going to die. 

Which makes me realise, very little is ACTUALLY in our hands. There will always be people better off, and worse off than us. And our ideas of happiness and contentment are constantly shifting goalposts that are mere mirages. 

So why then, are we miserable? 

Look around you. Every single person around you is moping about life, going through it like a punishment. Befriend someone for long enough, and they begin to pour out their miseries like an adopted grandfather. Open a second beer with someone, and you’ll hear them crib and complain about their lives. 

I understand that nihilism is in vogue now, and anything hopeful is considered ‘cringe’. But really, you have survived a pandemic. You are reading this blog in the middle of work. It’s in English, so you’re among the 10% of Indians who read, write and speak in English.  

Which is not to say I am above it, either. I am an expert bitcher. I am the Zakir Hussain of complaining, the Ravi Shankar of cribbing. And when I questioned myself further, I found that it is mostly because cribbing, bitching and complaining are more entertaining. There is more scope for jokes, stories, and relatability among your listeners. Try praising someone for more than two minutes, and you’ll find your listeners stifling mental yawns.

And this holds true for all of us. We are generic in our praise, and extremely specific in our criticism. When you step out of a great movie and your friends ask you what you thought, you generally reply with superlatives – ‘amazing, mind-blowing, extraordinary’. But try sitting through a bad movie, and you could write a Baradwaj Ranganish essay on why the film was miserable. I think it comes naturally to us. 

Think about how generic you sound when you meet an old friend, and how nuanced, articulate and inventive you sound when you have a fight. Examples from the past magically merge with statements that are laced with poison and come zooming out your mouth like a gun in Sunny Deol’s hands. 

And so dear reader, this is what I ask of you this year. Be specific in praise, and generic in criticism. It’s not much of a resolution. In fact, it is barely even a change. If anything, it is a minor flip in your default settings. But I have found that when I praise people with specific pointers, it means something to them. For one, it makes me have to think – to actually ponder over what I liked, to articulate it in my finest words, and to deliver them in the most heartening manner. And the reaction I get is pure joy. Anybody can pay compliments, but to hear a well-worded explanation is a thing of pure bliss. 

As for criticism, there is no point getting into the specifics. In most cases, the person you’re reprimanding already knows of their follies. In most cases, the things we say are instinctive reactions to churning feelings inside us that are brewing up hatred. On most days, much of our criticism gets painted with personal agenda and hatred. 

So, after much thought, this is the easy-to-achieve New Year’s resolution that I came with. It’s easy to follow, helps everybody around you, and if you play your cards well, could also result in a hike at work. Be specific in praise and generic in criticism. 

* 

As for me, I will continue to set mildly unrealistic resolutions for myself. This year, my other resolution is to not kill a human being. I should be able to achieve it. But in case I fail, you’ll read about it in the papers! 

Happy New Year! 

*

(An edited version of this blog appeared in my weekly column for The New Indian Express. Read it here.)

(If you received this blog through email, thank you for subscribing. I have stopped sharing my blogs on social media, for it attracts unwanted attention and instant reactions. I cherish the blogging experience of the the early days – where I write stuff and strangers read them and comment if they want to. I despise the modern social-media driven practice of instant reactions and comments. However, a man’s gotta run his shop. So if you like the blog, please let someone else know, and ask them to subscribe too! :))

Why are we so scared of writing?

No profession in the world has been as glorified as that of a writer’s.

When you think of a scientist, sportsperson, or film star – there are many images that strike the mind – in a wide variety of colours and personalities. But ask people what their idea of a writer is, and you’ll get the most cliched image – that of a black-and-white person in a beard and long hair, shot in soft light in the 1940s – a face too serious to smile, an expression to inscrutable to decode.

For more than 12 years now, I have been earning my bread through writing. I have written copy for advertising, short stories, three unpublished novels, award shows, film reviews, screenplays and web series. I have been writing and performing my own jokes for nearly a decade now. But when I tell people I’m a writer, the first question I get thrown at me is – ‘What books have you written?’. Most people have this image of a writer to be serious, or profound, or intellectually more stimulating than a Magic Wand Rechargeable vibrator.

Or there is an element of awe – like writing is a gift that god blesses upon the chosen ones. That being a writer somehow makes people intrinsically different from everyone else – a little hatke. It is assumed that writing requires some special talent and intelligence. I am yet to win a Pulitzer for my writing, but I can safely tell you that they couldn’t be further from the truth. I was extremely mediocre at academics, studied B.Com (the course you choose when you don’t know what you want to B.Com), and possess no other special skill to speak of (unless you count remembering bad Jackie Shroff movies).

Much of this myth stems from how our schools promote writing. We are never encouraged to write anything stimulating, anything off the treaded path. Think back to all the writing you did in school – you were either vomiting out the answers you were supposed to memorise. Or inane assignments like ‘Write a letter to your Municipality Office asking for a new bus stand’. Any writing that didn’t fall in line with your parents’ dream of buying a new house – was actively discouraged. All through 20 years of education, we were taught to mug up, memorise, and vomit. Mug up, memorise, vomit. On loop – across courses and curricula. You’ll find teenagers who can waltz through the world’s toughest competitive exam, but freeze when asked to write a few paragraphs of an essay.

Which is why people are so awed by any form of creative writing. It throws up the image of a rebel who fought against the existing structures of the world to plant a flag of individuality in the stormy sea of everyday life.

They couldn’t be further from the truth.

Writing is like any other profession. In fact, if you are a coder, you share more in common with a writer than most other professions. Like with other fields, writing can be either for your own brand, or for others on hire. Writers in that sense, are just like professionals in any other field – only poorer.

*

When I ask people why they don’t write anymore, the first reaction I get is of ‘fear’.

Modern society has tricked us into inculcating a deep fear of writing in all forms. We are all reminded that we don’t read enough. We are reminded of our previous generations – the simple joys of their lives, the struggles they faced to read and write – a luxury that we are throwing away. Old people love to remind us that we aren’t reading and writing enough.

But then, that’s what old people do. Old age offers us all the opportunity to look down upon people who come after us. When was the last time you heard an old person praise youngsters for anything? It’s a socially accepted (even respected) toxic trait that’ll go on and on till humans walk this earth.

But like most things, old people have no idea what they’re talking about. Take reading, for example. In our parents’ time, the act of reading meant one of a few things – a newspaper, a magazine, or a book. That was it. For all the brouhaha about reading, these were the only things that were being read, by entire generations!

Now, take the average youngster of today. They have access to news articles in one tap. News is delivered in snapshots throughout the day. Opinions are given out, statistics are accessed from a young age. Statuses, stories, updates, messages – we are surrounded by writing. In fact, the average youngster today reads more in a day on Instagram than their parents read in a week. And yet, we are constantly shamed into believing we don’t read enough.

Or take writing. Mails, statuses, opinions on Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat. If our earlier generation strove for brevity in words, the younger generation has perfected the art of conveying a hilariously nuanced point within 140 characters. They are on WhatsApp groups all day – discussing, debating and bantering. If you create memes, you are doing what poets toiled with all their lives – to merge an image with an idea to induce humour, joy, or inspiration.

The truth is, today’s generations read and write much, much more than their parents could ever dream of.

And yet, why are youngsters today exhibiting a morbid fear of writing? I have thought about this long and hard.

The most common retort I get when I ask people why they don’t write, is-

‘I tried writing. But I hate the stuff I write’.

This has got more to do with the perceived notions of writing, than with their own skills. Since we have very little functional experience of writing, we nurture the belief that words are supposed to flow like a gossamer beautifully from mind to paper. That when we sit down in front of the laptop, words should flow out of us like Ganga from Shiva’s head. That great works of writing will be created just like Shaktimaan was created from the divyashakti that emanated from the foreheads of seven rishis. But that’s absolute bull.

It makes no sense to judge your own writing. To expect perfection in everything that you type. One – that is not true even for the greatest writers on earth. Two – it is an extremely silly idea. Every time you sit down to write, you aren’t running a race against Shakespeare and Wordsworth.

When you go out to play a game of cricket – are you competing with Sachin Tendulkar? When you sing in the bathroom, are you trying to outdo the vocal gymnastics of Mariah Carey? Then why did writing become such a scrutinised activity?

Ernest Hemingway said, ‘Write drunk. Edit sober’. While you need not actually get drunk to write, what he meant is that writing and editing are two different tasks. To write and judge your writing at the same time, is like trying to wash up while taking a dump at the same time. What you’ll end up with is a gigantic mess.

The second problem I notice is that writing has become extremely performative.

It is assumed that everything you write has to be put up somewhere. Along with our opinions and our pictures, we have made our writing a social media experience as well. If it isn’t good enough to be put up somewhere, we assume there is no intrinsic value in what we write. But that’s a terrible way to go about writing. Everything you write should not be treated like precious gems that need to be put on sale in a marketplace. Instead, treat your writing like the muck that comes out when you pick your nose. It’s not important where it goes; but rather that it came out of you in the first place!

That extremely gross analogy apart, one needs to let go of the performative aspect of writing. If anything, writing is an extremely personal action – one that comes close to meditation.

Try this sometime.

When you’re extremely agitated, try sitting down and penning your thoughts. After a point, the grudges, those balls of wool of thoughts in your head – when they are all laid out bare, you’ll find that most of the things that anger or scare you are silly. When our thoughts are put into words in front of us, they show themselves for what they really are – twisted thoughts whose only aim is to cause pain.

Writing helps give clarity to your feelings. Especially the lesser feelings – like jealousy. The next time you find envy rising inside you like unwanted bile, sit down and try to write about it. You’ll find that when your feelings are forced to masquerade as words, they sound petty and small. Insignificant. You’ll find that you’re greater than such measly thoughts.

Unfortunately, writing has gone from something extremely personal, to an act as performative as a celebrity’s sex tape.

Write without an aim, without expecting likes or follows or shares. Don’t compare yourself to Shakespeare and Wordsworth and all those older gentlemen who would be selling essential oils on Instagram if they were alive today.

Write a mail to a college friend you haven’t spoken to for years. Review a product you purchased, a book you read, or a restaurant you visited. Share something original on a WhatsApp group. The truth is, modern life gives you lots of opportunities to write, but we have all gone into our shells.

You have the Internet and social media – you have access to a million potential readers – something that all the writers of yesteryears would have given their right arms for. Take writing back to what it is – a calming, meditative, personal experience. Let your fingers dance over the keyboard like a teenager who’s had their first LIIT.

Write everyday if you can, and be kind to yourself. Write everyday, and throw away what you wrote into the dustbin without reading it. If it’s something worth remembering, you will remember it. Our brains have a way of sieving through the shit and retaining the gold.

Death is the only real truth of life. Climate change, a global pandemic, Suneil Shetty releasing a new movie – those are the things that you must be worrying about. Not something as intrinsically beautiful as writing.

Write a story. A message. A joke. A note to yourself in the future.

Liberate yourself from the fear of writing.

Remember when the Internet was fun?

I do.

I first heard of the Internet from an uncle. As he changed from his formal trousers into a comfortable lungi, he told us – “You’ll be able to chat with anybody in the world”.

I processed the word ‘chat’ for the first time. “You’ll be able to see anybody and talk to them,” he prophesied, even if it would take the world a decade to fulfil his vision. ‘And no need for sending letters any more’. The last statement seemed a little dystopic to me, since my favourite holidays pastime was writing letters – to school friends, pen friends, competition post cards to Disney shows and to Readers Digest for their godawful bumper lottery.  

The internet first came into our lives surrounded with whispers of excitement. I remember being thrilled about getting my first email ID – a very embarrassing hriday_dilse@yahoomail.com – and watching along the years as the logo on my digital letterbox went from R (Reddiffmail) to Y (Yahoo Mail) to G (Gmail). Since my parents had made it their life’s purpose to rob me of any joy, the Internet was a secret, hidden indulgence.

Much of my early days on the internet were spent in talking to kind strangers. People who had no connection to me in real life, but bonded over cinema, sports or random news items. It was around the time that I began blogging for the first time, and discovered that I could write – when strangers expressed their appreciation for my blogs. It was a strange double life! I would spend my days and nights in shitty call centre jobs, and then rush to the Internet cafe for two hours in the evening, and type out a blogpost. The next day, I would return with another idea for a blogpost, and read through the comments for the previous one. It was not very different from our current social media obsession – only much slower, and a comment literally made my heart burst with joy.

And then came Orkut – the first time our digital and virtual worlds collided with each other. For all its kitsch silliness, Orkut helped me connect to my school crush. As we sent each other scraps, posts and ‘testis’, there was one common aspect to our lives on the Internet – we were all polite and friendly to each other. I don’t remember a single hate comment on my blog from the early years. Orkut did not have people spewing halahala at each other. The internet was a space where you could express your talent, meet strangers, or waste time on asinine hobbies. Like the time I spent as the admin of the ‘I Love Antara Mali’ community on Orkut. Or trying to discuss cricket matches as Sullen Gavaksar and Harsh Bhogle.

At school, the internet was spoken of in revolutionary terms. After the Y2K problem fizzled out, words like ‘e-commerce’ and ‘globalisation’ came into vogue. We were informed that e-commerce would transform the world in every way, and that borders would vanish. That the Internet would change the world in a beautiful way.

Around the beginning of the previous decade, the internet began to get ‘too real’. Everybody you knew in life – however briefly – entered into your corner of the internet. The Internet went from meeting and befriending strangers – to a place where your acquaintances could follow you digitally. And along with the acquaintances came their opinions. Friends began to take positions on opposite sides of ideological fences, and we began to follow people based on ideology, rather than familiarity. And somewhere down the line, the word ‘Internet’ was often followed with suffixes like ‘addiction’, ‘trolling’, and ‘depression’. 

As someone involved in standup comedy, movie reviews, and newspaper columns, I have to put myself out in front of the public nearly every day in some form or the other. I tried avoiding it for as long as possible, but the rise of social media as the ultimate tool of advertising cannot be refuted. While there definitely ARE nice people on the Internet, like the Parsis, they are vanishing. Every Friday, when I put up my review for Film Companion, I am reminded that I’m merely a cunt who likes poking fun of filmmakers. On standup videos, I am told that I spread hatred in society.

To expose myself to people on a daily basis, knowing fully well how toxic the internet is, took a toll on me. And that is when I realised something about the Internet. Your corner of the internet is like a tiny little garden. You need to tend to it; weed out the unwanted bits, and nurture the parts of the garden that make you happy. If left unattended, it is going to transform into an Amazonian jungle with vicious creatures lurking within. 

It reached a stage where I couldn’t remember what it was about the internet that I had originally fallen in love with. People appreciating my work, and giving me the love and confidence to pursue my passion as a profession. At the risk of sounding narcissistic, my favourite thing about the Internet was the kindness of strangers appreciating my work.

If this was a film, this moment was the scene where the hero has an epiphany! If my favourite thing about the Internet was the kindness of strangers, what was stopping me from being a kind stranger myself?

And so I decided to give back. These days, I lurk around the distant corners of the internet, thanking people whose work has given me joy. And it’s not the musical superstars or filmmakers I’m talking about. These are musicians with a few hundred followers on Spotify, YouTubers passionately making videos without bothering about riches. Bloggers who inspired me to take up writing, and humorists who made me look at the world differently. I went about thanking them personally. 

The one common reply I get from them (apart from ‘thanks’) was that it ‘made their day’. I’m on a spree now, and would recommend it to you as well.

If there is somebody’s work that gives you joy, send them a note. Especially if they are not already a superstar asking you to buy Daniel Wellington at 20% discount. If they are a troubled teenager typing away on a keyboard, or a musician creating work that are as far from the mainstream as Mithunda – send them a personal note of thanks.

In your own small way, you’ll be making their corner of the internet a little brighter.

(A sanitised version of this column appeared this week in The New Indian Express. If you live in Bangalore, I’d recommend you subscribe to the paper so you can read the column. If not, well, there’s always this blog, where you’ll find a spicier version of the same column!)

Stop Assigning Tasks to Everyone You Meet!

Till a few years ago, I was what could be described as ‘gregarious’. I liked stepping out, meeting new people, making friends and hanging out with said friends.

But over the last few years, I have become increasingly hesitant to step out of my house. The prospect of having to meet people seems daunting. It’s a little ironic that this coincides with the time I decided to become a writer and stand-up comedian. But the reason is a very specific one. Ladies and Gentlemen, kindly brace yourself for the kind of rants you hear from old men who reach the bars early.

Every generation has a different set of societal pressures. A hundred years ago, there was pressure to work in one’s ancestral property to provide food. A few decades ago, the pressure was to get married, have kids, and produce mediocre progeny to completely unnecessary dynasties. In today’s times, it’s a different kind of pressure.

The pressure of meeting people who randomly meet you, assign tasks to you, and vanish. That’s the reason I detest meeting people these days. Nearly every person you meet assigns some or the other task to you, whether you know them or not. It’s a rampant, vile practice that nobody speaks about. Everybody you meet is adding to a gigantic, imaginary To-do list in your head.

These task-assigners come in various shapes, sizes and categories.

THE WOKE PEOPLE

Most people assume that performing comedy in front of right-wing rogues is the toughest. Surprisingly, right-wingers do possess a sense of humour. The real problem are the left-wing, woke people. They have woken so much out of their slumber that any joke that doesn’t fit their moral text book needs to be put to sleep. In fact, apart from woke people, the only more dangerous place to tell a joke is in front of a pride of lions in the Gir forest! For a woke person, there is no perfect intellectual. The idea of a perfect woke person is a constantly shifting flagpole that is humanly impossible to adhere to.

I had the rare misfortune to host an Open Mic at a vegan restaurant in the city. The kind where rich folks wear kurtas and sit on mats in order to remain ‘grounded to their roots’. Vegans are the most intolerable among the woke-folks. Of course, people are free to make their own dietary choices, but it’s the sanctimonious ‘I’m doing it for the planet’ tone that is intolerable.

I mean, Gandhi fasted for years and he’s called a chutiya on Twitter. But Neha wants to be respected because she said ‘No’ to paneer! Give me a fucking break!

I was performing a silly joke about Shah Jahan and how he cut off the workers’ hands because the Question Mark wasn’t used in Indian languages in the 16th century. Right in the middle of a joke, I got interrupted by an audience member. I called her out for interrupting me in the middle of a joke, and we spoke after the show.
‘That joke is able-ist’, she said.
‘How?’
‘Well, it is the perspective of an able-bodied person who is mocking people without hands’.

Have you ever had a moment when as an atheist, you begin to believe that God exists? That God created somebody this stupid only to make their ancestors pay for ghastly crimes? It was one of those moments.

‘You do know that it’s a myth, right? There isn’t really enough evidence to prove that Shah Jahan actually cut off people’s hands after they built the Taj Mahal’.
She gave me the look I used to give my Maths teachers in school.
‘Even so, that joke is able-ist. You are perpetuating a violent idea through your joke’.
‘Are you telling me people are going to listen to that joke and cut off other people’s hands?’
‘…Ahem, maybe you should choose to read up on Disability Studies, and you wouldn’t be so insensitive in your jokes’.
‘Why don’t you tell me what the studies say?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s not my responsibility to educate you about the world’.

That’s the thing about woke people. They are constantly dropping names on Social Media. You should read this. Maybe watch that. For you see, I’m an educated person willing to debate my views on social media for hours, but I do not possess the skills to summarise what I have learnt in a couple of sentences.

In that sense, I like that right-wing folks do not assign any task to you. They are absolutely sure of their views. If you disagree, you can go fuck yourself. Irrespective of whether you agree with their opinions, it is hard not to be impressed by the confidence. But debate with a woke person, and you will be tasked with reading three books, a couple of essays on EPW, and four academic papers on JStor before you’re worthy of having an argument!

THE RECOMMENDERS

If the woke-walkers are an army of brain-dead people marching at you while echoing each other’s opinions, they can only be defeated by their worthy opponents – the Recommenders.

These are people who have watched a series or film and can’t stop fucking raving about it. ‘OMG!!! YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED THAT SERIES? Are you serious? You’re a critic. You SHOULD watch it. MUST. OUGHT TO. BETTER WATCH IT’.

If the recommenders are an army marching, they are commanded by seniors in their own army. The recommending generals who make recommending a competitive game of tennis.

‘Have you watched Better Call Saul?’
‘No, I haven’t. But OMG, have you watched Fargo?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I’ve watched The Wire. Have you?’
‘No. I haven’t’.
‘You MUST watch it. It’s one of those shows that will blow your mind’.

This game has no rules, and no winner. It can go on for a few minutes, hours, or the entire night. But the recommenders are also guilty of another crime. If you ask them to describe the show, they mostly refuse. ‘I can’t describe it. I’ll do a shoddy job. You MUST watch it’.

What they’re essentially saying is that they have the time and resources to watch a show that ran for an entire decade, but cannot be bothered to indulge you in a two-minute summary. Because THAT would require some skills and intelligence.
‘You just watch it. It will blow your mind’.
Everything seems to blow the minds of recommenders. It is a mind or a school in Pakistan? To get blown every Friday??

THE NUMBER SHARERS

The third in the list are those that immediately want to exchange numbers after meeting you.

I have met people at parties with whom the only commonality I shared was to belong to the same species. ‘Give me your number, I’ll give you mine’. I thought this was true only in case of pretty women, but apparently, it’s a rampant social disease.

Despite the fact that it takes 2 seconds to find someone one by searching on social media. ‘Give me your number, I’ll call you’, they say. And then stare at you till you take out your phone. ‘Unlock your phone. Use the swiping pattern. Let me see it so I can theoretically know everything about your life. Unlock your phone RIGHT NOW and save my number. Or I’m going to stare at you till you drop dead’.

The number-sharers are not easily pleased though. Some of them will take out their phones and give you a call. ‘I called you’, they’ll say. ‘That’s my number. Save it’. Trapped like a teenager in Shakti Kapoor’s bedroom, you have no option but to nod.
‘Give me a call when you’re in this locality the next time’.
Sure.
‘And let me know if you have any shows coming up, man. Just ping me on WhatsApp or something’.
Sure.
‘And oh, have you watched this series…?’

THE WRITERS

As a culture, we have strange ideas of writing and writers. When I tell people that I’m a writer, the first question I get is ‘What books have you written?’. It is hard for people to wrap their heads around the fact that there are other types of writers than authors.

We have made writing so performative, so cliched – that an entire generation of youngsters is more comfortable solving complex mathematical equations to arrive at one common answer, than write a short essay that displays their uniqueness. But even though I belong to the camp of writers myself, writers are one of the worst committers of the crime of assigning tasks.

‘Hey, can you read what I’ve written? Do let me know what you thought’.
No hello, no introduction. No cursory line of courtesy asking if I would be interested to read their work. Forget niceties, there is no context to what was sent – no summary, no one-para description of the content within. I am supposed to open the document and plunge into ‘EXT. DAY. SCENE 1 – A dusty Jeep arrives outside the village. We see a child inside the Jeep, with a snake around its neck’.

I have had one dude send me his script over 5 long WhatsApp messages. Another dude met me at a party after a few years and cribbed about me not giving him feedback. That’s the thing about writers – while their wallets are thin, their egos are massive. If you do not reply to their messages, they take it as a personal insult. ‘Since you are a professional writer’, the dude would say to me in the balcony as we passed joints, ‘I expected you to respond professionally’.

I think the problem lies in the fact that writing is considered an art. And because it’s considered an art, people don’t realise that to review it is actual work.

THE FILMMAKERS

I review movies professionally, and as a reason I get sent at least 20 to 30 videos every week. Most of them have no introduction, or summary, or any sort of hint about what the video might contain. Just thrown my way with the cursory message that says, Hey, check this out.

I understand that film making is a tough business. But how do you expect to be taken seriously when you don’t even follow the basic rules of professionalism? The common message attached to the video links go something like Hey, the video is just about 5 minutes so please watch it. Sure, it might take about 5 minutes to watch your video. But it will take me about 30 minutes to analyze it. And then another 30 minutes to put it in words. And then some more time to find you on social media and reply to your message and then discuss it with you.

So in essence, you are asking me to work for 3 hours. For free. Without even the basic modicum of courtesy. People think that it is some sort of a joyful activity to review films. But it is actual work. Imagine if you were a software engineer working. And I suddenly drop in at your desk and say, Hey, can you write this code for me, please? People do not even take permission. Do not even drop in a line that says, Hey, do you mind having a look? Do you have a few minutes free?

And if you do not respond to their messages, they come back and check in a weeks time. Like it was a fucking assignment to begin with. And when you fail to respond to their unprofessional messages, they get pissed off.

Which gives rise to the question. What is the professional way to ask somebody to review your work?

I don’t know what are the industry guidelines but I personally would like it if you first asked me if I would be interested to check out your work. And be ready to accept a ‘No’ if I’m busy. The next step would be to send a short summary along with the link. And then leave it for me to decide if I want to have a look or no. Because it’s a favour I’m doing you. It’s not a contract. I’m not getting paid.

*

So that was it. That was my rant. If you belong to any of the above categories, please stop assigning tasks to everybody around you. We live in tough times as it is.

Thank you for reading. Now please go to the comment section and tell me what you thought of my article. Right now!!

Realistic, achievable New Year Resolutions for all

(A saner, sober version of this blog appeared in The New Indian Express Jan 1^st, 2020 in my column ‘Urban Bourbon’. If you live in Bangalore, do remember to pick up the Tuesday edition of the paper. This is the blog version, and is meant to be cruder. Thank you!)

*

Viewed objectively, a New Year is just another revolution by Dharti Mata around Surya Devta. It is a run-of-the-mill (or a circle-around-the-sun) matter. But if you looked at the celebrations, you’d assume humans discovered another planet to fuck over.

New Years is a day when everybody makes money. Expensive restaurants, liquor shops, Babas who promise salvation while the rest of the world is engaging in carnal karma. Personally, New Years has always been a bit of a mixed bag.

It is also true that everybody spends money on the day. I have been to those New Year Bashes, where people fight for alcohol like the world is ending. Food is ‘unlimited’, and there’s always that one asshole who decides to show everybody what he’s consumed all night. As sense dawned on me, I chose to spend the night with a wide vista of substances inside me.

But it is only when we wake up the next day that we realise that the happiness and joy were temporary. That social media is still annoying as fuck; that life is still a long struggle against colleagues, children and parents.

And resolutions are responsible for this disillusionment.

The concept of New Year resolutions began with Babylonians who kept promises to please the gods. While priests in our lands were cursing each other and everybody else in sight, the priests in Babylon followed a peculiar custom. On the day the new year began, the king stood in front of the gods without jewelry and clothes. The priest would then slap the king till he shed tears, to prove the gods’ superiority. Clearly, the need to participate in a social custom on New Years existed even back then!

But somewhere down the line, resolutions stopped being about promises to god but to oneself. And that is where things begin to get murky. It is easier to expect things from gods, but to expect things from ourselves is taxing on the soul.

Apparently the most common resolution is to lose weight, followed by saving money and eating healthy. I have no idea how the survey was conducted, but it turns out that only 8% of Americans who made resolutions went on to achieve them. This is clearly a crisis and Yours Truly has found a solution.

The trick to achieving New Year resolutions is to set a really low bar. To set realistic, achievable resolutions that appeal to the mind and body, without being taxing on the soul.

And this is where I speak from personal experience. Every year, my top resolution is not to kill anybody. I know it sounds easy, but it requires some resolve and patience.

Haven’t you ever been watching a film only to find a kid howl like a feral wolf? Didn’t you fantasize about stuffing popcorn into the evil child’s mouth? Or how about the guy who jumps the line while you’re waiting for a ticket for your train? Didn’t you ever consider jabbing the nibs of the three Pilot Hitecpoints that you carry with you, into the guy’s posterior?

But with this resolution, you exercise restraint throughout the year. And at the end of the year, when you find yourself hunting for places to party, and not a space in the jail to lie down at night – you’ll find that it was all worth it.

The other resolution is a combination of eating healthy and saving money by uninstalling Swiggy and Zomato.

I do not believe in Christ, the Holy Father, or the Holy Principal – but I’m sure the two apps are the work of the devil. With their hourly notifications nudging you to eat the trash that’s being produced around the city. Offering discounts that get you further addicted to their products. At the risk of sounding like a spaced-out conspiracy theorist, I firmly believe the two apps are evil.

Also, fast food costs money and causes anxiety. One must choose one’s food, and then track the little scooter on the app till it reaches one’s house. And then accept the food (hoping it is untouched), and then give the delivery person 5 stars and a tip (‘Concentrate on your studies’ doesn’t count, apparently).

The trick is to only consume slow food. Food that takes time to cook, to eat, and to get rid of. Not only will you lose weight, dear reader, but you will also achieve a double-whammy of saving money.

I know what you’re thinking – these hacks, not resolutions. A perfect new year resolution must make you work every day, and involve coordination between body, mind and soul. It must give you a sense of overall happiness and satisfaction. Allow me to reveal my final resolution – to kill as many mosquitoes as possible this year.

Mosquitoes are the largest killers on earth, killing more living beings than even human beings. Killing mosquitoes will not incur the wrath of animal rights activists; even Maneka Gandhi has no sympathy for mosquitoes! And thanks to capitalism, one can choose from mats, creams, gels, liquids, badminton racquets and ultrasonic devices – to get rid of the evil creatures.

Life is frustrating, and every once in a while, you’ll feel an urge to smash somebody to pulp. Climate Change is real, and World Peace sounds like something grandmothers will narrate to little kids when they sleep under the stars in dystopian times. And while life does not allow us to express our truest desires, it gives us the freedom to kill mosquitoes.

So there you have it. A new year resolution that will keep you working all year, and will also give you and your family a sense of purpose. On that note, dear reader, I wish you a Happy Mosquito and murder-free New year. Please avoid getting confused between the first and second resolutions – the trick is to be nice to human beings, and evil towards mosquitoes – achieving nirvana in the process! Happy New Year.

*****

Why I am not a part of any ‘movement’ anymore

Long, long ago, when you couldn’t disable the Blue Tick on Whatsapp, there was a time when I used to ‘feel’ strongly about things.

It’s probably got to do with being in one’s 20s. Feelings ran through me like surplus blood being pumped from the heart to important parts of the body. Happenings around the world would make me feel things.

Issues angereme and news moved me. I stared into the distance as scrambled thoughts slowly fell into place like an expert Tetris player – forming a sequence of actions that I must engage in.

I would stay up at night thinking about it. After a hurried breakfast and a quick morning-joint, I would sit down and type out what I felt about the issue. There was no external motivation to write those blogs – I wasn’t paid, and prior to social media, nobody really knew me to provide instant validation. The only impetus to keep writing was how issues made me feel.

Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to feel like that anymore. Since I’m someone who looks at almost everything through the lens of age, I initially dismissed it as a by-product of being in one’s 30s. A general world-weariness that reminds you that it’s better to jack off and sleep than worry about this slowly-burning world.

But I realise there could be another layer to it.

I cannot bring myself to be a part of any movement as the entire process has become exhausting. Every movement, every issue and cause is raked up using anger, vitriol, and trolling. To spread the word about something – somebody needs to be brought down.

This wasn’t the case a few years ago. I remember when the Anna Hazare movement was at its peak. I was cynical about the movement and refused to be a part of it. But the general tone back then was not one of anger. People mostly joined candle marches, shared articles on their Facebook walls, and went about their work. Good times!

Today, everybody is a troll. The most popular news channel of our time is that noise-monger who reduces journalistic ethics to Khushwant Singh’s Book of Jokes Vol. 7. Our politicians sound like teenage Twitter trolls. Every movement is based on anger and resentment.

Look at the Communist movement. Most of the Communists you’ll meet in your life are affluent, urban people guilty of their privilege. They are grasping on to a hollow ideology to wash some of the guilt off their souls. The Ambedkarite movement, in spite of being founded by a true progressive visionary as BR Ambedkar – has also been reduced to hate-mongering. The MeToo movement was also reduced to mud-slinging and anger after a point.

Even more shocking was the recent Ecological Movement (or whatever the fuck it’s called) – the one where celebrities and rich people told us that the world is ending. I find it laughable when celebrities who live lavish lives and consume fuel and labour that could feed entire colonies – suddenly wake up to the crumbling state of the world.

Get off your fucking Hummer and take the bus, asshole. Or stop the pontification just because you read an article on BuzzFeed.

The recent face of the Climate Change movement – Greta Iceberg – even her tone is one of anger and resentment. How dare you! – she screams at strangers in a stranger country. I doubt a 12 year old could be filled with such seething anger. Unfortunately, we have convinced ourselves that the only way to raise one’s voice for an issue is through anger, trolling, slinging mud at others. That there is no more space for discussions, or gentle humour, or erudite editorials.

And that is why I do not feel connected to any movement these days, no matter how crucial it is to our existence. It’s too stressful on my delicate mind.

Let me know if there’s a movement built around discussions and memes. I’ll become the face of that movement. Till then, lemme quickly go roll one and watch another Greta Iceberg meltdown…

Kimbo and Me

If you have been reading my blogs for a while, you’d have come across Kimbo Slice.

Dog extraordinaire, Alpha Male of the biggest Food Court on the University of Hyderabad campus. Friend of friends, possessive as Simi Garewal in Karz, and hater of buffaloes. A dog who never wagged his tail and asked for food. Who hung out with you as a friend, content to lick his balls while you smoked a joint, transcending millions of years of evolution between Man and Friend.

When we first met, the two of us were at our peak.

Kimbo was cool Cool was Kimbo. He only ate chicken, and threw you a frosty glare if you dared feed him anything vegetarian. Tiger biscuits was his preference, sniffing and rejecting anything else. If you befriended him, he walked with you from the Food Court, to your hostel five kilometres away, ensured you were safe, and then ran all the way back. He ran his ‘hood’ of reverential street dogs – his bark caused a riot, his whimper started an orgy. Kimbo was the ruler of the land.

And me. After years of trying to find a calling in life, and having dealt with only missed calls so far, I was finally at a place I felt comfortable. A place where I could engage, debate, discuss, prove my point, win an argument, play God.

In a way, we were both unlikely heroes. Kimbo isn’t the biggest dog around. In fact, in a world determined by size, Kimbo is relatively puny. One of his eyes doesn’t work, he walks with a limp, and his cough reminds you of Rajesh Khanna in Anand.

And yet, he ruled Gops with an iron paw.

And me. On a scale of One to Ten, I am Uday Chopra with a hangover and a hairstyle from Tirupati. And yet, I pursued women way out of my league. I sat with them at Gops, Kimbo at my side, talking to them, painting blurry memories with colour and gifting it to them. Wonderful women who drank, smoked, spoke, held hands, and took walks, Kimbo guarding us against imaginary ghosts and disrespectful buffaloes.

We were both punching above our weight. Kimbo running his pack of dogs, a motley crew of scared, whimpering, lost souls who transformed into Jedi warriors when they heard his bark. Who sprang to life and ran behind the buffalo, who obviously, didn’t give a fuck. Because, buffaloes.

He ran his hood, and I dated women I would never have a chance with in everyday life. And how did I do it?

Kimbo was my Wingman.

We shared a Jackie Shroff – Moti equation. Everytime I whistled, Kimbo would drop everything and come running towards me. Something about this impressed women no end. And every woman I dated, I made sure Kimbo met them too.

In my absence, Kimbo would run up to them, say a Hi, and hang out, ensuring other stray dogs didn’t bother them. He was my Wingman.

Back in those days, me and Kimbo ruled Gops.

*

In the four years that have passed, things have changed.

Not drastically, like a Farah Khan movie. But in a slow, excruciating manner. When small details add up over a large period of time to signify that things are not the same.

Kimbo is old now.

He has given up his hood, and taken refuge near the Small Gate. He spends his days wagging his tail at the security guards, who throw him a biscuit every now and then. His eyes have given up on him, as have his nose and ears. Blind, deaf and weak, he has taken old age in his stride.

And me. I have grown tired. Disillusioned, drifting about pointlessly.

Kimbo is at the twilight of his life, and me at the fag end of my Twenties.

When I ride past him and scream ‘Kimbo’, the name barely registers. He turns, tries to place me, and then sneezes and goes back to swatting flies near his balls.

I ride past him everyday, call out his name, and he continues to sleep, his jagged breaths interrupted by flies. Everyday, I wonder if it’s the last time I’m going to see him. And yet, lying down like that, without shame or remorse, Kimbo knows.

We both need to leave this place. Soon.

Thoughts on Rangabati Coke Studio Version

A few days ago, I saw my News Feed flooded with posts with Oriya people, about something that happened in Orissa.

Now, this is rare.

If I had to draw a venn diagram of my life, social networking and youtube and internet would be three coinciding circles. If I turn the page over, my home state Orissa would be sitting idle.

It’s like a double life I’m leading.

And it is something that I have felt right from childhood. Since I didn’t study in Orissa, I realised it is never mentioned anywhere. It was almost a Hogwarts-ish place that only appeared during Summer Holidays. Or if a teacher found two of us Oriya guys pinching each other during the prayer session and resorted to a lazy comment such as ‘Aye, you Oriya rowdies. Shut up and keep quiet!’.

However, the last two days have been different. Thanks to Sona Mohapatra’s rendition of ‘Rangabati O Rangabati’ on Coke Studio.

*

Now, let me set a little context here.

Rangabati is not just another song. It has folk roots. But most of my generation in Orissa came across the song during drunken nights on a baaraat.

For someone who is very conscious of how he dances, Baaraats opened the floodgates into the world of wet streets and slithery naagins. Of a random stranger tapping me on the shoulder and communicating in that unique code that only another drunk can understand, the words ‘Kaho Na Pyar Hai’. And then, with gay abandon, I turn around and return the compliment with that step that the Bournvita-drinking superhero immortalised – ‘Kaha Na Pyar Hai’.

Baaraats made me realise that it is all OK.

It is OK to slip and fall. There’ll always be someone to lend you a hand to stand back up on your feet. (Else, you better do it quickly, or else those guys carrying tube lights on their heads will walk around you).

Baaraats taught me that there is no such thing as ‘I’ve had enough’. Even if your liver is overflowing, a little nudge from a friend settles everything in place.

Baaraats taught me that there was no point trying to act decent and Shareef when everybody around you was being Musharaff and Taliban. To let insanity take over.

Rangabati is one of the top Oriya baaraat songs.

Now, if you have any acquaintance with Baaraat songs, you’ll know that there is no scope for frivalities like Political Correctness in that particular genre.

Some of the other songs I remember from baaraats are – ‘Nabama sreni jhiata, chaati ku mo hot karuchi’. (That 9th standard girl, is making my chest hot).

Then, there’s the poetic trick that singers use – when you don’t know if he’s singing ‘hot’ or ‘hurt’ – since they both sound the same in the Oriya accent.

Then, there are philosophical musings – ‘Tu aagaru dekhila jenta, tu pachharu dekhile senta” (How you look from the front, the same you look from the back. A throwback to the ancient dual – Dwaita philosophy in Hinduism).

Then, there are those that cater to purely carnal needs. Those that invoke the importance of alcohol in a person’s life – Daaru daaru daaru daaru de daaru. Those that call out to people from other communities – Ekkada Ekkada Ra. Then, the completely surreal and abstract – Kau to bou ku nou (‘May the Crow Take Away Your Mother’).

In the beginning, I was conscious of what people might think. Worried that someone might take offence to such blatantly offensive songs being played at full blast outside people’s houses.

It was only later that I realised that people had developed internal antennae that helped them to tune out of the proceedings.

Since then, for me, there was no looking back (Unless the guy who was mixing the drinks was at the back of the baaraat!).

Among all these songs, Rangabati was one of the saner tunes. Just a folk song that people recognised and would raise their hands, and woot, and go back to dancing to.

*

When Sona Mohapatra released her Coke Studio version of the song, people lost their minds.

Some of them said she had corrupted the song. Some others said they preferred the older version of the song. Still others said they had problems with her pronunciation of the words (even though the lyrics are not mainstream Oriya, but a dialect called Sambalpuri).

I don’t get this.

I mean, Coke Studio has historically been a platform for songs to mate with other genres and styles. It’s not Folk Studio, for heaven’s sake. And yes, those two Tamil rappers seemed to have zapped in from nowhere, and were rather annoying, but hey, it’s just a song, man.

It’s somebody’s interpretation of the song. Something the person thought might sound good.

If you don’t like it, skip it. Watch something else on YouTube. Why spread venom and hate in the Comments section?

Also, in Syria, Islamic State is beheading men, women and children. In Pakistan, children are being shot while taking classes in school.

There is shit flying all over in the world.

It’s just a fucking YouTube video.

Let it be.

Or else, kau toh bou ku nou.

Seriously.

*******

The Beauty of a Morning Joint

Isn’t it amazing?

We choose to pursue one activity all our lives, to put food in our belly, a shelter over our heads, and clothes on our body.

And that one activity determines how we spend all of our days. When we wake up, how we have our food, when we rush off to ‘work’. When we choose that one activity, we pretty much choose how we lead our lives.

And that is how our mornings go – rushing, pushing, jostling, bustling. We spend the nights in the way we choose to – spending time and money to blur consciousness, making love to a book, or wandering about the dark underbelly of the World Wide Web.

And yet, no matter how much of a rebel you are – you cannot evade the military discipline of your mornings. We have made mornings the most frustrating time of the day – people are either in a hurry, or irritable, or both.

 

*

 

I have always been a morning person.

No matter when I sleep, when the sun is out, my dreams go into Sleep mode, my eyes open, and I am up in a matter of minutes. It used to seem unfair to me – that I should wake up and go about my tasks, while my friend who had the same number of drinks, was still lying blissfully in a Natraja pose.

I considered using my mornings for constructive work – going for a run, hitting the gym, or doing some yoga. But some of us aren’t equipped like that. If all the lazy men of the world were made to stand in a line, I would be the drunk hippo meandering in the meadows nearby.

Listening to music always seemed like an interesting option – but having to pick one song after the other on Youtube squeezes the joy out of the experience. And so I would wander about like a zombie in the mornings, full of energy, and nothing to do about it.

Till I chanced upon the most beautiful creation by man – the Morning Joint.

*

 

A Morning Joint helps you pull back time; to stretch it out at your ease.

A Morning Joint helps you gently jump over clocks and alarms, schedules and tasks – even if for a brief, magical while.

A Morning Joint sets your day up for you in a way that the most accomplished secretary couldn’t. You can zoom in, edit the details, or zoom out, and look at the larger picture.

A Morning Joint takes you back to the very reason we created music. As I type this, my neighbour is playing Bombay Se Gayi Patna, and I can notice the intricate chord changes in the song.

It is an unshackling of your chains – a trip to revisit that song from childhood. Or to watch that video you tripped on, when you didn’t know what it meant.

A Morning Joint is a date with Bob Dylan, a coffee with Robert Plant, it is a conversation with Carl Sagan, a smile with Carlin.

Your brain – that crazed kid on steroids that is running about all day, decides to slip off its slippers and lie down on the grass. A Morning Joint gives you a head-start in the day. A gentle nudge, like a friend tipping you into a swimming pool after a couple of beers.

It’s not the same as lighting up a cigarette. A cigarette is a commodity, a factory-made product that’s sold in packs, and taxed by the government. When you smoke a cigarette, you are merely contributing to the economy.

A joint is hand-crafted. Mixed, measured, blended, rolled to perfection. When you roll a joint, you are using your hands and your mind – you are creating a piece of art.

Have your Morning Joint alone. There is no pressure to talk, to explain, to describe. To agree, or conform. It is Your Time.

The Morning Joint is that little indulgence your life allows you. A chance to take a piece of the 24-hour pie we are all served, and bite into it, and feel the taste flowing into you.

A Morning Joint is a thing of beauty.

As I light it up, and the sun streams in through my window, I have nothing else to say.

Have a wonderful day!

Wet Dreams in a Dry State

If there is one state in India that has the most polarised opinions, it is Gujarat.

There are primarily two opinions of Gujarat. One is of development – swanky roads and flyovers and drones delivering khandwa at 4.30 in the morning. The other is of a state where Hindu bigots have terrorised Muslims into submission by force, and there is actually poverty and fear that is being masked by a gigantic advertising campaign.

I have been to Gujarat earlier, but it wasn’t as hotly contested back then. Also, high school romance and general worldisrosiness. But my visits were restricted to Ahmedabad only, and that is hardly enough to get a fair picture.

So when I got an opportunity to visit Gujarat for the Pravasi Bharatiya Divas event, I jumped at it. This time, I had planned to visit the interiors too, to speak to people, and try to get a better picture for myself.

Gandhinagar and Ahmedabad as cities are impeccable. The roads are wide, the streets are clean. Public transport is abundant and safe. Gujarat must also have among the friendliest cops I have seen. They speak politely (unlike the ones in Hyderabad, who constantly confuse you for the son of the bonded labour who spent thirty years at his ancestral home), and you actually feel like asking for their help.

Autorickshaws still have posters of film stars inside the vehicle, are surprisingly educated and comfortable with technology, and do not look to eat into your fixed deposits. A 23 kms journey cost us 200 rupees; in Hyderabad, it would have been a kidney, and some change.

And yet, in spite of everything, the place is a little stifling. Like the distant, moralistic aunt who frowns when you don’t toe the line.

If you’re a teetotaler Shakahari Shambu, Gandhinagar is the place for you. However, if you have any bad habits, Gujarat is a pain in the chhaas. I did not find a single shop that served non-vegetarian food, alcohol is banned, cigarette shops are few and far between Ramdev Ice Cream and Sri Krishna Photo Studio. In what would certainly draw the wrath of the erstwhile Nizam, Hyderabadi biriyani is vegetarian, sweet, and sprinkled with raisins.

You’ll find women comfortably using public transport late in the night, and yet not a single couple so much as holding hands. In the three university hostels I came across, there are strict timings to return (some as early as 9.30), and the hostels are locked up. If you are a woman and wish to smoke, you suddenly transform into the 8^th wonder of the world.

If the adage ‘You are what you eat’ is true, nobody epitomises it like Gujaratis do. All the ghee, sweet, and dhokla has resulted in a people who are sweet to a fault. Every single person I came across was polite, friendly, and helpful.

The whole place seemed to work in a corporate-like precision. You pay a price, and are offered a certain efficient service for it. If an auto-driver doesn’t know your destination, he’ll look it up on Google maps for you and drop you safely. However, there is no bargaining involved.

A standard bargaining experience with a Gujarati auto goes like this –

‘Bhaiyya, Mahatma Mandir. Kitna?’

‘200’.

‘150’

Vrrrrooooooooooommmmm.

I found one guy with a poster of Anil Kapoor inside his auto. I told him I was a fan too, upon which his heart melted, and he gave me a discount of ten rupees. 190 de dena.

At one place, I had chai on the roads for 15 rupees. To put that in perspective, you can get chai on Baga beach on New Years Eve for ten bucks. As an outsider, one gets a feeling that everyone you meet is intent on making money. And yet, not in a nasty, surreptitious manner.

There couldn’t be a greater example of this than a Baba I met near the Somnath temple. Now, near any famous Shiva temple in India, you’ll find a few Baba Marleys doing their thing. If you speak to them, and ask politely, they’ll give you some of their pot, and throw in some blessings for free. The dude I met near Somnath confirmed that some prashad was available, and promptly asked for hundred rupees. He was an ascetic and all – living in the lap of nature, but Gujarat.

The entire trip was a series of contrasts. On one hand, the swanky event with NRI businessmen rubbing shoulders (not literally – PDA is frowned upon). And on the other hand, a visit to Jhunagad, Gir, and Somnath showed a picture of Gujarat that doesn’t feature in the Amitabh Bachchan 1080p ads.

The NRIs were all jingoistic, often bursting into a ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai’ in the middle of an address. They were all mostly middle-aged, dressed in blazers, and wielding strange borrowed accents that suffered from an identity crisis.

And yet, the one striking image of them was the manner in which they lech. Our group had a few girls, and almost every single male subjected them to the Indian Body Scan (Face-Boobs-Ass-Face-Creepy Smile). It’s probably something that comes naturally to us Indians. You can take the guy out of India, but you can’t take the ………

Gujarat, in many ways, is just like any other Indian state.

There are the very rich, and the poor. A glitzy apartment complex is quickly followed by a shanty slum that has been nicknamed ‘Hollywood’ by the richsters of the city. There are poor, brown-haired kids taking a dump on the road, watching Audis zip by. There are Adani skyscrapers among lush green fields.

In many ways, Gujarat is just like any other Indian state.

Only, no daaru, no non-veg. Which kind of sucks.

A Set of Completely Kick-Ass New Year Resolutions for 2015

By the time you read this, your wall would be inundated with Happy New Year messages, pictures, and updates.

The whole concept has baffled me no end. While I have never found it any reason to celebrate, I haven’t let it come in the way of getting piss drunk anyway. At those New Year bashes.

They are all the same. Pubs that are cursed with a steady footfall of pedophilic middle aged men all through the year. On the final day of the year, they get back at the public.

Inside, it is absolute war. There are about five couples, and the boyfriends, like Pandavas, are fighting off 100 Kaurava stag brothers, fighting to get on the floor and shake their booty. The free drinks are prepared in a way that you puke after three, and order some food to placate the world war ensuing in your insides. The only ones enjoying the new year Bash are the bouncers, shoving and punching people.

At the end of the night, you go home war-weary, your brain unable to locate where your body is. You wake up the next morning, your head bursting into a million pieces, to see updates about New Year resolutions.

While I like to believe that the whole concept of resolutions is frivolous, I have had many of my own. I have weekly resolutions, monthly resolutions, fortnightly resolutions. All shattered to smithereens by Madhuri Dixit High Resolution.

The whole process of thinking them up, adhering to them, giving yourself a false sense of nobleness, knowing all the while that in three days, you’re going to slip – it makes you feel like an alcoholic kleptomaniac kidney-selling relapsing smack abuser.

And yet, that was my routine every year. Getting piss drunk at New Year Extravaganza (With DJ Kashmakash) and faulting on the resolutions that I myself drew up. The entire first week of every new year has been a rather painful experience.

This year, I have the solution.

Resolutions serve more to make us feel better, than help us achieve anything in particular. Have you ever heard of a guy say ‘I’ll be the Prime Minister. That’s my New Year Resolution’? Most of the resolutions are small, harmful things that could or could not be achieved, with some resolve.

It’s not called New Year Resolve, just resolution. Which will inevitably break, that’s in its nature too. If you wish to change your life on the day humanity passed from one calendar year to another, I’m sorry but that’s shitty motivation.

And hence, I have my resolutions ready with me.

Awesome New Year Resolutions that are easy to adhere to, and make you feel great about yourself.

1. I’ll eat everything that comes my way.

Yes. I will eat everything. Laddoos, gajar halwa, 35 rupees worth of pani puri, followed by chicken roll and ice cream. Pork chop, dog curry, alu-poshto, chalk. Just about anything that can be chewed and ingested, I will eat.

Eat everything that comes your way, and then wipe off with a few pages ripped from Mens Health. Tell the world that you will not fall for its evil schemes to decide for you your self-worth.

Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like an Arab Sheikh, and dinner like Kim Jong Un.

2. I will be brutally honest.

A lot of us are dishonest for completely shallow reasons – he/she will get offended, why just cause trouble to others, etc etc. But at the end of the day, we are all going to die sad deaths, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the Mallu nurse to come administer drips, hoping in the corner of our minds that she’s the adventurous sort, only to hear the ECG machine beep, to die with the horrifying realization your last thoughts revolved around a Mallu nurse. So why do you care?

Just be brutally honest. Your friend boring you over some drinks? Just say ‘Dude. Maushichigaand to you, bro. Stop talking.’ Software friend sharing half-baked political propaganda? Send him a copy of Class 9 NCERT course for Civics.

We are lucky that the world we live in considers it a virtue to be completely honest. Yudhishtra was known to never have lied.

‘Do you want to play another round?’

‘…yes’.

‘…you have nothing left, might have to keep your wife at stake. You still want to play another round?’

‘Yes.’

(Of course, the Mahabharata being epic as it is, he went on to say the only lie in his life so that his teacher could be beheaded from the back. Well played, bro).

 

The point that I failed to drive home, is that people will respect you for being honest. While you came across as a complete lunatic so far, you will now shine in the virtue of being an honest person.

3. I will not exercise.

Let’s face it, we don’t exercise. It’s not a part of Indian culture. We haven’t done it for all these centuries, why will we suddenly start trying to exercise?

All western ideas sold by conniving conglomerates to weaken the fabric of our awesomeness. Hence, just firmly resolve not to exercise. Everytime you cross a gym, look up at the heavens like Virat Kohli and blow kisses to Parveen Babi. If there’s a tennis court, wade across like a majestic hippopotamus. Leave some dung also, if you possess those kind of skills.

When you see people exercising, smile benignly at them. Indulge their futile pursuit of perfection in the world where everything ends with a Mallu nurse. If you don’t feel good about yourself at the end of the year, I’ll change my name. (Have thought about it. HoneyRanjan).

4. I’ll wear shades all through the year.

Since I have been wearing spectacles from Class 9, I had never known the joy of wearing shades. Of course, there were those lousy ones that came free with Cadbury’s Bournvita. I wore them and walked around the colony like an idiot, giant grey circles over my face. I mean, I was a loyal customer, having never cheated on it with Horlicks or Maltova (even when they gave cricket bats for free!). And what did Bournvita give me? A pair of shitty, grey sunglasses.

It was cathartic when I heard the news of worms being found in Cadbury’s chocolates, taking the expression ‘Tere mooh mein keede pade’ a little too far.

Years passed, and online shopping became a big thing, and there came along this wonderful website called Lenskart. I ordered myself a pair of wayfarers, adjusted to my power. (Have you wondered why Indians call myopia as power? Tera kitna power hai? Mera -5 hai. Wow! Yeh kitne fingers hain, bata?)

The day I received the shipment, my life changed for the better. I could wear shades and not bang into stray cows on the road. I simply refused to take them off. I wore them all day, and often in the night too. Because I could.

Just wear shades all through the year. Remember, whatever it is you are doing, it is cooler with shades on.

Don’t fall for the trap set by shady bars and facebook pages. Do your thing.

Happy New Year!

How To Survive the Agony of an Australia Tour

An Australia tour is an excruciatingly frustrating experience. 

Once you get over the initial excitement of bouncy green pitches, an overseas tour, and the experience of waking up early to watch cricket, history hits you like a gigantic Amrish Puri slap. 

Your mind trudges back to all those tournaments when you pinned your hope on your favourite hero, only to watch him walk back to the pavilion, his stumps in disarray thanks to an Aussie fast bowler you hadn’t heard of. 

And then there’s Glenn McGrath. Not content with wrecking India’s happiness consistently over the last two decades, the guy will appear on television with his standard prediction – 4-0. There will be people talking about why this time there are better chances of winning a test, but deep within, your mind is saying LOL ROFLMAO. 

The entire experience of watching India totter its way through four test matches, each loss more brutal than the other, is utterly painful. And yet, we as cricket enthusiasts fall for it every single time. 

For all you heartbroken fans out there, here are some ways that could help you soothe the pain. 

1. Watch the matches online: If you’re watching the matches on TV, good luck to you. Not only are the matches generally depressing, the ads on TV these days could force you to look for a long rope. The agony of watching Hema Malini handing over a glass of water to you, and speak in that refreshing alien voice of hers, could drive a sane man into a Sreesanth. 

To give you something to cheer, watch the matches online. The commentary is far more interesting, the ads are even better. Then, when you’re done with one live streaming channel for a while, switch to the transmission of another country. Do this on and on, every few hours, till you land up at a Pakistani live streaming website. Your day, dear friend, is made. 

2. Watch Zee Cinema: In case you’re still wondering, Zee Cinema is the greatest TV channel there is. At any given point of time, you turn on Zee Cinema, and it turns you on back. In fact, the films showed on Zee Cinema are handpicked by God himself (once he has allotted the requisite 72 virgins to members of the ISIS). And since matches in Australia are telecast early in the morning in India, Zee Cinema is at its peak. If the cricket doesn’t interest you, switch to Zee Cinema and watch as sounds and visuals keep you enthralled. If you’re in luck (meaning if your maid doesn’t turn up early in the morning), you could even, you know, spend some quality time with yourself. 

3. Place bets on how many overs Shikhar Dhawan will survive: When Shikhar Dhawan arrived on the test scene, he hammered Austalian bowlers to all parts of the park. Since then, every time he has toured another country, he has given new meaning to the term ‘Shaktimaan at home, Shakti Kapoor abroad’. And since it looks like he’s going to be opening batsman this time, make sure you earn money while he’s earning brickbats. Choose a fellow sufferer among your friends, and place bets on how many over he’ll survive. Raise the stakes if Mitchell Johnson is bowling. 

EDIT: But be careful guys. Don’t take it to an industrial level – Meriyappan. 

4. Make use of the early mornings: If you’re waking up in the mornings anyway, you might as well make good use of them. Once you’ve switched on the TV and seen the score (75/6), grab your shoes and step out for a run. I generally imagine I’m a warrior charging at the Australian team with a sword in my hand. It’s amazing the difference that the right motivation can bring you. 

5. Follow Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar: Finally, if all fails, make use of BCCI’s annual Sarva Nidra Abhiyaan – Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar. Shastri, who is renowed the world over for introducting the Clichean language, is a force to reckon with. Watch him as he mouths out your favourite cliches – That went like a tracer bullet, That’s just what the doctor ordered, or One just gets the feeling… Place bets on how many cliches he can deliver in a minute, and smile as he reads out the score even though you can see it in large bold letters on your screen, EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. 

And then, there’s always Mr. Sunil Gavaskar, the one reason the world of cricket hasn’t degenerated into Ice Hockey yet. The BIS standard hallmark on cricketing ethics, basics, and values. Watch him launch into a tirade against hapless, uncultured Australians as they make the grave mistake of picking their nose on camera. Watch as Gavaskar decides for the world how unethical the Aussies are. 

And then, just as Australia wrap up the series 4-0, watch Shastri remark that in the end, cricket is the winner. 

Woh Mera Bhai Hai! (Nahi, tum dono chutiye ho)

He had been in love with her for years. He spoke to her, hung out with her, they’d been friends for long. And then suddenly, as casually as she could, she dropped a bomb on his head. ‘Arey, you’re like my brother’.

Wait, what? Brother??

How the fuck?
*
I have never understood it.

If you’re friendly with a girl, and it is clear that there is nothing going to happen on the evil desires front, you suddenly become a bhai, a brother.

Why do girls do this? Is there some sort of a threat? That by making someone your bhai, you are ticking one creep off the list?

I have asked women this through the years, and the most common response that I got is this:

‘It’s easy for you to say this, as you’re a (terribly attractive, Narkasura in bed but at the same time extremely good at heart and caring) guy in India. As girls, we are always on our toes. Something might happen at any given point of time. What’s the harm in making someone your brother? Why do you have to keep making issues out of stuff like this?’

My response has always been an exasperated sigh. Seriously? We speak about women standing up for themselves, being strong and independent. And on a daily, social level, one has to make random guys a ‘brother’?

I don’t get it. What is wrong with friends? Just being friends. You are both of different genders, and are not romantically involved, and since we don’t live in caves and club animals for dinner, you can easily be friends who do nothing harmful to each other. Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with us?

But no. The proclamation will fall. While growing up, almost every girl I knew had a bunch of loonies who she would call her bhai. I have always wondered if they constantly feel a threat. That there might be guys waiting to pounce on them, and the only way to fend them off is by calling them a brother.

I have wracked my brain about this for years.

And found my favourite culprit for everything wrong with our society today.

Yes. Bollywood.

For years, Bollywood has been propogating the idea that love starts from friendship and ends in marriage. Who can forget that legendary line in Maine Pyar Kiya, where Mohnish Behl tells a young Salman Khan this:

As if to make the point more clear, the director made Salman Khan wear this cap through much of the film.

Even today, there are three Facebook pages with the name ‘Ek Ladka Aur Ladki Kabhi Dost Nahi Ban Sakte’.

Then, there was Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Where an English teacher is asking the class innocously what they think love means. What she doesn’t know is that sitting amongst the students is the guy who taught heavenly bodies to fall in love and bang each other. This resulted in the Big Bang, after which our solar system was born.

Yes, that guy.

SHAHRUKH FUCKING KHAN.

The teacher asks the class what is love. Shah Rukh Khan tells the class that Love is Friendship. While he was making cheesy moves on the new girl in class, we Indians took that shit seriously.

What the fuck does that even mean? He was clearly wanting to get into her pants, and since they had just become friends, was trying to act mushy.

Believing that Love is Friendship because of that movie is absurd. Extending Extrapolating that logic to other films, the logic is the same as:

Probably the next in the line of culprits is the system of Rakshabandhan that we followed in school. I don’t understand the relevance of it. Nor do I know why girls have to tie rakhis to boys in school.

And strangely, it was a matter of pride. The guy with the most rakhis (mostly those cute, fair guys who would later grow up to look like albino salamanders) strutted around in them like peacocks, while the others just had one rakhi on their hands, attached to Indian culture with a red and golden gossamer.

What is the point of the whole exercise? After thinking about it for months, I realised it is for that one moment in the future when the girl who tied that rakhi, would be rescued by her rakhi brother.
(EXT. DARK NIGHT, LONELY STREET. A GIRL IS WALKING ALONE).

A man has been following her for a while. When she turns a corner, he runs and holds her. Turning her around, the girl is shocked to see who it is – Rakesh.

‘Let me go’, she says, ‘don’t you remember, I tied you a rakhi in Class 3?’

‘Arey pagli’, the man says, ‘that wasn’t me. I got a rakhi from Anjali, your friend. I still visit her sometimes…’
That’s the only reasoning I could come up with for the practice of girls tying rakhis to boys in school. And as if all this is not enough, when people grow up and can think for themselves, they choose to continue with this regressive habit of making guys their bhai.

Rakhi Bhai is the term. ‘Woh mera rakhi bhai hai’. Has it ever happened to me? Yes. Once.

There was a pretty girl that I liked. I knew that I stood no chance, but hope keeps man alive. So I pursued her hopelessly, till one day she casually told the others in the group that I was ‘her brother’. I gave her the expression that Sunny Deol gives to the Pakistani army, and left the scene in a hurry. It has never happened to me since, and I make it a point to stay away from girls who indulge in Rakhibhai-giri.

Well, fuck you. He’s not your rakhi bhai. He’s just a friend. There’s no point in drawing imaginary lines in your head in a society where there are already giant red lines drawn every year.

If he’s a friend, learn to accept him as your friend. Don’t give me that bhai-why bullshit.

Can a Feminist say ‘Behenchod’?

Feminist. The word and it’s connotations have acquired such a contrived meaning today, that I cringe every time I hear the word come up in discussions. Instead of a term that is supposed to denote equality in professional, political, and social matters, the word has come to signify a strange, imaginary sect of women who believe that men are assholes. A woman who smokes and drinks and sleeps with anybody she comes across.

You’ll find many such heated debates on the comments of articles by the Slime of India. Surprisingly, all of these guys will cry hoarse about rapes in the country, demand that the rapists be castrated in public, hanged, or quartered. But ask them about feminism, about equality between men and women, and they launch into a diatribe about western values and aping foreign culture. Equality with women is probably too lofty an idea for Indian men to envisage, and thus this hatred towards the F word.

So much that I hardly bother to correct people’s opinion of it anymore.

I have been a feminist for as long as I can remember. Of course, it is difficult to be a feminist when you live with 1200 other boys, and the only woman you interact with is a septuagenarian Hindi teacher. But my post school years opened my eyes.

I wish I could say that it was due to my family. That my folks were a liberal, forward thinking, set of parents who believed in such ideals. Sadly, that’s not the case.

It really is due to the women in my life. All of them have been fiercely independent women who took no bullshit lying down. Who stood up for what they thought was wrong, who were strong willed and told me off for being patronising and chivalrous. I dare say I learnt more by living with them, than a Masters in Gender Studies could have taught me.

Which then brings me to the topic of swear-words.

Swear words have always been an integral part of any language. In adolescent years, most of us use swear words as a rebellion. Because we were asked not to use them by elders and teachers.

And every time the word was used, there was a sense of rebellion, of adventure. Like when a character says ‘Voldemort’ in the Harry Potter universe.

I have been reasonably good with languages and dialects – managing to pull off a conversation in five languages, and being able to comprehend a few more. And everytime I embark on learning a new language, it is the swearwords that fascinate me.

Swearwords have been in existence as long as language has. Swear words add colour to a language, a sign of comfort between two speakers – for we always use them with our equals (or those under us). Using a language without its swearwords is like adding salt and pepper to Maggi noodles, while discarding the sachet of Magic Masala.

The most colourful usage of swearwords that I witnessed was in my paternal village, Balasore. Transcending lines of gender and race, the lingo is Balasore is uniquely tailored to ensure easy swearing. This is done by simply adding the suffix ‘choda’ to anything. Screwed up while sitting on a chair? You’re a chair-choda. Stepped on a frog? You’re a Bengo-choda.

Every language I set out to learn, I ensure I have a grasp over the swearwords first. But then, there’s the troubling fact that all abuses are centred around women.

Like historical wars (or modern riots, like the one for which our revered Prime Minister was not responsible in any way), the recipients of anger are always women. Subjugating women, attacking them, or comparing a man to a woman, has always been the modus operandi. So a behenchod, or a motherchod is not an innocuous swear word floating about harmlessly, but the remnant of hundreds of years of the patriarchal society we lived in.

I have always wondered how the word motherchod came about. ‘Mother’ being an English word, the right equivalent should have been matruchod, or mamtachod (but more of that on another blog).

So how does one deal with the patriarchal baggage that popular swear words suffer from? Here’s where another line of thought jumps to my defence.

That swear words and their meanings are not cast in stone. They evolve over time, acquiring meanings of their own. The word ‘guy’, which simply denotes a boy/man, began as a derogatory word with references to Guy Fawkes. A few decades ago, using the word ‘hell’ could land you in trouble. Today, English teachers use it when you interrupt the class.

So swearwords aren’t linked either etymologically, or colloquially, to any one, definite meaning. Their meanings take the shape that the users want them to take.

As a mini project of sorts, I have begun to compile a list of gender sensitive swear words that can be used guilt free. I plan to sell them as an iOS app for 20$ and buy a Royal Enfield someday.

But I am a firm believer that the usage of a word consistently, over a long period of time, distorts the meaning of words. It unyokes the words from their violent and problematic pasts.

And yet, like the guests on an Arnab Goswami show, both these lines of thought are too timid to convince me about the value of their statements.

So I’m still confused. What do YOU think?

Can a feminist say ‘Behenchod’??

Of Idiots Who Smash Beer Bottles

As part of everyday life as a homo sapien in the 21^st centure, one of man’s primary responsibilities is to deal with assholes.

It’s a natural, evolutionary process. Early Man had to deal with wild animals, forest fires, and Anil Kapoor’s chest hair. The modern man is saddled with the responsibility of dealing with assholes around him. It has to be done.

And to live in the 21^st century in a country like India, means it is open season for assholes. There’s the guy who waves at you from the train while taking a dump on the tracks. Then there’s the guy who decides to enthrall you with a vintage Kumar Sanu number when you walk past him, throwing in a few animal smooching noises for few. Then there are the guys who walk past a long line in waiting, and quickly dart into the line like they’re avoiding Morpheus.

 

As a race, we have learnt to adapt to some of them. Devised ways to deal with such kinds, worked our way around their habits. But if there is one category of assholes that I simply cannot make my peace with, it is the kind who smash beer bottles after drinking.

Why?

Just why would someone do something like that?

 

 

A beer is not just any other drink. It is a beautiful drink.

Imagine all the drinks to be cricketers in the dressing room in the 90s. There is Whiskey, the Sachin Tendulkar of the lot. Loved by all, revered by some, worshipped by many. Then there’s Rum – flashy, an aura around it that commands respect, the Ganguly. There’s Tequila, the Sehwag madness that comes, shoots, and leaves.

Beer is the Rahul Dravid.

Beer doesn’t begin by hooking the first ball over long for six. You have to spend time with it, take a few sips, and talk. And then slowly, a beautiful innings is created. It is a cover drive on a sunny morning at Lord’s. The kind that sends the knocking sound of the ball across the ground.

You don’t pour your beer into glasses. No pouring it out, measuring, mixing. You raise the bottle, and gulp down its contents. Drinking beer is perhaps the only drinking custom that has remained intact after centuries. There’s no adding flavours, making cocktails, shaking, setting it on fire, or any of that crap. You raise it, put it near your mouth, and guzzle down the divine nectar.

Why on earth would you want to smash the bottle to smithereens after that?

 

I have always wondered what sort of machismo is proven by breaking a bottle of beer! It doesn’t involve high risk – the bottle will break even if it slipped from your hand. So why then the deep urge to smash it?

 

There are so many wonderful things you could do with an empty bottle. Find a stick – one that’s not too thick – and use it to drum on your bottle. It gives off a nice, clinky sound that’s hard to find elsewhere. Then one could also tie the bottle to the branch of a nearby tree, to serve as beacons for fellow revelers. The bottles will light up in green and brown luminescence every time there’s light, showing the path to brothers with parched throats.

If you are the noble sort, you could keep the bottles and give them to a rag-picker, who could sell it for a small price. What could be more uplifting than having a beer and doing a good deed at the same time?

If you choose none of the above, simply carry the bottles back to your room. Use them to fill water, and watch people stare in amazement as you sip off the bottle first thing in the morning. There’s no end to the possibilities thrown up by an empty bottle of beer.

And yet, every time I have a beer, there’s that one guy who is hell bent on reversing millennia of human intelligence in a few seconds. By flinging his bottle in the distance, and craning his neck to hear it shatter.

Yay!! Happy Diwali, you fucking idiot.

 

 

Of course, one might argue that it is beyond reason and logic. Just an animalistic urge to fling the bottle, to hear it burst into a thousand pieces. A drinking ritual of the modern age. I have no problem with that.

This is what I have a problem with.

I take my beer and find my spot.

One that isn’t very hot, preferably with shade above, a breeze if god is kind. I sit down, get comfortable, and open my beer. Take a sip, feel it go down my invariably parched throat, when a piece of glass cuts through my jeans and gnashes at my ass.

 

That, my friends, is not cool. It is torture.

It is not just the pain. It is the fact that you’re completely lost in the beautiful moment, and taken unawares in a cruel way.

Just because some asshole decided to have a beer, and thought it was a cool ritual to shatter it to a thousand pieces. To hear it burst, the satisfaction of the sound.

Animalistic urge, it seems!

Fucking assholes.

 

Dear ToI, You Deserve The Slap You Got.

The recent ‘OMG Deepika Padukone shows cleavage’ controversy was mighty cathartic for me.

A newspaper is the first thing I look at in the morning, and the pain I felt every morning, for years, is indescribable. You hold the newspaper in your hand; you want to see what’s happening in the world. A supplement slips out on to the ground, with an article ‘Bips’ dog fucks Sushmita’s cat’. The rest of your day is shit.

The first newspaper I ever read was The Asian Age. They were gossipy too, but back in those days, even gossiping was done with class, I guess. At school, when I began to read the newspaper for cricket, it was The Hindu.

In my +2, I got to pick my own newspaper.

The Oriya newspapers were all printed on re-recycled paper, their pages greyish, their images blurred. Among English newspapers, The Hindu would arrive in the evening, so fat lot of good that did me. The other papers – The Indian Express, The Telegraph, The Statesman – were all published from Calcutta and carried news from there. The Times of India had a desk of their own in Bhubaneswar, and also, their pages were colourful and glossy.

And so, like a monkey that goes for a jangly toy, I chose The Times of India.

Shifting to Hyderabad meant a rekindling with The Hindu, and in spite of all its problems, it still is a better newspaper to read. They say ‘Tell Me Your Company, I’ll Tell You Who You Are’. I would say, what newspaper a person reads is also a parameter for me.

“If your window to the world is a sleazy money-minting newspaper, I wouldn’t credit you with much.”

– Judge Judgerson.

1. Gimmicky: The Times of India, especially if you read the mobile version, hits you as extremely gimmicky. Their headlines put the Sen in sensational. And what can I say about their entertainment articles!

All ToI entertainment articles are written in a certain way. It’s like the editor got a bit of news, it’s placed on the table, and the sub-editors are asked to make it as KLPD-ish for the readers as possible.

                                   ACTRESS CAUGHT TALKING ‘DIRTY’!

by Anjali Fakesurnamewali

Bollywood heartthrob Simran Shetty got ‘dirty’ on Wednesday while promoting her film ‘HairBrain’.

During the media interaction, the smouldering actress was asked what was her favourite city. When asked what she liked the most about Chandigarh, she said that it is the cleanest city.

She went on to add that all other cities should take steps to keep their cities clean and recycle their waste. Hmm, we wonder what made the actress to talk ‘dirty’ in public. Her fans sure want to know.

2. No Respect for Privacy of Any Sort:

While it preaches about the representation of women and stuff in its editorials, the entertainment section seems to have Shakti Kapoor as Chief Editor.

If Aishwarya Rai turns up at Cannes (which she does, every year), our brothers at ToI will publish an article saying ‘Aish’s hottest dresses at Cannes’. Shweta Basu was caught in the prostitution racket, there will be an article called ‘Actresses who were caught in sex scandals’. Out of which there will be two genuine cases, the rest would be ‘allegations’.

And not content with having people surf through such tripe, ToI ensures that they earn money while they are at it. So each of those articles will be in the form of a slide show, so you keep paying a little bit of your internet costs to educate yourself.

 

 

 

3. No Moral Compass Whatsoever: 

 

When the Times Group got into entertainment, it wasn’t in the GEC category, it was the entertainment section, in the form of ‘Zoom’, perhaps the most useless channel in the history of useless channels. For a group that claims to be the largest media conglomerate, encompassing TV, print, radio, and news, the quality of the channel seems like it has come from the Ramsay stable. 

 

Zoom leaves no ambiguity in what it wants you to do. Zoom – Isko Dekho. Isko dekho aur hippopotamus jaisa IQ pao. What passes off as ‘news’ on the channel would make even our sleazy brothers at TV9 – another torchbearer of sleaze – go ‘Yeh toh bada ToI hai’. Take for example this news about scratches on Deepika Padukone’s back. Which by the way was the reason for rising crude oil prices in the Middle East. 

 

 

 

4. Paid News: While the terms is freely thrown around in political battles and random bitching about the media, paid news is a highly problematic phenomenon. And our brothers at ToI are leading the way. You’ll regularly find articles called ‘Advertorials’ singing paeans about a company, institution, or personality. While it sounds like an oxymoron – how can ‘news’ be ‘paid’ for? – reading the Times of India first thing in the morning is a sureshot way to end up in an asylum. 

 

And in spite of the rather lame justifications for it, paid news is not the only problem. The front page of the newspaper is filled with ads for toothpaste, real estate, and underwears. And who can forget the fiasco they created when they entered Tamil Nadu. For those of you who live on Uranus, here is what happened.

The Times of India was entering Chennai, traditionally the stronghold of The Hindu. In true ToI style, they released an ad depicting The Hindu as a newspaper that puts people to sleep.

 

The Hindu reacted in stellar style, delivering one of the greatest bitch-slaps ever delivered, with an ad that showed Times of India for what it really is – an encyclopaedia of who dated whom. 

 

 

5.  Coverage of Rape/Violence News: In spite of parroting lines like ‘We shouldn’t shame the victim’ and other such rhetoric, the Times of India has its own unique way of reporting stories pertaining to rapes and molestations. Every story will have an image of a woman crying out, or covering her head in shame, or screaming in fear. These graphics stand out, adding further sensation to the stories, which aren’t really reported with much sensitivity. 

 

Every story has an image like this.

 

So here’s the deal, dear Times of India. You might be the largest read English newspaper in the country, but that is more due to the spectacular spawning rate we Indians maintain. It is hardly surprising that someone like Arnab Goswami heads your TV channel. Reading your newspapers feels like entering his brain for half an hour every day. 

 

If you really take pride in being the largest read newspaper in the world, grow a spine. Act like the largest read newspaper in the world, not like a sleazy daily version of Manohar Kahaaniyan. 

 

I am glad someone gave it back to you. You really had it coming. 

***

Advertising – Or how it would be in real life.

Dear reader, I haven’t been able to post anything since I have been busy with my book. 🙂

Please watch the video (even if majority of it is just Blank Screen) to get the jokes. If you are easily offended, kindly stand up, bend down, and stuff your head into your ass. Very relieving, trust me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Date a Guy Who Smokes Pot

1.       A Pot Smoker will never fight with you

He will be calm and composed – whether it’s a spider in the corner or the Apocalypse – nothing can truly wipe that blissful, glazed expression on his face. Shit that most people fuss about don’t really matter to him. There is always the risk that your birthday might be forgotten, but what’s a birthday in the otherwise vast ocean of the time you spend together?

You will often find him smiling, or humming, or airguitaring – always composed.

2.     He will talk to you

Most guys won’t talk to you. They don’t like it. Most of the time they are either pretending to be interested, or biding their time by passing your time.

But a pot smoker? Hehe. He will sit with you and talk through the night. Superheroes, music, your evil boss, world peace, Shaktimaan – there is absolutely nothing that he will not be willing to talk about. Since pot smokers undoubtedly have the most interesting social circles, he will enrich your life with little stories and wonderful anecdotes.

He will also listen to you. No matter what you’re talking about, you have his undivided, unadulterated attention. He will ask you questions and suggest solutions. He will hold your hand and talk through the night, watching the silver clouds pass through twinkling stars. And then end the night with some hot action in the sack.

3. He is liberal

Let’s face it. Most Indian dudes are as liberal as your great grandfather. They’ll wear cool clothes and hang out at cool places. But somewhere deep within, there is a Khap Panchayat inside every Indian man.

Not with pot smokers, though. Years of existing in the periphery, and all the counterculture associated with pot, will result in him being a liberal, progressive person. He believes in Live and Let Live. He can’t help it – his idols are Bob Marley and John Lennon.

4. He will do anything for you

I don’t mean jump off a building or starve himself for you. He won’t do dumb shit like that.

All you need to do is smile at him after a joint and say, ‘Sweetheart, could you clean the room a bit?’ He will get down on his knees and do it four hours, stopping only when Hussain Kuwajerwala Kapoor storms into your house with a Harpic bottle.

He will cheerfully go shopping with you, waiting for hours, waiting outside the trial room and smiling at the floor. And he won’t even complain – he’s having fun!

5.     He will not judge

Probably due to the fact that general society treats a pot smoker with the social capital reserved for a rickshaw puller, a pot smoker will never judge you for anything – he’s just not wired that way.

Whatever clothes you’re wearing, or if you’re lying spread-eagled on the floor after your fifth beer, or if you say that Modi is good for nothing – a pot smoker will never judge you.

6.     He will eat anything you cook

Most Indian guys will grumble and fuss over food. Years of partaking of Calorie Extravaganzas off momma’s hands has spoiled them. They will complain, and expect you to cook, and the food to be good.

A pot smoker don’t give no fuck. He will eat anything. Burnt maggi, undercooked curries, chips with jam, it makes no difference. He will eat it all. And then ask for more with a smile.

I could go on and on. But I assume the point has been conveyed to the other side. Pot smokers are fun. They generally have interests in art, music, and culture. You should date a Pot Smoker.

And then marry him and have lots of pot smoking kids.

Peace!

The Joy of Sleeping in the Afternoon

If you look at the journey of man, purely from the point of view of a Homo Sapien, you will find that the journey hasn’t been all that bad.

We have evolved from cave-dwelling, club-wielding barbarians to people whose lives are a lot easier. In some ways, we are still spending our lives in providing for our food, clothing and cave, but one cannot deny that the journey has become smoother.

Somewhere along the line, someone invented books, cars, and mobile phones. Someone or the other came up with all those little inventions that constitute our life today. We can predict some of the ways that nature will act in, and have invented medicines that cure most illnesses. Someone also fucked a chimpanzee somewhere in the timeline, but let’s focus on the good bits for now.

If the Man of Today met the Man of the Cave, and the two of them sat down to talk, there will be some nostalgia involved. Some things will be laughed at, some appreciated, while some will be spoken of fondly. Like getting to mate with anyone you want, when the moon is full in the sky.

Or like sleeping in the afternoon.

*

Sleeping in the afternoon is one of life’s stolen joys.

Over the years, we have fashioned a life where sleeping in the afternoons doesn’t figure in the day anymore. It is left to the realm of the useless, the old, the children, and the drunkards.

While work constitutes the majority of our day, anything else – a hobby, a passion, or other banal endeavors like pursuing members of the other gender – are left for the night. But where is the strength and the energy? How can you pursue any of it if you feel drained and weary?

Taking a nap in the afternoon keeps you fresh. A lot of people say that sleeping after lunch makes you fat. That it is not good for your health. But unless it is manual labour that you’re involved in, I don’t see how it makes any difference. Sitting in front of the computer doesn’t really set your adrenaline rushing. You are groggy, heavy, and half –asleep anyway. On the other hand, taking the nap in the afternoon energises you, making you revitalizing you for the other side of you.

A nice, sound nap in the afternoon is also of assistance when you want to drown out the madness of the day. Let’s face it, living can be problematic. India is not the most pleasant nation to live with anyway, but even if we were in the happiest nation in the world, living everyday life is a jigsaw of a thousand, chaotic, small requirements. Just surviving requires you to interact, to understand, to explain, to negotiate, to imbibe, decode, and transfer. But take a nap in the afternoon and see.

Like an invisible blanket, everything fades out into a quiet, calming silence. The noise, the chaos, the need to understand and be understood – all of them float out of your body like smooth, smoky fumes for a few hours. You wake up purged, pure. Like a monk after hours of meditation.

As your body adjusts to your naps, your body clocks operates accordingly. You make the most of your mornings, with the awareness that you have a few hours for yourself coming up. Even the most fiercest of storms at work cannot deter you, because you know that just for a few hours, you can lie back and think about things, till you’ve stopped thinking about things.

A nap in the afternoon is a powerful feeling – it gives you the power to pause. To pause this maddening world that is sprinting. To hold the remote in your hands and pause it, and then rewind it, and play back the bits that you liked.

It gives you the power to reduce everything else into a drone. Whether it is the noise of a train, the bustle of people, or the noise of a mosque, a factory, or a fishmarket, you can reduce it into nothingness– a noise in the background that can be neglected for a few hours – a wisp of reality. But most of all, a nap in the afternoon is a hidden indulgence.

You are stealing away that time from the day. It is yours, a sinful, forbidden indulgence that no one can take away from you.

And as you close the windows and pull the curtains, and your room is bathed in a light, dreamy shade, and the fan begins to whir in a steady rhythm, you know that in the next few hours, nothing can trouble you.

The room is dark now, and the windows have been closed. The fan is rotating on its axis in a low, steady hum. I can hear a few voices from outside, but they don’t belong to my world. The voices have begun to fade away, as a few birds chirp in the distance.

I am lying down on my bed, my feet covered by my blanket, and I wait for sleep to come and take me.

I shall see you on the other side.

Good afternoon!