The Young Indian's Belief

Imagine a village, with no electricity, none of the modern gadgets, we are so used to, that we can’t imagine our lives without them. Imagine a place, where people still listen to transistors, and to fetch water every day, they travel some 20 odd kilometers. Imagine a land, where agriculture, and vedic chants are the only education that you receive. Imagine a young girl, thrust into the chores of the day, the moment birds start to chirp. Imagine the India, all of us are unaware of.

We sit in our air conditioned cubicles, thinking what has become of our country. We criticize every politician, irrespective of whether he is involved in a scam or not. We blame others, for all the wrong done to us with complete disrespect for this brilliant machine, called the human mind. We forget what we are capable of, we forget what we can become, and we forget what has become of us.

A girl, not more than 18 years of age, wakes up one fine day, and finds her mother to be ill, discovers the burden of household chores to be thrust on her. She finds that the utensils are dirty, clothes need washing, the house needs cleaning, her younger brother, needs lunch for school, and her mother needs tending to. She has never been to school. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be in a school and learn multiplication. However much, the local shopkeeper hands to her as change, she accepts, when she goes to buy grocery and vegetables. Oh yes, and the lunch needs cooking. She sighs, exasperated. She appears down, but not out.

She takes a deep breath, and gets on her bicycle, goes to get water, goes to buy grocery, goes to buy vegetables, comes back, cleans the house, fixes up something for her younger brother to eat and goes to drop him to school. She is brave, she will not back down. Her father goes off to work, without lunch, she feels sad, she feels her insides churn, but no time for moping, she sits down washes some clothes, gets some medicines for her mother, and by the time her brother comes back, the chores just got done with. She gives him food, makes her mother eat, does the dishes, and round and round the hands on her wall-clock roll.

Its 9:30 in the night, everybody plans to sleep, everybody lays down, she closes her eyes, but sleep doesn’t come to her. She starts to THINK. A bulb lights inside of her head, she has an idea. Suddenly, she realizes, she is going to do something, something that might transform the country.

The next day she wakes up, her mother feels better, commends her on the brilliant job she did the day before, but she is not satisfied. She wants to make life easier for her mother and the billion other mothers around the country, who are bound by the grind of their daily chores, one’s who can’t afford the fancy electronic equipment we’re so used to, can’t even afford the huge electricity bills.

She takes her bicycle to the local repair shop, with an unusual request. The person who owns it, respects her dad, so gives in to her requests. She gets the front tyre and assembly removed, and replaces it with a sealed metal box. She connects the chain, to the outside of the box, which, in turn is connected  to a porous metal cylinder, inside the box, and gets a tap installed at the bottom. The top is hinged, and gets a latch.

She makes her own washing machine.

She tries it out, puts in water, some detergent, fills the cylinder, with dirty clothes, pours some water, and shuts the top.

This is the moment of truth. She gets on the seat, and pushes the pedals, she pushes to break free, she pushes to prove herself, she pushes hard, she pushes for the world to know, she pushes for her mother’s pride, she pushes and pushes, and realizes she has done it.

She has done, what we sitting in the comfort of classrooms, engineers, couldn’t even think of. She has made washing clothes easy, at a meager cost. She has inspired the age of frugal innovation, something, everyone our country is capable of doing. India, doesn't need to shine, it needs to dazzle. Think, with that muscule of yours called the brain, what you’re capable of. This girl has earned my respect, and the whole nation’s. Isn’t it time you did too?

“Its noisy”, she says about her washing machine, “but even the universe started with a bang.”

I urge you, to break free from the shackles of society, break free from traditional mindsets. Think. Soak in no more negativity from the multitudes of scams around you, the politics, the petty activities of those, that are not gifted. Do some good for the nation. Soak in some pride and be what you aspire to be. Stop thinking of where China and US are today, but think, where can India be tomorrow with your help. Immerse yourself no more in what the world around you says to you. Some body famous once said, “If people tell you, what you’re doing is madness, you’re on the right track.”

Soak yourself no more, in what by-standers say, for they forever, will be bystanders. You are gifted, rise above petty hurdles, rise above those, who can’t or won’t. Soak yourself, no more in self-doubt, immerse yourself no more in compromise, strive for what you deserve, soak no more in MEDIOCRITY.

Contest Link : http://www.indiblogger.in/topic.php?topic=61

Loving the Arranged Marriage or Arranging the Love Marriage

“I tried so hard, and got so far, in the End it doesn’t even matter.” –Linkin Park

The above said words by  the babajis  at Linkin Park summarise the end result of most of our futile efforts for relationships,  or in this case, Marriage.  I write about relationships, and other shit that goes around in our stupid heads, hence I love the topic posed.

Now, im a 23 yr old, trying to figure out, which side of the coin ill chose, if I make it to marriageable age,and at the same time, be marriageable. So that was putting what’s yet to come, into context.

Most of us try so hard, to find girls to date. We google, register at stupid websites like Adult friendfinder.com (or was that for some other purpose?), we ask our friends to introduce us to chicks (dila de yaar bandi- in engineering lingo),we facebook to checkout chicks that don’t have blocked pictures, however, we want our dear mommies to find us bride material to marry. Why?

One, we don’t trust our judgement (whatever little we have of it, left). I feel, we don’t view relationships as a long term engagement, but as short term carnal affairs. Having said that, there are a million exceptions, but the general populace would agree. Add to that, the difficulty of finding one person of the opposite gender, that wants to stick around you. Phew, hell of a difficult task at hand. Next the commitment phobia, that we guys have, as much as we have hair. But assuming all of these are dealt with strictly, and you somehow decide you CAN marry, then why an arranged marriage, and if not then why a love marriage?

Now, I don’t want a Pulitzer for this post, so ill not describe the beauty and sanctity of the sacred institution of marriage, neither will I in my trademark way, abuse it. I will just show you the two coins, n not just the two sides of the same coin.

Why Love Marriage.

Now, if not like me, you’re one mirror shattering-ly beautiful guy, and you, unlike me, have your hands full with women, then the obvious choice is for you to go along and marry one of them. But if you, are one who keeps weird beard styles to take the attention away from whatever thing you have to call a face, then can you take that risk? What if the chick is after your money? (too cheesy?, so I was told). But the problem is all the pretty girls are already taken, or they like women (true story!). So where will you find one for yourself?

Why Arranged Marriage.

Now people that look like I do, love the concept of an arranged marriage, wherein, you are given an option, you take it or leave it. But things like taking a few years to even get to know the other person, do put me off. However, in this case, you don’t face the risk of getting blamed for anything your better (or worse) half does. So, its more of a win win, than the other way. You don’t have to convince your parents, no family panga’s to deal with.Neat.

Bottomline, If you manage to find a good chick for yourself, stick to her, and marry her. And if Not, well, what other option do u have left then?

Contest Link:  www.facebook.com/LoveYaArrange.

The Lord's Name in Vain

Remember the worst movie that you have ever seen in your lifetime. Imaging what you felt. And then quadruple that feeling, take it to power 32, cover it with thorns, and shove it up a place inaccesible to others. Now imagine this feeling, and hold on to the thought while I bring you to terms with the gross violation of senile thoughts, I suffered at Comedy Store.

Flashback:

Yesterday night, one of my dearest friends, DK, calls me up at night and says, “Bhaai kal Tom Alter, Cyrus Dastur, ka ek play hai Comedy store pe. Directed by Anurag-STUD-Kashyap. Chalna hai?”

“Oh fu**, Sahi. Lets go yaar.”

Fast forward 12 hours.

Sitting in the best possible seats at Comedy store, DK says,” Bhaai feel toh hai iss jagah me”. I looked at him and waved my head in appreciation. Tom Alter stood to the right of where I was seated, all set to go on stage.

Then began the mass violation. I, for the first time in life, have fallen short of words to describe the stupidity of that play.

“When God said Cheers!”

One, God(Alter), was trying so hard to be a cool god, saying “cheers”, at the end of every line, or what he thought of , would be punches.(Punches they were actually, to our face). Two, at so many times in the play, I felt both had forgotten their dialogues, and tried to bullshit their way out of it, with even stupider dialogues than the script. Do they think the audience is dumb?. Cyrus Dastur was acting like the sloth from Ice Age. My 3 yr old cousin sis would pull off a better “Human being”(the role he was trying to play). Three, There was no fu**ing point of the play. I mean you should arrive some place, or make it funny, or interesting, or thought provoking, or else, you must be Nolan to leave us hanging, and in thought. But here was neither. We had no sense of where it ended, and how. (Thank God(Alter), It ended atleast!).

Do these people take us to be fools. You bloody well respect the fu**ing 560 bucks I paid for the play. Hence the length of this post is an exact 560 words. Imagine a student, who’s surviving on Pocket money, to shell out 10% , on this bullshit. DK n I would have put up a better comedy show, set aside this fu**ing play. For this, alone, I should be entitled to a money back, even if I leave out the mental trauma, and emotional damage they did to me, by running this play. There was nothing funny in this play. Not even one good line.

My first time at Comedy Store, and Dastur, Alter, and Kashyap, ruined it for me. I was scarred for life, the moment I stepped out of that pseudo-theatre they’ve tried to construct. Ill go to the extent of saying “Kya SuperCool Hain Ham”, would get an Oscar, if the level of humour were to be compared between the two. That’s how disgusting it was. My insides still cringe at the thought of that play. I say, whoever wants to commit suicide, go watch “When God said Cheers”. After that, go cheer some teams at MUFC, only that brought some respite to the anarchy caused by the play inside my head.

Damn You Comedy Store for allowing such an atrocity.

The Unexpected Coffee Date

Up the road I was walking, minding my own business, humming a few songs, chugging along.

Ok, now I’m not one for civic cleanliness, but I try not to let go the habits taught by my dear mother and enforced by an ex-girlfriend. I try and do my bit for the society and its cleanliness, when I’m in my right mind. But as they say “vinaash kaaley vipreet buddhi” (when you near your end, your brain doesn’t work as well as it should). When your time is wrong all goes wrong.

Not having slept the entire night before, I was walking in a semi-asleep mode, chewing on gum to keep myself awake. (How lame, as if chewing on gum would keep me awake. I even know of people who can sleep doing stuff that keeps most people awake*assignments*, you dirty mind). Now, just like my boring life, the chewing gum had lost its juice, when I preferred to throw it out of my mouth in one perfect and beautiful projectile motion that would shame my class twelfth physics teacher. 

Proud of myself I kept walking.

What happened next, may seem like scene from the Fast and Furious (10^th part- year 2022), a slick black Mercedes SLK 200 Kompressor came up on my right at around 80 kmph, did a 540 degree swivel, and stopped just metres away from me. My jaw dropped open, and out came a girl, one so pretty that Kareena Kapoor and Edward Cullen seemed to be the donors for her genes.(Do I have the support of you twilight fans now?)

When my blood decided to come back to flowing into my head, I asked, “What do you do and how do u do it, to own a car like that?”

She stared at me with an expressionless face, just when the passenger’s side door opened, and out came a guy, twice my size and four times my age. He looked at the windscreen, and back at me. He appeared angry.

“It must be her father, how can something like THAT produce something so beautiful?” I muttered under my breath, and contemplated on how beautiful her mother must be to compensate for whatever homo sapien she had there to call a father.

“You think you’re a stud of some kind? Pick that chewing gum off of my windscreen right away.” He demanded.

“I don’t pick up things I just threw”, I responded trying to sound cool. The girl smiled. Whether out of  sympathy or out of empathy, I wouldn’t know.

“You’re picking it up or I’ll make sure the teeth you’re smiling with, are ground to powder right before my eyes. And stop checking out her legs.”

“Sir you want to resort to low life deeds in front of your own daughter? What would she think of her old man?”

“She is not my daughter. And I am younger than you and I can kick the butts of tens like you. I am God.”

I looked at the girl. I had to take a shot, she was so damn pretty. I said “Does God need a few pills? I 

have few friends who can fix him, his head and his you-know-what. We can discuss that over a cup of coffee if you like.”

She smiled.

I had scored. Or had I?

“Come on Amrit, let’s leave this kid alone”, she said to the old man.

“Yes UNCLE, go run off with your daughter. She wants you to be safe.”

He kept quiet and in one sudden motion took out what looked like a .32 Beretta from its holster, and aimed it at me.

“Holy Fuck”, I screamed.

I wanted to remain calm. That’s how it should work. That’s how I could find a solution out of this, but my mind wouldn’t budge. All these years of solving equations, topping in school, having a great brain, would go waste.

“I want to get out of this alive.” I said to myself, but I didn’t know how.

Suddenly it struck me.

I had a phone. What better time for it to be of any good?

“Sir, I getting a call, please stay calm and just let me talk to my mom once. After that you can get back to shooting me”

 “Okay, go ahead kid. But u make one wrong move, I shoot you in the head. I’m just trying to teach you a lesson here. Don’t act over smart.”

I took out my phone, held it in a perfectly vertical position to photograph him, making it appear I was trying to reject a call.

I heard a gun fire.

Off went my phone to the ground, a hole through the place, the apple sign use to be.

“I know how phone cameras work, kiddo. You’re too smart. Aren’t you?  Too bad you have to keep them in an exact vertical position to take a photo. Can’t I see through that?

“No sir, I was just checking whose call it was. Just making sure it wasn’t the Police”

“And I would agree to that why?”

“Sir because I don’t work for the FBI. I’m just a college going kid, who values his own life.”

 

“Stop with that crap.”

“Now, take the Lord’s name. Any last wishes?”

“Can I kiss your daughter?”

She smiled once more.

He frowned.

Another gunshot.

Have I been shot. My heart came to my lungs. I blacked out. The ground I hit was hard.

I woke up to a pretty girl sprinkling water over my face.

“You okay”?

I came back to my senses.

“Yeah, I guess so. Is this heaven?”

“No silly. I just shot my manager in the arm, he’s bleeding. Let’s take him to the hospital He is one crazy fellow. Takes my security too seriously. Anyway post that, if you don’t take me out on that coffee date, you’re getting one bullet too.” She smiled. I hoped she was kidding. But I wouldn’t know.

And that was how I got my first coffee date with a woman, who is now the face of a million ad campaigns.

That’s how life is.

This is my entry for a contest organised by KFC. Find it here.

The Women's Dabba- Delhi Metro

I tried to board the train in the first compartment, hoping that I could get to spend some peaceful moments with my, the then girlfriend. But, I guess, the lady dressed in blue manning (or womanning?) the entry point appeared too huge (and too out of love) to understand, and to be overcome with our puppy dog faces. So I chose to enter from the second compartment instead, and met my girlfriend at the junction, which was the sole “hangout zone” for distressed couples like us looking at each other with sympathetic solace. The other option was to enter in the other five (or was it three back then?) coaches, and bear with the tharki uncles, lecherous labourers and the “cool metro dudes” gawking down at my chick. Obviously I took the former, given that I’m not exactly a huge guy (in terms of height *frowns*), that can form a 1 km periphery around a girl. Neither was the girl I was dating, that tiny.

So, this brings me to the basic question, of questioning the questionability of the questionable act of having reserved dabbas for women in the Delhi Metro, when you’re already giving them reserved seats in each dabba. I mean, today, when I spend around 2.5 hours commuting in the Metro, to Gurgaon (the place home to the hottest girls in the country), and given that I am single, and it is okay for me to checkout girls, I feel sad that I don’t have ANY to gawk at. Agreed that people that get on or get off at C.P. aren’t exactly ones you’d call gentlemen, but, hey, they deserve a chance, at least ones like me, who don’t stare, do. But having said that, with all the complexity I could have, I say, the committed guys have it tougher. They can’t gawk at pretty girls and their own girlfriends, due to the freedom provided by the Special dabba can dress up, let’s just say, in ways they wouldn’t if there weren’t a special dabba. True Story. So it has its own benefits too. Add to that, the indecent pushing and shoving is done away with, much to the relief of many 45year old dads whose daughters just started with college.

But, what about all the “women walk shoulder to shoulder with men today” mottos? Do you really need a whole dabba which perennially is empty, while we civilized people have to sniff at the armpits of some illegal immigrant from the eastern side who chews paan in the metro, and often throws it out too, and who smells like my 5 day old pair of socks, or even worse? Is it fair, for you to sit down and breathe the air conditioned air at peace, probably even work on your laptop, when some dude, almost measures my inseams, or brushes his butts against mine (much to my discomfort)? Is it cool that I pay the same for a ride like that? I don’t think so.

Bottom line, I hate the concept of the women’s dabba. I haven’t tried riding in it, owing much to widespread fear, courtesy YouTube videos of men getting beaten up by the "FUCKING" moral police of our city. I, and a billion other men, would really appreciate if some of you daring women out there would take a shot at the Godfrey Philips Bravery Awards this year by travelling on this side of the world for a change.

DISCLAIMER 1: PPL FROM BIHAR ARE A PART OF OUR COUNTRY. THEY ARE NOT BEING REFERRED TO, CONTRARY TO THE BELIEF. A chunk of my friends are frm Bihar, and that statement was in no way demeaning to ppl frm our country. All of us know the meaning of the word "IMMIGRANT". It refers to ppl who illegally have come to our country from OUTSIDE of the Eastern Border.

DISCLAIMER 2: I have nothing against ppl throwing away cigarette butts or toffee wrappers on the side of the road, coz THEY CAN BE PICKED UP by cleaners, SPIT on the other hand can not and leaves stains, vanalising architecture for a longer duration.

DISCLAIMER 3: If you cant take a post in light humor, go Beep yourself, coz thats how I write, and will write. You're advised to not read my blog.

The Worst Fries on the Planet

Well how many of you love French Fries?

I know too many who do, and you count me in that list too. But what happened today, was probably the worst that can happen to any foodie. The worst torture of its kind. My fries sucked. Can you imagine??  L

Okay, so let me start from the top. I met a friend of mine today, and we did not have too much time on our plate, so we thought we’d enter the first restaurant we came across. Call it our bad luck, or one of God’s pious schemes, we saw Nirulas.(I know, what WAS I thinking?)

So, we know about the Soup Nirulas is in, but launching a Tomato and Chicken soup, and designing your shop to coax customers into ordering the same when you don’t have it in stock is stupid. Simply put, Pathetic. How can you not have a simple SOUP in stock, when you just launched it? Why did you launch it in the first place when you can’t have customers trying it? Or are you too afraid of the feedback, you’d get, that you’re just serving it to your employees?

Getting over all that thought, I ordered some things around their largest size fries and waited for the stuff to show up, and believe me it took ages. I almost aged by a century and grew some 100 strands of white hair, when the food finally arrived.

Checkout the quantity of fries we got for 50 bucks. Yes!!!! I’m Not kidding you, this picture was taken when we were four fries down. And boy it tasted like dog shit. I haven’t had the pleasure of tasting Dog shit in my life, ever, but Nirulas, you made me do it today. I owe you for this once in a lifetime experience. The fries were undercooked, returned them, and got undercooked tasteless fries, yet again. Brilliant. My 8 year old cousin could cook better than your best cook.

We somehow managed with the other food items, and asked for the Feedback form. I wrote “You Suck, Nirulas”.

I also told the manager to his face, “Your food, sucks!!”

He said “Nahi sir, bas cooks thode experienced nahi hain.”

“I wouldn’t call people who forget to salt undercooked fries at a restaurant inexperienced, I call them dumb and stupid.”

With which, I left him.

Their flat cokes do deserve special mention, but I must say, the fries stole the show. Their pizzas are non-existent, and so much is the extent of cost cutting, that napkins are one by four napkins.

I feel, there is nothing Nirulas can do with its current attitude of displeasing customers. If it wants to make some dough and enjoy customer loyalty (God forbid), it needs to pay people for eating its food, not charge them.

Customers would be better off making their own food, at a Nirula’s restaurant, atleast they won’t run the risk of consumption of stale or undercooked food. People wouln’t eat at Nirula’s if you gave them complimentary Blowjobs, you dumb fucks, make your food taste better.

And Lastly, eat a plate of Chhole Kulche from that neighbourhood thela wala ,but don’t tease diarrhoea with Nirula’s food. Nobody’s gut is as strong as their Food Inspection Manager’s, who if is alive, needs to be shot dead on sight.

Floyd

“Hello Hello Hello,

Is anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me,

Is there anyone home?”

The hostel room perfect, Floyd in the background was perfect, the mood perfect, the cans  in our right hands perfect, the smokes in the left perfect, the occasion perfect, but yet something seemed imperfect.

We had all been placed, a perfect occasion to celebrate, yet something was off.

Two of us squatted on chairs and two on the bed where the ripped off bag of Lay’s lay and kurkure were spewn across on the newspapers between us. Neither of us said a word. All four lost in deep thought.

How fast things change.

It only seemed like yesterday, when we told each other our names. It was only yesterday that we copied on that test, bunked that subject too much and failed it. Only yesterday, that we had our cans in Central Park, had Kebabs at Khan Chacha. How chilled out life was. How weird life is now.

We had that white Maruti we roamed the whole of Delhi in. We had empty wallets, yet the bloated tummies. No balance in our phone Sim cards yet girls we went out with. Now we will barely have time for ourselves.

There we sat missing each of those moments, laughing at some, getting sentimental on others. I would go join a college in Mumbai, one would work in Bangalore, one Gurgaon, the other Ladakh, his hometown. We were destined to go as far away as possible, as if it were God’s plan.

We sat there talking about the madness, just the previous day, the Farewell. My getting clicked with the girl I had a crush on the entire 4 years. Not taking names. And A’s docile attempt of hugging B (an unsuspecting female), and getting slapped across in the face for the same. How we laughed at that.

The hostel room we studied in, the low wall we sat on to check out girls all day long and the times we spent arguing over who owed how much to whom, we were going away from all of it.

College was fun, we hoped life ahead would be even more fun.

We did not know what lay ahead.

I closed my eyes, gulped the contents of the can down and took it all in. It may never be the same again.

I made the best of friends in my Bachelors, and life was great. I hope they do great wherever they are.

And hope they don’t forget all the Floyd songs we have learnt, over the million cans of Coke :P .