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 hi5.com. 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.

Image Source: allhiphop.com