On Writing A Book

Dear reader,

I haven’t been able to publish much on the blog, since I am writing my book.

                                         *****************

 

I have always wanted to write this.

I have always wanted to be so busy writing my book that I had no time for anything else. Like the writers they show in movies, books, and clichés, I wanted to be this writer who is shabby and unshaven, and unmindful of the earth going round the sun.

The truth, however, is a completely different matter.

Having a blog is a tricky thing. It gives you this sense of importance, of having achieved something. Since the medium is personal – a reply, a comment, a word of appreciation – is just a few clicks of a button away, you get this feeling that you’re finally doing something important.

It was sometime in 2011 that I had decided to start writing a book. It was to be a natural extension of writing my blog. I would finish writing the manuscript and send it out to publishers and then get published.

And then, I would marry Kareena Kapoor.

As you can see, most of it was mythical.

It has been a treacherously lonely journey. Partly because of my discipline, or the lack of it, and partly because of the myths I had associated with being a writer.

The discipline part I cannot do much about. I start writing something, and then I am distracted by YouTube, that evil website that was created by software engineers so that writers do not acquire fame and wealth in their lives. And just when I am in a bit of a flow, I look down to the left bottom of the Word page, and see the Word Count and think, “Wow! 1000 words!! That should be enough for a day, no?”

I have read books and manuals, stolen advice from Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King, spoken at length about my ideas. I have held my brainchildren in my hands lovingly and showed them to my friends, who nodded in appreciation and took another sip from their glasses. And then, like Ganga, I took my brainchildren and dumped them in the water.

For the most part, I had started telling people that I want to write a book because people would keep asking me what I wanted to do after my course. I had no clue, and so I would say that.

If you have no plan in your head, and someone is bugging your ass off about what you plan to do, simply say – “I want to write a book.” Most people will keep quiet once you’ve said that.

Most people. The others will start off with their pearls of wisdom:

1.      “Tu toh next Chetan Bhagat banega, yaar.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I find Chetan Bhagat’s books terribly shitty. Yes, they sell like cold cakes, and in numbers that would make Salman Rushdie issue a fatwa against the man.

But frankly, I find his books very lame. There are the same cardboard characters in every book – a whimpering, spineless narrator; an idealistic, studly friend; and a girl who wears salwars but likes to do the chiggy-whiggy in bed.

But the curse of the next Chetan Bhagat title must have been conferred on every aspiring writer in the country.

2.     “Can you make me a character in your book?”

This one is trickier. As a writer, you are expected to draw from your treasure of experiences. I cannot write about the Cold War or revolts in Congo because I have no clue about them. And the most exciting thing about being brought up in a middle class Indian household, is losing one’s virginity. So what does one write about?

One writes about their own experiences. And this is where it is tricky. Since the people around you know you are writing a book, how can you not draw from their personalities without them trying to guess who it is? And what if some of them think of themselves as heroes, and my opinion about them is that of a protagonemad?

3.     “Famous hone ke baad humein bhool mat jaana, bhai.”

I am sure Chetan Bhagat can chill in his house and smoke Cuban cigars, but for the most part, writing a book pays you peanuts (and I don’t mean the tasty, fried variety). Having quit my job, I have to draw a balance between the Writer Who Doesn’t Give a Fuck, and The Tenant who Pays the Rent. Difficult line to draw, and I was always terrible at Geometry.

I do Stand Up comedy, but that is as widely accepted in Hyderabad as vibrators being sold in Big Bazaar. Most of the time, the people I go to work for ask me one of the following three questions:

1. Kis kiska mimicry kar sakte ho?
2. Kavi sammelan type ka kar sakte ho?
3. If this goes well, we’ll pay you from the next time. Fine?

That is when the Writer Who Doesn’t Give a Fuck has to bow his head and step back, and the Tenant Who Pays the Rent has to step forward, smile an oily smile, and stretch out his hand.

For the most part, it is a terribly lonely business.

Which now brings me to the myths I had associated with being a writer.

I had always imagined myself as a cool author. Not the guy who talks in long, winding sentences, using words that only a quarter of the audience would understand. I prided myself on being the Cool Author. And how does this Cool Author write?

He drinks, and then he smokes a joint. And then, ideas start raining from the sky. He sits in front of his computer and assimilates the rainfall into his head, the pitter-patter of the raindrops being converted into the click-clack of the keyboard.

And as the Cool Author drinks some more and smokes some more joints, he keeps typing, chipping away at the statue with a glass in one hand, and a joint in another.

I couldn’t be farther from the truth. In fact, if the Truth was at North Pole, I was somewhere on Mars, waiting for Mangalyaan to finally break into the orbit so I could go back home.

I have begun four chapters of four books, and when people ask me what I’m writing, I choose the one most likely to impress them, and begin narrating it out to them.

They are all my children – these stories – and I stand on the banks of Ganga, holding them close to my chest. Afraid that I might have to drown them in the river, as Shantanu stands behind me and says, “What the heck?”

For the most part, I have realised that writing is about spending time with yourself. In a completely non-masturbatory way. It is about digging deep into your own thoughts and shutting the door on the world outside and putting those thoughts down on paper.

And yet, when this realization hit me like the morning sun after a month of winter darkness, I still hadn’t moved any further.

So have I made my peace with it?

I don’t know. The myths I had about writing have been shattered. But I still wage a war with Discipline. On some nights, I sleep a satisfied sleep, having beaten the enemy like Gregor Clegane. On other nights, I go to sleep feeling like an Australian spinner playing a test match at Baroda.

Now, when people ask me what I’m writing – I have an answer ready.

I first look at the person and do a quick, Holmes-like judgement.

If it is a young person, I say – “Non-fiction. I am doing a psychoanalytical study of the farmers in Venezuela.”

If it is an elderly person, I say – “Fiction. A book about a psycho killer who rapes newly wed brides. It’s called Shakalaka, Baby.”

I don’t get too many questions after that. 

7 Ways to Become a Roadie

I have cribbed about MTV Roadies for quite a long time, I thought it was only fair to divulge the secrets now.

7 Teachers Who Become The Subject They Teach

This is part of the ongoing Youtube Comedy Week.

Feel free to share, if you like. And add hateful comments if you dislike.

Peace!

MS Nokia

It was the year 2003.

India was bracing itself for a boom, there was an air of optimism, and India had reached the final of the World Cup. Sehwag was still a budding talent, and he was facing an evil black fast bowler with braids.

He flashed hard outside the off stump; and missed. Mohit Chauhan, sitting in the galleries, gets a call on his phone, and says, “Sehwag ki maa….”

Just as you think he is an irate fan, a little kid next to him flicks the phone, breaks the security cordon, runs into the pitch, and throws the phone to Sehwag. Sehwag reads the message, and smashes the ball outside the boundary.

“Come on India. Kar lo duniya mutthi mein….”

 

***********************

When Reliance Indiamobile launched their phones, it was supposed to be a revolution.

You pay Rs. 500, get a phone, and pay the rest of the amount in monthly bills. The Indian consumer waited, mouth watering and fidgety, like a tiger waiting for food at a zoo.

As it turns out, the only revolutions were the ones taken by the bill collectors, around the houses of the people who refused to pay. The company had to write off 16% of their revenues that year as Bad Debts.

But the Indian consumer had tasted blood. And there was no going back to the daal-chaawal of landline phones.

The ‘mobile’ had become a part of the Indian consciousness. ‘Missed Call’ and ‘Ringtone’ had been firmly entrenched into our lingo.

 

 

 

Personally, I got into the game very late. I was doing wonderful, life-altering jobs at the time. Like the call centre job that paid me 1000 rupees after six months. And the Customer Care Executive job at Reliance Mobile, where I had to do some background research into cell phones and different models.

When I finally got my first cell phone, it was 2007. The phone was a Nokia 2600. It was supposed to have a colour screen, but in reality, it was as colourful as Ishant Sharma is a deadly fast bowler. There was however, Bounce on the phone, and once I learnt of the magic number (787898), there was no stopping me. I looked into my phone every few seconds, typing messages, deleting them, and typing them again.

My next phone, the Nokia 2310 had FM radio on it, and I would spend the nights listening to a horny RJ whisper into the mic at night, Love ka keeda…love ka keeda….love ka keeda. Everywhere I went, I carried my headphones with me, listening to everything the FM channels had to say, as Himesh Reshammiya quickly climbed up the ladder of success.

But the times were changing. There was a demand for music on the phones, and pictures and videos. Disillusioned as I was, I strayed.

I chose a Samsung phone, back when all they made was phones with annoying ringtones. The phone was terrible. It crashed every few hours and I couldn’t type a long message without it getting deleted.

One night, it got stolen. But I lived on, confident that the thief would knock on my door and return it saying, “Dude, this phone sucks. You keep it.” He didn’t.

My next phone was a Nokia 5130 Xpress Music. By now, the situation was shaky. My needs as a consumer had increased manifold. I wanted to have lots of songs on my phone, a few videos, some games, and a memory card.

My phone was chugging along grudgingly, but if I wanted to delete lots of messages, it would hang. It was difficult to digest, being a lifelong Nokia fan. That a Nokia phone could hang, I felt like hanging my head in shame.

When this phone breathed its last, I stopped using a cell phone for a year. It was the most blissful year of my life. I read a lot, hung out with new people, and smoked copious amounts of pot.

By the time I bought my next phone, it was a different era altogether. The era of a phone being a minicomputer. And my humble phone, the Nokia X2, struggled to keep up. It was a tortoise in a race course, stopping every few metres to cough and sneeze.

It did play music, and the battery, like all Nokia phones, lasted for the span of an entire K-serial, but that wasn’t enough. It did have GTalk, but calling it GStutter would have been a better option.

For the first time, a Nokia wasn’t good enough. It was struggling to maintain its position, like Amitabh Bachchan in his Lal Badshah days.

And I bought a smartphone.

And once you buy a smartphone, it is a never-ending spiral. There is no peace of mind. Just when you work out the best phone in your budget, there will be this new phone that does everything your phone does, and masturbates you when you’re bored. A never-ending spiral that goes on and on.

 

 ***************************

 

As Nokia is sold, it is not difficult to understand why the brand was such a rage in India. Like Bata, the other brand that is surprisingly not Indian, it epitomised the Indian customer’s needs: sturdy, long lasting, cheap. It could run for days in a country when power was not a daily commodity. It provided communication and safety, and in the worst case scenario, you could throw the phone at an assaulter’s head, and be guaranteed of a hemorrhage!

Much has been said of India’s rise in the last twenty years, and if there is one success story that cannot be denied, it is the mobile revolution in India. Our one, true success story.

And while the Congress keeps attributing it to Rajiv Gandhi and Sam Pitroda, the true champion was this Finnish company that made phones that Indians could relate to.

 

And today, when the world is flooded with phones that can do everything under the sun, and some over the moon, I am reminded of the days of yore.

When the first thing you saw on your phone were those two hands connecting to each other. And the next hour would be spent in deciding the ringtone. When a little, blinking snake was my companion in times of boredom.

When Missed Calls became the Morse code of a generation, and in spite of the ‘condom covers’ on phones, they kept spawning endlessly. When the only thing you needed on your phone to look cool was that sticker at the back, which glowed when there was a call coming.

To the time when I would wait for the sticker to glow, to send a flash message. To set my favourite song, reinterpreted in monophonic tones, as my ringtone. The secret indulgence of setting a separate ringtone for my girlfriend, so that I would know when it was her calling.

To the time when the words ‘incoming’ and ‘outgoing’ made a world of difference. Running to a shop, buying a small card, scratching it frantically, squinting into it, dialing a number, and smiling.

To the times of virginity, and first loves.

 

 

It has been a long, eventful journey, my friend.

You have been taken over by a company that is not really known for its aesthetics, but reaches out to the most number of people in the world. Much like you did, at one time.

I don’t really know if I am going to use you again. But when I look at the ‘Low Battery’ message on my phone, I think of you longingly.

You were a good friend.

Indian Graffiti

Graffiti has always fascinated me.

The ability to create art on a public space, something that is understood by everybody, and no one has to pay, or be stinking rich, to appreciate someone’s interpretation of something, is a very satisfying thought.

Surprisingly, in most countries you could get arrested for doing graffiti because it is considered as vandalism. It’s funny – it’s legal to have a gun and shoot someone, but illegal to paint on the roads. So the article went on to explain which countries were the friendliest for graffiti artists, and which the sternest.

India of course, didn’t figure in either of the lists. For you see, we don’t believe in visual interpretation. We believe in olfactory interpretations. So while you might not be able to ‘see’ anything on the roads, you can smell a lot of stuff. Wide variety of smells from the mundane (piss) to the existential (shit) to the beauties of nature (pigs) to the heavenly (chilly chicken). All kinds of smells welcome the by-passer to inhale the experience of living in India.

But on further thought, I realised my theory was hollow as Kareena Kapoor’s cheekbones.

India is also into graffiti. I mean, we don’t have any superstars like Banksy or Xavier Prou here, but we have artists in every house – the concentration of artists is more decentralised. More democratised.

You see, Indian graffiti can be divided into two broad categories:

1. Graphic Graffiti – This sort of graffiti is generally a drawing of a woman, her breasts and genitals, accompanied with images of a male member doing vile things to it. These anatomical illustrations range from amateurish rock paintings to detailed Da Vinci style drawings. Graphic graffiti is often fused with the other kind of graffiti that Indians love.

1. Textual Graffiti – Heart wrenching calls of love and belonging (“Wanna sex? Call me on 9000000007) to proclamations of love (Ajay *heart with arrow* Champa). Textual graffiti can be found all over the country. From day old trains to age old rock sculptures, we have taken expressionism beyond barriers of nature, conservation, and the Archaeological Society of India.

Early example of cheekiness in art. One can see the artist showing a bejeweled middle finger to colonial rulers.

The true nature of the democratic nature of Indian graffiti only dawned on me in the last few months due to two incidents:

1. In the school I used to teach, in the bathrooms of the primary section, scrawled across the walls in tiny handwriting, I saw proclamations of love. From an innocent ‘I love Kavitha’, to detailed imagination of women that could only have been brought about by a broadband internet connection.
2. A friend of mine stays in Aparna Sarovar, one of the posher apartments of the city. I had gone to visit him, and I found in the elevator, it was written ‘F Block’. Unable to control his artistic urges, someone modified it to ‘Fuck Block’.

These two incidents proved that Indian graffiti is not restricted to a certain age group, nor to a certain section of the society. It was all pervasive, shattering all boundaries.

These proclamations of love have always surprised me.

I have given it a lot of thought. What could have been the reason? Films? They hardly show the hero doing mundane things like reading and writing, so that couldn’t be case. Books? No books really talk about proclaiming love on rocks and buildings. The Ramayana has this one incident where monkeys write ‘Ram’ on top of stones and they start floating, but most people wouldn’t really believe that to be true. Or wait, they do!

But even that can’t be the cause, because the inscriptions are far from godly or spiritual. So what could be the reason?

After much thinking, I arrived at the culprit.

He was a lover who lived in this country 348 years ago. A hopeless romantic, he went by the name of Shah Jahan.

Now, I don’t need to elaborate on the Taj Mahal since NCERT did a good enough job at boring us all with a chapter on the Taj in English, Hindi and the local language, so I will skip that part.

But one cannot deny that the Taj Mahal is the greatest erection in the name of love. It has become a symbol of love, steadfastness, and for some – a hidden Shiva Temple.

It has also become a symbol of the country. We are reminded by Saif Ali Khan to say ‘Wah Taj’ when we sip on tea, and by Hollywood films when they have to show India getting destroyed by an alien invasion and the Taj Mahal crumbles to dust.

Frankly, if you ask me, I think Shah Jahan was a little cuckoo in the head. I mean, your wife passed away 20 years ago. Move on, man. You are a frigging Mughal king for heaven’s sake. Mughal kings back then were the power equals of a Gandhi scion in the present times. Without even a limp CBI or Katju biting on his backside.

It’s a different matter that his magnum opus nearly emptied the royal treasury, and made thousands of artisans dependent on their servants to relieve themselves.

It also scarred his son Aurangzeb so much that he built only two monuments in his entire 49 years of rule. The first was the mosque at Lahore, which for 300 years was the largest mosque in the world.

The second, is an exact replica of the Taj Mahal. One can only think of the peer pressure that the guy must have gone through.

Aurangzeb was a frugal man. He treated the royal treasury as a little more than his personal pile of wealth and even paid for his own existence by making caps and selling them. (Not made up. Kindly Google).

Now, even for a frugal man as Aurangzeb, the looming presence of the Taj couldn’t be done away with. I mean, think of his wife.

I can almost imagine her royal friends chiding her at a doggy party – “Oh, your husband hasn’t built anything for you? Hmmm. Hey, any of you want to go to Agra during the winter?”

So intense must have been the pressure that the man finally succumbed. But he went about it his way. No waiting for 20 years and chopping off hands of the workers.

He ordered his engineers to build an exact replica of the Taj, for his wife.

Aurangzeb’s ‘Bibi ka Maqbara’. The only R&D that his engineers followed was ‘Remember and Draw’.

There is no historical data to show if his wife was pissed off when she saw it.

But why am I going on about the Mughals?

That is because the Taj Mahal has left an indelible impact on our nation’s psyche. We have been clawing away at our insecurities by carving on stones and trees.

So the next time you go to a train, a park, or a 2000 year old monument and see ‘Mika love Rakhi’ written on it, don’t get pissed off.

That’s how we express our love.

We have a goddamn Wonder of the World to compete with.

How to Sound Intellectual – Stand Up Version

This is the Stand Up version of ‘How To Sound Intellectual Even If You Don’t Know Shit’ at the Punchline Comics Stand Up event. This was the Semi-Finals.

EMOTICONS 2.0

I had just begun to make my peace with internet abbreviations, when I had a new enemy to face. Emoticons.

I have never been a huge fan of emoticons. I feel they dumb you down.

If language is the diet we use online, emoticons are like street food – easy, commonplace. But keep doing it for a while, and you know things are going to get shitty.

Emoticons strip your message of all grace, wit and delicate charm. The finer nuances of language are lost amidst those yellow faces – blurring out meanings, codes, and references that the speaker is trying to make.

What started off as a cute little thing to express a feeling has now become a necessity that straitjackets everything you say into categories – happy, sad, flirty, moronic.

And then the categories began to expand. Till they all seem like hieroglyphic paintings that don’t make sense. Take for example, this emoticon:

:-@

What is this supposed to mean?

That I am talking to you while I am typing this out over the net?

Is it a reference to Lord Krishna, who opens his mouth to reveal that the entire World Wide Web lies inside him? Is it shock, or does it signify that you are tongue tied?

Why the fuck would you want to subject the recipient to this psychoanalysis?

From definite representations of a certain emotion, emoticons have become vague and overused.

And Google doesn’t make matters easier for you. And those Android emoticons are so bloody ugly! Just when you have typed out a long, passionate message, there is this green, alien smiling thing that attaches itself to your message. All Android phones have a smiley right there on the ‘Enter’ button, which means you can add a smiley after every message.

Hey there 🙂

What’s up? 🙂

Wanna go out? 😉

I just picked my nose 🙂

Which kind of makes you seem like an 8 year old dud with the attention span of 3.5 seconds.

*****************************

                                                                  EMOTICONS 2.0

So clearly, we invented something that would make us communicate easily, but somewhere down the line, we screwed up.

What we need, are new emoticons. With clear, distinct, unambiguous messages that will not leave the recipient guessing about the motive. Let’s begin with a few samples:

The RITEISH DESHMUKH SLEAZY EMOTICON:

Riteish Deshmukh, son of former Chief Minister of Maharashtra, began steadily in Bollywood. His first film, Tujhe Meri Kasam, for some reason, ran for three months near my house. I thought he had a niche audience of some sort, who kept coming back to his films.

After that, however, Riteish has specialised in playing the Horny Young Man. From Masti to Kya Kool Hai Hum, he revels in playing the tharki guy, always looking for some action.

This emoticon will be useful for guys who want to leave no doubt about their intention. Why go through the drill of liking Profile Pictures and Status Updates, and then realising that all the girl wanted from you was to like her ‘I love Joey Tribbiani’ page. Why go through that crap? Make your intentions clear. Get rejected. Move on.

This is how the Riteish Deshmukh emoticon will look like:

No bullshit. Straight, clear, to the point.

Of no return.

 

The RAM GOPAL VERMA EMOTICON:

If there is one person who truly doesn’t give a fuck in our country, it is Ram Gopal Verma. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry – whether he/she has any idea about filmmaking or not, has an opinion about him, and a joke on him that makes you want to impale them on an electric pole.

I’m sure RGV would have gotten sick of it at some point, and decided not to give a fuck. Since then, he looks happy. There is a glow in his face, a joy that can be seen when he speaks his mind about Karan Johar.

Using the RGV emoticon sends the message that you know people hate you, but they can go screw themselves.

No one is going to fuck with you after this. And you are not getting anymore Game Requests. You have just set their asses on RGV ki Aag.

 

The NANA PATEKAR EMOTICON:

Nana Patekar is India’s Angry Bearded Man.

Throughout his films – from Yeshwanth to Taxi No. 9211, Nana Patekar has been delivering tight chamaats to assholes on the roads. And these are not the kind of motherly slaps – they are earth shattering, face-changing, perspective bending slaps that leave an imact. Like this.

Sometimes, I feel that for there to be a good law and order system, the government needs to unleash Nana on the streets. Give him a license to slap everyone who breaks a rule. And as shown in this video, after Nana slaps you, there is a life changing transformation that happens.

The Nana Patekar emoticon is also a nice way of keeping annoying people on the internet at bay. Like that guy who wants you to like his Facebook Photography page. Or that guy who wants to tag you to ‘Happy Ganesh Chaturthi’ images.

A fantastic, practical emoticon that saves you a lot of hassles.

 

The SUNNY DEOL EMOTICON

Sunny Deol needs no introduction.

The man who takes no bullshit. The man who will drive a train into your country (with his son filling coal into the engine), and screw you so badly, you will give your daughter’s hand in marriage to him.

The Sunny Deol emoticon is ideal for jingoistic, desh ke laals who see red when anyone says anything against India. Using the Sunny Deol emoticon once should suffice to freeze the person into silence. If the person doesn’t, you just enter his house, uproot his piping system, and fuck him up.

This is how the short conversation will proceed.

 

The RAVI SHASTRI EMOTICON:

Ravi Shastri is the only person in the country who can say the same things for more than two decades.

The man is always zoned out, saying the same stuff over and over again. Like someone else is in control of him – like that character from Harry Potter 4. Ravi Shastri will say whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Whether it is the final of the World Cup or a training session of Kochi Tuskers – there is no stopping this man.

Using the Ravi Shastri Emoticon will help you have your own space.

A very spaced out, dopey, three pegs of Johnny Walker kind of space.

 

The BABA RAMDEV EMOTICON:

This emoticon should find a lot of favour in our country. The Baba Ramdev emoticon is ideal for people who fulfill the following categories:

a. Love the country and swear to defend it’s culture from Western influence.

b. Believe in the indigenous powders to cure ailments like AIDS and homosexuality.

c. Have a political streak in you.

The Baba Ramdev emoticon can be used when you want to say something outlandish, but are unsure. Works like a charm when you have to say incredible things like ‘India is the greatest country in the world’.

                                                                             

                                                                          ********************************

So there you go, brothers, sisters and hot chicks!

Go ahead and use these emoticons. Make your conversations direct. Leave no ambiguity.

The Shastri – Gavaskar Cliche Game

It’s here again. The annual ‘Let’s Screw The Goras’ season is here!

Every year, India takes colonial revenge on countries by inviting them to a Test series in India. For all the years that the country was ruled and looted by the goras, India extracts revenge. Hot, sweaty revenge.

By inviting them to play in temperatures above 40 degrees, in dustbowl pitches like Rajkot and Vadodara. Where they have to toil like slaves on a pitch to extract bounce till the knees. Amidst a crowd that will never clap for the visiting team, even if someone scores a triple century, takes 5 wickets, and slaps Ravi Shastri – all in one day.

Of course, the visiting team then avenges the revenge by inviting us to their country, where we end up looking like clowns. And thus the little world of cricket goes on with its ups and downs.

So as part of that karmic cycle of wins and losses, Australia is here to play another away series.

It’s surprising how the body language changes when we are playing in India. Domestic captains have already made statements about the Australians’nability to play spin. Kiran More has predicted that Bhajji is going to fire this time. Sreesanth has ordered a bullet proof vest.

Amidst this hustle and bustle, sit the two wise men of cricket – Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar.

Those of you who do not like Test cricket, you have no idea how lucky you are. Your chosen version of the game doesn’t require you to listen to the drone of Shastri and Gavaskar. You do not know the pain purists like me have to endure.

Imagine you are stuck in a room for five days. You are tied and gagged, and in the room there is a tap that is left open. A drop of water drips onto a metal bucket every few seconds – the only noise in the room. You cannot scream, or close the tap, or leave the room. You are just sitting there, the tap dripping onto the bucket, and drilling into your brain.

That’s what it is like.

Ravi Shastri has been doing the commentary since before the time most of us were born. Along with Gavaskar, he has been weilding the mike, dishing out cliches like Himesh Reshammiya delivers hits every year.

A few years back, it was revealed that the two of them, along with Harsha Bhogle, are paid more than 3 crores a year to put forth the views of the BCCI on air. Which is a cheap trick to play on the viewers because as a viewer, you expect a neutral view, not a paid piper. Of course, the two of them are also in the Governing Council of the Indian Premier League, the annual ‘Let’s Screw Pakistanis Again’ extravaganza where the Indian audience catches a glimpse of rare stars like Shamita Shetty and Preity Zinta.

I have never understood why should ex-cricketers only get to be commentators? I know all the shots played on a field, I am aware of the fielding positions, and do not need the expertise of Sivaramakrishnan to tell me if it’s a great shot. Why can’t we have funny, interesting sounding people on air? Instead of listening to what sounds like the AGM of Bhubaneswar Municipal Corporation?

But then, no one tells Shastri and Gavaskar what to do. Lalit Modi tried, and he had to flee from the country.

So what can one do? How do you deal with the torture of the Deadly Duo over five days, without looking longingly at a blade to slit your wrists with?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with a simple remedy.

THE SHASTRI – GAVASKAR CLICHE GAME

Numer of Players: The Shastri-Gavaskar Cliché Game can be played with two or more players. You can also play it with yourself if need be.

You Will Need: A TV showing the cricket match with English commentary. For best results, it is advised to down a few beers while watching the match, to numb the pain.

How To Play: The players sit in front of the TV and wait for Shastri or Gavaskar to come on air.

GAVASKAR:

Once a stalwart of the game, Gavaskar today seems like the grumpy old man who sits on the park bench and shouts and children for eating groundnuts and throwing the paper on the floor. It’s funny to listen to him talk about integrity and team spirit considering he had quite a few tiffs with other players over captaincy, and once walked off the field with his team because he was unhappy with an umpiring decision.

But then, he is Gavaskar and no one messes with him.

So when Gavaskar comes on air, you have to guess whom he is going to reprimand in this over. For eg, a batsman drops a catch, and Gavaskar will begin – “These young cricketers of today….”. Or if a batsman hits a six and then takes a single, Gavaskar will bless him with ‘That’s a bit of sensible cricket’.

The players playing the game need to watch out for such important life lessons and predict them before the man says it. Every correct answer gives you one point.

SHASTRI:

Ravi Shastri is the God of Cliches. When he is happy, he smiles and dishes out cliches. When he is angry, he spews hateful cliches. When he is neutral, he chews cliches in his mouth carefully and then spits them out.

If Ravi Shastri took a Lie Detector test, the scientists would go crazy trying to find out what he really means – so dispassionate and composed is his delivery of cliches.

For Eg. A batsman hits a clean cover drive. Shastri will immediately say, “That travelled like a bullet.” If you could successfully say ‘Bullet’ before he says it, you get one point.

Similarly, anything that happens on the field is ‘great’ according to Shastri. Batsman hits a boundary? It’s a great shot. Bowler stops the ball, it’s a Great Stop. There is a wall in China, it is the Great Wall. So on and so forth.

You need to sit in front of the screen and guess what he is going to say before he does it. Every correct answer gives you one point.

*****************************************

So there you go!

With this simple fun-filled game, you can tolerate the torture dished out by the Deadly Duo.

What is that I hear you say? What about Wasim Akram’s commentary?

Please remember this number. 022 – 27546669. Aasra is a reputed organisation that deals with suicide counselling.

Baal Baal Bache

You know how people say they have bad hair days?

I feel like asking them to shut the fuck up. I have had bad hair years. Decades even.

Since my school allowed only half an inch of hair per head, the overwhelming temptation of having long hair took over as soon as I passed out. Partly due to all the wonderful Hindi songs where the hero would serenade his chick in the hills, running his hand through his hair. And partly because I would look like a chipmunk if I continued having half an inch of hair on my head.

And so, I set out on a long, arduous journey of discovering the true destiny of my hair.

The journey began on a painful, heartbreaking note.

It was the year 2002. Tere Naam had released.

Yes, that film where Salman Khan had hair that looked authentic and real, like Rakhi Sawant’s boobs. The hair was parted in the middle, and came down in slimy semi-circles on both sides. The kind of hair that might make you seem like Snape’s second cousin.

Of course, I didn’t think on the above lines back then.

I adopted the hairstyle, and walked around in public for two years. In any other country, I would have been shot. But India, after all, is a liberal place.

The Tere Naam hairstyle can be at once, eye-catching, and gut-wrenching. I had to spend a good twenty minutes in front of the mirror with Brylcreem Protein Cream, a white lubricant sort of hair cream that transformed you from high school teenager to neighbourhood pedophile in minutes.

The result of that hairstyle was out there for everyone to see – I spoke to a total of three girls in two years.

With the onset of college, came a free-spirited hairstyle – The Spikes.

The spikes would of course, go on to become the most abused hairstyle, till today used in the stereotyping of Yo-men.

But like the tragedy goes, I didn’t know it back then.

I cut off my Tere Naam hair for a cleaner ‘Spikes’ look.

It was disaster from the beginning. My saloon, ‘Lotus Men’s Hair Style’ had photos of Ricky Martin (who I later found, was gay), Hrithik Roshan, and Shah Rukh on the hoarding.

The barbers inside, were like Sanjay Manjrekar. Strictly mediocre, but could managed to mildly surprise you on the odd day. They were trained to trim and cut hair, and then give the customer a nice shoulder and head massage, rubbing and slapping their shoulders, and twisting their hands till a groan of ‘hmmmm’ escaped their lips.

And here I was, telling them of this new hairstyle called Spikes, which only had hair in the front, and very less hair elsewhere. And that the hair in the front be just enough so that it kind of stood up. Not too much, just a little bit.

The blank stare that I got in response was discouraging. It took me at least 10 minutes to explain what I wanted. After nodding like a buffalo, he would go ahead and do whatever the fuck he wanted. After a few times, I carried a photo of Aamir Khan from Dil Chahta Hai to him, and gave him Informercial like instruction and he got it correct.

After getting the hair somewhat upto my expectations, I had another problem at hand. Hair Gel.

Gels were an expensive affair, and my job as a customer care executive wouldn’t allow me the luxury. One day, my serendipity led me to a store called My Dollar Store. Every item in this store cost exactly 99 rupees. Each and every item. The store was dying, and might have had a maximum of ten customers a day.

The items were mostly imported, with pictures of smiling white people on the covers, but somehow didnt seem very trustworthy. One of the things I chanced upon at the store was a bottle of hair gel.

Yes. An entire bottle of hair gel. One Kilo. For 99 rupees.

Needless to say, I bought it. The gel was like someone took a lot of Camel Gum and added some white stuff to it, and packaged it. But my joy at having as much hair gel as I wanted led me to applying a healthy amount on the little hair, I had in the front. Which meant that my hair stood like rock. Making me look like a douchebag. This hairstyle was proudly worn for about three years.

Years of having the wrong hairstyle for years is discouraging. Like sharing a one BHK with Arnab Goswami.

I finally gave up.

If I appeared in a shampoo ad in the next few years, I would be a zombie that didn’t give a fuck. Being a University helped, because most people have given up there. So I just went with the flow, randomly going to Gaylords – the worst salon in the world.

Along the journey, came many shortlived but equally outrageous hairstyles. Like the Ram is a Good Boy Look, the Chutiya Bengali Nerd look – frustration and anger taking over once every few weeks.

Many, many years ago, a young prince had gotten frustrated with the everyday too. He gave up. Prince Sidhartha later went on to realise the truth, and gain enlightenment.

Hair was never supposed to be cut.

Think about it. Who are the people who have hairstyles? Employees, film stars, models in advertisements.

People who are under some pressure to look a certain way because their work demands it. Think of how stupid it is. How does it matter if an employee has long hair, if he is good at what he does?

Having a hairstyle comes when you are under pressure to conform to something.

Now think about the people who have long hair.

Rockstars, footballers, poets, babas. Basically, guys who don’t give a fuck. They dont need to conform to any norms, and dont really care if they are called shabby or junglee or whatever the fuck.

And it doesnt always mean that peope who have long hair are hippies. All you need to tie it, and you have a formal look. People with long hair can also mean business.

More than anything else, I think the guys who let their hair be, subscribe to another school of thought.

There are so many things you could do in a day. Why waste it on trying to look good for someone else, who doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about you.

So as I stood there, at the end of the journey, the truth shone upon me like bright, white light.

So fuck you moronic barbers, fuck you hair gels, fuck you asshole models with sharp haircuts.

I am not going down that lane again.

How To Sing like Kumar Sanu

For the earlier video, click here

How I Knew Jab Tak Hai Jaan would be crap

Long before the film actually released, I knew that the film would be crappy. Just another pink, velvetty stepping stone into whatever SRK is planning to make of his career in the coming years.

And how did I know?

From the music.

The first song that was aired was the Punjabi number Challa. Sung by Rabbi Shergill, the voice seemed out of sync with Shah Rukh, who has been steadily serenading beauties with the voices of Udit Narayan and Kumar Sanu.

The music seemed to pique my interest for a bit, and then slid down into disappointment.

And moreover, the song featured SRK doing what I call the Guitar Bullshit.

For decades, Bollywood has fooled us into believing that heroes can play the guitar. Pull off legendary riffs, pick out heartwrenching ballads by the ear, and strum along to anthems.

Shah Rukh, of course, is no stranger to music bullshit, having earlier done the Violin Bullshit, Flute Bullshit, and Drums bullshit.

So anyway, I went on to the rest of the songs, and one of the tunes seemed to grasp my attention for more than a few seconds. But then quickly slipped out like sand. Not one of the songs seemed to capture my attention.

Now, let me introduce my theory. It called ‘Rahman Knows’.

Rahman, whom many Indians worship as a living God, knows when the film is going to be good. He recognises the value of a well written script, and has a fair understanding of the film maker’s abilities.

It’s only a theory. But the sheer facts and numbers that back the theory can be quite surprising.

Over the years, Rahman has produced music that has been in line with the kind of film that is being made.

Rahman’s music for Hindi films can be broadly classified into four categories.

THE EPIC: In this category, it is a sureshot winner. The director is good, the actors are good, there is a good story, and the music, like the scale, is epic.

There are numerous instances of this. The theme as the last day of cricket unfolds, the track that plays when the minister is being killed, and the grandeur of the Mughal kingdom – the music walks hand in hand with the film, producing a profound effect, that only elevates the film to a different experience altogether.

THE INTENSE: Here, the story is intense. It is not your average soppy Hindi romance. The film might not be an epic hit, but it definitely has a story to tell. Rahman’s music for these films has also been like the films.

The music is not epic, but it is intense and soul-stirring. The heart thumping beats in Dil Se, or the smooth, tragic tunes of 1947 Earth. Or that bit of music, the theme of Bombay that is uplifting and depressing at the same time, Rahman’s music has been on par with the films, and the canvas that they were trying to paint.

THE AVERAGERS: These were films that treaded the line between sensible and your average idiotic Hindi film. These films had their moments, kept you involved, but were not something you would devote time to, after returning home.

If you look at Rahman’s music for these films, it will be like the films themselves. There will be a few good tracks, neither epic, nor intense. Just songs that occupy the large space between great and average. Songs that you would hum for a while, and then relegate to the back of your mind.

Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na, Ghajini, Pukar, Saathiya – the examples are endless.

And finally, comes the last category.

THE BULLSHITTERS: These are the kind of films that are made to squeeze out the superstardom from actors. The stories aren’t much to write home about, and the films are driven more by the status of the leads at the time, rather than the story of the film.

When these films are offered to him, Rahman knows. He happily signs on the dotted line, and makes the music.

And the music, is like the film. A shadow of what it could have been. Songs that will play on MTV for a few days, and 9XM for a few more, and then will live the rest of their lives on Youtube, that old age home where songs spend their twilight years.

Examples of this, again, are aplenty. The songs in Blue, then the most expensive film – starring Sanjay Dutt as a deep sea diver, but visibly pregnant by 7 months – are a grim reminder of what happens if you try to fuck with Rahman.

Then, there is Yuvvraj. And Kisna.

So when I saw the trailers of JTHJ, Shah Rukh holding the guitar and strumming away on the wrong chords, about Challa or whatever, I stood up, and stretched out my hands.

I took a deep breath, ran my hands through my hair like the man himself, and muttered.

Fuck you, I’m not watching your film.

Your film of eternal love and pain.

I shall partake not of your cup of love,

So no matter how much you cry,

No matter how much you ham.

I’ll sit at home and eat bread,

Jab Tak Hai Jam.

Jab Tak Hai Jam.

What You Doing on Doomsday?

So the day has come, my dear brothers, sisters and Osho followers!

The predicted Doomsday.

The subject of films, prophecies, and a calendar by those Mayan assholes, the 2012 doomsday has been the discussion on web forums, talk shows, and documentaries. There are thousands of people who call themselves Doomsday Preppers, who are preparing for a catastrophe of catastrophic levels.

So what do you do on Doomsday?

I mean, firstly that depends on whether you believe it or not. If nothing happens, well, all is fine, and it’s another Friday ending, and you’re all set for a nice weekend. Fine.

But what if it happens? What if destiny catches you on the wrong foot?

What if you have devoted the day to something like washing old underwears and there you are – dead, your hands in a bucket of galeej chaddis!

So there’s no harm in being a little prepared.

Here are a few things that you can do to keep yourself busy on the day.

WATCH GUNDA:

Why? Well, because it is Gunda, that’s why.

Like how Tarantino takes violence to the level of an art, our own Kanti Shah takes crap to the level of a mind-bending Nolan blockbuster. Rated 7.7 on IMDB, watching Gunda is a bit like living in India.

There is crap all around, and all around there are crooks running the show, and you are just a mute spectator to all the drama, that you can’t help feeling like you’re watching from above.

Watching Gunda will teach you that you shouldn’t take life too seriously  The film might just be your dirty window to spiritual enlightenment.

And yeah, its got Mithun Chakravarty.

DON’T WATCH TELEVISION:

Television has been among the biggest KLPDs of our generation, technologically.

When there was Doordarshan, we would watch whatever came. There were a few good shows, a few lame ones, and there was news. The bad shows made the good shows more eagerly awaited, and life went on.

Then, cable television came on. Like floodgates that were opened, and we lapped it up. News, and films, and sports, and shows. We spent 3 Rs to vote for a budding Indian Idol, and watched with awe as our dickhead news channels telecast the police action live, much to the awe of the terrorists too.

We heard Arnab Goswami bellowing out for justice. Like Achilles screaming out to Hector to face him, the man screamed for justice, from the hands of the evil. Then, he went on screaming. And hasn’t stopped since.

And after two decades, after being an avid viewer of television, this is what I can safely say.

INDIAN TELEVISION SUCKS DONKEY BALLS.

I challenge you to sit with an open mind and watch more than an hour of any Indian channel. You just cannot. You cannot watch without cringing, yawning, and falling asleep.

So if Doomsday is coming, take your revenge on that stupid machine that promised us Katrina Kaif and delivered Poonam Pandey. Don’t watch the damn thing.

EAT SOME NON-VEG

This one is for the vegetarians.

All your lives, you have contributed to the cause of animals, the environment, the ecosystem, the cosmos, the entire fucking universe. You abstained from the evil of eating animals, something man has been doing since the day he started eating, and also made us non vegetarians feel guilty with those pictures, videos, and gyaan. Most of which was of course, bullshit. But we bore all of it.

But among all that debate and discussion, there is one thing that you cannot deny. Taste.

Taken purely as a sensory pleasure, the taste of non-vegetarian food is simply something you have to experience.

Now that Doomsday is near, I make you an offer you can’t refuse.

You have done your bit for the environment. One day is not going to matter too much, in the larger scheme of things.

So for this one day, visit your nearest KFC. Yes, that yellow-red place that you so detested, wanting to rip apart everyone that walked in and out of the place.

Walk in and politely ask for a Grilled Chicken. Take the pouch of ketchup, and take a chair.

And then stare at the chicken for sometime. If you notice, you will find that the top covering is crispy, and there is a little butter on the crust. The smell will hit you shortly. Take a gentle bite into the piece.

You will feel the crispy chicken crunch in your mouth, soft, and then the butter and the flavour..

Then pay the bill, and go to a street-side outlet. Ask for chicken pakoda, and eat it with chilli sauce.

At the end of the day, nothing much would have changed. The animal count would remain the same as the previous day. But one thing would have happened.

Your taste buds would have orgasmed. Yes, that’s more than 10,000 orgasms at once, with every bite.

SMOKE SOME WEED

Finally, if all fails. Just do it.

Roll a nice, fat joint and light it.

“When you smoking the herb, you meditating. When you drinking, you’re drunk, maan.“

– Bob Marley

If the world is coming to an end, you will have no worries at all.

You would be listening to your favourite music, or just staring at the ceiling. You would be at peace with yourself, and death, and destruction, and all its fearsomeness will seem like a friendly buffalo passing you by. Even death can’t be too bad with a joint.

For that matter, nothing can be too bad with a joint.

So there, then. I have given my two pennies on the subject. If the post hurt you, you should know that everything that was written was, whatever, Fuck You! The world is going to end anyway.

If it doesn’t, we’ll just wake up on the 22^nd.

And pretend this discussion didn’t happen.

(PS: But still, 10,000 orgasms. Think about it)

How to Screw Robert Vadra

Last week, Robert Vadra bitch-slapped the entire nation.

Yes, our nation, with its pride on morals, culture and beliefs, was delivered a resounding bitch-slap on the face, the kind that a Bollywood hero delivers to the heroine when he catches her doing scandalous things like sipping some wine.

Not so surprisingly, none of the media houses seem to be talking about it. And apart from The Hindu, no newspaper is even doing a follow-up story on the issue. But then, that’s our media. Last year, the Journalists Federation of India awarded Haryana CM Bhupinder Singh Hooda the best CM of the country.

Before you wonder “Who,da?”, here’s interesting trivia. From 1982 to 2005, only 5,550 acres were allotted for real estate development. Since 2005, when the ‘Best CM’ of the country assumed power, 20,549 acres were allotted to property developers. If this is the best CM, I can only imagine how the Chief Ministers who are not the best, would be faring.

Now, Robert Vadra is a strange fellow. For many years, I thought the guy was an unassuming bloke who got lucky in marriage. All that changed in 2010, when he gave an interview to the Times of India, saying “I’ll join politics when I can make a difference”. He also went on to say that he could win an election from anywhere, but chooses not to.

I wondered what the guy thought of himself! I mean, for a guy whose only link with politics was to be married to a political family, that sort of confidence either meant he was a confident, shrewd man, or an absolute buffoon. The proceedings over the last week have proven that when compared to this guy, even Rahul Gandhi seems like Albert Einstein.

When Kejriwal accused Vadra of wrong doings, three things shocked me:

1. Cabinet ministers coming in support: Now, I can understand if he was a Congress minister, or even a minister in a coalition. The guy isn’t even a goddamn politician. What the fuck are you defending him for? And that too, someone like Chidambaram….?
2. IAS Officer transferred: Ashok Khemka, the IAS Officer who initiated the investigations against the deal, was immediately transferred. Sometimes, the quick action our administration takes is quite inspiring.
3. Mango People: Proving that he was, after all, a moron, Vadra put up a message on Facebook saying “Mango People in a Banana Republic”. We live in a nation where a guy who has married into a political family, when accused of wrongdoings, could call the nation a ‘Banana Republic’

That sealed it for me. This guy, surely, was nuts. An ape in the midst of a shrewd, powerful family.

Laughably, the same Haryana government that was doling out land like Santa Claus on Christmas, gave the guy a clean chit.

I knew Kejriwal didn’t stand a chance in the court of law. There is no law preventing a company from selling and buying at any price it deems fit, and so there would be no case there.

But the more important question that the court should have asked was, “What business did DLF have in giving unsecured loans to someone who wasn’t even in the field of Real Estate two years ago?” There are rules, there is law, and then there are ethics.

And that is how, as a nation, we were bitch-slapped. Asked to shut up, and left like little puppies to whimper at trucks that go by.

But here’s how to screw Robert Vadra.

***********************************

Every year, all the news channels organise their annual awards ceremonies. Sycophantic mutual masturbation clubs where everybody compliments everybody, and returns home after a good dinner.

Like the CNN Indian of the Year award, which as a matter of fact, Rahul Gandhi won in 2009 in the field of politics. So what you’re telling me is, this guy, with no administrative experience, no official position in the government, having brought in no reforms or policies whatsoever, was the Indian of the Year? God save our country then!

There is also the Economic Times Award for Corporate Excellence that awards the best performing businesses in the country. Then there are the CNBC-CRISIL awards with a category called the CRISIL Real Estate Awards.

Business Today’s Most Powerful Men in Business, the Indian Business Awards, the Emerging India Business Awards, and a bunch of other Business Awards.

Now, if Vadra’s business is all clean and legitimate, it is an astounding story of business growth.

For someone who was selling handicrafts and other handlooms, to get into a competitive field like Real Estate and go from a 50 lakhs to 300 crores is an unbelievable achievement.

In a time when the world is reeling from recession, and entire countries going bankrupt and people being fired from their jobs, the guy has been made the Director, Addl. Director, or MD in twelve companies in the last six years. To show an exponential growth rate of above 500% when the nation’s economy is tottering at 6%, is an achievement.

I mean, the guy is a miracle, a business force to reckon with, our own Steve Jobs.

Shouldn’t he get an award?

So this is what the media houses should do.

Invite him for these awards. Award him for his excellence. Ask him to stand in front of business leaders, lawyers, and accountants, and talk about the secrets of his success. That should wipe the smug smile off the douchebag’s face.

I mean, his businesses are all clean, right? He deserves accolades, then.

And maybe then, I will have some respect for Indian media.

So, I’m waiting, Mr. Arnab Goswami. Instead of barking into our ears every night, strap some balls on, and give the guy some much needed awards.

Are you listening, Mr. Goswami? Like you keep reminding us, India needs an answer.

My Favourite Rakshasa

This Dasara, all the talk about Ravana, and how he has been misunderstood, took me back to the rakshashas I grew up with.

Through stories, films, comics, and books, rakshashas were a part of our growing up. They were the Jokers to the Batman, the necessary evil for the good to prevail over.

Sadly, however, like our Bollywood villains, rakshashas were stereotyped too. They all had to be dark, ugly, and menacing. Compared to the perfect jawlines and photogenic smiles of the gods, the rakshashas had huge eyes, and teeth protruding out of their mouths.

In such a scenario, you had to have some outstanding qualities to stand out as a rakshasa. You couldn’t just be your neighbourhood rakshasha who eats up goats and terrorises villagers. You will die in anonymity, like Taraka, whose death was outsourced to Karthikeya. I mean, Vishnu and Shiva didn’t even find it necessary to stoop down to earth to eliminate him.

Also, finding embodiments of pure evil is difficult since all the rakshasas are shown to be forgiven after their deaths. Your average rakshasha story will involve a god killing the demon, only for his soul to step out of the body and fold hands in prayer to god. We are then told that it was actually a curse that the demon was living. At heart, he was a nice fellow only.

The importance of standing out, thereby, becomes crucial if you are a rakshasa.

I now present my list of top rakshasas. Men of evil who transcended the normal levels of evilness to walk into the corridors of immortality.

 

BALI CHAKRAVARTHI: 

Though he was an Asura king, Bali was not your average goat-chewing, big-eyes-making, HOOHOO-HAAHAA laughing rakshasa. A benevolent king, an able administrator, and a generous host, Bali was done in by the scheming Devas, who could not tolerate his success of winning the Earth, Heaven and Underworld.

In one manipulative and shameful stroke of genius, Bali is tricked into death by Vamana, the fifth avatar of Vishnu. So, Bali is organising the Ashwamedha Yagna, and a Brahmin boy visits him and asks for three paces of land. Even though he is warned by Guru Shukracharya, Bali goes ahead with his promise. He loses his life, his kingdom, and everything else.

 

ILVALA AND VATAPI

In the murky demonic world of rakshasas, Ilvala and Vatapi were masterminds of gastronomic levels. Ilvala had a boon which let him call out to dead people and bring them back to life. The two brothers hated rishis, and would invite them over to lunch.

At lunch, Vatapi would transform into a goat, which Ilvala would cook and serve to the rishis. After the rishis have eaten, Ilvala would call out, “Vatape athragacha” (Come out, Vatapi!). Vatapi would tear open the stomach of the rishi and come out.

Now, I would lay half the blame on the rishis too. I mean, you are supposed to be leading an ascetic life, wouldn’t you know when you are served mutton? Didn’t you smell something fishy when there were bones in your curry?

So this went on for long, till one day Agasthya the great rishi, went to their kingdom. They did the same thing again, inviting Agasthya for lunch. Agasthya, was one of the seven super rishis (saptarishis) and possesses great power. Once, when the devas complained about asuras hiding in the ocean, Agasthya drank the whole sea and brought victory to the devas.

So Agasthya visits their house, consumes the curry, and before Vatapi can call out to his brother, rubs his own stomach and says, “Vatapi Jeerno Bhava” (May Vatapi be digested). Vatapi cannot come out from the stomach, and Ilvala is turned into dust by Agasthya. Even though they had tragic ends, through their sheer innovation and ingenuity, the two brothers win a place on the list. And Agasthya, a possible endorsement campaign.

 

SHISHUPAL: 

Again, not your typical asura, Shishupal is on my list for his bravery. I have already posted about him in an earlier blog (read here), so I shall simply paraphrase myself.

Shishupal makes it to the list on the basis of sheer guts. Born as Krishna’s cousin, apparently, this Shishupal fellow was a chronic pain in the ass for everyone around him. Krishna, as the reason for his birth was to get rid of all evil, had made up his mind to kill him. But knowing her son’s track record, Shishupal’s mother asks Krishna to promise that she would forgive him a hundred sins.

Shishupal grows up and on the day of his wedding, Krishna crashes into the wedding and kidnaps Shishupal’s bride to be, Rukmini and leaves. Shishupal is infuriated, and remember, Krishna has promised to pardon hundred of his sins. Think about it. If you were given a chance to commit a hundred sins, what would you do? I would visit a few banks, and then go to some Hollywood studios. But no, our guy Shishupal is the kind of guy about whom it is said, “He has guts in his butts and dum in his bum.” What does he do?

He walks straight into Krishna’s court, and starts abusing him. Krishna being the king, does not react. He keeps his calm and says nothing. Mentally, he is going, “97, 98, 99…100, “ And then, he gets up, and raises the finger.

Not the middle finger, come on, he is god. He raises his index finger, out comes the Sudarshan Chakra, and Shishupal gets beheaded on the spot. Shishupal is among the colourful villanous characters who tried to take on Gods in their own game, and realised it’s of no use.

 

HIRANYAKASHIPU:

For most rakshashas, the key to graduating to the big league is by asking for a boon. Vishnu is said to be the hardest to please, so most Rakshasas pray to Brahma and Shiva for boons. Among boons, research has shown that the most coveted wish was for immortality.

Immortality, however, like the 2G spectrum, is given only to selected people. There have seven recipients of immortality – Bali, Parshuram, Vibhishana, Hanuman, Vyasa, Ashwatthama, and Kripacharya.

Since immortality is denied, most rakshasas settled for other powers they thought would help them attain power and greatness. This is where Hiranyakashipu scores for originality.

A clear violent streak ran in his family, as evidenced by his elder brother Hiranyaksha, who was killed by Varaha. Denied immortality, Hiranyakashipu, sought a boon that would make him nearly impossible to kill.

But you can’t act smart with God.

 

BHASMASURA: 

Perhaps my favourite among the entire list is Bhasmasura.

Another rakshasa who did a penance and pleased Shiva, Bhasmasura asked for immortality. Upon being denied immortality, Bhasmasura opted for Option 2.

Armed with the boon, Bhasmasura started chasing Shiva himself.

Jolted out of his senses, Shiva ran for help. And kept running, till he reached Vishnu. When he pleaded for help, Vishnu used magic to trap Bhasmasura.

He transformed into a beautiful young woman, Mohini (enchantress) and caught the attention of Bhasmasura. Smitten by her beauty, Bhasmasura quickly forgot Shiva and started chasing Mohini. When he approached her, and ‘proposed’, Mohini said that she’d only marry the person who can dance like her.

Bhasmasura takes her up on the challenge, and what follows next could be better explained with the following video.

Among all the rakshashas mentioned, Bhasmasura is my favourite. Why? Two reasons.

1. Guts: Most rakshasas took their boons and played havoc with them behind the god’s back. This guy, instantly started chasing Shiva around.

2. Inspiration to most Bollywood villains: Most Hindi films of the 80s and 90s had references to rakshashas. They were all evil looking, or flashy.

While Ravana was depicted by Amrish Puri in Mr. India and many other films (where he has a kingdom of his own which is finally destroyed by the hero), the archetypal Bollywood villain was more the Bhasmasura type.

Every film will have a villain, who is powerful and wealthy. But with that one weakness that ruined many a rakshasha – lust.

So the actress would get him drunk, and then go to his room, bolt the door, and dance in front of him. And right then, in those five minutes, the villain will be duped. All his life’s hard work will be lost in that one moment.

She’s a Feminist. Then why doesn’t she pay the bill?

When I date someone for the first time, two things inevitably happen.

1. The food is served, and then the bill is called for. The waiter who knows nothing about Feminism or Chauvinism, will come and give the bill to me. If I am dressed shabbily, he will give it to the girl. And precisely at that moment, I decide whether I will date the person again.

2. I am always called an asshole after that first date.

This is something that has always bugged me no end. I see these girls who bash men at the drop of a hat, talking of male hegemony, male gaze, gender inequality, and other bra-burning feminist ideas, and when the bill appears, there is a magical transformation. The fiery tiger becomes a whimpering, simpering, eyelashes batting, cute little cat.

And I would rather be called an asshole than date that person again.

Of all the characteristics one is supposed to have in a relationship, I find chivalry the most stupid.

Why do I need to open the door for a girl to show her that I care for her? Why do I need to pay her bill to prove that I care?

I mean, I do understand there is a way to behave around a lady. I am not going to chew paan and spit near her feet. But do I have to go all the way to open the door for her?

Out of curiosity, I looked up the word chivalry, and this is what I found.

The word has its origins to the era before the 15^th century, where men were supposed to protect the weak and the defenceless. So when someone talks about chivalry in the 21^st century, I feel like banging their head into a plate of hot sambar vada and making them pay the bill for it.

Of course, one would argue that the literal meaning of the word would have changed over the ages. It has, but only subtly. If you expect chivalry from men, why blame the men who expect women to only cook?

And what is most shocking is that most of these are educated, well-read women. Women who know the meaning of terms like male-gaze, and male hegemony.

A few months back, we had gone to a club. Again, two of the girls in the group were 21^st century bullshitters. When it was time to pay the entry fee, they turned away. When it was time for the bill, they ran away. As simple as that. Isn’t this merely taking advantage of the fact that most men would  consider it infradig to ask a woman to repay an amount? How different are you, then, from the dowry-accepting, wife-beating asshole on the street?

Luckily for me, I have always been with women who are fiercely independent. To the extent that I have lived off them during my jobless, hopeless, and penniless days. Which is why I still have respect for them, even if I am not with them today.

I find it amusing when guys bitch about how much money they spend on their girlfriends. If you are dating a person without any self-respect, you shouldn’t be complaining about it in the first place. It is as much your fault as hers.

And girls, if you really want our respect, and really want to be treated as equal, how about splitting the bill the next time you eat out?

 

 

EDIT: 

I got a lot of shit for this post, and while I could have simply edited the offensive bits, that would have been the easy way out.

For all those who got offended by it, I am sorry. Forgive me for not being able to convey my point accurately. Also, I went overboard with the comparison with rapists, so please pardon that too. My point, however, was that the rapist and the chauvinist subscribe to the same school of thought. The former thinks he needs to put the woman in her place, the latter believes that there is a place that woman need to be placed at.

Also, let me put it this way. Imagine if you were a guy, would you go on a date if you had no money?

Now, how about if you were a girl? Would it be possible for the date to take place?

Thanks!

I’ll have a Breezer. Fuck You!

A few friends are sitting down to drink and the customary question gets floated around – “What will you have?”

That’s a terrible question, and attending to it takes up at least 15 minutes. I generally have three very simple rules for drinking:

1. If heavy dancing is on the cards, and there is money in your cards, have Vodka and some juice.
2. If it is just about sitting down together and having a good time, have Old Monk.
3. If someone else is suggesting something, or paying, take whatever is on offer.

These three rules make my life simple and easy. Sadly, that is not the case for most of the people I see drinking.

Choosing what one has to drink in the present times in India has become a pain in the ass, thanks to some of the ridiculous notions we have about drinking. And this is where our villain enters –

India is full of these Madira Machos. Guys who exude masculinity through their choice of drink.

And these guys actually ruin a good drinking experience for everyone else.

They are innocuous, seemingly harmless people. But order something that isn’t manly enough, and their inner Machoman shouts up in protest. Some of the errors you might make while ordering your drink are:

1. Ordering Beer

I have never understood how and why beer has come to be understood in India as a lesser drink. It is perfect for sipping in the afternoon, during a hot day, while watching cricket, and for generally chilling out.

But beer knows not that it has been relegated to the side by these strange things called HARD DRINKS – rum, whiskey, skotch.

Beer is a beautiful drink. When chilled, its bitterness magically turns into a sweet, frothy taste that seems to get better with every sip. It doesn’t give you the instant rush of the other drinks, it is like watching a Rahul Dravid innings, it starts slow and works its way into a beautiful, well-crafted innings that is a sheer beauty. But of course, none of the Madira Machos would allow this.

2. Ordering Vodka

If you order vodka at a pub with other guys, be prepared for a lot of stares and sniggers. While you think you are merely ordering a vodka, for the Madira Machos, you might have as well asked for sanitary napkins.

For some strange reason, most people in India consider vodka to be a ladies’ drink. Out of curiosity, I looked up the largest consumers of alcohol in the world. Along with Russia, the top five countries belonged to the erstwhile USSR.

Now, try telling one of them that they have been wasting away their masculinity on a ladies drink and see what he has to say to you. Remember to pick your teeth up from the ground before leaving though.

I used to wonder how this practice of calling vodka a women’s drink came to be, and one of my friends has an interesting explanation. She believes that in India, most women do not like to be seen holding a glass of alcohol. In such cases, vodka is the best because one can pass it off as Lime Soda or simply water.

I don’t know how much of this is true, but my research further led me on to see if vodka might be any lesser of a drink, in purely chemical, C2H6O terms, and this is what I found:

3. Asking for Cool Drink

I don’t know where this idea came from, but I am guessing it came from the steady dose of Indian films that we grew up on.

In all the films, the heroes do not do sissy things like asking the waiter to add two cubes of ice, a little cola, and then some water. No.

Hero opens bottle cap, holds bottle to mouth, guzzles. That’s it.

Many a Madira Macho can be found, smiling at their drinks at bars. When you ask them, “Bhai, Thums Up lega?” they merely smile and say, “Nahi yaar, main sirf neat peeta hoon!”

4. Asking for Indian Made Liqour

If you are at a place with a Madira Macho, you are screwed already. But if you are with a Madira Macho who has been abroad, you better carry a small bottle of Vaseline with you.

Ordering Indian drinks in front of a Vides-returned Madira Macho will be like trying to attack Sabu with a butter knife. You will be inundated with suggestions like Glenfiddich, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and Horspiss.

But there is a smart way to deal with this problem. Simply go ahead with your order of Old Monk and say, “Yaar, yeh sab videsi daaru achhe hain, lekin desi daaru jaisi kick nahi hai unmein.” This will keep the videsi Madira Macho silent for a while.

5. Ordering a Breezer

The biggest crime you can commit while drinking with a Madira Macho is to order a Breezer. Breezers, you see, come in colours like orange, yellow, maroon. Colours that our world has, in all its intelligence, straitjacketed as women’s colours.

Ordering a breezer in front of a Madira Macho is hara-kiri for your masculinity.

But you know what, sometimes, I don’t want to get so high that I feel like Kader Khan in a Govinda movie. I like the gentle high, I like making conversation with people when I am buzzing, and I like singing songs.

I hate puking, and screaming, and breaking a bottle to announce my presence. You are welcome to be the Tarzan of the jungle.

Make Old Monk the National Drink

Now that the Independance Day is gone and we have all done our bit for the nation by tagging each other to India flags, let me make a point that is not jingoistic, but is of immense importance to national affairs.

Few months back, the Indian government announced that Tea is going to be made the National Drink of India.

What really happens when something is declared as National? The tiger is our national animal, and no one gives a fuck. Hockey is our national game, and has as much fan following as Tushar Kapoor. Does declaring something as ‘National’ give it some special status or benefits? If yes, why is hockey in a dilapidated condition? Why do we only talk about tigers when a telecom company reminds us how many of them are left?

Is there any purpose to declaring something as ‘National’? Or is it just a symbol? If it is, I have a sincere suggestion.

Make Old Monk the National Drink.

Before you make an ‘o’ of offence with your lips, here is my explanation as to why Old Monk truly deserves the title.

 

1. Not everyone has tea: Tea or chai is not a pan-Indian drink. People down south swear by coffee and there is no single standard of chai in our country. Also, in urban milieu, most youngsters frequent coffee shops, making the whole coffee shop culture a part of our lifestyle today. The humble chai has to face stiff competition from terrible tasting cousins like herbal tea, black tea, and masala tea. Where is the ubiquity?

The ubiquity lies with the smiling buddha sadhu.

Old Monk : Available Everywhere. Even in Heaven.

 

Throughout the country, in ramshackle wine spots, bootleggers’ pockets, the most expensive bars, the rooms of students attempting IAS Exams for the ninth time, the Research scholar frustrated with life, the rich and the poor, the Ramu and the Shamu, and the Seeta and the Neeta – Old Monk enjoys a loyal following throughout the country. McDowell’s Rum is there, but it will always be like Lakshmana – the best rum when Old Monk is not available.

 

2. Tea does nothing to you:Remember that film where the hero downs a cup of chai and rushes to face the bad guys all alone and beats them to pulp? Or that other film where the heroine offers the hero a cup of chai and then they sing a wild song in the rain?

No?

Well, it’s for a reason. A chai is an everyday drink. You have it instinctively, without knowing it. And not once, but twice or thrice a day. It’s become such an integral part of lives, that there’s nothing celebratory about it anymore. Which defeats the purpose of a ‘National Drink’ anyway. I mean, then why not have the stray dog as the National Animal?

But look at Old Monk – Rain or shine, whether you passed or failed,whether the girl said ‘yes’, or filed an FIR against you – the square bottle of Old Monk just sits there, waiting for you to open the cap and the smell of sweet vanilla to waft into your senses.

Because of some guys in Boston in 1773, having a ‘Tea Party’ has different connotations. But say you’re having an Old Monk party, and look at the smile appear on the person’s face.

 

3. Old Monk is pucca desi: Tea has its origins in China. Imagine what Mamta Banerjee would say if we made something that originated in China, as India’s National Drink.

Plus, there are a thousand variants of tea today – herbal tea, soul tea, green tea, purple tea, and organic tea – half of them tasting worse than piss. (No, I didn’t taste it. My grandfather was Morarji Desai’s neighbour. Now fuck off!)

But anyway, the point is that tea has been had by people all over the world for centuries now. There’s nothing Indian about it. Also, if chai were to be declared the National drink, I could understand. But ‘tea’ as such, is quite vague – considering that we are the only country to have milk in our teas.

But Old Monk, my friend, is by Indians, of Indians, for Indians.

Owned by Mohan Meakin Pvt. Ltd, Old Monk is the third largest selling rum in the world, and India’s most exported liquor brand.

 

4. Old Monk doesn’t suck up to you: Unlike other brands,Old Monk doesn’t suck up to you with stupid surrogate ads asking you to make it large, with a stupid *Golf Accessories and Music CDs* written below it.

Old Monk has never had to do any advertising, and has consistently been the largest selling rum in the country for decades now. It has no cricketers, no film stars, no Bollywood villain endorsing it (like this video, where Amrish Puri unabashedly promotes Black Dog). It doesn’t need to buy an IPL team or a Formula 1 company. The owners don’t party on cruises and then not pay their staff for months.

It produces a product. People like it, they drink it. As simple as that.

 

5. Old Monk doesn’t want to change the country: Since the last two years, ‘change’ has been the buzzword. Without knowing what exactly we want to change, the whole country has been asking for change. The software engineer wants change because he saw a picture on Facebook about the crores of corruption, the middle aged want change because a spiritual guru demanded it, and the autowallahs ask for change because they hiked their rates by 3 rupees due to the petrol hike, even though they run on CNG.

Do you remember those Tata Tea ads that ask people to wake up? I found them stupid.

And with the kind of companies we have, you can imagine how mad the brands are going to go if chai is declared the national drink. I can imagine a Tata Tea Jaago Re campaign calling it the desh ka chai.

We don’t want anymore of that bull. Old Monk is just a drink, and professes to be no more than that.

 

And finally,

6. It is simply the best bloody drink around: Those who say they find Old Monk rough, and sip on vodka, are simply lying. Old Monk tastes better than all the vodkas of the world put together in a fridge with Katy Perry. Beer aficionados will beg to differ with me, but unless it’s Carlsberg, you are a little far from the truth.

Since its launch in 1954, Old Monk has remained the same. Vatted for seven years, and maintaining the same taste and bottle shape. In fact, there is a group called COMRADE – Council of Old Monk Rum Addicted Drinkers and Eccentrics.

So what is it about Old Monk that makes it different?

Is it the beautiful pirate bottle? Or the vanilla essence in the taste? Or is it the lack of any hangover in the morning the next day? I don’t know. May be its a combination of all the three, and more.

May be because it’s affordable. And when a few friends get together, Old Monk stands for a little fun, a little nostalgia, and some good time.

For all this and more, I propose that Old Monk be made the National Drink.

Hic !

A Universe in a City

“Everyone should study in a University, at least once.”

I remember someone telling me this, I don’t remember who or when, though.

A University is different from a college. At college, you hang out with people from the same social class, with similar interests, common pursuits, and most importantly, dads who can cough up the same amount of money.

A University is a different ball game altogether.

When I joined the University, I remember looking at the lush green trees, the rocks, lakes, and forests, and being awe struck.

Quite frankly, I was a bit of a prick.

MassComm is a pretty generic course. You need some awareness about things, and an ability to read and speak well – both of which were never a problem with me. Add to that the fact that most of the guys in my batch were younger to me, and I’d done quite a few jobs and thought I knew the ways of the world.

I was under the impression that the sun shone out of my ass.

But the University has this way of holding you up by the neck and thrashing you face-down on the floor.

The first thing that sets a University apart is the maturity of the people. At college, we are all pricks. At University, you want to get into a woman’s mind, not into her pants.

The freedom of discovery – of your interests, your passion, your kind of music, is an exhilarating experience.

Going by how hollow and shallow I was, all the people I’d dismissed as crude, taught me my most important lessons. I thought of myself as a ‘liberal’. It’s funny how distorted the word’s usage is. I would blatantly dismiss religion, caste, and class as immaturity. But isn’t the meaning of liberal someone who is accommodating of others’ views?

My stay here slowly exposed me to different people, different ideologies, and different mindsets.

When I look back, I don’t know what I’m going to miss the most about the place.

Is it the crazy drunk parties on the banks of lakes, or the seminars? The film screenings, or sharing joints with strangers? Or Sukoon – those three nights of madness where the campus is home to everyone from singers, poets to camels and giant wheels? Or receiving anonymous messages from people who liked my radio show?

I think what I’ll miss the most about the place is the discussions. The liberating experience of talking to people about the world, the country, cricket, philosophy. Feeling like I belong to a school of thought, a part of a revolution. The feeling that there is a general sense of direction I’m heading in.

As I walk around the campus, its exactly two years now. The campus is green and lush. I’m not a student anymore, but I don’t feel like an outsider.

You can take the guy out of the University, but you can’t take the University out of the guy.

And today, I can’t agree more.

Everyone should study in A University. At least once.

How to be a Facebook Photographer

If I ever have a son, before kicking him out of the house at 15, I’ll force him to take up photography. Even if he doesn’t like it, because I know that it’s for his own good.

For, if nothing changes about the world in a few decades, photographers will continue to be the luckiest bunch of people. I mean, look at our times.

Even if you are a crazy, psycho, peadophile with an oily smile, if you have a camera, you get to hang out with all the girls. Because you take pictures. And upload them on Facebook. You are important. People need you.

Photographers are an interesting bunch. Thanks to liberalization and uncles abroad, every Tom, Dick and Harry now has a camera. And every Tom, Dick, and Harry is a photographer. And every Tom, Dick, and Harry is important.

Now, I don’t have a problem with photographers as such. They are friendly people. But once they get hold of an SLR camera, there is a transformation. There are strange effects that the black object has on people’s lives and they can’t shake off those effects even if they want to.

Product of their times, I tell you. I believe every generation has a set of chutiyas.

In the 90s, there were the Roller Skate chutiyas. These kids would roam around wearing roller skates, living testimonies of the fact that the wheel might not have been the greatest invention on earth.

Zipping and zapping from here to there, roller skaters of the 90s were like Rahul Roy, very cool – but extremely transient. Of course, then liberalisation struck us, and bicycles and bikes were available. Which meant roller skating became as cool as picking your nose in a marriage video.

In the 2000s, came the Guitar Chutiyas. Wannabe rockstars who held a guitar and sang songs of love, pain, and peace. The Guitar chutiyas carried their guitars everywhere and threw up strange words like ‘chords’, and ‘progressions’. Victims of a clear case of ‘EveryoneGivesAFuckitis’, Guitar chutiyas strummed away to glory like everyone cared, and some of the 3-chord wonders are still available on youtube.

And then, in the 2010s, we have the Facebook photographers.

If you’re still interested, here are the rules you need to follow to become a Facebook Photographer.

The Display Profile: If you have a camera (which automatically means you are a photographer), you HAVE to put it up on your Display Picture. Otherwise, how else will the world know that you are a photographer? What if they think you’re a carpenter or something??

The Display Picture will have the person, and the camera next to/in front of the person. Remember, the man is as important as the camera and hence the term ‘camera-man’. A display picture with the person holding the camera and taking a picture of yourself in the mirror leaves no doubt in the mind that you are a cameraman/woman. You know, just in case people mistake you for a shoplifter or bootlegger. All I am saying is you need to make your identity clear.

The Dvaita Philosophy: Facebook Photographers follow the duality in presence. They are different from their photographs. In fact, their photography is a separate, breathing entity altogether. So much so that there will be two profiles for the Facebook Photographer. One is ‘Facebook Photographer’ (the person’s profile), and the other is a separate page called  ‘Facebook Photographer’s Photography’. If you are a Yo! photographer, you may call it ‘Facebook Shutterbugs’, or if you are confident of yourself, you may even open a page called ‘Facebook Photographers’ Fan Page’. Yes, I know!

The Original Photographers: Every photographer will use his/her originality and creativity and take some extremely creative pictures that no one earlier has either attempted or shot. Some of these extremely original photographs are: 1. The poor kid: The poor kid is guaranteed to win you ‘awww’s and ‘ooooh’s from your fans on Facebook. Screw things like Right to Privacy, I mean, they are poor right, what do they care? Then there are the photographs of babas in fairs, the close ups of flowers, or the close up of the chameleon on the rock. Your work is to come up with such beauties and open the eyes of the rest of the world.

Editing: Once you’re done with taking the photograph, you have to remember to edit the fuck out of it. Deepen the colours, improve the brightness, alter the focus, and throw in some shadows for effect. But photography is about the photograph and not the effects, you say? What rubbish! Would Sachin be the same without his MRF? Or Karan without his Kavach and Kundal? Or Rakhi Sawant without her …. you get the idea! Similarly, when you have those effects on photoshop, why not use it? I mean, computers are emitting out gases and ruining the world. It’s only fair that while we are at it, we use whatever resources we have with us.

Copyrighting: After you’re done tweaking the photograph, remember to stamp your identity over it. This is done by putting your watermark over the picture. Here, it is important to remember that others may take away your picture from your profile. Hence, it is important to put the watermark clearly on the photograph. I would suggest putting a huge watermark right across the middle of the image. The watermark becomes more prominent than the actual picture? What nonsense! Haven’t you seen the most famous painting of the world?

The Global Tagger: But your work is not done after taking that terribly original photograph. You have to tag people to your photograph. This is where you have to be magnanimously generous. The more number of people you tag, the higher your ratings go. Your friend, his friend, his aunt, her neighbours, their dog, it’s vet, his child, and their teachers. No one that you know should be spared from the joy of watching you capture that poor little child on the road or that bumble bee that waltzed into your room. I mean, after all, your uncle in the US spent so much money on getting you the camera. What is the point in quietly pursuing the profession?

Follow these simple steps, and you’re all set. Remember to take your camera everywhere – who knows, you might discover a peacock shaped turd in the potty? The sky is the limit.

*****

How to Sound Intellectual Even if You don’t know Shit

Tired of being considered shallow and immature in front of your intellectual friends? Embarassed when they are discussing something called the ‘epicentre of power’ and you think they are talking about Shaktimaan? Had enough of coughing, going to the toilet, and changing the topic uncomfortably when something serious is being discussed?

Well, you need worry no more.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we present you with the ultimate guide to the social ladder. Remember, good looking guys will one day grow old and farty, but Salman Rushdie still has a killer girlfriend. Need I say more to stress on the importance of seeming intelligent and knowledgable?

Given below are handy tips that you can use to seem intelligent and mature. Care must be taken to avoid overuse, as it might backfire badly, and you might end up looking like a clown. So exercise restraint, and carefully adopt the given specifications one at a time. There’s lot of time (Rushdie is 64, no hurry, man!).

                                                                     GETTING THE RIGHT LOOK

You cannot sound intellectual if you don’t look intellectual. There are a few useful tips that can transform you instantly from ‘N Sync fan to practising Communist.

Get Thick Rimmed Glasses: Thick rimmed glasses might seem odd to look at on your face in the beginning. In fact, you will look like the geeky loser in a 90s Bollywood college romance. But a thick rimmed glass goes a long way in establishing that you are an intellectual. Care must be taken to get one without any bling. If Armani is written on it, it is a lost cause.

Act Like You Don’t Care About Your Attire: Intellectuals do not have time to bother about things like fashion, clothes and accessories. So make sure you carefully master the art of dressing carelessly. Tear off a bit of the new kurta, spill some ink on the sleeve, and dip your fingers in a bowl of paint for about 15 minutes before you leave the room.

Don’t Shave: What’s common to the people below?

Isn’t it weird? They all have a beard!

Apart from being the most intelligent men of their times, who changed the fortunes of the world with their wisdom, they all also had beards. So even if it doesn’t suit you, grow a beard. Avoid temptation to trim it with an electronic trimmer. A little care and discretion would give you the perfect ‘non-shaving, kurta wearing’ intellectual. Throw in a jhola on your shoulders if you want some change.

SPEAKING LIKE AN INTELLECTUAL

Now comes the tough part – sounding and conversing like an intellectual. This requires diligence and practice, but you can master the art eventually by following the following tips:

Say ‘Depends’: Whenever you are asked a question, and you don’t know what to say, just shrug and say, “Well, that depends on a lot of factors…”

Saying ‘Depends’ shows that you are willing to consider a lot of aspects. However, you should be careful not to list out what those factors are. Intellectual people do not disclose their intellect till they are pressurised to. So just say ‘Depends’ and look away.

2. Use a lot of ‘ist’: Almost every word can be made into an ‘ist’. For eg: “Hey, that’s such a statist remark!” or “How can you be a realist when this is such a racist environment?” Every ‘ism’ can be made into an ‘ist’. Also, if someone apologises, he is an apologist, if he works on a machine, call him a machinist, if he believes in fate, he is a fatalist, and if he roams about naked, he is a naturist.

3. Use the PESC Formula: If you are running out of new angles to give to a discussion, follow the simple PESC formula. The PESC formula says that any discussion can be analysed by talking about the Political, Economic, Social, and Cultural impact on the people. And this works better if you fuse two terms – socio-cultural, politico-economical, socio-economic, and eco-cultural.

These phrases make you sound even more intelligent than you aren’t. So, if you have been sitting around warming the bench, shrug your shoulders and say, “Depends. On a lot of socio-cultural and politico-economical realisms that the world faces.” Bingo!

4. Quote Marx: Most intellectuals are leftist. They swear by Marx. In such a crowd, if you say, “Hey, have you checked out the latest iPhone app for Angry Birds?’, you will have to suffer through social leprosy. So make sure you have equipped yourself with a good number of Marx quotes, which you can get off the net. Be careful to drop them at the opportune moment.

However, you should be careful to quote Karl Marx, and not Groucho Marx, as it can have the opposite effect on your socio-intellectual standing (notice the fusing of two words??

5. Smile: You remember those Idea ads with Abhishek Bachhan? Remember those moments of pure awesomeness when Abhishek Bachan is looking at the person in front of him, and dishes out a smirk and says “Get Idea”? That’s the smile I am talking about.

The Idea 3G ‘I’m awesome and you know it’ smile

When you don’t know how to counter the stance of the person in front of you, just smile. It drives them mad. While the other person is frantically explaining his stance, just look at him, smile, and shake your head from one side to the other. This shows that you know what the person is going to say and are smiling at his ignorance. Some other smiles that you could use are the following smiles.

The Kevin Spacey ‘I don’t give a fuck’ smile

The Morpheus ‘Do you know what the Matrix is?’ smile

The SRK ‘I look like a moron, but I’m cute’ smile

6. The Intellectual Emergency Exit: If nothing else works out, use the Fire Escape. Wait for the person to make a point. Pause. Take a deep breath, and say, “Well, if that’s the way you are looking at things, there isn’t any point in talking, is there?” Then stand up, dust your hands, and walk off.

Don’t turn back, for the people are still staring at you with their mouths open, aghast at your biting intellect. Find another group, and use the same techniques all over again.

Remember, intellectuals don’t do different shit. They do the same shit differently.