One-two-cha-cha-cha

This piece is actually 3 months old. I had written this and stored it somewhere in my PC and forgotten. Finally got my hands on it while scrounging for porn in some folder hidden deep inside "c:\windows\system32\", and hence publishing it now. Here goes:

Well there's no polite way to break this in, so I'll be direct: I've joined dancing classes. Ballroom dancing, to be precise ( ballroom dancing, for the uninitiated, is a collection of various dance forms whose names end with -ba: Rumba, Samba, old-monk-ka-Khamba, kuthe-zhaala-aahes-re-thaamba, to name a few). Actually it wasn't entirely my idea. A good friend of the female kind brainwashed me into taking it up. She noticed that i was basically doing nothing on weekends ( by nothing i mean getting myself piss drunk with random people at nights, and nursing the hangover at days while constantly moaning about the glory days when all the bum-chums were right here in Bombay and we would travel 40 km back and forth on a weekday to get drunk at the South Bombay pubs). She also happened to point out my belly which had begun hiding my belt completely now, and the spare tyre that magically sprang up around my waist whenever i sat down. I tried reasoning with her that God didn't want me to dance. But then her raised eyebrow seemed to make much more sense at that time, so i gave in and signed up. I didn't realize that i would be using the popular Hollywood cop-flicks line "i didn't sign up for this" a bit too often from now on.

Anyway, Day One. I enter the room, and see this Greek goddess of an instructor.Oooh lalalala... what a bottom. God must have designed her bottom using AutoCad 9.0, I swear. Absolute perfection. I liked her. (Until she gave me the nickname of "pansy hands", because my hands would always flop out in a girly manner while dancing a particular step). You see, although I had my reservations about taking dancing classes, I didn't have even a bit of doubt in my mind that i wouldn't be absolutely awesome at it. Dancing to me comes like swimming comes to a duck. I was the number one dancer in college ( some would disagree with this, but they're just jealous little cunts). I was the step inventor, step propagator, and the change-the-step-at-the-right-moment-er. Yes, i was the Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh of dancing. i knew all the steps - amitabh bachchan step, dharmendra step, kite flying step, chapaati making step, chai-waala step, las ketchup song step, the macarena,dil-pe-kataari step, you just name it! Ballroom dancing, apparently, is a whole new ball game. You have to keep pointless things like technique, posture, tempo and mood in mind while doing it.

And it doesn't help that these people take their ballroom dancing bloody seriously. For example, this is how they introduce you to the dance step called cha-cha: " The cha-cha has a base step structure of "1-2-3-cha-cha", with a base tempo of 32 bps ( beats per second), and the primary mood for this is naughtatious, which is a combination of naughty and flirtatious. The base step structure for the cha-cha used to be "1-2-cha-cha-cha" instead of "1-2-3-cha-cha" until 1991, when the Internation Assosiation of ballroom Dancers ( IABD) changed it following a lawsuit by Greenpeace." These guys seriously need to take it easy. It's a dance step, not the technical specification document for the Chandrayaan, for God's sake.

Initially I did have trouble keeping up with all the ultra-precise mumjo-jumbo. I ended up breaking a substantial number of my dancing partners' toe-nails. But things have begun to look up. I am no longer confusing rumba with samba, samba with cha-cha, and left foot with right foot. Give me another 2-3 weeks, and I'll be John-fuckin-Travolta.

But you know what? Ballroom dancing's actually fun. After you've gotten over all the technical crap like 'bend your left ankle at 45 degrees, and take your right foot forward perpendicular to your partner's shoulder-line while bending your left arm at 37.6 degrees to the window on your right while juggling while making love to a tiger', it's actually fun. The best part of ballroom dancing is, that the guy gives all the leads, and the female has to whatever the guy directs her to do. For once, women are listening to me ( good for them). This false sense of power is overwhelming, actually. Imagine... one moment I'm dancing the straight step, and WHENEVER I WANT TO, I can make the female do another step. How bloody awesome is that!

You know, just about a month back, I was at the Hawaiian Shack ( a discotheque in Mumbai) and somehow managed to find a girl to dance with ( all thanks to my superpretty friend petti, who with his cute face always manages to find a girl to dance with, and then gets me her erstwhile partner to dance with). Anyway, we were dancing our stupid random steps, when the girl suddenly asked me "Do you know jive?" The following conversation ensued:

Me: What? i couldn't hear you... it's too loud here.
Her: Do you know Jive?
Me(Doing the I-am-deaf action): Whaaaaaaaaaaat?
Her: Jive! do you know Jive?
Me: hell yeah I know Clive...he's my boss... but how do you know him?
She: Not Clive, JIVE!!!!
Me: Yeah man.. this party is so ALIVE!
She: {some Konkani swearwords}
Me: Oh Jive.... no, i don't know Jive.
She: Ok, I'll teach you :-)

She then proceeded to teach me the basics of Jive. In the following 30 seconds, I broke her left toe-nail, elbowed the poor guy behind me, and broke my 5th pint of beer that I thought I could manage to hold while dancing Jive. So hopeless I was at doing the Jive, that another WOMAN came and plucked the girl I was dancing with from me, and started doing the Jive with her. Imagine... a girl coming and stealing your girl. I sincerely can't think of a worse insult. It didn't help that all my haraami guy friends were on the floor laughing when they saw that. That day I swore that I would learn Jive, and hunt this woman down, and do the Jive again with her. Now guess what? I can now do the Jive, goddamnit! Now all I have to do is find that girl again. (I have enough information to hunt her down. Her name starts with S, and she's a Goan... I mean how many GOan girls can there be with their names starting with S...).

Anyway, that's that, and before I sign off, here's a Top-Gear top-tip: Guys, learn some dance form other than what your seniors taught you at college. Your awesome kite-flying step isn't appreciated by the girls anymore. Neither is a good heart, solid moral values, beautiful brown eyes, and a body like a Greek God ( All this I've learnt through personal experience). Girls want you to know the Jive now.

Update: 3 months since I've learnt the Jive. No sign of the girl yet. There are way too many Goan girls with their name starting with S. And they slap a lot when they're drunk.

Citizen Sssaala

Got caught by the traffic police for jumping a traffic signal ( agaaaaaaaaaaaiiin) today. Damn all those new traffic signals that are popping up all over Mumbai now. All of a sudden, after 62 years of independence, these bums get a conscience-attack of civic planning. I could have sworn that traffic signal wasn't there yesterday! And the maamas ( some people also refer to them as Mumbai Traffic policemen.. never met anyone who does so though) are sly little weasels i tell you. One moment, the scene is empty. The next moment you jump the signal, 5 maamas appear out of nowhere and flag you down.

Anyway, the maama flagged me down, and since i didn't even know that there was a traffic signal that I had jumped, I took off my shades and my helmet in full style and asked the maama in a friendly swagger as if we were beer-buddies: " kya guru, kyun roka?" ( hey buddy man, why did you stop me?). He points to the traffic signal, and I watch in utter disbelief that there's a traffic signal there.

Me: Arre boss, ye signal kabhi khada kiya idhar? ( Boss, when did this traffic signal pop up here?)
Maama: Do mahine ho gaye ( Been here for two months)
Me: Kya????!!! mai to pehli baar dekh raha huun! ( What???!!! I'm seeing it for the first time!)
Maama: iska matlab tum do mahine se ye signal daily tod rahe ho. Aaj pakad mein aaye!...mwuhahaha. ( This means you've been jumping this signal daily for 2 months now. Finally we've nailed you!...mwuhahaha)

Anyway, down to business. He asks for some 127 identification papers, out of which i have only 91. He takes out his scary receipt book and pretends to do some calculations in his head and somehow arrives at a fine of Rs. 900/-.

Now I had two choices.
1. Respect the Indian constitution, pay the fine of 900 bucks, take the ticket receipt, take an enlarged photocopy of it, frame it, and hang it in the living room, because no one in my extended family has ever done such a thing.

2. Do it the Indian way - following our two core tenets of Bharatiyata - "adjust" and "jugaad", and ask the maama to take Rs. 200/- as a sorry+thank-you and then request him to take the receipt and shove it up his where-the-sun-don't-shine.

Now Bullshee*, my good mate from college ( who by the way is much less cooler than I am), was once faced with a similar dilemma, and he followed option One in a bout of integrity ( or galactic stupidity, i still don't know), and famously blogged about it. I can't find the exact link of the article, but he basically talked about being an upright citizen and upholding the law and other related topics. This, coming from a guy who is still being tracked by the Kerala Narcotics and Alcohol Excise Bureau for his rather experimentative four years in college.

And what did I do? I made the maama "adjust" for 200 bucks. ( Yeah yeah... bring on the brick-bats you self righteous sons of bitches... as if your farts smell of jasmines and lilies). Now don't get me wrong. I'm not an out-and-out "IPC ki maa ka bhosda" ( the law's mother's cunt) types. I pay my taxes, I don't spit on the sidewalk, and I almost always buy the ticket before boarding a train. But when it comes to bribing a cop/getting a ticket, i always choose the former. The primary reason for doing so is that I'm a scumbag. But there's another, deeper, for-the-greater-good reason why I prefer bribing the maama over getting the ticket like I ought to be doing.

Now, had I paid the 900/- bucks taking a ticket, that money would go to the government coffers. What the fuck has the Government been doing with that money?

1. Giving all the politicians Z+ security, while the common man gets blown apart by bombs planted in almost every major city in India.

2. Giving Afzal Guru guest-of-honour level treatment.

3. Buying Kasab some Eu-de-cologne, chicken tikka masala and blowjobs from John Abraham.

4. NOT repairing the Andheri-Kurla road since the 1857 uprising.

5. I could just go on and on. ( You people could help me with this in the comments section)

I'd rather give the poor maama some 200 bucks extra. The poor fellow earns chickenshit, has to stand in the dust and heat of Mumbai, has to take a lot of shit from all the Mercedes and Skoda owners ( the "jaanta nahi mera baap kaun hai" types) and still talks politely to assholes like me who don't even notice a traffic signal until they're caught while jumping it. He was the man on the streets when the the terrorists struck Mumbai on 26/11. He took a bullet from them which was probably meant for you and me, while all he was armed with was a laathi and a receipt book. He deserves those 200 bucks much more than the mafia that call themselves the government deserve 900 bucks. I'd be happy to know that the fellow can have an extra peg of rum at the end of a long, tiring day, or maybe take his wife and kids out for dinner.

So my dear friends, remember, that bribing isn't bad at all times. Of course, bribing lof the level of "oops I just drove my BMW over 10 pedestrians. Here take a gazillion bucks to look the other way" or "Oops i think i just shot Jessica Lal's brains out. Hey judge you better clean this thing up coz my dad has the biggest dick in India" is downright evil, but the next time you get caught for jumping a signal or driving in the the opposite direction of a one-way, or managing to produce only 91 identification papers when 127 are demanded, spare a thought for the poor maama. He's been taking shit all his life. Give him the money instead. At least some good will come of it. You're not doing anything wrong. The money you would have paid to the government would take ages to trickle down to the poor maama. You're just expediting the process. Some people call this grassroots-level-management or bottom-up-governance. Others just call it bribing, but they're just full of shit.

So, be a model citizen, and pay your bribes. Citizen ssaala signing off!!!

*: Name changed to avoid criminal action against the poor bastard.

P.S: If some lawyer happens to read this, please let me know if I can get into trouble for writing this.

SKC

Hella yeverybeddy!
It is el-timo to el-rejoice-o! Yeah! Pop the champagne, do a hypothetical high-five into thin air, do a jiggly here, and a wiggly there! Because I've kinda received my first hate-mail (well, hate-comment). Basically something that all you people have been wanting to do for a long time, but couldn't because you're all little wussies and thought I would hunt you down and sacrifice you to some random Mayan God if you wrote anything other than "totally awesome dood.. you just pwned every1 !!! lololol". Finally someone gathered the cojones to tell it to my face that I was being an asshole. Big, big mistake.

Anyway, I got this comment in response to my previous post AKC ( yes, you need to read that post before you understand what the fuck this is all about. go read it. it'll only take a minute, you lazy, pretentious twat). Now this dude was kinda miffed that I didn't like the English grab-ass game that all the waiters at Subway/McDonald's types like to play. Anyway, here's his comment in full glory:

I agree with most of the things you say here but i differ with Subway and McDonalds.

I'm just curious. Have you ever considered this point of view before verbally abusing that Subway service personnel?

1. SubWay is an american/western food joint.
2. SubWay is not only trying to sell a product but an "experience" of hanging out in a food joint in a western country/culture. They play worldspace and other english movie/music channels only.
3. In order to provide this experience, employees are advised to speak english which is a part of the package. Others may include good manners, like saying please, may i, apologizing... (which you probably dont get, all of the time in a road side dhaba or small time shop) and also hygiene.

I believe you have just taken one aspect of the food outlet (speaking english) out of context and you have over reacted (read as abused) to the service personnel. If you really had a problem, should you not be writing to the SubWay management who makes these decisions and issues instructions to the employee's? Did you? Would you?

Well, clearly, this guy deserved a response. So i lazily clicked the "add comment" button on my own blog, and started replying to the bloke. At first i typed " Hey, thanks for coming by and giving your opinion. I really appreciate it that you have taken the time off your busy schedule ... etc etc", and then I stopped. Of course I didn't mean what I had just typed. This dumbass just pissed me off, and here i am, acting like a goody two shoes in the cyberworld. How pansy could I get? So I deleted the comment. Then I began writing " fuck you, jackass. You have way too much time on your hands to be analyzing my blog seriously. If you have so much time, why don't you come and do my laundry instead? Would do both of us a world of good". But then I thought that I am a grown up adult now, and i should behave in a mature fashion. So I thought that i would give this bloke his rightful due. He deserves a full-blown "point-by-point reply" ( IT managers, you know this term, don't you, you good-for-nothing scumbags!)

So here goes. Lets break down his comment in parts, and try to reply to all the unsettling(hehhe) questions he posed:

I agree with most of the things you say here but i differ with Subway and McDonalds.

This the problem with democracy. Every asshole has the freedom of speech. Doesn't matter if he agrees with me or not. If I some day overthrow the prime-minister of this country in a bloody coup and become the supreme commander, i shall ban anyone from liking Subway and McDonald's. ( Don't worry ... I won't ban the joints. I'll just shoot anyone who says they're good. You can still eat there as long as you whine about it).

I'm just curious. Have you ever considered this point of view before verbally abusing that Subway service personnel?

No.

1. SubWay is an american/western food joint.
2. SubWay is not only trying to sell a product but an "experience" of hanging out in a food joint in a western country/culture. They play worldspace and other english movie/music channels only.

Now this dumbass reminds me of my class 10th exams. Remember, how in the social sciences paper, everyone would write the answers in points? Even if something can be said in one point, we would all make two points out of it. ( Q: Describe Adolf Hitler. A: 1. Hitler was a bad guy. 2. he was a really, really bad guy. 3. he was really mean, you know. And then you underline all the shit as if the paper-checker would skip anything that is not underlined.)

Anyway, he claims "SubWay is not only trying to sell a product but an "experience" of hanging out in a food joint in a western country/culture".
Well, God save the west if paying 100 bucks for food that my dog wouldn't eat is western culture. The only product Subway is trying to sell are the loose pieces of lettuce that were left unsold after the Thursday haat at the chakala maha-sabzi-mandi last week. And the only "experience" they are selling is "let's piss you off today!". Yep, they piss you off, and then they charge you a hundred bucks for it.

Tip: You want western food, go to Cafe Mondegar/Cafe Leopold. You want western culture, watch Euro Trip ( ok, not really... but i just loved the movie).You go to subway when and only when you are desperate, there's nothing else open nearby, you're inside a shitty mall,your housemaid didn't turn up, your mother refused to give you dinner because she couldn't stand your AKC-giri anymore, or you don't have the money for a proper meal. Not when you are looking for western culture or food. That's the last place on earth you'll find either.

By the way, if you ever happen to travel to the west, notice that only two kinds of people eat at Subway and McDonald's there:
1. People on welfare
2. On-site Indian IT Engineers.

And about the playing of western music, I've heard Kumar Sanu songs at the subway near my home ( Hiranandani). Not all subway joints are stuck-up wannabes i guess.

3. In order to provide this experience, employees are advised to speak english which is a part of the package.

So now you want to tell me that in every Chinese joint, the waiters should speak Mandarin and every pizza delivery guy should speak to you in Italian.

Imagine that you go to a Chinese restaurant, and you order some food.

JC ( jackass commenter): Hello. Can I have the Menu please?
Waiter: 閩語 閩語 閩語 閩語 閩語
JC: I beg your pardon?
Waiter: 閩語 閩語 閩語 閩語 閩語
JC: I'm sorry, I don't understand Chinese. You see, in India, not many people know this language.
Waiter: Maine bola ki Behenchod, tere mamme to bahut hi ghinaau hain yaar( I said that Sisterfucker, you've got some really ugly man-boobs buddy)

Others may include good manners, like saying please, may i, apologizing... (which you probably dont get, all of the time in a road side dhaba or small time shop) and also hygiene.

By the way, I've had much friendlier and responsive waiters at dhabas and tea-stalls. And they are genuinely polite. They don't give those smiles fake-as-a-hooker's that you get on Subway/McD/KFC. Sure, they don't have spiked hair, and they don't know how to say polite shit like " I apologize profusely for this erroneous trade. I have accidentally billed you Rs. 250/- instead of Rs. 235/- in our extremely advanced state-of-the-art billing machine. which i don't know how to properly operate.. you will now have to buy something extra that costs 15 bucks.. sorry, we don't have coleslaw... sorry, we don't have sundaes either... sorry, out of corn-cob as well... i guess you will just have to take these 3-day old french fries after all", but they do return your money when you pay them for six cigarettes, and they have only five. And i think good service is much more important than lip service.
As for you argument on hygiene, read the 'lettuce from friday haat' bit again please.

I believe you have just taken one aspect of the food outlet (speaking english) out of context and you have over reacted (read as abused) to the service personnel. If you really had a problem, should you not be writing to the SubWay management who makes these decisions and issues instructions to the employee's? Did you? Would you?

Write to the Subway management? Are you serious? You actually think i have as much free time as you do? Anyway, find me ONE guy who has ever written to the Subway management ( if there is such a thing), and I will too. Boy, someone's life would have to really suck to be writing to the Subway management.
And what the fuck is this "did you?would you?could you?" shit anyway? Is is supposed to lend some kind of dramatic edge to your prose? Well, in case you are still in doubt, it doesn't. It just makes you look really stupid, that's all.

Well, here's my balanced and matured point-by-point reply to the dude's comment. Next time you feel like disagreeing with me, don't. You never know when I might overthrow the PM over a bloody coup. God help you then. And oh, in case you're wondering why this post was called SKC, it's Subway Ke Chude ( Fucked by the Subwaymen). Well, ibbity-gibbity-jibbity that's all folks :-)

P.S: I know I'm a scumbag, but I still have a teeny-weeny bit of integrity left in me, which has compelled me to delete the guy's comment from the actual post, so that you, my loyal fans ( heehee), don't flame his site.
(Actually I'm afraid you'll all get in touch with him and form a I-Hate-Nautanki-Ssaala's-Guts clan with him)

P.P.S: I went through the guy's profile, and his About me says " In sync with various hallucination clubs (read as religion) im an atheist infidel."
Among his interests is "Microsoft". Under the Favourite Books section, he has written "I don't read Books Except if they are Technical. Dont have the patience to read pages of stuff."
I kinda feel bad for the guy now.

AKC

Annnnnd ... I'm back. Well I'd rather not discuss what i was up to during this rather long blogging-break, but here's the summary: it was something much more fun than writing blogs. Anyway, now that I have finally moved my lazy bum to the computer, lets get down to business without further ado.

AKC. One very profound senior of mine back in college introduced me to this acronym. AKC stands for Angrez Ke Chude (Fucked by the Englishman). AKC refers to Indians who pretend to not know Hindi/any other vernacular language. Who cringe when you say "madarchod", but "motherfucker" sounds perfectly OK to them. Those who have never stepped out of their hometown all their lives, but for some reason have an American accent ( the less said about their grammatical prowess, the better). Those who refer to pudina chutney as mint sauce, and paneer as cottage cheese. Well I've been encountering a rather high number of AKCs these few days, and this post has only two purposes: to explain to them that they are lame wannabes, and to warn them to never meet me on the road or I'll run them over with my bike.

Scenario #1: Subway restaurant, Goregaon ( a shitty suburb of Mumbai)

You know what I hate more than the shit that is served in Subway under the name of "Daily Sub"? The people working over there. They seem to ignore the fact that they are in India. Consider this conversation:

SJ (Subway Jackass): How may i help you sir?
Me: Yaar ek daily Sub dena
SJ: Of course sir, which bread?
Me: yaar brown bread de do
SJ: Which vegetables?
Me: Sab daal do, bas pyaaz thoda zaada daalna.
SJ: So you want all vegetables, with extra onions
Me: yaar tum English translation accha kar lete ho
SJ: ?
Me: Kuch nahi yaar, continue.
SJ: Which sauces do you want?
Me: Pudina chutney
SJ: So you want Mint Sauce.
Me: Aren't you bright as sunshine, jackass?
SJ: ?
Me: Hindi aati hai?
SJ: Sir, hame English mein bolne ko bola hai
Me: To phir abhi hindi kyun bola?
SJ: ?
Me: Sigh... kitna huwa iska?
SJ: That would be Rs. 75/- sir, thank you and have a nice day.
Me: Chutiyaa saala
SJ: ?


Damn these subway and McDonald's types. Somehow a perfectly hindi speaking guy, when he reaches the counter of one of these joints, switches to english. What's the matter with these people? The guy behind the counter is a bloody gahuti ( non AKC types), you are a gahuti, but you still resort to communicating with each other in your pathetic English.

Well, forget these joints, do you know who the biggest AKC in India is? It's none other than the goddamn Indian Government itself.

Scenario #2: SBI, Dindoshi branch (another shitty suburb of Mumbai)

I'm there filling up some papers, when a guy comes to me, hands me a piece of paper and asks, 'boss, aap "Sunderlal Tiwari" English mein likh ke de sakte ho kya'. I asked him, that doesn't the bank accept names written in Hindi? He says no. I felt really bad for that guy as I wrote "Sunderlal Tiwari" in English for him. Later on, I found out that the reason banks cannot accept names in Hindi is because all their IT systems are set up in English. Imagine. An Indian citizen, a perfectly literate one at that, has to go through this shit because he knows his own language and not some foreign one. Only in India can the govt. pull off something like this. Try doing this in, say, France. Sit behind a counter in Paris, and tell a guy that you can't process his request unless he writes his name in English. I bet you a million bucks you will get your head ripped off. Is it that difficult to set up a parallel Hindi data entry system? Damn you, SBI and damn you, Govt. of India. You're lucky I wasn't that guy. As I would have surely punched a few people had I been made to go through something like this.


And now, for the cherry on top of the cake:

Scenario #3: Hawaiian Shack disc, Bandra ( a not-so-shitty suburb of Mumbai, but it's the AKC headquarters of India)

I was pretty drunk, when I happened to meet an old college buddy out of the blue in that place. Now any REC graduate worth his salt will shout out " BEHENCHOD !!!! how are you man!" under such circumstances as I did. Suddenly, a guy pops out of nowhere and tells me, "you shouldn't say behenchod here". I apologized for offending him, as he had to hear the expletive involuntarily. But then he said that he didn't have a problem with the expletive, but that I shouldn't swear in Hindi when I'm at the Hawaiian Shack. This conversation follows:

Me: So you mean to say, that had I shouted "fuck!! how are you man!", you would be okay with it?

POTAKCAI ( Lets call this guy "President Of The AKC Association of India", shall we): Yup. I love hearing "fuck".

Me: Ye Hawaiian shack tere baap ka hai kya.

POTAKCAI: No. Why do you ask?

Me: Then who the fuck are you to decide what language should be spoken here?

POTAKCAI: Dude, this place is retro. No Hindi out here, please.

Me: You jackass, you've probably never been out of India in your life, and you are pretending that you wash your arse on the Thames every day, don't you?

POTAKCAI: Hey, don't get cocky, I don't want a fight.

Me: Of course I'll get cocky, bhenchod. You tell me that swearing in my own language in my own goddamn country is uncool? And I know why you don't want a fight. You are here with two skinny girls, while I am here with two Bulldozers. ( Refer pics)


My physically fit friends, Sameer and Shyam.


But I don't think I'll need them. All I need is a bottle of beer to smash your skull with. And guess what, I have it right now!


POTAKCAI: blah blah blah...i don't want to create a scene...blah blah blah ....

Me: {middle finger}

Well, to be honest, I don't really think i said all that. I would be lying if i told you i retain such clarity of thought after 6-7 beers and some free vodka shots. But i think i challenged him to a fight outside the disc. ( Which i forgot about by the time i came out).

Anyway, if I happen to recognize POTAKCAI somewhere on the road, he definitely gets my Apache RTR's tread-marks on his face.


Well, now here's a little quiz to determine whether you are an AKC or not:

1. Do you order your food in English at McDonald's, when you perfectly know the guy behind the counter can understand your language?

2. Do you think there exists a cooler translation of "bhosadi ke" in English?

3. Do you cringe when a group of drunk guys start singing "Emosanal Atyachar" at South Mumbai pubs at closing time?

4. Have you ever referred to pudina chutney as mint sauce?

5. Have you ever been a girl who has never stepped out of Guwahati, and told me in perfect American accent, "Dood, your humour sense is awesome"?
( Imagine how sad someone can be. You've got the accent right, but the grammar wrong. I would've surely be-headed her had she not been smoking hot)

If your answer to any of the above questions is YES, then you are an AKC. In my eyes, you are a goddamn loser. A scumbag. A pile of shit, teeming with flies. But fikar not. You are not forsaken yet. Follow these simple steps, and you could cure your AKC syndrome completely:

1. Learn the entire lyrics of "Emosanal Atyachar". Render them whenever you are drunk and among fellow AKCs. (Make sure you get the pronunciations correct. It's Emosanal, not Emotional).

2. Get up in the morning, open your window and shout out "behen ke laude, teri maa ki gaand mein aalu" ( you sister's dick, let there be a potato in your mother's arsehole) 5 times everyday. It's very liberating. Just make sure the house opposite your window doesn't belong to a pro wrestler.

3. If you own a dog, drop his shitty English sounding name, and re-christen him "daaku"

4. This one's for the Indian Govt: Set up some IT in vernacular languages, you lazy cunts!


Anyways, that's all for now. People, if you choose to comment, do let me know of your encounters with the AKC kind as well.

Reader discretion advised: This post contains colourful language. So little girls and prudes might want to skip this. What? You've already read it and are full of shame after having gone through so many swearwords in such a short span of time? Well, good for you.

Thanks Dad, for beating the crap outta me

If I am the man I am today ( i know, I'm not much of a man, but it could've been worse), it is because my dad beat the living daylights out of me every time i went astray. Why, you think am i digging up old graves? Well, basically because of two reasons: 1. I saw the Russel Peters "somebody gonna get a hurt real bad" sequence once again a few days back, and 2. This weekend, during the regular booze session with friends, this topic of how-my-parents-beat-the-crap-outta-me-when-i-was-a-kid came up, and i realized i had wayyyy too many stories to narrate compared to the other guys. To socha kyun na blog mein chipkaa diya jaaye.

Well, before you set off judging my dad as stone-hearted, let me tell you something about myself. I was a difficult kid. I'm sure had any of you been in my place, my dad probably wouldn't have laid a scratch on you. But I...oh boy, I was a piece of work. I virtually asked for it. Like painting your face red in front of a bull, poking its ears with a straw, and then doing the "mukkala muquabla" dance in front of it. Anyway, with that cleared up, we shall continue( I really wouldn't want to show my Dad in bad light here... i mean if he reads this and doesn't like it, he still has the capability to kick my ass to the moon)

Now you say what's the big deal? This is hardly something to blog about. everyone get a few knocks from their dads. Except everyone's dad is not a Para-commando with 29 years of service in the Army, trained to kill with his bare hands and eat snakes for lunch when Mc'Donalds is a bit too far away. You see, there's a difference in getting bitch-slapped by an accountant and getting roundhouse-kicked by a paratrooper. My dad's old now, but in his prime, he was the Alpha and the Omega of manliness. he was Walker-Texas Ranger, John Rambo, T-1000 and Shahenshah (the "rishte mein hum tumhaare baap lagte hain" dialogue actually fits here) put together. He was so goddamn manly, that this is what he looked like 15 minutes after he shaved:







To be fair to him, he always used to give me an advance warning that a thrashing was-a-coming. He'd say "very bad, Barun" nanoseconds before i found myself flying across the room like a table-tennis ball. God, how i feared the three words. "Very bad, Barun". very bad indeed.

Anyway, here are some random memories about the very well deserved thrashings that I have received over the years:

He used props a lot. I've been whacked, among other things, with a hawai chappal, an Army belt ( The Ashok Chakra that was on the belt was engraved on my ass for weeks), a bottle of frozen pepsi, a TV antenna, and even the Sunday Times ( my face had the front page printed on it for the next two days.. people would look at my face and exclaim, "oh.. India lost, kya"). Actually he whacked me with whatever he was holding at the exact point of time when i pissed him off. Sometimes, when i was really really lucky, he would be holding a pillow. But most of the times, he would be repairing his car with a spanner or polishing his DMS combat boots or admiring his collection of golf clubs.

My mum loved it when my dad beat my ass, and I would be a good boy for days to come. She would actually say " Awww Barun, you're such a darling till two weeks after the thrashing. Why aren't you so well-behaved all the time?". I would reply with a sheepish grin. Some sense of humour she has, I tell you.

Of all the 57,342 beatings I've gotten from my dad, it is surprising that the reasons for the thrashings were only one of these two: 1. Lying, and 2. treating my brother like shit.
It has taken me 57,342 beatings to learn just two things. No wonder I'm in the IT industry.

There was one really cool side-effect of the beatings. You see, the next day i would go with a swollen lip or a black eye to school. And all the kids would pester me wanting to know how I got it. And I would cook up some story like there were these four guys misbehaving with a girl at that corner and i went and saved her. I did take a few blows as they were all seven feet tall and professional wrestlers, but I did manage to rip their heads off and sacrifice them to lord Shiva, while the girl couldn't stop kissing me. Then all the kids would go " whoa man, you're such a badass.... we wish we could be half as brave as you. Autograph please?" The black eyes, the swollen lips and the dislocated shoulders gave me a total Super-Commando-Dhruv image at school. Thanks to my dad, no one messed with me in school.

I think this disciplining jackass kids with a well-deserved socking is common with many Army officers. I had a friend whose name was Gaurav, who was a bigger jackass than me, and his dad was like three of my dads put together. Gaurav wasn't really good at maths. At a particular unit-test in school, he scored zero out of 35. Following my advice, he buried the test copy in his garden. Ten days later, on a fine evening, it so happened that i had just gone to his house to ask him to join us for a game of cricket. The gardener was doing the garden, and suddenly started digging out pages from mother earth with a lot of crosses and zeroes and comments like "you imbecile, i need to meet your parents" in red ink. He showed it to Gaurav's dad. I saw this with my own eyes, and I shit you not, his dad was so angry, that the sheets of paper that he was holding in his hands caught fire. This brief conversation followed:

Gaurav's Dad: Barun, go and play cricket.
Me: But uncle, Gaurav has to come. Otherwise we have no one to bring the ball back when it falls into the gutter.
Gaurav's dad: Gaurav, tell your friend that you won't be playing cricket today (while muttering under his breath... and probably for the next six months. You need two hands to hold a bat)
Gaurav: Barun, go. You really shouldn't be seeing this. It's gonna be disturbing.

Well, as i stepped out, i saw him flying out of the rear window, and promptly being dragged back inside. Their neighbours later told me that they saw the same thing happen about 27 times that day.


The last time my dad beat my ass black and blue was about 6 years ago, when I was in my 1st year of engineering. Yes, my CATP ( Cut-off Age for Thrashing from Parents) was as late as 18 years. It so happens that I had just come back from college for vacations, and my driver picked me up from the railway station. The driver was a chutiya, and I somehow convinced him to give me the wheel. Please note that i had never driven a car before in my life. I hadn't driven 10 metres when i banged in onto an incoming Tata Sumo. Major tamasha ensued. Parted with a lot of hard-earned pocket money in order to pacify the Sumo owner. But what i did next, was a stroke of genius. I knew my dad wouldn't be back home until late evening. So I gave the car to a mechanic, and told him to undo all the dents and fix another head-lamp while i begged/borrowed/stole money to pay him off. Got the car fixed, borrowed enough money to pay the mechanic off, and got the car back home before dad was back. Yeah! Game,Set,Match! Except the mechanic left one dent uncovered. And my dad spotted it. What happened next is too graphic to describe, but if you ever happen to meet my neighbours, ask them about that night in December 2002 when they thought that a jackal had strayed into our colony and was howling because it was full-moon.


Ahh.... sweet memories. But you know what, I'm glad my Dad beat my ass. He didn't do gay things that today's parents do like ground me, or send me off to my room to think about what i had just done while i could just close the door and shag. He beat my ass. Like a man does to a man. And thank god for it. Had it not been for the discipline that he taught me, I would probably be peddling dope in Allahabad Railway Station today.

So, I close this post with a thank you to Daddy dearest, who, apart from teaching me 57,342 ways to discipline my future kid, taught me many more things about life. Today, as I have grown up to be a fine young man ( i know this is debatable... but just go along with me for now, won't you), he has become a true friend. Hell, he even opens his favourite bottles of single malt whenever I go home and pours me a drink twice as large as his own. Thank you dear Father, I owe you big-time.

Note: People who do choose to comment on this piece, kindly give your CATPs as well.

UK Survival guide for the average frustrated Indian Male

Annnnd... I'm back! Bloody long time it's been since a blog. Actually i was too busy having a good time in the real world ( i think anyone who posts more than 3 blogs a year is a loser). But it's that time of the year again... Diwali... and my leave request got denied, so here I am, sticking out in the office like a sore thumb, while everyone else has gone home to their mommies and poppies and are having a gajabuja time in general. So with all my beer buddies away, and only a limited collection of porn ( and stamina), i have had to succumb to the last resort for timepass: a blog post.
Anyway, here goes: I had the good fortune of travelling to the UK for about 2 months this year. I thought i would rock the place with my awesomeness. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was wronger ( if there is such a word) than I am wrong at the English section of mock-CATs. I was thoroughly under-prepared. So, i think it is my duty to inform the average beer-swiggin'-crotch-scratchin'-oglin'-bald-fat-bastard-who-is-only-marginally-cool-in-India-but-comes-across-as-a-thorough-bum-anywhere-else Indian male about some peculiarities of that land, and how to prepare for them so that you emerge safely out of all the cultural traps the bloody white man has set up for us all over their country.

I shall enumerate the survival tips in the order of their importance:

4. Wear shades - AT ALL TIMES
You see, when you're walking down the many streets of London, you are bound to see something like this:


















or maybe this:

















or maybe this:

or maybe this:

But given that you're an average Indian male ( most probably an IT engineer), your luck has always been shitty, and going to the UK won't change a thing, you'll most probably see this:




















or this:



Don't worry... I've seen worse.


Anyway, my point is this: On an average stroll through London, a frustrated loser like you is going to stand and ogle at inappropriate stuff atleast 24,000 times.

Here's how it usually goes: Depravity, perverseness and unnecessary curiosity being your flagship virtues, you are bound to just stand there and ogle at the kind of things illustrated above in the pics. Until some firangi guy/female walk past your muttering " ugggh ... these sad, sick brown bastards".
Now there are two ways to avoid such a situation:
1. Don't ogle - Yeah... right. I know its impossible. This is the first time you're seeing wild shit like this which isn't stored as "GRE_tips.avi" in "c:\>program files\backup\...\New Folder".

2. Don't let anyone know where your eyes are looking. And here is where a nice pair of extra-dark Ray-Ban Aviator sun-glasses come in.

To drive my point home, here's a simple demonstration:







See, no one has any idea now where I am staring and what kind of illegal shit is going on in my twisted mind.

So friends, wear shades... AT ALL TIMES... day or night, indoors or outdoors... you never know when the next scantily clad babe will walk past you and drop her handkerchief and then bend down to pick it up... or when the two girls you always thought were good friends suddenly decide to show the world that they are more than just good friends.

3. Carry cigarettes and a lighter after 9:00 p.m.
Even if you don't smoke. You see the percentage of females in the UK who are not drunk after 8:00 p.m. is 0.00001%. And by 9:00 pm, all the drunk females run out of their own stack of cigarettes and explode out of the bar and into the streets begging for a smoke to anyone and everyone. This where you need to be ready with an Indian brand cigarette ( they love Indian cigarettes..esp. Wills Navy Cut , i shit you not... the Indian cigarettes conk them out much faster than their crappy Dunhills and Marlboros), and a Zippo lighter. Bonus points if you know any cool Zippo tricks. These two should be enough to get you lucky.

Again, to drive my point home, illustrations:

See what my non-smoker friend Mangu who always packed a Wills Navy Cut packet and a Zippo lighter got home:



















And look at this idiot who obviously forgot to carry smokes:

















Notice how there’s no one else in his bed…

2. Get a fancy haircut
It'll save you from sticking out like a sore thumb. You see, the guys in UK actually have a hairstyle. I didn’t see a single guy whose hair was growing accidentally. Every damn strand of hair is there because its meant to be there. Not exactly what Paplu Yadav, your regular barber in India is capable of. So go there, shell out a few pounds and get one of ‘em wild ones. It’ll increase your chances of being allowed within 10 metres of a female exponentially.

Again, illustrations:
Note: AMPC=Average monthly pussy count


His AMPC: 57


His AMPC: 34


His AMPC:92


My AMPC: ZERO

See? The only difference between me and those bums is a non-accidental hairstyle. Look at the impact it has on my AMPC.



And the Number one survival tip:
In fact, its so bloody important, that I’ll number it Zero.

0. Shave your arsehole
Because they don’t use water. They use tissue-paper. Believe me, you will not find a source of water within 10-mile radius of a commode. Even if you do, you will not find any means of transporting it up to your…well… the general area of application. And that stuff dries up faster than you think it does. Damn, I wish I could explain in more detail, but I’m too grossed out myself right now. So just remember: shave your arsehole before leaving for UK. You’ll understand what I’m talking about once you get there.

So, that’s all folks. It’s a great country otherwise. Follow these 4 rules, and have a much better time over there than I did. Cheers!



Reader discretion advised: Attention girls and prudes, you might find this post offensive. You might not want to read it. There. You've been warned. What? You've already read it and you're totally grossed out? Too bad... go watch Notting Hill or Oprah and you'll be okay again...

And now, the man behind the bullshit.

Okay, all my fans ( all three of you), I'm sure you must've read my previous posts ( all two of them) and been wondering, who IS this guy? How is his mind so keen, and yet his nature so humble? I wish i knew what brand of ice-cream he ate, and whether he slept with stuffed animals. If only I could become a little like him.... well, your prayers have been answered. There's this stupid game called tag, which I'm sure originated from the nerd-gang of my electrical class in college. What they do is, they give you this set of questions, which you are supposed to answer (they "tag" you). For example, I was "tagged" by Meera. ( I wonder how the nerd-gang got their hands on such a sweet little girl. Meera stay away from them. They can ruin your self-confidence i tell you...). Anyway, enough bullshit. Now for some more bullshit:

1)LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER: Chronicles of Narnia: Prince-Supergay. LOTR for bed-wetters and little girls.

2)WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?: Functional Specification Document for Geneva Exchange Layer for Forex and Options, Version 1.1.1.5, by my Project manager, one of the greatest writers in the genre of Fixed Income and Treasury. Well actually just finished 3 Mistakes of my life by Chetan Bhagat. No great literary value ( The document by my Project manager has more literary value, i tell you), but it was more fun than a barrel full of drunk monkeys.

3)FAVORITE BOARD GAME? : Ludo. I like it because the game is based purely on luck,and hence no one calls you a dumbass after you lose.

4. FAVORITE MAGAZINE? : I've stopped reading them. I DOWNLOAD porn now.

5. FAVORITE SMELLS? : The smell of my girlfriend's hair right after she's taken a bath. Drives me crazy every time.

6. FAVORITE SOUND? : The sound of the clock striking 6 o'clock on weekdays.

7. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? : Well, this Sunday, I was taking a mock CAT, and i forgot the value of Cos30 degrees. I always knew that I was a dumbass, but i didn't know i had reached such heights.

8. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP?: "Wtf, why didn't the alarm go off?" Well, it always goes off, and it keeps beeping till all my roommates wake up and one of them shuts the alarm, kicks me five times to wake me up, curses my mother and then gives up.

9. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE? :Sudhir Chainis Restorent, just below my office.Their speciality is South Indian.

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME? : Well I'll have 3 kids. A boy, and two girls. The boy will grow up to be a rockstar, so I'll give him a name which can be easily anglicized, like Sameer->Sam,Devraj->Dave, Omkara Zalaaluddin Zubin Yahudi ->Ozzy. The second girl will be a model, so her name has to sound sexy. Something like Saloni ( have you ever met a girl whose name was Saloni and she wasn't hot?). The third girl will do all the chores in the house, so I'll name her Bimla.

11. FINISH THIS STATEMENT. "IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY I’D...? : be 75 years old.

12. DO YOU DRIVE FAST? : I have to. I wake up at 9:20 am, and office starts at 9:30. No choice there.

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? : Well, sometimes when my roommate is really drunk, he crashes on my bed and its impossible to move him. So yeah, sometimes i do end up sleeping with stuffed animals.

14. STORMS-COOL OR SCARY? : Storms are always cool. What happens to the roads of Mumbai two hours after the storm isn't.

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?: I still don't have one. I'm poor. You don't have to rub it in by asking such offensive questions.

16. FAVORITE DRINK? : Water. After I've had 5 bottles of beer. After i've had 6 shots of whiskey.

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT, "IF I HAD THE TIME I WOULD..” I always have time. It's money that I don't have which keeps me from going to Jamaica.

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS ON BROCCOLI? : Depends, on how many pegs I've had before I have to take this decision.

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE? : I've always wanted to dye it in the colours the Indian flag... some day i will, if i have any hair left on my head by that time.

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN : New Delhi, Bagdogra (WB), Hashimara (WB), Devlali (MH), Talbehat (UP), Nasirabad (Rajasthan), Ambala (haryana), Guwahati, Calicut and finally Mumbai. Phew... things you have to do when your dad's in the army...

21. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? : Who needs sports when you've got Reality TV? No game of football or cricket or F1 can come even close to "When Police car chases go horribly wrong".

22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU : One is not enough, i have to tell you three:
1. Unlike 99.99% girls, she has a sense of humour.
2. Unlike 99.99% girls, she doesn't have her head shoved up her ass and hence is able to think straight, and talk sense.
3. She values and respects her friends.

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? : Let's see ...My CAT material, my pillow, DVDs of Rosemary's baby and A Few Good Men, harry Potter 7, the late Bittoo ( cockroach.. poor fellow was whipped with a jhaadu to death by the Baai), my old mp3 player, comb, atleast 2 pairs of jeans, a packet of Marlboro lights, a vase ( which i got in L&T as a prize for being the "life of the party") ... well these are the things i can't find since the last 2 months. Well, come June, and the landlady will kick us out of the house. We'll look under the bed that day.

24. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS YOURSELF AGAIN? : I was okay when I was born. It's the engineering education that fucked up my life. Would love to change that, please...

25. MORNING PERSON, OR NIGHT OWL? : Morning: owl, night: person.

26. OVER EASY, OR SUNNY SIDE UP? : wtf does this question mean? does it have anything to do with making eggs? In that case, it doesn't matter coz sudhir (refer qn.9) makes only bhurji.

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX? : Office. These guys have some deadly chairs, I tell you.

28. FAVORITE PIE?: American Pie. Part 3.

29. FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? : Pista is the current favourite. Im just waiting for someone to invent beer flavour.

30. OF ALL THE PEOPLE YOU TAGGED THIS TO, WHO'S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST? : I don't have anyone to tag. My friends don't blog. Its difficult to type while holding a beer can, you see.

Phew...that's lot of typing. The last time i typed so much was when my girlfriend got pissed at me for flirting, and i didn't have the balance to call her up and clarify things. I had to pacify her over google talk.