Let’s Ask For That Change

Everyone is talking about change now a days. They are all asking change in public utilities, change in government policies, change in climatic conditions, change in society  and change in perceptions. I am also concerned about change. I am concerned about my change. The change that I deserve. The change they have robbed me of. The change that they all owe me.

I read newspaper (worth Rs.3) every day. World economy is facing a slowdown. US economy is still hanging on a balance. Euro zone is in pits. But guess what - Indian economy is thriving. Ah! don’t believe what the share markets or industry experts tell you. They don’t know what is happening in India since they are busy - shouting all day. Don’t trust the local traders as well because they are also busy shouting. They are shouting the trading rates of shares, bonds and commodities. And they are so busy shouting that no one has the time to wonder where these commodities are going or who is buying them. Well, I am buying them.

And it so happens that after all the shouting and ding-dong in the mandi (market where pulses (worth Rs. 42), vegetables etc. are sold), I buy some potato (worth Rs. 31), a little tomato (worth Rs.21 ) and one onion (worth Rs. 4). Onions have become really expensive for me to buy now, you see. “Chappan rupya hua hai!,” cried the vegetable monger (Rs. 56 in total). I hand him Rs. 60 and wait for my change. Keeping the notes firmly in one of his wooden boxes the monger started helping another customer with his vegetables. After a lull of about 5 seconds, he looked up at me. I looked back at him. His ‘look’ changed to frown followed by my own burrowed frown. Only when his expression turned into quizzical that I demanded my change. The vegetable monger was horrified. The customer-in-waiting besides me gave me a how-cheap look. Fed-up of all these twisted faces, I decided to leave the place with dignity (worth Priceless).

These people have now devised strategies to steal my change. They tag their services with prices such as Rs. 399 or Rs. 1099. Now when I give them 100 rupee notes, they slyly rob me of that 1 rupee extra I give them. They are all in this together and they are all out to make me poorer by not giving back the change.

I remember the good old time when nobody was really worried about the economy or about inflation or rising petrol prices (worth Rs. 73). Times like these, I had to beg at home for a rupee to buy even an ice-cream gola (worth Rs. 1). You had to fight with the rickshaw wallahs for every 2 rupees. These were good times - since there was no 500 rupee note, people always had change.

Today, people have devised new methods to loot people of their change. Not two but three shining examples of this phenomenon that has caught up with all general store owners and others:

1    You go to a store and buy a Sneakers chhoti waali (worth Rs. 15) and give the owner Rs. 20. He always tries to sell me a Five Star chhoti waali (worth Rs. 5) along with it to avoid giving me the change. He wants to eat away at my 5 rupees! I could buy a coke chhoti waali in 1998 with 5 rupees.

2    I ordered a few books from an online store. The books cost me 1057 rupees and I gave 1060 rupees to the delivery boy. The guy took the money and left. No sir! Not even a word about 3 rupee change.

3    Once travelling in a city bus, the conductor in the bus told me that I can take the 8 rupees in change the ‘next time’ I board the same bus. How kind of him. But how will I find the same bus in 1000s of other buses in the city is a still a riddle to me.

The worst part is – you cannot, you just cannot ask for the change. Because if you do, you are labelled as cheap. People in the city bus stare at me if I ask for my own change. Grocery store owners talk to me with contempt once they come to know that I won’t take a candy for the change they owe me. Nobody wants to talk about the change they have to give me back.

I beg of these people to watch and study share markets, US economy news, Euro zone crisis, recession, inflation and everything that is making me poorer and give me back my change. This Diwali, with Goddess Lakshmi as my witness, I took an oath to always ask for my change. I don’t care if it is humiliating to ask my own money back. I don’t want that extra five star with the Sneakers. I just want my change back!

When I was little, I used to maintain a piggy bank where I used to store all the change that I got from the once honest shop owners.  And whenever it was full I used to break it with anticipation, counting how much money I had collected. And it used to be sufficient to buy unlimited candies. Now there is no piggy bank. All that is left is a bank and a credit card which I use to avoid being robbed of any change only to look with the same anticipation and a little dread at my credit card bills.

It’s been years now since I last held that shining one rupee coin or a little heavy five rupee coin. But I often wonder that if I don’t have change, if my friends don’t have it and the shopkeepers don’t have it then who owns the change that all of them owe me. I promise, anyone telling me where my change is will get all the change owed to him. So, here is to bringing about that change because change is our wallet’s right and we shall have it.

Understanding Dudes - Dudism, its origin and ethnic culture

Yesterday night I was enjoying a quite stroll with Nimmo who was busy contemplating the jewelery she would want to wear at her sister's wedding while I was busy thinking of loans or better – suicide. Nimmo was saved of an early widowhood by a boy shouting over to his friend, 'What the f*** dude'. Unfazed by the use of a swear word, the other youth promptly replied, 'Dude! What the f***'. And deeming the conversation over, zipping their leather jackets they both rolled away on their bikes, leaving me impressed with this new form of conversation which was not only short and crisp but also let people swear others without any harm meant or done.


Keeping the idea of suicide on hold for a while (it was still 6 months for my sister-in-law's wedding), I followed up on swear words with a meticulous research on the subject and found that what I was looking at is not just an art of conversation as I had initially thought but infact a society now gaining popularity after years of torture, social trauma, injustice and sub domination. Little did I know that my misadventure was leading me directly into the world of – the mighty and revered – 'The Dudes'.


With the help of Ballu's son Bittoo who turned out to be a self-confessed converted dude, I delved deeper into their world and secrets and was mesmerized by the organizational structure of the dudes community. Bittoo, who preferred being called by his dude name – Hunter, was more than willing to share with me the secret and then if found eligible, convert me to dudism as well.


As it turns out, an aspiring dude should have the following characteristics in order to be referred as a true dude: a) A goti mustache just below the lower lip b) a torn jeans that always threatens to slip below the hip showing off unwashed boxers and c) atleast one 'f' word in every 3 sentence. These characteristics mixed with some chronic disorders of unkempt hair filled with lice, uncanny habit of not bathing for a week and sudden impulses of forming a rock band, together promise the making of a complete dude – since 1825.


Though now seen in huge numbers in the metropolitan areas wandering road sides or roaming in malls with dazed eyes and no specific purpose, dudism is infact a very old religion which was curbed by years of so called reformist propaganda. Those of us fortunate enough to study the dude lore can tell you that the first signs of dudism can be traced back to Mahabharata and it is often said that Duryodhana was the first dude to be born in India. Now a deity of the dudes, Duryodhana set an example for everyone by going almost pinto infront of his mother and hurling abuses at Krishna, as Hunter very proudly recalls reading from their sacred text – 'Ddudo Nahao Ddudo Phalo'. Dushasana, following the large and ugly footsteps of his brother was the first converted dude who tried, unsuccessfully, to convert Draupadi into a dudette. Dude historians however argue that Draupadi, owing to her husband management skills, was infact a dudette in disguise. The legend was famously depicted in the screenplay – A Very Dirty Picture.

During my extensive travels over the past few months, I met dudes from all over the country, fraternizing with them and understanding their culture. I found that though some typical qualities are spread across India, every region has its own kind of dudes. The dudes from Chandigarh are often adrenaline high and would jump on any occasion to do the most dim witted thing in the world because its 'Oye Cool Oye.'. The Delhi dudes on the other hand have recently devised a new language called 'Hinglish'. They often revert to this language to hide their inadequacies at English which according to them is 'Nahin yaar. This is not so cool yaar.'. Rajasthani dudes are the simplest of them all. They are all just Rajasthan Royal fans, though they deferred from choosing Duryodhana as their lord, choosing Shilpa Shetty instead - to symbolize dudette power. Anyone doing a Lux Cozi adverisement is a dude in Mumbai with all the links you need to become a penniless homeless model (or did anyone say gay?). In Southern parts of India, anyone with a good pelvic muscle which can be gyrated to and fro and misunderstood for being a dance can call himself a dude (Mind it!). Sadly, all the dudes in UP and Bihar have been killed either by the mafia or in a covert operation by Shiv Sena. “We won't let the most awesome dudes come from this region. Jai Maharashtra.”, they said in unison.

Bittoo a.k.a. Hunter also introduced me to his Holiness Monty-IV in my search for spiritual guidance under the laws of dudism. His Holiness, sitting on a red Harley Davidson very calmy told me, “Dude, A true f**kin' dude always remembers to love three f**kin' thin' – mah hair, mah i-pod and mah gal”. The “gal” sitting behind him cried in exclamation, “Mah Hero!”. Somehow I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom and puke. Sitting in the bathroom with no one around to disturb my thoughts, I let my thought wander around to the things I had observed over the past few months.


I summarized that dudes were the coolest people in the world. For one thing, almost every dude is a rock fan. And rock is always cool, isn't it? As a part of 'dude induction training', every aspiring dude is instructed to read, learn and appreciate every rock musician in the world. They also have to undergo a daily head banging therapy which is the only way to get lice out of your hair. Bathing is obviously not an option even for an aspiring dude. Bathing would be so uncool for a rock fan. A dude is supposed to be cool. So he doesn't mind his jeans wearing off from the bottoms or his Metallica t-shirt not being laundered for over a century. A dude is so cool he never bothers himself with issues like Lokpal and Black money. “Whatever,” said Hunter when he saw Prashant Bhushan argue why CBI should come under Lokpal ambit. But Anna Hazare was offered an honorary doctorate on dudism for being on stage more than Jim Morrison which he politely refused.


“A dude is so cool that I want to be a dude as well,” I decided. Flush.


I felt a complete dude (since 1825) sitting in my sister-in-law's wedding. I had given up the plan to commit suicide which was deemed as an undudely act by His Holiness Monty-IV. Instead, I bought a guitar, messed up my hair a little and sold my Maruti 800 to buy an Avenger. Touching my goti beard, I noticed the crowd around me. Many relatives and aunties had cried in shock when they saw me in a leather jacket, a chain hanging out of my rugged jeans getting off my brand new bike. But then - what did these people know about coolness. Sitting in a corner, I saw a few girls with colored hair, black nail paint and heavy mascara around their eyes. Definitely dudettes, I mused. I looked for Nimmo. She was probably away chatting with some aunties. I winked at the dudette with blue hair. She smiled. A dude always gets the “gal”. God bless the dudes.




Disclaimer: This post is just intended at humor and not to hurt any person's, religion's or region's sentiments. Please let me know if you have any objections to this post.

Chauraha

“Beta! What would you like to become when you grow up?” The favorite question of my aunt’s cousin twice removed. I never understood that relation my whole life. But whoever she was I loved my Aunt’s cousin twice removed because she always brought huge packets of chocolate for me. But the question remained. What would I like to become when I grow up. This was also the favorite question of Anita Aunty, Sushma Aunty and all the Aunties whose son were in IITs or other big engineering colleges. I always thought…

What the hell do these people mean by ‘Beta! when you grow up’. I was grown up. After all I was 5 years old and was already getting to understand the spellings of ‘enginir’ and  ‘doctar.

Yes! I was a 5 year old ‘bacha’ trying to figure out what I would be when I am 22 or 23 years old! I am sure if you had asked Pamela Anderson the same question, she would have died of heart attack. How could I take such a big decision on my future when my favorite hobby was still eating mud at home and teacher’s brain at school.

But I had a ready-made example personified in my own house. My bhaiya Tarun. “Oh! Look at him. He is so intelligent”, my teary eyed mother would often say. “See he has again topped the class Varun. You should learn something from your bhaiya beta!”, my neighbour (whose son was in IIT) always told me. I always wanted to tell her to shut up and mind her own business. I never did that because her son, though in IIT was known to be a boxing champ and I really didn’t want my teeth to end up in my stomach.

My bhaiya Tarun who was ‘Oh so intelligent’ was, in my opinion, nothing but an oversized monkey. Not because he looked like a monkey(Monkeys are better-looking than him and they are not as fat as he is and they also don’t have the ability to cram everything in sight), but because he behaved like a total monkey. His mouth was always half open due to the teeth which were soon going to fall out and he laughed(which he seldom did) like monkey. It was more of a ‘khee-khee’ than a ‘ha-ha’. But still he was something yaar. He was just 13 years old but he was confident that he would become an engineer some day. If only I could have that sort of confidence, I often thought, the world is in my hands. After all I was 5 years old…

My favorite cricketer was Vinod Kambli. Not because he was classy but because he was a lefty like me. Now, Brian Lara is also a left handed batsman, my nukkad friends said. But he wasn’t Indian so I didn’t like him much. Being a 7 year old I could atleast do that much to be a true patriotic. I don’t know when I started playing cricket in the society street we children called ‘nukkad’. But the day I broke Sarita Chachi’s 5^th floor window, I was declared the best batsmen of our ‘nukkad midgets’ team and I was finally a ‘pakka’ player. Rainy or sunny, we never missed cricket. We all went to Amol’s place to watch cricket matches in colour. We cheered on every six and danced on every Indian win. And there, seeing Vinod kambli giving a nice thrashing to every other baller, I decided I wanted to be a cricketer some day. The day my bhai got into IIT my cricketing career was put to a halt to prepare me for the same fate. Vinod Kambli retired from international cricket a few years later.

By the time I turned 13, I was avoiding failing in mathematics in class VII while Tarun scored yet another 9 pointer (his CGPA was 9.7) in his second year. “What is this CGPA again?”, I asked Tarun. He told me to shut up and concentrate on my percentage. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I decided. The questions and suggestions about my career kept pouring in from various sources. Some distant aunt in U.S. mailed my dad to prepare me for GRE (my dad didn’t knew the full form when I asked him), some unwanted aunty in the neighborhood told me to go for specialized courses from Delhi and a friend of mine told me that someday we both could open a shop together. My brother always bragged me to study harder as it’s not an easy job to get into top institutions. In turn, I always begged him to lose some weight as it’s not an easy job getting married with a belly ready to explode at any time.

The day came when I cleared my high school and I was the happiest person on earth. My house felt like someone had died. My brother called from U.S. to tell how badly I had performed and how much shame I had brought him and the family. My marks were immediately tallied with my brother’s who had completed high school 8 years ago!! I had scored 67%. Tarun’s score was 96%.

Getting admission in XI was a difficult job. There were entrance tests, personal interviews, parent’s interviews. Some even considered calling the grand-parents. I thanked God they didn’t call my dog because it definitely didn’t have a very good upbringing and I am sure it wasn’t very fond of nagging principals as well. Finally I managed Vidya Bharti School which was the 8^th best school in Meerut. My mother who had cried the day my brother got into IIT took a sigh of relief when I got the admission letter.

The melodrama in our house-hold had started. My mom had it straight out of Kasautti Zindagi Kii where everyone will stand facing each other saying nothing at all and my dad had it out of Aaj Tak where you had to believe whatever the person on the screen is saying. My mom listened to unwanted aunties about me and said nothing and my dad listened to the relatives and thought they were right about my career. I, on my part, just felt a sting that my mom and dad have to listen to people because of me. My mom and various ‘unwanted aunties’ discussed over my future prospects during kitty parties and society dinners. I was always kept up-to-date about the ranks of other’s sons, son’s friends and their brothers. The coaching centre was a horror where we were divided into batches according to our ranks. I always managed to maintain the last batch. I was relieved the day dad told me that I would never get into IIT. Atleast he had come to terms with the hard reality.

As prophesized by my father, I didn’t get into IIT, didn’t manage any NIT, and wasn’t accepted in Delhi University. I was a complete failure. Dad told me that it wasn’t any use going to any other counseling as it would be just a waste of time and money. The days were hard to pass by. I was not allowed to meet my friends. I wasn’t even allowed to play cricket. Tarun left his MNC job the same year and cleared CAT. He was among the elite students and got admission into IIM Ahmedabad. I wanted to drown somewhere. The day he came home he made a face like a chimpanzee (which wasn’t really hard for him) and told me that I have turned into a good for nothing teenager of this useless country. I congratulated him on his success and realized (more due to the shame inside) that the ‘unwanted aunties’ were right and it was time to think about my career.

I went into the college (the 3^rd best in Meerut, Gosh! I was improving my standards) with the dream of making it big here. The dream was shattered the second day when I saw Tina. She was the prettiest and the most famous girl in my department. Naturally, whole ‘janta’ wanted her. There is one big problem with famous girls: they know they are famous which makes it virtually impossible to impress them. I tried talking to her infamous friends (all famous girls have infamous friends who make her all the more famous) but all in vain. My friends (who all had taken it upon themselves to make the life of every creature walking on earth a misery) told me the final solution to this universal problem. They told me if there is one thing a woman of any proportion can’t resist, its music.

Music… Hmm… It seems there is an invisible bond between music, musicians and girls. They are practically impossible to separate. It was then, to impress Tina that I decided to become a musician. As soon as I entered this world of rock, punk and metal, I came to know that my knowledge in this area of ‘simplest way to impress a girl’ was rather very limited because the only music I had ever heard was Rafi and Geeta Dutt my mom used to play on the radio. They were all dead. I didn’t wanted to be a singer and end up dead, I decided. But in this losing battle of love and decision I had to choose something. My friends told me to play some instrument.

I could play tabla but as it turned out it is one of the most unromantic instrument in music industry, my friends told me. They were right actually. How would a girl like you when she sees you beating something as cute looking as a tabla? I held a guitar in my hand and we formed a band. My deep analysis on the matter turned out to be right and as soon as the word got around that I was a guitarist, Tina herself came to me (actually quite stuck to me) and we became ‘good friends’. She asked me to participate in the college rock fest. For her sake I did and we came fourth. Tina left me and I soon found out that she was now the ‘best-friend’ of the lead singer of the winning band. I soon overcame her because I realized that if at all there was a bigger misery to mankind than Paris Hilton – it was her.

The biggest effect of this rock fest was felt upon my mother who finally had something to tell about me. She told every relative who would listen, how her son loved music and came fourth in the college fest. She just forgot to mention the fact that there were just four bands competing.

All my worthless life I remained the key hit-point of every ‘unwanted aunty’ of our colony. What was so special about these aunties, I often thought. I am sure there is an ‘unwanted aunty’ in every colony and society. The supreme commander of these aunties was Rita Aunty who took it upon herself to find the latest gossips of the society. I am sure even Aaj Tak is not as fast as her in spreading rumors and news of all the pangas. She had the complete bio-data of other aunties’ son, daughter and their friends. Inspite of her marriage being a total failure, she always had a few rishtaas for every bachelor in our society. She never suggested any rishta for me.

I started with my third year when I came to know that Rita Aunty had a proposal for Tarun. He had completed his freak MBA and was now placed in one of the biggest banks of Germany. He married a few months later. Even mothers realize that in cases like my brother’s, people are sometimes very lucky to get married. My mother looked content with her elder son. My bhabhi was extremely beautiful and I never understood what she saw in my brother. But then the combined effect of being beautiful and the weight of fat Euro cheques may sometimes make you very dumb. They both moved to Germany and had a son who I heard was a genius as well. My mother also told me that he had bought a Mercedes. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I thought.

Student Council elections are a rage in our college. The past record showed that only the supreme leader of total lukhaas became the college President. As I fulfilled all the qualifications of a true lukhaa I was made a nominee. A few friendly fights, my friend’s ‘convincing powers’ and on some occasions the unavoidable gundagardi saw me being made the President of our college. I found it quite ironical as I wasn’t sure who the President of India was. I was loved and feared by all as I represented the common man of my college. I was their savior, their Lalu as they fondly called me. Some even went far enough to compare me to Mayawati.

I was happy. I was a leader now recognized and feared by all. Finally I was able to make it big in college. But above all I was now worthy enough to be the topic of discussion of Rita Aunty’s gossips. I was asked for lunch where other aunties’ son came for discussing their problems in other colleges of Meerut as well. I was their leader, their savior. As a college President I had enough power to manage through the rest of my two years without much studying. My ‘charm’ was enough for professors who refused to give me marks.

Passing through college, I again found myself at a chauraha. The paths lead to various post graduates or a marginal salary in Mother Dairy. I took the fifth route. I decided to join politics. I joined the youth group of a ‘very big’ party in the same year when my brother moved in as the CEO of a ‘very big’ company in Germany and finally got a citizenship there. My parents, as usual were very unhappy with me which was not a big deal anymore. Sitting in my room, with nothing to do, I often thought:

What is it that my mom actually expected from her children? There was one who was never with her, who never took her to the doctor when she was ill, who never went to the mandi with her and who was never around to bear the pain of sitting with ‘unwanted aunties’ and then there was the other one who was always with her in pain, in sorrow, in happy times and on her birthday… There was one whose duty seemed like just sending cheques in Euro along with a photograph (from which a monkey, a beautiful damsel and a kid who looked the breed of two would be laughing at you sheepishly from Eiffel Tower) and there was other who stood by her not in a photograph but in her old age… Somehow, they had lost their love for me… I love my parents…

I became the big party’s youth leader. My job was to impress young college kids (read gundaas) to join our party. We used both money and power to influence the poor into joining hands with us. We held rallies and marches all over the town. Senior party officials often told us to fight with police to gain media attention. We broke windows, collected hafta tax and organized the birthday party of our party leader. We were becoming lukhaas on a big scale. From a musician turned politician, I had become a gunda. I was sick of this power. Rita Aunty had stopped mentioning me because her own son was in college now and she feared she might upset me with her nonsense talks. I never told her that her talks had upset me since I was 14 years old. I never tried to induct her son into the party. Infact, I left the party myself.

Aunty must have partied hard the night I left the party. Because her gossiping about how ‘they’ had thrown me out of the party had started the very next day. I sat at home and either listened to Aaj Tak or my father and was surprised how similar both sounded. You could always neglect the waste part, I often told myself. My friends from college and party workers often came to my house to try and convince me to come back. They now compared me to Gandhiji who I came to know had put on a hunger strike against the policies of British. My friends thought that I was on some similar mission against my party. I promptly told them that I was on no hunger strike and offered them some aaloo parathas. They all tried to tell me what differences I could bring to the nation and showed me Rang De Basanti (in which a hero who is fond of changing his hair style brings about a revolution in youth sacrificing his own life). I told them I had no ideas of sacrificing my life. It was then that someone mentioned I looked just like Aamir Khan.

I looked like Aamir Khan!? Hmm… I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad, I thought. I could see muscles building up at the right places with a chocolaty face. I am good looking!, I was surprised. I could be a movie star, I told myself. I had done a few dramas in my school and college. I remembered when I had played Lakshman in school Ramayana. Sita had definitely given me a mischievous look. I talked about it with my parents who instantly refused to send me anywhere unless I had a paid job. My father after seeing the terrible face of my elder brother probably couldn’t believe that his other son could actually be a movie star. I respected my parents but what else could I have done. All confused, a week later, I ran away from home.

15 years later…

… Reporter: You came here with nothing in hand and today you are on the front cover of every Bollywood magazine and are working with the biggest production houses. How do you feel Rishabh or should I call you Varun?   

 

Rishabh Kumar: Name really doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you like but yes my real name is Varun. Rishabh is what industry has bestowed upon me and I really respect both my names. And yes it’s true that when I came here, I had nothing in hand except will power. But it’s just been 14 years in the industry and I still feel like a new face. New works keep coming up and I take all of them as a challenge. I still have a long way to go, I believe.

Reporter: Being really modest aren’t you? Mumbai is called the city of dreams. Did you ever dream that rising from a small town you would ever come here and be the next superstar?

Rishabh Kumar: (smiles) how many of your dreams do you remember?

Reporter: Not many.

Rishabh Kumar: Exactly. Because dreams are beautiful but as pessimistic as it may sound or as optimistic as we may want it to be, dreams never come true. We dream, we enjoy and then we forget them. Crossing the various crossroads of my own life, I realized that I never dreamt. Infact, I was a very confused person. A day came when I wanted to a be a cricketer, someday a musician, the other day the President of India and like all these days one day I wanted to be an actor. But I can proudly tell you that, may be not to perfection, but I have lived all these dreams. I realized that while confident people become CEOs, managers, chairpersons of big companies, the confused people are like…me…artists in a bigger sense.

The spot boy came in, “Sir, the shot is ready”.

My Daily Routine!

6:25 A.M. - First Alarm of a sequence of alarms and first curse of a sequence of curses.

6:35 A.M. – Imagine a world without clocks and alarms.

6:40 A.M. - Remember the horrible face of the Boss and wake up.

6:45 A.M. – Sitting in the loo think how beautiful it would be if one could sleep again.

6:55 A.M. – Ah! Flush!!

7:00 A.M.– While bathing, try and struggle reaching all parts of the body.

7:15 A.M. – Smell the shirt (make a ‘who-cares’ face), remember the boss’s secretary (make a ‘I do care’ face) and put a lot of perfume.

7:30 A.M. – Re-evaluate the face in the mirror. Smile a little. Think something on the lines of ‘You-

Handsome-Little-Thing’ or ‘Perfect-10’.

7:45 A.M. – Board the bus and start shaking. Rub the hips with strangers (all men).

8:10 A.M. – Reach the office and remove the clutter from previous days.

8:20 A.M. – Have a delicious south Indian breakfast (Idly and sambhar, dosa and sambhar or vada and sambhar). Remember mom and aloo parathas (with parathas in prominence).

9:00 A.M. – Walk infront of boss’s office, make a silent prayer, give a weak smile to the secretary (who winks as if this is going to be the best day in the world) and go inside.

NOTE: In general interest I am not writing the constitutionally incorrect language that my boss uses for the next half an hour after which his wife (presumably) calls him and he makes a gesture with hand that I chose to interpret as dismissed.

9:30 A.M. – Emerge from the office with nothing to say to secretary who looks expectantly for a little gossip.

10:00 A.M. – Imagine the boss drowning in his own tea cup and various other violent things causing possible hazards to him.

12:00 Noon – Go for lunch. Eat rice and sambhar and wonder why I was ever born.

12:30 P.M. – Talk to girlfriend, listen to how her make-up went all wrong today and discuss why Loreal is a better brand than Garnier.

1:00 P.M. – Try to imagine a girlfriend-without-misery. Impossible to even imagine.

1:15 P.M. – Stop imagining and return to reality. Analyze the pending work.

1:30 P.M. – Chat with friends how Rajasthan should suck at IPL.

3:00 P.M. – Try not to fall asleep out of complete boredom.

3:20 P.M. – Enjoy the free coffee and samosa and discuss how the company should provide free kachori as well.

4:00 P.M. The wait begins.

5:00 P.M. The wait ends. Leave the office.

5:30 P.M. Start shaking in the bus again.

6:00 P.M. Sleep.

8:30 P.M. Have dinner (something with sambhar). Wish there were no taste buds in the tongue anymore.

9:00 P.M. Start writing the blog no one reads.

11:00 P.M. Wish it was Sunday tomorrow and sleep.

The UnderWorld

The problem I am going to discuss with you today, is far reaching than the misery of inflation, a problem that has captured the imagination of every house-hold in the world, a problem that consumes us more than the rising oil prices and a problem that could easily change the very face of earth and humanity all together. And this very grave problem that we all have encountered atleast once in a lifetime of worthlessness is – ‘A Cockroach’.

It’s been years since ‘The Great War of Roaches’ was fought in my house and it was during those perilous times that I learnt many valuable lessons about cockroaches which I am going to share with you today, free of cost and labor. During the early periods of Great War, I was given the responsibility of murdering those very unfriendly looking, hideous creatures while my mother tried to intoxicate them with some poisonous spray.

Recent studies and my deep analysis on this topic reveals that a cockroach could have been really cute had it not decided to part ways with its distant cousin – ‘The Mighty Crocodile’ who is rather very charming in his own special way as many of my friends (who later ended up in it’s not very friendly stomach) told me.

Cockroaches can now be found in every slimy corner of a house in all proportions of ugliness. But, though ugly, a cockroach is a very smart creature. Millions of years of perils have taught them the espionage techniques against the human race. Very minutely, I noticed that a cockroach has the unusual habit to turn upside down as soon as you try to kill it. It will always try and seduce you with it’s 8-pack oozy stomach and fine-polished tentacles. The virtue of patience was also learnt during those times. Cockroaches, which are very much into modern arts of yoga and meditation can pretend to be dead for hours. When finally you throw them out, they would simply turn over, show you a middle finger and find a way back into your closet.

The Great War was lost but a recent James Bond flick inspired me to launch my own offensive. I decided to spy on the formidable enemy myself. I used my charm to befriend a very sweet and good-looking female roach – Tim-Tim who, as it turned out was also former ‘Miss Roachistaan’. Over an exotic dinner of stale bread and rotten tomatoes she told me an ancient secret well kept by their ancestors for over a million of years which, though under oath from Tim-Tim, I am going to share with you now.

The forbidden secret is that of a daily (read deadly if your specific parts don’t work in right order) fest known as the ‘The Great Carnival of Fornification’. This great Carnival is the ‘milan’ of underground civilizations where giant societies of cockroaches, rats and various pests assemble for a common cause – ‘Family Planning’. “Hum Do Hamare Emm… Who Cares” seems to be the spiritual motto as it is during these times of joy and drunkenness that male and female roaches ‘socialize’ to do something which can be closely related to an activity we don’t tell our children when they ask us how they were born. They even got the name for this sacred sport – ‘The Holympic Marathon of Reproduction’ where scores of rats and roaches compete everyday to find who has actually ‘got it’.

A cockroach, among its various other ‘virtues’, also has a very sweet voice. Together with frogs they have this habit of giving background music during very romantic conversations happening in beautiful gardens, as a very pretty girl once told me during such a conversation. Indeed, I meditated, a roach has the capability of producing sounds stranger than Himesh Reshamiya and if you listened very closely you could even hear extracts of Anu Malik in it.

Though many above the surface are not aware, cockroaches played a bigger role in our freedom movement than we choose to remember today. When hordes and hordes of European cockroaches were marching inland, our own breed of ‘Gandhi-following-roaches’ launched a country-wide Satyagraha against them. These moderate peace-loving roaches would often march in thousands towards British houses and would often scare the hell out of oh-so-sophisticated British house-maids and later happily sacrificed their own life. More on the extremists side roaches fought with the elite British roaches. It is rumored that some roaches even participated in the round table conference in London. Detailed proofs of Panditji himself honoring these brave cockroaches could be found at the ‘Rust-Library’ of ‘Roachistaan’.

I have come to love and respect Cockroaches and when lonely, I often wished Tim-Tim was unmarried and though polyandry is not an issue for them, I was in no mood to upset General Jham Jham. I also considered the fact that inter-species romance could sometimes be, well, very hybrid.

My report on cockroaches was well received by both my family and the roaches and the long awaited peace treaty was signed with the General (with Tim-Tim very glad in the background). I was even offered the Kut-Kut-Nobel peace prize which I very humbly accepted. A huge extravaganza was held in my honor in the city of ‘Roachistaan’. My mother, on her part accepted not to use the environment unfriendly and cockroachically hazardous spray and in turn the roaches agreed to be found in the kitchen whenever ‘unwanted relatives’ decided to show up for dinner.

Sara came to my house today. We were there, sitting in my bedroom when she suddenly shrieked, held my hand and jumped all over me. She kept hugging me and shrieking, hugging and shrieking. But then, who cared for the latter. From the corner of the room Tim-Tim winked at me and I gave her a thumbs-up. It was our own little agreement. Life is very good sometimes.

BUY-CYCLE

People now a days have found a new pass-time in the form of debating – there is the ‘rising food and petrol prices’ debate of the ‘common man’, the ‘Women’s Reservation Bill’ debate of the Parliament, ‘Will the world end someday soon’ debate on IndiaTV. But one debate that caught my eye and in my opinion is much above the ideas of national and social interest is – ‘what to really call this present generation’ debate.

In recent history, people of various social standards who have no other better work to do, have debated on the status of the present Indian generation. They have come up with names like – Gen-X, Gen-Y, Gen-Rowdy, Gen-Useless etc. Since I realized that I neither have a social standard nor any better work to do, I should come up with one common thing that could define the entire generation of India and eventually turned up with the name that I am sure is going to change the way we look at the youngsters in India. Hence, I proudly present to you what I call, the Generation – F.

Even Ballu didn’t understand the meaning of my research and study. But then Ballu was always more interested in food than any research. Since you people look more interested (this I gather from the fact that you are still reading inspite of my bad English), I had like you to perform a simple but effective test to better understand what I mean by Gen-F.

Step1: Stand in-front of a full length mirror.
Step2: Stop admiring your face.
Step3: Look at your stomach.
Step 4: Try to conceal the horrid expression on your face realizing how fat you are.
Step 5: If you still think that by Gen-F, I mean ‘Generation-Facebook’ then repeat Step 3 and Step 4.

After a long session with the mirror, recurring steps of looking at your tummy and constant denials you will, like poor Ballu, realize that you, like million other Indians, belong to the ‘Gen-Fat’.

It has been a tradition in India, politically motivated by relatives and neighborhood aunties to call a child healthy only if he is the size of a small baby elephant. If they had their way, they would change the definition of ‘healthy’ from 8-pack to 1-large-sack.

Marriages, I have come to understand are the biggest sources of food for the entire Indian Gen-Fat. Marriage is one place where even the size zero freaks would lose self control simply because everything is free. The families in India are sometimes so huge, that you have the chance to grab some free marriage meal almost every weak. Mothers would specifically instruct their children to eat everything they can. You can even find there the grandmothers, who have been instructed by the doctor, sneaking away a cup or two of ice-creams. Just who said that nothing comes for free?

Ballu often used to say that he never exercised because he was worried, like many plump people that increased physical activity might increase his appetite. I was horrified by even the idea of increasing his appetite. I mean the guy was already half the size of Khali. But when I searched the topic on Internet, I found that a controlled study of overweight individuals did not reveal a proportionate increase in appetite with exercise, lending support to the positive role of physical activity in reaching the goal of a negative Caloric balance and resulting weight loss. Ballu, however didn’t understand a single word I said (The problem with Ballu was that he only understood things that revolved around food or similar content).

There are many small and big problems that form the part and parcel of being fat. People get tired easily now a days, they feel old at a very young age, fat people complain about rising oil prices the most because they do not want to use the power of their fat legs to walk even small distances, there are the heart problems, sugar and various other medical terms that I chose, long ago, not to learn. Also, I wouldn’t want to give you an early heart-attack by giving you the statistics of people dying of heart diseases in India (dare Google it huh?). You wouldn’t believe that people are actually having kids sooner than they had planned because they are not sure if they are going to live long enough to see them getting fat! (Please don’t believe that. Because of the anti-social element that I am, I made it up)

Well! as pessimistic as it may sound and as optimistic as we may want to be, it is a hard reality that we must gulp down our throats like poison – WE ARE FAT and we are getting fatter day after day - using our big sedan just to impress neighbors, sitting in office (mostly lazing around and chatting) and lying on sofa watching IPL. Ballu, meanwhile, sitting in the heavens, cursing his wife why she cooked such wonderful ‘parathas’, must be wondering why I didn’t write this article earlier. My dear friend, that’s because I never liked you anyways and had a little crush on your wife as well. For all you guys still reading this article please follow the advice Baba Ramdev forgot to give (because he was busy shaving) – BUY CYCLE.