Sunday, December 30, 2012

Being Sardar, Bruaaaaah!

Being born a sardar comes with some lifetime benefits. You never have to think twice before planning a foreign holiday as you always have a family of relatives staying in each continent of the world; barring Antarctica, actually. But it’s ok. Don’t take it literally. More than ninety nine percent of the Manmeets & Kuljeets forget about this continent after passing 9th grade, and the remaining one percent of the Montek Singh Ahluwalias know that Antarctica is too chilled out already, and doesn’t require a visit from the Singh clan to make it cool.

Being a sardar, you can wear magenta party shirts to your office and be sure that no one will judge you. Hell, being a sardar you don’t even care if someone does. You can be sure to land up with a sardarni who’s had guys ogling her through school and college. You can get married to her on any friggin’ Sunday. And well, on any given Sunday, you can be sure to wake up to a breakfast of aaloo ke paranthe, a lunch of rajma chawal, and a dinner of dadaji ka special chicken. You can then rub all the oil off your hands on to your beard, give it a little shine, and burp your signature Punjabi shankh to mark the end of a meal.

You can be sure of your career. You can easily pick and choose from being a property dealer, having a car accessories shop in Karol Bagh, or if you’re one of those with exceptional entrepreneurial skills, you can open a fancy restaurant in Rajouri and call it Punjabi by Nature, if you want. Or if all else fails (though I doubt anything does when done by a sardar), you can give a funky shape to your beard, glue a strip of diamonds on your patka, and bruaaah your way to stardom.

You can party in your ghar ki lawn by opening a few bottles of whisky, popping namkeen kaju, and gorging on mummy ke special chicken tikke. Or if it’s one of those non-non-veg days, you can dance around a bonfire, pop some popcorn (haha, paaji), eat lots of gudh wali patti and call it Lohri, if you want. You can raise your hands up without needing any khote da puttar Eminem to ask you to do so, and do Gangnam with your legs to the dhol beats. When a Delhi snob points out that you’re doing a Gangnam, you can say: “Paaji, gaane nu gangnam bulaande ho? Haha, bade mazaaki ho!” and then just make funny hand movements with half your fingers folded to show that you can rap, before he can even pull a confused face.

Being a sardar, you literally know how to let your hair loose. You can untie your mane every weekend; shampoo it with peeley wala Sunsilk, bask in the magnificence of letting it sun-dry while reading HT City Sunday Edition, and greeting your neighbors with “Hor ji? Wadhiya?” from your balcony. You can enjoy a Simco free day and let only your leg hair tell the neighborhood kids that it is sardarji uncle and not some hot girl that they are looking at from behind.

You can be sure of having not just matching belts and shoes, but also matching shirts, ties and turbans. You can be sure of never running out of perfume and deodorants. You can be sure of having more personal care products than the Hindu girl you have a crush on. You can be sure of never needing a moisturizer, thanks to the frequent trips to the gurdwara. You can be sure of being ready for a party at short notice by using Garnier Ultra Strong gel in place of Simco, and avoiding the hassle of tying a handkerchief around your face.

Being a sardar, you can be sure of never crying when drunk. You can narrate any incident from your day without even using the names Santa and Banta, and be sure that it will crack not just your friends up, but also ten other people passing you by at that moment. You can send your kid to school and be sure that he will tell his classmates that Santa Claus looks like his dadaji. You can give him the best Christmas present by telling him that he’ll turn into Mr. Claus one day; and be sure of getting a better Christmas present back when he says: “Papa, mennu Santa ni ban-na, mennu te twaade vargah ban-na hai.” You can be sure to not shed a happy tear after that, but take your family out for a celebratory dinner to Pind Balluchi.

Being a sardar, you can find a brother, a paaji, anywhere that you go. You can be sure of enjoying food cooked with love by one of your unknown relatives at a local gurdwara. You can be sure that no guest ever leaves your house without wanting to use your toilet at least once to make space for more snacks. You can be sure to never expect someone to call you his “best friend” before you do something for him that he calls a favor. But you can still never be sure about how many of those people would love to call you not just their best friend but a brother.

Barney Stinson may be awesome, but he’s still not what the world calls a sardar. I’m just so proud of being born a Punjabi, because being Punjabi is almost being half a sardar.

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Sunday, November 25, 2012

Bald Spots & Barbers

I try to pull a Ranbir Kapoor from Anjaana Anjaani, who stands resting his back against the wall. The office workload and the pseudo post breakup grimace on my face; I act it out perfectly while in the shower, trying to look as serious as Alok Nath with four widowed daughters. I let the water pour on my head and trickle down my cheeks to mask the tears which I wish I could act well enough to secrete naturally from my eyes. My heart does a bit of a jig inside, telling itself that its abode is a brilliant actor. I try hard to not let the scene break, and enjoy the beauty of an act like that in a hot shower on a winter morning. With some experience in theatre, one tends to push it further and overact a bit. So, I decide to tilt my head further back into the wall and then crouch down silently, gliding my spine on the bathroom tiles to my way down. That is the plan. Ah, let’s do it! And as soon as my head decides to obey my command and places the tip, the little circle that makes a whirlpool of hair on my scalp, against the wet tile, I feel a tender cold touch on my head. It’s a nice cold feeling. I begin to wonder why I never experienced it before. I wonder why I couldn’t feel it at the lower back of my head when it was touching the bathroom wall for the past few minutes. Oh wait! The scene breaks due to a brilliant realization right in the middle of a Bathroom Oscar winning performance.

I immediately move away from the edge of the bathroom, and my fingers run to the top of my head. They pat around violently, in a state of confusion, stomping the finger tips on my scalp trying to imitate Sunny Deol’s foot movements in the song where he does this pulling out a hand-pump from the ground step. (Which song was that?) I throw a towel on my head, rub it furiously and then reveal my dried hair to the mirror. I’ve had a receded hairline for quite some time now, but I don’t think one can look at the back of my head and point out that I’m balding. Y’know, how Saif’s hair has styled itself since Race hit the theatres some four years back. But my fingers suddenly feel cooler on the scalp, right on the tip of my head. I figured how I didn’t wish to try crazy hairstyles like Akshay Khanna to hide the soon to appear bald spots, so a trip to the barber was planned. “I’ll keep my hair cropped short. Short is neat. It’s neat in a suit, nasty in a leather jacket.” *chewing on a twig smirk, baby doll*

I walk into the barber shop and see the seats occupied. I really hope that the guy who I like getting my hair cut from gets free before the other two hair dressers. I always feel a little sad when put in a situation where I’m invited to a chair, but have to heartlessly deny the offer ‘cuz I don’t want to be attended to by the not so experienced barber. In my defense, whenever I’ve thought of being a nice guy and giving the youngest barber a chance to cut my hair, the session has always ended with me wanting to ask him if even his sister would ever think of dating someone whose hair has been cut like that.

I decide to wait on the couch and flip through all the pictures in the Filmfare and Stardust lying on the table in front of me before it’s time for my turn. Deciding on the speed at which one flips pages is a gamble, here. I don’t want to be done with looking at just half a magazine till I’m called for my turn; nor do I want to finish flipping through them too early. It’s just like rationing the portion of subzi on your plate to match with the morsels of rotis on your platter. (It’s a bloody middle class analogy, really. But whatever, I do it all the time.) I try to read an article in the magazine, and call it a coincidence if you may; any article that interests me is next to a full page lingerie ad. Every effing time! Now, it’s ok. I’m at a place full of men. No one’s gonna judge me even if that page is blaring into everyone’s faces right in the middle of the “saloon”. All the uncles sitting around will probably thank me for holding on to that page for that long. “Ah, it’s all chill. Read the interview anyway”, I tell myself. And then in a minute, I start to feel really awkward about the tubelight reflecting on the glossy paper with a picture of a red laced undergarment. “Fudge, is it weird that I’m still reading this?”… “Um, I think I’ll just turn the page.”… “Uh, no. I think people know I’m grown up enough to be ok with this. Let’s just read on.”… “Fudge it, I’m turning the page”.

I’m soon called by the guy who normally cuts my hair, and I thank my stars for not putting me in the I’m-not-getting-a-haircut-from-you situation today. I sit on the chair and he puts the blue cloak around me. It’s not one of those fancy barber cloaks that has a velcro collar. It’s like one of those cheap polyester bed sheets that he’ll furl in the air like a matador after the haircut, and make hair rain in the room. He knots it around my neck, uses his spray gun to wet my hair and then asks how I’d want it cut. It’s funny how he asks that every time, when I’m not someone who has ordered for a mullet one time and a mohawk the next time in the past seven years of letting him cut my hair. So I tell him to shorten my side-burns while keeping their volume intact, knowing well enough that he’ll crop the hair around my ears really short again. “Baal chhote kar dena”, I tell him, also specifying that I want it short enough to not be combed and long enough for it to not stand like baby porcupine spines on my head.

He starts snipping, while watching either Zee Cinema or Star Cricket. I can tell from knowing him through all these years that he is a big fan of Govinda and Ajay Devgn. It kind of scares me at times, since these are the only two actors whose movies’ rights Zee Cinema can afford to buy. And then there’s a bit of a Govinda look alike in Sehwag, too. It scares me ‘cuz then he gets distracted, running his fingers through the holes on the scissors, while keeping his eyes fixed on the TV screen. My fear vanishes in less than fifteen seconds, when I start finding the dialogues interesting and try to look at the television set from the mirror in front of me. What follows is a push of his hand on my head to tilt and get the right angle, countered by the thrust of my head against his hand so that I can enjoy a few minutes of a ‘90s Govinda starrer through the corner of my eyes.

He finally stops and asks me if I think the length of the hair is fine. I just nod in silence, knowing that no matter how good or bad a job he does of cutting my hair, it’s all eventually in the hands of mother nature. He holds up a mirror at the back of my head and I see my hair thinning. It breaks my heart a little too much and I ask, “Baal kam ho gaye na?” He replies like a Haryanvi Shahrukh to Preity Zinta in Kal Ho Naa Ho, saying that it’s all gonna be fine. He gives me a nice head massage to relieve the tension off, knowing that I’ll tip him extra for that. I gladly get up after having let my head be treated like a percussion instrument, and pay him a little extra with a smile.

It’s effing gay how towards the end, this is sounding more like some deep connection I have developed with my barber over a haircut, and less about my thinning hair. But anyway, it’s a sign of growing up isn’t it? Pessimists call it ageing. But, growing up it is, and I think I’ll let my new hairstyle grow on me. (Bad, bad pun.)

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This post originally appeared on Walk Into My Web as a guest post. You can check it out here.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Here's Your Birthday Gift, Sucka! (Guest Post)

‘Ello! I hope you had a bright and brilliant Diwali.

I had been asking my friend Ankita to write something for my blog for a very long time. On spending months to come up with an interesting topic, it seems she found nothing more interesting in the world than me. “Girls” I tell you! So here she’s written a little piece, which she says had been written for my birthday, which passed away on the 3rd of November. I’ll take credit for selecting the picture for the post. That’s me in her arms and she’s making me cut my birthday cake. *Woof*

Sarthak Ahuja has been badgering me to write him a guest post since the day I sent him a mail appreciating his blog (well, the time frame would be an exaggeration. But anyone who has had the fortune of talking to this lad would know that he can talk in an hour what Arnab Goswami talks in a year. No kidding). I hate writing. I started hating it since I was compelled to make stipulated submissions within a deadline for my college magazine, and the beauty and magic of inking words into a composition lost its charm. And here I am, attempting to write something funny. I cannot write anything funny or humorous. So if you wind up nauseated at the futile effort towards wit by the time you laboriously reach the end, please kill Sarthak Ahuja.

I came upon this blog through a friend whose friend is friends with Sarthak. And I liked it so much that I decided to write him a mail lauding his blog. Actually, the deceiving header photo which is displayed on the blog was the trigger for this impulsive action, but we’ll assume for the time being that my interest in the blog and its author’s writing skills far outweighed my interest in the author, and me and my roommates swooning over the cute guy did not even list in the scheme of things considered before shooting the mail (I tell you, the picture is very, very deceptive). So I sent the mail.

About a zillion mails and gtalks later, I have qualified enough to blabber away at the slightest provocation reasons for NOT sending a fan mail to your favourite blogger. You see, when I first sent the oh-man-you-write-so-well-as-to-dazzle-my-overbearing-stephanian-roomie, little did I know that the man was as garrulous and over-zealous as Rakhi Sawant blustering away to glory on the sets of aap ki adaalat (For all that he knew, I might have been a lunatic stalker with a SSSSSarthak fetish, out to pester him for the rest of his life until I died a martyr’s death trying to extricate him from his millionth girlfriend. Indiscreet much, huh?). So interacting with I-can-even-talk-to-a-lamppost Ahuja has consequently given rise to many contingencies, the following to name a few (you can add to the list, of course. Listening about every random dweeb to inhabit this planet can only cause so many grievances)


The first e-mail I sent across got in its reply some attached pictures of some random person’s guinea pig, and in its wake brought along a deluge of pictures with every e-mail. Some days back, as I casually sifted through the pictures in my laptop, I realised that I had Sarthak’s girlfriends’ photos, their doggies’ and guinea pigs’ photos, some pink-coloured piggy-shaped USB photo (why would anybody send a picture of a USB?), his aquarium’s pictures and some XYZ’s birthday gift’s photos. And I am not adding to that list the numerous guy pictures he’s sent across (the prospective boyfriends for the single me) since he was doing me a favour with that. But the end result was the same- an avalanche of pictures.

I have reciprocated in kind, though. I didn’t desist from attacking his phone and mailed him every random picture I could lay my hands on. Prospective ‘4th’ girlfriend for him, some friend’s crush’s photo, roommate’s horrendously hideous high school photos, I sent them all. Pictures, pictures everywhere…not one worth glancing at.


Now this is something I hadn’t bargained for. I need 8 hours of sleep, and an early morning (read 9 O’ clock) call is completely unwarranted. I am still in college, fella, so please let me fill up my required sleep quota before I am forced to get up at the ungodly hour of 6 at dawn and slog my way through my sucking future job. And Sarthak Ahuja has a particular knack for waking you up when you need to sleep the most- the holidays. You are happily dreaming about your crush taking you out to some club-cum-restaurant, and then, well, trying to rape you, when suddenly Sarthak Ahuja- the saviour comes to the rescue with his phone call! Your dazed mind tries to process the flood of words flowing from the other end, and by the time you’ve got hold of your bearings, Mr Ahuja has reached his office and disconnected the call. You’re wide awake now, and no matter how much you try to regain the lost sleep, it just evades you. Your Nani, who’s been trying to wake you up for over 2 hours for breakfast, silently thanks the caller who saved her granddaughter from eternal breakfast-damnation.


Since July, Sarthak has been plaguing me to write for his blog. Not a conversation goes without a subtly brutal reminder of my non-compliance. One blog post…Can’t you write just one blog post? I have dodged even my mother’s requests for an article on some outdated and over-discussed economics topic for some outdated magazine, because I have lost the patience to sit back and write, but Sarthak was unyielding in his pursuit. Throwing in some feelers that he wrote well and his blog was popular enough to not need anybody else guest posting didn’t help. His other nikamme friends gave his requests a wide berth (very intelligent they are, I must say), but my refusals always fell on deaf ears. So I finally gave in, and decided to caricature The Sarthak Ahuja on his own blog.

After reading this, I don’t think he will ever ask me to write for him again. But if he does (you thick-skinned Gandhi ke chele, will you ever give up?), I know what his blog needs to be adorned with- his I-am-so-cool-yo teenage photos from Facebook, which look like stills from some Karan Johar movie. Yes, that is exactly what his blog lacks. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

From Baba Ramdev's Cafe to The Chotiwala

Yo, fellow Novemba lova’s! It’s now been three days since I’m back from my cousin’s wedding in Dehradun. It goes without saying that it was a lot of fun. It had to be, as at no other wedding have I seen the groom blow whistles from on top of the ghodi and make the Titanic pose with the little kid sitting in front of him on the milky white mare, while the rest of the baraatis dance to Chikni Chameli being blared into a microphone by a twenty year old male band-wala. Getting solo pictures of him clicked for about an hour after the var-maala ceremony, posing like Yo Yo Honey Singh, our dulha was the true star of the whole wedding. He even shed a few tears at the time of the bidaai; probably because we didn’t get “Mele maamu ki chaadi me jalool jalool aana” on his wedding cards. But all’s well that ends well.

I won’t make this a wedding post. There are a lot of fun memories which may then need to be reported, and I’ll get killed if I tell you about how we stuck around in the newlywed couple’s room on their first night, demanding a plate each of bread omlette as treat at 5 in the morning. Equally risky will be publically mentioning all the innuendos about doodh and badam that were shamelessly narrated in front of the new bride while she blushed around her hubby-bubby and saasu-in-law. So, I’ll just take you through some random food places visited by my good self (yes, sir ji *grins*) on our way to and from the city of Dehradun.

Baba Ramdev’s Café, yo!

The family decided to halt somewhere close to Haridwar in the evening for a cup of chai each, when someone suggested that we stop at Baba Ramdev’s Patanjali Ashram and try out the range of exotic jadi-booti wali chai that he has to offer. In another twenty minutes, our cars drove into the Patanjali Ashram premises. Even though the baba has done a neat job of lifting design ideas from the various Iskcon temples across the country, the cafeteria matches his personality to a tee. There were sweets like amla barfi and lauki barfi for sale, apart from bhalle-papdi garnished with kaale channe. Since no one really had the heart to gorge on food made of pube like herbs, the elders decided to sip some good ‘ol adrak wali chai while we kids thought it would be safest to have an ice-cream cone. It turned out that baba’s staff thinks vanilla is the English for sugar, and we had to lick the off-white cream for a few minutes till we realized that it was actually batasha flavored. The cones went down the bin, and we washed down the flavor with a fistful each of aaloo bhujia that we were smart enough to carry from home. We drove out of the ashram with the elders cursing the baba for being power hungry, and the kids fantasizing about tricking him into doing aasans that would make him kick his own butt.

Jain Shikanji Everywhere!

If you’ve been to Haridwar, Rishikesh or Mussoorie by road, I’m sure you’ve seen huge boards of Jain Shikanji adorning the highway for a stretch of about ten kilometers after crossing Meerut. Jain Shikanji has been around since the time my dad used to visit the abovementioned places with his cousins as a kid. There has never been a trip to Rishikesh when we haven’t stopped at this shikanji stall for a glass of chilled lemon masala soda. Except this time, the elders were in too much of a rush to reach the wedding town to even care to slow down in front of the shikanji stall and naino mein basaao the uncle ji whose photo is the business’ famous trademark. There are a couple of fake Jain Shikanji stalls too, but you’ll know the original one by recognizing the photo of Jain Shikanji Uncle who has full hair, a neat Premchand mustache, and a face that makes you wonder whether he is smiling or has been blessed with looks like that.

There was no shikanji break for us this time, but if you ever take the same route, stop for two glasses of shikanji with a plate of paneer pakoda. My treat.

Cheetal Grand and Moolchand

Cheetal and Moolchand are two places you can stop at for breakfast, lunch or dinner. They’re mini resorts trying hard to look like a Haldiram’s with hotel rooms, and have actually done a better job at it than the real Haldiram. Cheetal has a fancy bird zoo where you’ll often find roosters engaged in hilariously amusing crowing competitions. But I’m no fan of caging pretty birds, so Moolchand ranks no lower in my list despite being a little less popular than the former. The gardens at both these places are really well maintained, with flowers gyrating like in a Rajesh Khanna movie to show a kiss. The staff is way more welcoming than the half pundits we met at Patanjali. Drop at Cheetal for a meal on your way up, and try Moolchand on your way back. Ek trip pe do nishaane, yo!

Vishal Dhaba, Oodi Baba!

There has never been a trip to Rishikesh when we haven’t had at least one meal at the famous Chotiwala Restaurant, which is a five minute walk from the bathing ghats. But on our last trip, we were very disappointed with the quality of food served at both the adjoining Chotiwala’s owned by the two brothers who inherited half each of the original restaurant property. I also realized that I love food more than the sight of a fat, pink colored, glitter covered man with a pony tail sitting outside an eating joint, inviting people to walk in by constantly ringing a mandir ki ghanti. So this time, we did a bit of asking around to find the best eating place in Rishikesh, and I can bet your  first girlfriend’s virginity that you cannot find a better eating place in the whole city than Vishal Dhaba.

Vishal Dhaba is on the side of the Ganges opposite to Chotiwala. We ordered handis full of Paneer Butter Masala, Channa Masala and Kadhi Pakoda and the taste of the food made us all have twice the number of chapattis that we normally have. Huge thalis were given to us for pouring generous servings of the dishes into. The kheer that followed tasted more like a royal preparation of rabri. The food made us so happy that we refused to leave the dhaba till the cook also made a special cup of chai for all of us, thus keeping the dhaba open for an hour more than its closing time.

Chuck rafting; my next trip to Rishikesh will be solely dedicated to Vishal Dhaba. And you must accompany me to experience food orgasm! *Ooh, Aah, Burp*

You may also try the poori-sabzi that they sell at Geeta Ashram. It’s very hygienically prepared and is priced at Mc Donald’s ki advert wale zamaane ke daam. And, oh, you can tell me about some nice eating places that you know of on the same route. I’ll probably be making a trip again soon. :)

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Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Open Letter to Sukhbir

Dear Sukhbir paaji,

It’s been a while since I saw your goggles covered eyes pan across my television screen. It’s not something that I terribly miss, really. But, it’s been a while since the Khalsa College staff let a Sardar walk around their campus with a ponytail. It’s been a while since I saw a Sikh puttar not look like he had Butter Chicken leg pieces stuffed up his biceps; and it’s really been a while since I saw people dancing to a Punjabi song that does not feature Yo Yo Honey Singh. That’s reason to come back.

Don’t you think it’s about time that you came out with another video, showing these elitist Delhi University dumbfrigs that not every dude who wears shades in the dark is an Orkutiya? Going by your history, we know that you’ve grown up in Kenya and have spent a significant part of your life talking about how you’re one of the first Punjabi singers from the UK. That gives you a lot of credibility when it comes to fashion. If the cut Surds in India needed the official licensing from UK based desi pop stars like Taz and Jazzy B to spike up their hair and feel cool about it, you’re someone who defined a distinctive style for our Sikh friends who chose to stick to their religious beliefs and not sacrifice their hair at the risk of looking like a “murga” as the elders in my family put it. What made you score additional points is that you really didn’t feel like giving a shit to coming up with a name that would help you sell your albums based on how many times you place the letter “Z” in your name. *appreciative nod* That’s reason to come back.

I’m not bored of dance steps that are suggestive of counting stars in the memory of a lover. Neither do I mind singing along to lyrics that talk of boys driving cars while girls walk down the road. Ah, that is another fantasy, considering I’m driven around to places by my lady friends due to my lack of driving practice. I still dance just as much to your songs as I did at my uncle’s wedding way back when I was eight. The way I move my body hasn’t improved much since then, but I love how you make me not look like a bad dancer by making everyone else at the party just point up to the sky and jump to “ishq tera tadpaave”. That’s reason to come back.

As I read through your wiki page, I realize that you’re not too far away from my dad’s age. You probably have kids by now. I said probably ‘cuz you know, it must’ve been a hard task trying to figure out where you’re aiming at in the dark with those shades on. My sympathies. But it’s hard for me to imagine you looking way past forty. Look at Mayur and Rocky from Highway on my plate, for example. How different can a pony and a pair of glasses (tinted in your case) make you look if you’ve been sporting them since your first appearance on TV about two decades back? I will totally refuse to believe someone who tells me that you’ve sprouted some hair around your cheek bones or have got bi-focal lenses for the gogs. You’re like a male equivalent of Rekha in my head, with equally beautiful hair, and no, you’re not allowed to age. Give me a chance to show a latest video of you to my dad and make him realize that he needs to do something to stay fit. That’s reason to come back.

Every Punjabi song that I listen to these days talks of girls wearing Prada or Gucci and drinking neat shots of vodka without even a drop of Limca. What follows are orgasmic sounds calling out to the Almighty. My dadi, even though being a Punjabi, gets lost in the sound of the beats and asks me to slowly recite the lyrics for her. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken out the words of a song in front of her. It’s really been a while. Come, be a good boy, and let the old lady enjoy some music that reminds her of days when her husband would count stars and cry for not having met her for a day. You’ll get aashirwad, you know. That’s reason to come back.

I don’t miss your music too much. I don’t ‘cuz I’m still not over it. It still makes me lip sync along in the Delhi Metro and look like a retard while on my way to the office every morning. You’re still there on my playlist, while others stick around for just a month or two. But I wouldn’t mind you flooding my playlist with beats that make me break my silence through plugged in ear phones and shout “Bruaah!” at the fellow passengers every once in a while. That’ll probably be a little embarrassing. But, that’s reason enough to come back.

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Saturday, October 6, 2012

Mogamboville, Ahoy!

Cars enter the gates of Gurgaon city guarded by mechanical toll booths that silently mimic a “Hail Mogambo” and raise their arms with a beep to welcome all those who have chosen, or rather been chosen to serve the half-foreign ruler of the town. The skyline, marked by western design inspired buildings, brings the uncanny blond color to the king’s mane. The king taps his fingers on an upturned bowl of light and talks in a tone that is Indian enough to recognize itself with Amrish Puri. His appearance shows that he is evidently not of an Indian origin. The golden in his hair and the gold on his coat conceal his real identity from the city that marks his kingdom. But, his voice is a strong mixture of Indian dialects, and why shouldn’t it be? An ethnic mix of Indians is what breathes life into this city that wears a façade of greenhouses branded by multi-national corporations.

We all serve the king, and express joy on having made it to his army that moves on a conveyor from Sikanderpur to HUDA City Center. The cogs slide along metal tracks and push members of the infantry at their allocated work areas, to either screw pieces together or hold things in place by being pieces themselves. The flash of a Metro card beeps in tune with a hundred other beeps that mark entry time at an adjoining building. Business cards get exchanged in thousands, giving clear tool usage instructions that we also wear as thin pieces of plastic hanging by our necks.

It’s not just the mechanical sounds that drive us to this kingdom. The colorful attire of our lead actress, who stands tall, wearing shreds of white, red, pink and blue, is another feature that draws us to the sub-urb, where she lives up to her “hawa-hawaii” image by anglicizing her name to Air-tel. With dreams to woo her and move from one step on the ladder to another, we march to the kingdom; the kingdom of dreams.

A part of the machinery, we all, are little heroes marching to save the world; a world that comprises three inhabitants on the 4th floor of an apartment building post 9 p.m. We are saviors of our little lives that are cloned by the king in his massive factories made of glass. We are heroes; the Mr. India’s who are bound by the ticking of the three needles on our wrist bands, which will one day make us invisible. The needles tick through the day, working their magic spells to grant us the power of invisibility, and in a matter of weeks, we stand in the middle of a crowd, crying over our invisibility.

Invisibility, we thought, was synonymous with invincibility, but it didn’t turn out the way expected. Sifting through pieces of glass, we then work towards finding the one that would turn us into visible beings; finding ways to stand out in the crowd, even if through a glass stained with red. It’s funny; life in the city of Gurgaon. The power of the wrist band ticks over the pulse of our heroes, but Mogambo still expresses his happiness unperturbed, "Mogambo khush hua!"

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Monday, September 24, 2012

Half Naked Body, Half Naked Head

The monsoon made its appearance late this year, just like all our clients who realize as soon as September approaches that a trip to their auditors and chartered accountants is overdue. They ruin our Sundays and make us lose our mental balance over balancing their balance sheets. Such is life, but I’m not complaining.

Another quarter of a year ends in one week, and here’s a little update on what life lessons in skin show I have learnt during the last three months.

Lots of Skin Contact Yo!

July started with a mission to do something that would keep my posterior to look like less of a shock absorber. Swimming had always been one of my favorite forms of exercise, and I had maintained a safe distance from the pool since my body sprouted a bit too much of homo-sapient vegetation. But I gathered the courage to strip in front of at least a hundred people, and signed up for a swimming subscription at the pool.

The pool that I go to is no ordinary swimming pool, mind you. It’s the place where our Dilli hosted all aquatic events during the Commonwealth Games. It’s a place which makes you feel that Mr. Kalmadi has actually put his soul into the Commonwealth project. I mean, how else would just entering the vicinity of something CWG make one strip oneself of all shame and expose one’s mammaries to the gleaming water.

Getting back to swimming has taught me a few lessons. The most touching, literally, is to never be embarrassed of male boobs. These three months have been full of naked men bumping into each other in a huge tub of water, and the sight of water dripping down from pointy nipples on sagging male boobs. It’s made me realize that water does bring out the feminine side in a man. Proof being that during all the talk in the locker room, no one has complained of a salute by his manliness inside the water. And, silently, every man compares his boobs to another’s. What’s ironic, though, is the maxim: smaller the better. There are also tan lines on my feet from wearing chappals to the pool. The fair V-shape from the straps makes my bare feet look like they’ve been wearing a kinky thong to the beach the whole summer. There’s not too much hair on the toes, so the need for a bikini wax hasn’t arisen. The pool has also sound proofed all the manly farts. Now, we can fart in the water to our heart’s fart’s content. Just be careful to not let anyone notice the bubbles.

If That Much Skin Wasn’t Enough

It saddens me to see how people fall for looks and do not care to appreciate some really good qualities about people around us. Why else would people praise the cow and get disgusted by the buffalo? The latter gives more milk! So, to free myself from the clutches of vanity and show my receding hairline that I do not give an ounce of fecal matter, I decided to get my hair buzzed. Buzzed as in, -next to bald- buzzed.

The mother welcomed my new look in the house with a: “You dare not enter my house looking like that”, while the sister exclaimed: “Get in fast and better not step out of the house. I’d die before my friends see you like that.”

I have spent the last three months looking ugly as frig, dealing with convincing myself that Akshay Khanna looks good enough to do better than Tara Sharma. I did get a little more attention though. Some friends were jealous, and wished to experience the joy of a hot shower pattering on the skull; while most could not stop themselves from feeling the fuzz in my buzz. Some well mannered ones would ask if they could rub their hands on my head. And, I always obliged. But, shameless were the clients, who even thought it was acceptable to take permission to touch it, and then touched it before I could say no. I am a friendly person to deal with that way. Yeah, that sounds like a good enough explanation. Believable?

I was going for a buzz every fortnight, and then, like a melodrama loving Hindi soap bahu, the mother gave me a kasam not to get my hair cut before my cousin’s wedding in late October. I wonder why she wants me to get some female attention at the shaadi. She’s pretty much always hated my lady friends. But, kasam toh kha li hai! I’m on a hair growing spree now. And, all parties seem to fall during this chhakka phase when the hair is neither idhar ka nor udhar ka.

My swimming subscription ends with this month, and I’m in two minds about renewing it because it’s too much of a pain to wake up so early in the morning. The hair has grown to a decent enough length, and looks ugly only when I skype. The skin show has been fun, but will soon come to an end. I’m happy though, and so is the mother. I deserve a jalebi, if not more. Don't you think? *chomp*

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Monday, September 3, 2012

Here's the Wrinkle. Where's the Smile?

As one of them opens the door to let the others, who form another generation of a family, walk inside the house, there’s no more a welcoming smile on that aged face. The steps silently trod back into a room where a little mandir is the most beloved adornment. The smiles that used to open the door till a decade ago were of their children, who would wait for the bread earners to get back home from a hard day’s work and relax between four distemper coated walls. The walls now boast of expensive wallpapers and imported art work, but the warmth remains missing. Roles have been swapped. The children seem to have grown into responsible adults, who wear ties and drive sedans to work; while the experienced try hard to camouflage themselves in the discomfort of Persian rugs over Italian marble.

What is looked forward to through the years of toil is a smile that depicts fulfillment of all responsibilities. Monthly savings went into school fees; annual savings went into an engineering admission; savings through five years went into buying the first scooter; and savings through all those years since a daughter was born into the house till she completed her post graduation went into making her future-in-laws smile through a lavish wedding. The saviors of the household are still saviors. They sit through the day, inspecting the maid wiping the floor through an open door from their bedroom. And when the others leave for work, they sit silently, counting beads through a prayer of keeping the family members safe and sound. It is a relaxed life. They get food at fixed times, and there are no lessons that they have to sit through to make their children learn for a class test. The children know beyond what they believe they have gathered in their years of experience. It’s a thought to celebrate, isn’t it? It’s a joy of relief to see their children fare better than themselves. But, they wonder what keeps them waiting for a smile to come and spread elegance over their wrinkles.

The shoulders that once seated a son through a pilgrimage uphill now droop under the spell of a heavy age. The skin that once cooled itself down during a weekly television program with the family now resembles the layer of wrinkle skimmed off the surface of hot tea prepared in an Indian kitchen, which gently rests over the brim of a china cup. It rests there in peace, wondering if it belongs inside the cup or its use to the world is as much as its weight on the cusp. The eyes have seen a near one passing away into the land of another birth, and another coming into a fresh life in tender arms. The sorrows, the joys: the eyes have seen all that defines the need for a bifocal lens. The hair has thinned over the years, reminding them that everything that once formed a part of their body, including their children, will one day move away.

The children touch their feet before they leave for work every morning; they bring a watch and a warm drape on their parents’ 50th marriage anniversary. The even littler ones, the grandchildren, eat a handful of food offered to the almighty from their grandparents’ hands. These are kids that their parents are proud of; they bring laurels to the family. But, the gifted watch still reminds the wise of the seconds, minutes and hours they will have to spend on another day, waiting for their children to come home in time for dinner.

As work colleagues fade into a cloud of blur in five years, the group at the local garden shares a few laughs. In another half a decade, the laughs are replaced by smiles at a religious meet at the local temple, giving hints of the literal shortening of the social circle radius. Slowly, siblings either pass into another world or eagerly wait for another life to breathe life into them.

Experience comes with age. It comes as fast as the vigor of youth, through youth and through life’s second stage. And as the third stage approaches, it drags slowly with each tick of a clock’s cogs. It’s funny how life changes its pace. It rushes through work, through health, through family ties in the ripeness of its age. And when it’s time to taste the pulp that one has borne under one’s ever-changing skin, the weight is too much for the stem to bear.

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Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Candy for the '90s Dandy

It’s the 29th of August already. Despite having written a post on this blog around 12 days back, the pressure of writing a piece every two weeks builds up like the burden of getting a 26 year old daughter married as soon as the end of the month deadline approaches near. With my enthusiasm levels at the lowest on a scale from Alok Nath to Prabhu Deva, I sit down to type another piece and fulfill my bi-monthly duties.

In recent news, I have passed the set of CWA papers I gave in June this year. A little party to celebrate the same is yet to be planned, but I thought it’s just to let my taste-buds engage in some foreplay with sugary somethings from the local grocery store. A trip down to the local sardarji uncle’s shop ended with a small purchase of a Cadbury’s 5-Star. Even though my body got enough calories to last a 30 second orgasm, my tongue was left with a longing for an old lover. It’s depressing how in spite of the rise in per capita disposable income in the Indian economy over the past one decade, the sweets and confectionery market has plummeted to the level of offering kids with products wearing taglines like “do rupaye mein do laddoo”. It’s sad how today’s children don’t even know about the wonders that were “Pan Pasand” and “Ravalgaon sugar boiled candies”. To commemorate some unsung heroes from the time when icing on the cake meant white cream topped with a little pineapple piece, I bring to you a list of some candies that my tongue still identifies as its childhood best friends.


This, my friend, is the grand-daddy of all digestive “tablets” in the world! Swad has always been one of my favorite candies of all time, and therefore, deserves no lesser than the first spot on this list. An elder cousin of Hajmola candy, Swad brought with itself a sense of Indian-ness that Hajmola candy can never match. The silver packet bordered with a checkered brown pattern was Madhubala, if Hajmola’s pink or green wrapper was Preity Zinta. It had a taste stronger than all the other digestive candies of its generation, and was loved by my dadaji and me alike.

Swad not just made my gall bladder wet with excitement, but also gave Pooja Bhatt an opportunity to star in a TV commercial, thus keeping her mind off movie scripts that involve people like Emraan Hashmi rubbing their sand-paper on half naked ladies.

Swad has slowly been left alone by its grand-children who are too busy selling tattoos under their skins, housed in fancy jars that adorn the shelves of a local grocer. Has it died a silent death? I guess not. It may still be fighting the last few months of its existence in a remote village, near its manufacturer’s factory.


From a big piece of candied jal-jeera called Swad, to little pellets of gastrous joy, our markets used to be full of orange packets with black polka dots that sprawled across the local shop entrance like prayer flags at a Tibetan monastery. Fatafat was my small packet of happiness, the digestive qualities of which my innocent brain did not care for. My love for Fatafat was selfless. I would pop one pellet at a time, never all at once, and relish the tangy flavor slowly. It was Fatafat that introduced me to the usage of “khatta” with “kaala”.

Another variant of packed digestive pills was Chatmola that sold in a yellow and red wrapper. Everyone’s favorite “Appu the elephant” adorned the front of its wrapper and made the kids jump with joy.

I still manage to spot Fatafat at a store or two, but Chatmola is no longer a survivor in the market. If you were to get me a nice birthday present, please pick up some packets of Fatafat. Phir treat pakki!

Ravalgaon Candy

Ravalgaon candies were India’s answer to Fox’s. Its transparent cover was the first to teach me that these sweets are “sugar-boiled”. They are available in a variety of colors like yellow, red and orange. My favorite among them used to be the orange; I think because that was the only flavor I could identify. There’s one with a blue cover too, but I've never been able to tell the difference between the tastes of the blue one from the yellow.

Pan Pasand and Mango Mood were other offerings from Ravalgaon, and ranked higher in my list as compared to their competing products by Nutrine and Parry’s. They still sell in the market, but face stiff competition from Cadbury’s and Parle. The multinationals may be doing a good job at marketing their products, but their products can never match the panache with which Ravalgaon candies shower with a bang from a balloon over a young boy's birthday cake.

Phantom Cigarettes

I remember the red pack of cigarettes that would open up to 10 sticks of sugar colored in red at one end. Phantom Cigarettes were peppermint flavored candies that were not minty enough to attract girls off Close-up billboards, but still macho enough to make little boys believe that they had a chance with.. um, Minnie Mouse?

I remember one of my cousins buying me a pack of these “cigarettes” on a trip to the market close to my aunt’s house. We loved its taste, and the novelty quotient it sold on, but I cannot forget how disapproving my parents were of the so called candy. So, my experience of machofying myself with a Phantom in my mouth was short-lived, but I think I wouldn’t mind seeing it in the market again. Or maybe I will. It’ll have a bad effect on the psyche of kids.

Shit, have I really grown that old!

Kismi Bar

Parle’s Kismi Bar was an inexpensive substitute to a chocolate. I believe it tasted of cardamom, and was more of a “toffee” flattened out into the shape of a bar. For about a rupee or two for a bar, it was a good option during times of sudden sugar cravings.

The red cover of the product displayed a silhouette of a suited man being kissed by a beautiful lady. What makes me call her “beautiful” is probably the fact that her shape was colored in white, in contrast to the man, who was a shadow of black. Go ahead and judge the shameless racist in me if you want to. I come from the land of Kismi, where cows are considered holier than the ride of Yamraj, the buffalo.

Jelly Belly

If you ask my parents about my favorite dish as a kid, I bet the pack of Brown & Polson custard powder in my kitchen that they will say “jelly”. A die-hard. No, a die-jiggly jelly fan, as a six year old, I would demand jelly be made in our kitchen every single day of the week.

To save her the pain of making jelly every day, my bua would get me a pack of Jelly Belly from her way back home after office every evening. I would tear off the plastic cover and suck the whole jelly off the cup in an instant. Candle-shaped jelly sticks were soon a rage with the other kids in my colony, but my loyalty remained towards the Rex Jelly that was shelved in our kitchen or the little shivering shots of “Jelly Belly”.

Most of these much loved sweets are no longer seen. I miss them. Yes, I do. But for me, there’s always a bit of fresh Jalebi to love. Happy Sweet-toothing.

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Friday, August 17, 2012

Top 10 Reasons to Let Me File Your 1st Income Tax Return

10. You can apply for your own credit card, with your name printed on it. Oooh! And you can give your best photograph for it. No more driver's license kinda photos on cool id's.

9. You'll feel so good to have earned enough during the year to fall into the tax brackets. Warren Buffet in the making, eh?

8. You'll contribute a sum for the development of the nation. Jai Hind.

7. You'll declare your income and make your money white. While Dawood Ibrahim has to deal in drugs, invest in Bollywood and buy properties in Monica Bedi-esque women's names to make his black money milky-milky white, you just have to file an income tax return.

6. Your employers deducted some tax from your salary. Those bloody law abiders! It's time to see if you can claim some tax refund from the TDS.

5. Letting me e-file your IT Return will avoid the whole nonsense of bribing Income Tax officials. You'll feel cool like ACP Pradyuman, or Barney Stinson for having eff'd the IT clerk's dream of little Gandhiji's dancing to "paisa paisa kardi hai" in his drawer.

4. If you're too busy, just email me the details, while you're at your work desk, or sitting in the loo, trying to poop and simultaneously emailing on your smartphone.

3. Paying my nominal fee will feel like paying for a stand up comedy session. I assure you of full entertainment, sir.

2. We'll not just drink coffee together, but I'll also make you have really cool iced tea. Choose from mint, peach and lemon. Or have all 3.

1. We'll get to meet each other. It's been a long long time. Let's catch up on all the latest news, make fun of our ex-girlfriends/boyfriends, finish every sentence with ''that's what she said'', make prank calls and live it like the old times.

So you see, this is not just an excuse for me to throw a ''coffee, tea or me'' at you. It's ''Income Tax Return, coffee, tea AND me.''

Last day for return filing is 31st July, 2013. Hurry Om Hurry.

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Friday, August 10, 2012

Defining YOLO for the Average Delhiite

As the world approaches a much talked about end in another few months, it’s good to see that humankind is beginning to accept what fate holds for us all. Instead of building modern versions of Noah’s Arks with billion dollar seats to help the wealthy sail through the impending washout, we are all getting together and enjoying the last few days of the world as we know it. A thought binds us close. While the virgins look for ways to bang a thang before the apocalypse, the experienced go berserk on the internet and substitute periods with #YOLO. The beautiful epiphany of only getting to live once has given us a reason to come up with another viral acronym. Ladies and gentlemen, to give it to you in a nutshell, “You Only Live Once”. Wow! Now let’s all shout YOLO.

It took me months to figure out what LOL meant when it hit cyberspace in my early social networking days of OMG was acceptable, and so were Bebo and Lolo. But, let’s not turn everyone into the Kapoor sisters by giving a grand welcome to “Yolo”.

I see my twitter feed full of YOLO hashtags, and it’s permeating to facebook, too. It’s not surprising that Americans with an IQ equal to the number of thumbs on Hrithik Roshan’s hands are so thrilled with the whole idea of getting to live only once. But what raises great concern is how we Indians, who feed on shows like Raaz Pichhle Janam Ka on the most popular television channel in the country, are blindly falling for such buffalo dump. Let’s not forget that we are “karma-yogis”. We believe in the cycle of life after death. We strongly hold on to the belief, nay, -fact- that whatever we sow, we will also reap. If not in this birth, then till the reaping burns us out of the shackles of life and death.

In my attempt to keep us in touch with our unquestionable beliefs, I bring to you versions of YOLO that connect with our souls. Ooh, deep! Since charity starts at home, here’s defining YOLO for the average Delhiite.

YO’ Lusty Organ

Since the early ‘90s, we Delhiites have given a whole new meaning to the word organ. The evolution is noteworthy. There was a time when Shahrukh Khan would blow on a mouth organ, ride his red bike and sing a song in Kumar Sanu’s voice in every second movie. And today, I realize how my mum was correct when she said that Bollywood stars have short-lived eras of stardom on the big screen. We have easily replaced Shahrukh Khan with every woman on the road. Taking them on “rides” and making them “blow” organs is no longer a fantasy that makes people among us play rocket-rocket in the privacy of their bathrooms. They no longer need practice runs. The brilliant show that they put up makes us all read the following day’s newspaper and say that we want to clap our hands on their faces. But we go and clasp another woman the same day. Darn, the YOLOness!

There are others who claim to treat women with respect. They touch their elders’ feet, drink milk every day, and make a trip to the colony temple every Tuesday. They’re the good boys. Good Delhi boys, with a wonderful vocabulary of words that define making love to the female members of every animate and inanimate object's next of kin. Keeping their swords in the sheath, they claim to make babies with the mother and sister of everything that falls within a radius of two-fifty yards.

Yeh burger ******** itna chhota hai!
Yeh ******** red light kabhi green milti hi nahi.
Saale, likh likh ke exam mein mere haathon ki ** **** gayi!

That’s exactly the reason why we believe that HT City offers better literature than a book telling us a story of a small boy being raped in an Arab location. Having received our doctorates in the art of raping, stories of kite runners seem passé. We claim to do every piece of furniture, every article of stationery, and every item of food a hundred times every single day. That’s a YOLO worthy achievement, don’t you think?

Yaar, One Large Oye!

From the size of one’s car to the size of another’s Sainik Vihar farmhouse, we Delhiites love measuring things with not a span or a cubit, but with eyes so wide that put our inflated scrota to shame.

Let’s put two big hands together for our city, which has made the statement “Tu jaanta nahi mera baap kaun hai” used enough number of times to be Guinness worthy. Let’s also take this opportunity to congratulate the average Delhiite who has excelled in the field of mathematics by proving that the number of relatives one has is directly proportional to the number of digits in one’s bank/under-the-table account.

With posters of Royal Stag forcing us to question if we have made it large enough to be called a Patiala peg, we fear being hungover the following morning, and dig into a plate of chhole bhature cooked in shudh desi ghee. Our diet shows that we’re obsessed with food that’s big; or food that’s cooked in pomace olive oil. Either way, we won’t stop ourselves from mentioning at every occasion that even the aaloo ke paranthe at our place are sautéed in the literally “rich” olive oil. That speaks a lot about mine, and Your Obsessive Love for Oil. Another YOLO defining moment? I bet, saadi Dilli.

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Sunday, July 22, 2012

Pros and Cons of Befriending a Girls' School Woman

They are all around us. The relation we share with them is like the one we have with the pigeons. The pigeons that silently walk into our rooms whenever we open the doors to our balconies. They look endearing at times, with the queer pink and green gently merging into a shiny coat around their necks. They’re different than the others, with those two pellets of homeopathic medicine craftily attached to the top of their beaks. Their B-boying necks and throaty coos remind us of some of our childhood’s favorite rap-stars. And at other times, when we get over thinking about things from the past during our study time on our cozy beds, their coos sound jarring. We get up and run towards them, making them fly into the open skies, from which they return and paint our clothes with a mix of white and green. These pigeons; we hate them for the crap they stain our clothes with. Well, they’re too harmless to hate otherwise. So, we just scrape away all the old shit and wear the stains that they design for us on every random day. We don’t know if we’d miss them if they go. We don’t know if they’re too adorable or too annoying. They’re just there. And no matter how high a floor you climb, they’ll be there to stay. The pigeons; and the all girls’ school women.

I’m surrounded literally by more number of girls from all girls’ schools than Baba Ramdev is by shamelessly black chest hair. Answering why is a mystery unsolved. My sister is from a girls’ school, but that’s not to blame. Maybe it’s just the radar built in me by years of all boys’ schooling that poings, tings and buzzes with excitement on meeting others from the opposite sex, who have been schooled in the same way, and.. are equally lame?

My experience of being friends with girls from all girls’ schools pokes me from within. It reaches out to my soul, asking me to tell you about why or why not to befriend such girls. Words of wisdom follow. Please read in case of sheer boredom, or go befriend one of these girls anyway.

The Pros

Bhaisaab, Contacts:

The first lesson you need to learn is that you don’t just become friends with a girl from an all girls’ school; you become friends with her whole gang! These girls will not just talk about themselves like princesses, but will introduce you to every part of their being. They don’t hold friends close enough to call them BFFs, but they hold them so close that they all become a part of one living body and soul. Since the first movie that they saw taught them that a guy has to accept the whole package that they have to offer, you meet and befriend all those living and moving body parts that complete one such girl. You don’t just go for a lunch with her. You go for a lunch where you bump into the whole population of her school waving and awwing from all directions. She introduces you to at least three girls from every course and college in the university. Phone directory count exceeds three hundred. Bhaisaab, contacts!

Popularity, Sir ji:

Being immensely driven by emotions, girls from an all girls’ school will never just “not care”. They’ll either loathe you to the minutest atom of your pubes or adore you to the Johnsons baby pores of your butt cheeks. Either way, she’ll mention how much she hates/loves you to every person she messages, BBM and Skypes with. Which means a sixty-four hunded hits on your facebook profile a day, and friend requests from sixty-nine girls with Instagrammed profile pictures of pouts and glares. You’ll have the women whom she called “bi*ches” in school wanting to date you, and then her wanting to date you, too. So much popularity, sir ji! Kyunki nafrat ko pyaar mein badalte der nahi lagti!

Casanova, Kya Baat Hai:

Since this is far from the screenplay of Inception, it doesn’t take the brains equivalent of Rakesh Roshan’s forehead to understand where things are going to go. These girls’ obsession with Harry Potter, fancy stationery items and facebook photos drags you into a routine of uploading photos with your new girl pals on facebook every day. You forget that you have friends from school. You just pose like Ravan between nine feminine heads and feel awesome for not desiring any of god’s other ladies. Your swagger matches that of Akshay Kumar from Desi Boyz and whatever you mumble sounds like: “I’m like the Casanova of India, biyatch!” When your friends start commenting on your pictures, saying things like “ladies’ man”, you just say “Arrey, kahan!” and raise your hands in the air like Shahrukh Khan.

1, 2, 3, Girlfriend:

The beauty of the girl from an all girls’ school lies in the fact that she won’t even make you realize when and how you got into a relationship with her. Every time that someone asks you about how you started liking her will not just make you defy gravity with your arms, but also say words like: “Pyaar kiya nahi jaata, ho jaata hai.” So for all those lonely boys who wish to drown in the feeling of love before they hit the age of puberty, you know which schools’ conti passes to buy. Getting yourself a girlfriend from an all girls’ school is as easy as making Mahesh Manjrekar look stoned. Trust my loserness. All my ex-girlfriends have been from girls’ schools. Macho me, babbeh!

The Cons

Emotional Jwalamukhis:

There’s only a little science that goes into knowing how all girls’ school women act like after they trap you in a relationship. While the product life cycle curve rises to the peak and starts to decline after reaching the point of maturity, you should get yourself to reconcile with reality and accept that your love life is lightyears away from maturity, but declines nevertheless. Blame it not just on half the city’s involvement with your relationship but also on the unstable-estrogen-itis that your better half suffers from due to excessive exposure to nuns, BFFing and weekly night stays. You realize that in your case, the P in PMS stands for Perpetual. One day you make out like oldies sucking on lollypops and the other day you break up because, well, no one knows. I guess that’s why they say: No pain, no gain. So, leave behind easy peasy relationship starters, make some effort, go crazy trying to impress a girl for a year, and then finally land yourself with a girl from a co-ed background.


Beware. You’ll be jokingly adopted as a father, son, brother, or even a mother-in-law as soon as you make yourself a part of such a girl gang. It’s funny at first. Not! You realize the pain only after breaking up with your girlfriend, when you have to untag all her friends as aunt, mother, daddy, daughter, etc. from your facebook profile. You thought not listing your ex as your girlfriend on facebook was mature? Boo-yeah!

Ruins Your Chances with Your Ex’s Hot Best Friend:

Remember, every single time that you get into a relationship with a girl gang girl, you’ll somehow be tricked to falling in love with the second best of the lot. It doesn’t matter at first. You’re too much in love. Now, aww at yourself and shut up. Because just seven hours after your break up, you’ll realize that you’ve lost your chance with your ex’s best friend. She used to be the one who’d tell your ex that she has the most amazing boyfriend in the world, but tera toh cut gaya, maamu! No point in trying to relive memories of eyeing her best friend at the casual lunch you guys had at Khan Market one day. The best friend is just like a warranty card you get with your phone. You feel great having her around, thinking that you might get a shot with her some day. But, the day your phone breaks and you read the conditions on your card, you realize that the warranty doesn’t cover your loss.

Turns You Into One of Them:

You don’t just befriend a girl from an all girls’ school and live in peace. You’ll have to become an important member of her gang, win all her friends’ hearts, get into a relationship with her, get exposed to emotional imbalances, break up, lose your chances with her best friend.. And then move on by dating another girl from a girls’ school. It’s a vicious cycle. You lose the charm that impresses women from co-ed backgrounds. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that you’ve started behaving just like your ex.  You refer to some of the girls from her school as bi*ches, calling some other your bros/sisters, being invited to all of their girl parties.. And not too far away in the future, everyone on your facebook friend list realizes that you don’t have a shot with any of the girls you’re posing with in your latest DP. KLPD.

So, they’re like the pigeons, you see. Love them, hate them; you can’t get rid of them. They’re too important a part of your life.

P.S. Trust me when I say that Bollywood has a song for every situation. The mixed feeling of love, and desire for separation with a creature worth adoring: “Kabootar Ja Ja Ja.” Wah wah!

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