My USA is here

We all know of the utter disdain with which the oldies refer to the new generation as – oh! Those aping west types. They cleverly forget those decades of their own affinity towards the bell bottoms, Elvis hairstyles and humongous shirt collars that resembled this fish –


Yes, we do try to be the west (which basically means USA to us) by talking in that funny fake accent and looking at them for approvals for everything from Modi to Oscars, but we do not believe that you have to ‘ape’ them to turn this country into USA. Now as our government officials prefer changing names of cities to swatting flies, consider a hypothetical situation where the name of our beloved motherland is changed to USA. Now the ‘A’ in this new USA can stand for a lot many things.

For example –

We can be the United States of Amoeba. Look at the rapid rate at which the states are multiplying. From 26 in my school days, we are now at 29. Or is it 30? And then in a very Draupadi-ish style, we share the capitals too. Chandigarh is being bedded by Haryana and Punjab since ages and now Hyderabad has joined the ranks. We have divided this whole whale of a state in two and it is impossible to find a city to create a new capital? The A for Amoeba can also symbolize the way humans divide in this country although the mode is far from asexual. Coming to think of it, we would have preferred it to be asexual. Then the girls and boys would have held hands and played ring-a-ring-a-roses without their parents fretting about the slaughter of cultural values.

We can also be the United States of Aunties. It may represent the nosy aunty brained politicians who recently arm-twisted the RTI act to save their asses. It can also represent those aunties who bully the vegetable vendor into reducing the prices by 36 paise, threaten him with dire consequences if he does not add free extra chilies to her bag and feel proud of their achievement for the rest of the day.

While we are at aunties, allow me to vent a bit gracious reader.

There is this old hag with whom we share our builder floor house. She lives in the ground floor with her husband (who has this permanent expression of shock on his face as if there is a cactus shoved up his ass), her elder son and his wife (the couple fights with the capacity of two Godzillas. The son is completely incoherent and blabbers in an alien language when he is fighting with his wife. Yes, we can hear everything) and her younger son and his wife (recently married, the couple was in a hurry to reproduce. It has just been a year and the couple already has a baby). So, this insufferable woman has a habit of coming up with brilliant ideas to piss everyone off. A few days back, she invited a few homeless local workers to create huts in an empty plot next to ours (a common sight in NCR). The plot is not hers. Her reason? She needs a new maid and she can pick one from the hut. We politely asked her to fu*k off because this is how illegal colonies flourish.

This pathetic excuse of a human being and her gang of similar creatures are also famous for poking their nose in everyone’s affairs. One night, I will don my Batman suite and hang this whole gang upside down from a high-rise.

Feeling unburdened now, we come back to the topic.

We can be the United States of Apathy, because this is what we teach our children. Nothing is more important than you, your family, your dog, your underwear and your money. Not even another human’s life. We are masters in the art. In fact the leftover compassionate people who have not yet converted should be caught and dragged into gas chambers and vaporized, just like those unnecessary Jews who lived a few decades back.

We can be the United States of Applesauce. Appreciating nonsense is one of our greatest achievements. Look at our daily sitcoms, our news channels, our politicians, our reality shows, our movies and our advertisements – everything is loaded with a slapstick sauce, laden with toppings of buffoonery, laced with layers of stereotypes and mixed with a sense of senselessness. Anything ‘normal’ is called ‘art’. We believe that fairness of the skin brings success. And we love it when SRK plays a Madrasi and licks dal off his arm.

We can be the United States of Arnab. Look at the way our own Superman Arnab singlehandedly bring the culprits to justice by his uncontrollable squeaks. Look at the way he ‘demands’ answers that make the most seasoned politicians cringe in their chairs, sweat instantly and beg for forgiveness. We can all roll at his feet and ask him to give his name to the country.


So you see, we really do not have to ape the west to be USA. We have all the right ingredients present right under our nose. All we have to do is to follow our heart, open our eyes and the path will unwrap in front of us. We are already living in USA. All we have to do is choose the right ‘A’.

Do you have any other ideas for what ‘A’ can stand for, O! Reader? I am contemplating starting a petition on to amend the name of our country. Looking forward to your support.

[image from here and here]

Do as the Romans do


Going abroad is not a distant dream anymore. In fact, come summers and the Indian streets seem deserted (if you do not consider dogs and beggars) as most of us are ‘holidaying’ abroad. Europe, South East Asia, Amrika – you name the place and you will find Indians sitting in Indian restaurants, sucking a chicken leg with a noise loud enough to shatter the lens of the Hubble.

Indians going abroad is a welcome change when the roads back home seem a bit cleaner in their absence which in turn give some relief to the sweepers. It also gives me some sort of sadistic pleasure. The tourist destinations that boast of their superior infrastructure are tested to their limits. For how long can we curb the urge to throw that stained tissue on the road? For how long can we restrain ourselves from leaving a mark on the country in the form on a single straight stain on a wall that runs down to form a puddle? There are times when we would like to spit on the spotless roads, when we would like to honk the hired convertible to glory. No wonder Indians breathe a spit of relief the moment they land in their beloved motherland and throw the slurped paper plate of Dahi Bhalle on the road with tears in their eyes. They are doing a national service, they are helping the sweepers to retain their jobs and put food into the mouth of their army of kids.

Monalisa DeshpandeWhat I find a bit disturbing is the way nationals of other countries behave in the presence of an Indian dipped in his culture.  Taking an example – We love to put Champakali, Chameli and Coconut oil in our hair. It is a recipe for our lush hair that has been passed through generations. Then why do we see people wrinkle their nose all around us when we go abroad? Don’t they get the exotic aroma rising from our head? Now we already smell of spices because of the kind of heaped-in-spices and swathed-in-oils food we eat since childhood. Add to that a dash of Champakali on our head and we turn into walking aphrodisiacs. Is the wrinkling because of the fact that we at times forget to use deodorants and smell like a dead rat? But how can that be when the oil and spices are so overpowering to make a person lose his consciousness in ecstasy? Beats me.

We Indians are very colorful people. Ask a foreigner who has been to India and the first thing he will tell you is that he thinks the whole country has gone gay (which actually seems to be a very good idea considering our amoeba like growth). We love our colors so much that we carry them unabashedly to foreign lands. Even when foreigners all around us start wearing sunglasses indoors to save their eyes from the razor-sharp colors or when they hide their faces in the beer mugs because of the sight of the momma made jumper we are wearing, we fail to get the subtle hints. And why should we? What is the harm in adding some colors to their boring grey, blue and black life?

To curb our habit of staring is another monumental task while we are abroad. If anything remotely Caucasian walks by, our jaw hangs dangerously. It is difficult to make a foreigner understand that we stare at anything. It is our way of admiring the beauty of nature. We also point fingers and giggle. It is harmless of course.

Patience is the name of the seventh moon of Jupiter. That is why when we are subjected to the word while in queues in foreign lands, we respond with bewilderment. Why can’t they make a separate line for ladies, senior citizens, children, people in orange clothes, people in whites and people with two legs? How can everyone have so much time on their hand? Don’t they have a daily soap to catch, a maid to manage, a child to batter and a match to watch?

Should we do as the Romans do or should we splash our superior culture all over the world and teach them a thing or two? Why not turn the question the other way around? What do we expect from a person visiting our country? Don’t we expect them to litter the roads, spit till they end up with salivary deficiency, eat and drink food sprinkled with fumes from the roadside stalls and bring out taser guns the moment they see four men walking towards them? So if we would like tourists to be a part of our culture and enjoy their stay here, then why can’t we reciprocate in a similar manner? In the same way that we are all proud of our culture where people leave soiled diapers in Taj Mahal, people from other countries will be proud of their shiny roads and non-aphrodisiacal surrounding and would like us to respect that.

We know its their loss that they miss this chance to bask in our refined and better cultural glory during our stay in their country but we can leave them to their miseries. If we can adjust 7 people (dog included) on a motorbike, we can do this. Don’t you think?

[image from 1, 2]

Results of the study of Rapes by KHAP – IIIIM

KHAP – IIIIM (The KHAP Institute of Insufferable Inane Immutable Men) is a premiere institute functioning in India ever since Adam and Eve reproduced without marrying. The institute was established with the sole purpose to put a check on the luscious & lascivious activities of young men and women of Haryana so that they do not repeat the mistakes of Adam and Eve. Over the years the KHAP IIIIM has established itself as an unparalleled institute that deals with a plethora of activities like organizing murders, beatings, boycotting, passing illegal ridiculous laws and carrying out research. The research wing of KHAP IIIIM has been a crown jewel of the institute which studies various issues around rapes – why they happen, how they happen and what preventive actions should be taken to reduce them.

Last month, after a series of 19 rapes happened in a span of 30 days in Haryana, KHAP IIIIM came into action and launched a new study to understand the sudden rush of testosterones in the men of Haryana. The initial reports around screening of ‘Jism 2’ last month were thumbed down.

The results of the study were shocking. A lull spread all over the nation. People gasped and rapists grumbled. Here are the top five reasons which a panel of 5 KHAP IIIIM members disclosed in a press conference:

5. Government apathy towards gay marriages

The study concluded that a prominent reason why men lurk on the roads of Haryana in search of an outlet is because of hazy laws towards gay amalgams. “A hole is all they want” – a senior KHAP IIIIM member stated. “When Hurricane Katrina struck America in 2005 and pictures of it came on internet, a lot of men took printouts and the rapes came down in the state that week” – another member clarified. KHAP IIIIM is of the view that if gay marriages are allowed in the state, it will drastically reduce the unfortunate incidents of rapes.

The Hurricane Katrina

4. Burgers and Chowmein

This was one of the most shocking revelations of the study. When the journalists questioned the members of the institute, they patiently explained the following scenario, which made perfect sense.

“Suppose, a group of bulges boys went to Mc Donald’s and while they waited for their burgers, they see a girl eating her Chicken Mc Grill and going mmmmm. She mmmmms again and again. Mmmmmmm Mmmmmmmm Mmmmmm. And then she gets raped. Now imagine an ice-cream cone in her hand or the Chowmein. Slurrrrp Slurrrrrrp Slurrrrrrpp. What can the boys do when the girls incite them like this?” – The KHAP IIIIM member explained.

* At this point, one of the members of KHAP IIIIM got up and left the room holding a folder near his trouser’s zipper*


3. Gurgaon

The study revealed that the creation of this 5 star mega slum city in Haryana was too much for the men of the state. Suddenly, there were women running around in spaghettis (which reminded the men of Chowmein) and shorts and skirts all over Gurgaon. The women were working in malls and pubs and call centers and software companies. They drank, they danced. It was too much for the Haryana male to bear. After all, his idea of a woman is someone who makes cow dung cakes and slaps them on a wall. He tore his hair in passion, ripped off his shirt and then bundled the girls in moving cars. “I wish we could raze this city to the ground and put a cluster of villages here. Those were the golden days.” – An eminent KHAP IIIIM member said with sadness in his eyes.

2. Pigeons

According to the study, there has been a flurry of pigeons in Haryana in the past decade which has turned the youth completely horny. With all that ‘gutargoo’ happening all day and pigeons flapping on each other doggy style and kissing with their beaks, who will not have desires? “We have sent a recommendation to the Haryana government to kill the pigeons in the state to stop rapes. This way, the police force will also have something to do. The government’s response has been positive.” – A KHAP IIIIM member explained.

Much too much kissing!

1. Despoina – the 5th moon of Neptune

According to the study, this has been the top reason for rapes in Haryana. In the primitive Greek myth, Poseidon saw Demeter, the Earth mother and desired her. To avoid him, she took her archaic form of a mare, but he took the form of a stallion and mated with her. From this union Demeter bore a daughter Despoina and a fabulous horse Arion (from wiki).

Despoina – the bane of mankind

When the KHAP IIIIM members explained this in the press conference, the journalists were perplexed. They could not understand the link. The KHAP IIIIM members exclaimed that they had no idea journalists were that dumb and collectively rolled their eyes.

During the question hour, one of the journalist proposed that maybe the study should have also looked into the possibility of including ‘mentally unstable men’ and ‘lazy law enforcement’ as a reason too. The members were furious and walked out stating – “How dare the press has the audacity to question the report?”

And so Despoina revolved around Neptune, oblivious to the fact that she had lead to a landslide of rapes in Haryana – a tiny piece of land on planet Earth. The Indian leadership is mulling over destroying Despoina with a nuclear device to tackle the problem.

[images from 1,2,3,4]

Top ten obsessions of an average Indian male

Indian men are notorious for their fondling fervour all over the world but I think it is unfair not to have a look at our other passions and obsessions and then make an informed decision. So, here is a countdown to the top 10 obsessions of an average Indian male.


You thought that would be on the number one spot? Now that is where an Indian female is deceived into believing that cricket is our only true obsession. In reality, it is only a diversion. Yes, we love the game. How can anyone ignore such a classic where 11 men run after a ball as if it is a drunk woman who has just stepped out of a pub with molest-me written all over her.  There is a whole science behind how to hit the ball, how to rotate it and how to jump to catch it and land on a pigeon. There are shields on the body of the batsman which will put a medieval warrior to shame. There is even a shield to save his balls from the ball! The game is like a religion, as if we do not have enough of them already.


Ever since an Indian male is born he is taught two things – To ruthlessly win the race & always suppress the weak. A lot of us end up being a complete loser and are not able to fulfil our glorious destinies. Result – we honk. It allows us to be ruthless and leads to traffic jams disappear miraculously. It allows us to pester pedestrians and rickshaw-pullers which lead us to fulfil our suppress-the-weak destiny. We derive gratification from such acts in our otherwise good-for-nothing life.

Chest hair

Another virtue which is imbibed in Indian males is to flaunt their manliness at the drop of a pant hat. We do it by opening the top four buttons of our shirts and displaying our lush gardens to the world. We compare the degree of our manliness by comparing the abundance of our black forests. To make the fertile lands look more gorgeous, we add gold chains and lockets of Gods who hang helplessly from our necks and end up cursing the day they decided to pull humans out of water and add them to the list of mammals.


It is a myth that men don’t bitch and Indian men take it to another level. We have left Lalita Pawar-ish aunties behind in bitching and plotting. We tend to gossip like two vamps in a Balaji Telefilms soap with malevolent intentions. A majority of us bitch about our wives and bosses, which clearly shows that the second childhood lesson (refer obsession number 9) about suppressing someone who we think is weak does not apply to these two categories.

Swear words

Indian men cannot complete a sentence without remembering the Maa (Mothers) and Behens (sisters) of their entire neighbourhood. The habit is so deeply engrained in us that we sometimes slip out the expletives in front of our family. Sometimes when there is a fight on the road when we overtake a car from the wrong side and get a scratch on our bike, we swear with decibels well above the human hearing capabilities and make all the bats in the area fly for their lives.

Momma dearest

It is hard to separate the Indian male from momma’s lap even when he is 50. There have been loony cases where the man allowed his mother to buy his underwear even after he was married because she might have gone into depression if he would have snatched away her only source of entertainment. There are cases where men aspire for their wives to be a photocopy of their mother and keep haranguing the poor soul for the rest of her life. She can never cook like mommy dearest and neither is a good mother like momma. What about kicking and slapping the guy like mommy used to do when he misbehaved in school, you may ask? Well, some men do get a taste of that before they come to their senses.

Blue Cinema

Although the rest of the world has stopped calling porn as blue films in 1523, Indian men still use the code word for surreptitious and euphemistic purposes. In a recent study, it was noted that Indian and Pakistani men lead the male community in googling the word ‘Sex’ on the internet. Since in India we are demarcated from girls as if the species are supposed to live across borders with a 40 feet fence in-between, we resort to virtual fantasies. A majority of us end up having distorted versions of how the blue activity would be like in real life after we watch Caucasian men and women indulge in gymnastics. A few of us have a fetish for Indian blue cinema which is basically male and female ball-shaped bodies bouncing off each other.

Virgin cooks

Now I have discussed at length the fascination of Indian men with virgin girlfriends/wives here. In addition to the women in their lives with a mandatory virginity halo on their heads, the females should be able to cook like their mothers (refer obsession number 5). A few years back a colleague provided a *facepalm* moment when he told me with a puffed hairy chest that his mother interviewed a prospective bride on her culinary skills for an hour dwelling into in-depth analysis of the proportion of water, flour and sugar required to make halwa. Well, who does not like a virgin wife who can put a Master chef-ish dinner on the table? If you require more pointers, read Dr. Titus’s fabulous post in a top daily, where he talks about the importance of making sure that the weight of each of the breasts of your prospective bride should match to exactly two decimal places, which brings me to obsession number 2.


An average Indian male cannot see beyond a pair of breasts. We usually talk to them and respectfully treat them as a separate entity which has very less to do with the female attached to them. Usually they do not talk back and we get confused by the female voice emancipating from a few inches above them. It is then that Indian men realize that the breasts were not hanging in mid-air on their own but someone was actually carrying them. Our other ogling areas are buttocks and cheeks, basically anything on a female body that comes in a pair and is round. It is not our fault. We are sexually oppressed psychopaths who are not allowed to talk to a girl till we are married.

Peeing at walls

That ladies and gentlemen, is the top obsession of the Indian male. Give him a wall and he will approach it like a dog. Of course he will not stick his right leg in the air while watering the wall because he is supposed to maintain certain level of decency. I firmly believe that if we bundle a lot of men in a few trucks and take them to any drought affected areas, we could use them to water a few fields. And ever since Agnivesh Ji has confessed that drinking your own pee is good for health, we won’t mind eating peas grown from pee, would we? Please do not blame us. Our bladders are not developed enough to hold the liquid for such a long time because we were never potty trained by momma.

 Do you see now? We are not that bad.

We like our virgins

Bhool of a Virgin

While flipping channels, I came across a hair dyed (probably Black Rose Kaali Mehndi), 61 years old Rajnikant romancing Aishwarya Rai. Now imagine Aishwarya at the age of 61, wearing a gorgeous black wig and kilos of makeup, romancing Hrithik Roshan’s son in a movie. Imagine the jolt it will send through the Indian citizens who will then talk about umar ka lihaz (respect for one’s age) and about the effect this sinful on-screen romance will have on Ash’s family and our Nirma white society.

Of course, it isn’t going to happen because this is not America and we have high moral and cultural standards before 6 pm when there is still sunlight.

Of course, Rajnikant has a daughter too but isn’t it simulating to watch old balding, dyed heroes with younger, virgin (or virgin looking) actresses? It gives a lot of men what they truly desire. Dreams, hope and erections. Not in that particular order.

The point being that the only asset that an Indian actress should possess to arouse the Indian male and the box-office is that she should be a Kacchi Kali (Raw Bloom).

Let me share a secret with you. We men love to put up posters of actresses (recently replaced by wallpapers on desktops for middle class onwards) in our bedroom and kiss them goodbye every night, sometimes very passionately. We do a lot of Hiiiii-uffffff-taubaaaa staring at those wallpapers. We also have seductive and gyratory pictures of actresses tucked away under our bed to pass our lonely times. Their parted red lips, hint of bosoms and legs, the hourglass figure at display are our true companions in nights of despair. The rule of thumb (unless we have a fetish for married women) is that we do this only with actresses who are still untouched by any other man. Any actress who gets married is like a Paraya Maal (someone else’s goods) to us. We are very cultured and we do not look at someone else’s women with galat nigaah (wrong eyes), unless we are in a group, completely drunk, have a car at our disposal and know of a desolate place nearby.

We like our actresses to be virgins and unmarried because without that, feel nahi aati (feel doesn’t come). What is the point of imagining yourself hugging an actress like a snake hugging Chandan ka tree if she is committed to someone else? In Om Shanti Om, the villain kills his wife (who is a popular actress) after she threatens to reveal the dirty secret of their marriage and her pregnancy to the world. This should have shattered the villain’s plan of featuring the (supposedly) virgin actress in a big budget movie. He then burns her up with the sets. He commits this sacrifice to earn money by providing what the Indian male wants – an unchui kaatil jawani (untouched killer youth).

No wonder that the moment an actress gets married, she is not hot anymore. Getting married is the last thing on the minds of our virgin raatoon ki raanis (queens of nights) too because that would be the end of their career. We will throw them out. We will shed a few tears and label them someone’s ghar ki laaj (house’s honour). Imagine Katreena Kaif, married and having a year old kid in real life and dancing to Chikni Chameli. Ufff, what horror, no? Imagine Kareena dancing to ‘Halkat jawani’ after she gets married. Just like thanda (cold) tea! It’s not as if actresses have not tried it. Post marriage and two sons, Madhuri moved her torso in Aaja Nachle like a building in an 8.3 magnitude earthquake. Somehow the audience could not get the point. They were too confused to react.    

And remember Rekha rolling in mud with Akshay Kumar and hanging from the hair on his chest and singing ‘In the night, no control’? The audience lapped it up with a faint hope of her unblemished everlasting virginity.

Kajol was an exception but somehow we believe she a) did not do enough item numbers to titillate the Indian male b) had a square jaw c) had the gait of Marlon Brando.

Our legendary directors have banked so heavily on this obsession of us men that ever since we attained independence, they have churned out hit movies and songs glorifying the kamsin (God knows what this bloody word means), nadaan (naive), nazuk (soft) leading ladies who shudder at every touch of our hero, who dare not commit a bhool (sex sin) amidst heavy rain and lightning and even if they did, they would repent it for the rest of their kati patang-ish (cut kite-ish) life. This has been petrol on the fires that burn in the hearts of us men. We have also picked up details from our movies like eve-teasers always get the girls in the end but let’s not go there.

We, the Indian the men, know that we are never going to meet the virginal females who appear on a two-dimensional screen but they ignite enough desires in us to manifest our fantasies in real life. Stop any guy on the road and ask him whether he wants a wife who is a virgin and pat comes the reply – Of course! What a ridiculous question! My heart has always burnt in virginal oils.

What about your sir? Are you a virgin?

No, I had sex with a poster once.

Errr, that doesn’t count.

Ok. I went to a hill-station with friends once. We paid a call girl to go with us.

So, you are not a virgin yourself?

How does that matter?

Well, that is how it has been in our culture-vulture.

That is why all our heroes are married and have kids but an actress waits till her last egg to get married.

That is why female fans are very adjusting. They are fine drooling over balding, middle-aged, father-of-two heroes. They are not seasoned to attach virginity to men. It will be like attaching a sari to Poonam Pandey or an underwear to dirty Harry.

That is why we make sure that the bride is a virgin no matter that the groom has slept with every woman and animal in town.

Yes, we like our virgins. Sunny side up.

[image from 1]

The Liquefied Indian

Sometimes when the doors of the Delhi Metro swoosh open and you get out, you get this beautiful sight of people standing on either side of the door, waiting patiently for you to get down. You feel like Moses, who has just parted the Red sea. Unfortunately, it’s not the long lost virtue of patience making a comeback but a guard with a whistle on each of the door, who is responsible for the shockingly sensible behavior. You have to be the first one to descend the coach to live in this utopia. If you have the misfortune of being the last one, then the red sea will rush towards you like a broken dam and you will wish for a wooden staff to hit each of the droplets on their head. It looks like osmosis and reverse osmosis happening simultaneously. Liquid rushes in and liquid rushes out. We don’t walk. We flow.

Living in India sometimes feels like being a liquid in a cistern. When someone upturns the vessel, we all rush in to take the shape of whatever we are upturned into.

When we form long queues outside counters, the lines start multiplying. It is as if the empty spaces between the lines are too much to bear and suddenly the main branch of the river sprout out distributaries which then continue their journey towards the ocean counters. There is a ladies distributary, sometimes a senior citizens distributary while the main male river watches impatiently.

When we drive on roads, nothing can come close to the miracle of creating 8 lanes on a 4 lane road other than the creation of the universe. The cars squeezed so close that if there is an Autobot war in the middle of the road, no one would stand a chance of opening their doors and running. Everyone will die sitting in their cars watching as a huge Autobot feet crush them or complicated weapons turn them into a sandwich (But wait! That happens only in America, right?). And did I mention motorbikes? They are like those ocean currents flowing inside large oceans. They twist and turn and have a life of their own, spilling on footpaths and broken terrains.

When a lift opens in your office, you see the desperation in the eyes of the people trying to get in. There is no guard with a whistle because they thought software engineers were sensible. The dam is broken and floods the door. You look at the tsunami and feel like parting it with a scream but you stand and stare at it. It parts under your gaze. The feet of a few defiant waves are crushed under the sole of your shoe. Ooh! Aah! Ouch! Am I supposed to fly over you?

Go to the canteen in your office and the tea counter is brimming with humans, buzzing randomly without any queue. As the tea is poured in cups, you witness acts of bravery where people scoop away cups with the dexterity of jewel thieves, sometimes burning their hands by the falling tea. You witness acts of treachery where software engineers plot like mother-in-laws to break through the crowd and position themselves at the correct angles to reach the cup at the right time. It is in our blood, you remind yourself and laugh. Education has nothing to do with it.

Go to a popular temple and you will be pushed and pulled alongside the crowd. You do not have to walk. Just go with the flow and soon you will feel like water flowing through an intricate labyrinth of canals. You will not even realize that the deity that you have come to see with such devotion has whirled past you as you churn in the whirlpool.

And where else would you find people hanging out of trains, buses and shared auto-rikshaws? People try to take the shape of any available vacant space. They are allowed to sit on top of the trains and buses. I too have traveled in a bus numerous times looking like the alphabet S. Those times are over but for how long?

We have lost our patience. There are so many of us cramped in so little that it is suffocating at times. We want to rush out of it, like ants rushing out of their nest if you flood it with water. Our numbers have turned us aqueous. We have stopped balancing moralities. When I hear honks blaring, I hear despondency, I hear death of composure, I hear a silent human cry like that of a bat. We all want to get home quickly because there is so less time to share with our family. There is so less time that we start defying logic. Cars don’t fly. You have to let the people come out of a lift before you get in. Multiple lines will not make it faster. Devotion needs perseverance.

How did we come to this? Why did we multiply like spiders with such lassitude towards the future? Why did we create this monster for our children to bear? It is a terrible feeling to imagine the time when we will overtake China in population. When we think about the future, we imagine order, calmness. But we all know that will not be our future and it is an uneasy, terribly terrifying thought.

The dam is broken and we are rushing forward with all the power of destruction we could muster.

The delusional Indian

Read the first two post in the series here –

The Horny Indian

The Sentimental Indian

Delusions are like silicon implanted breasts. The problem with artificially enlarging your non-existing asset is that even though the perfectness will make you feel good about yourself, everyone you meet will have one look at your breasts and would instantly know that you have been physically photoshopped. And add to it the constant realization that will hammer your conscience; that will whisper in your ears, reminding you that they are not real, that it is only a delusion to keep yourself thrilled.

Indians love to marinate themselves in multiple layers of delusions. It’s almost as if we are afraid of reality, as if we have to cover ourselves in a thousand drapes so that we are unable to breathe in the crudity around us. Here are a few glorious examples.

Parliament is supreme

This sentence came when a single, old man got up and said – Enough! It did not come when CWG or 2G scams happened. The parliament did not get up and flaunt its supremacy to punish the culprits and bring all the stolen money back. It did that by forcing the old man into a jail. What good is the delusion of supremacy when the spell does not work on the people you rule, when they look at you with disdain? The fact that the parliament has to remind people that it is supreme says a lot, doesn’t it?

Sita-ness of Women

The fact that the High Court judge was still in the delusion that this is Satyug was emphasised when he asked all married women to behave like Sita and all men to behave like Duryodhana. Ok, he didn’t say the last bit. Somehow I am sure that if Sita was doing a job and was earning more than Ram and was born in Kalyug and was asked to leave everything to follow him, she would have shown him the middle finger.

See that is the problem with delusions. You even forget what century it is.

All saintly, all white

All Politicians are Mother Teresa, doctors have ever broken the three oaths, KHAPS are there to help villagers in rainwater harvesting, lawyers never help the criminals to go scott free, police will froth at your plight and vow to avenge you. In India, every professional believes in the delusional purity of its community. It’s basically similar to denying your breast implants even when someone gets hold of a copy of the video of your implant operation. It’s morphed – you tell him. 

Rape culture in Kamasutra land

Anything western invites rape – A woman wearing jeans, a woman in a pub, a one year old sleeping peacefully in her bed, a ninety year old granny, a coma patient, a woman in Burkha. Although I am not sure what is western in the last four situations but I am sure our delusional and deranged rapists and their supporters can come up with a theory. Also, I am not sure wearing jeans and being in pub in the land of Kamasutra should invite rape. Don’t we have nude men and women depicted copulating on temple walls and caves in India? When we were decorating those caves with sexual positions, Western civilization was probably sucking its thumb and shitting in its diaper. Western civilization must be baffled by this ingenious idea of blaming them to cover up the holes in our own victim blaming culture.

Implants Indian shining

Somehow the shine is not reaching the common man, who it seems, is like a shoe polish. Our great nation uses this shoe polish to shine our country’s growth rate but in the end, the shoe polish is neglected, throw somewhere in a corner. Of course, we get to see those India Shining adverts where thrilled-to-bits white men visit our great nation and sit on elephants and run on garbage filled beaches, but then you have to create some delusions to make the shoe polish common man feel good about himself.

India is also shining in the Swiss Banks. Imagine 12,740 crores of black money raining on the Swiss prostitutes banks while more than one-third of the shoe polish population is below poverty line.

Gods loves gold

Shirdi Sai Baba was a fakir. Now imagine if he descends in one of his swanky temples and see himself sitting on a golden throne and wearing a  gold-plated crown, he will be too shocked to speak for a month. If we ever carry out a survey of the top ten acts of human stupidity in recent times, the delusion of burying our gods in gold for our better life will win hands down. In the act of appeasing God, we Indians delusively take him for a human. What better insult?

Bollywood – Making you dumb since 1912

Escapist cinema is another form of delusion. It turns Indians obtuse in the name of entertaining them. Such movies not only enthrall us, they also make money and make us dumb enough in the process to lap up incredibly crappy one-liners, buffoonery and naked long legs. But we deserve the breast implants movies we get. They represent a delusion we would like ourselves to be lost in, far away from the maddening realities of life. Its the least an shoe polish Indian can ask for.

Accidents happen only to others

The delusion that Gods will save them (as we pour so much money and gold on them) lead Indians to believe that nothing will happen to them. Despite the fact that 5 lakh road accidents happen in India every year and more than 1.25 lakh people are killed, the faith Indians show in their driving skills equals that of Spartans in their battle skills. Delusional Indians treat roads as battle grounds. The only thing missing is a few missile launchers.

Delusion is a drug which should be taken in very small doses so that the reality is always at the horizon. Indians, seem to have taken an overdose and are now disgustingly delirious in La La Land. Lets hope that the rabbit hole does not end in a dead end.

[images from 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

The Sentimental Indian

Dr. Grace Augustine: [to Selfridge] Those trees were sacred to the Omaticaya in a way you can’t imagine.
Selfridge: You know what? You throw a stick in the air around here it falls on some sacred fern, for Christ’s sake!

~ Avatar

When I heard this fiery interchange for the first time, moments before they blow up the Na’vi mother tree, I felt what Selfridge said defined the Sentimental Indian very aptly. Of course, we are as different from the inhabitants of Pandora as apples and oranges but for a second I though he was talking about us. The Na’vi was a much intelligent race, sentimentally attached to their soil. Being incredulously sentimental comes easily to us too but in a variety of ways the Na’vi can’t even begin to imagine. Consider the following scenarios:

Nirupa Roy

When she heard the news of SRK replacing her

When SRK replaced Nirupa Roy

Indians are such sentimental creeps at times that it can give you the heebie-jeebies. Look at our glorious cinema. Our Bollywood heroes cry more than our heroines now-a-days. The way SRK cried like a lost puppy in the climax of Kuch Kuch hota hai could even shame Nirupa Roy. I really wish Shah Rukh Khan was never discovered and we would have still been drooling over Sunny Deol’s hand-pump uprooting abilities. Even Akshay Kumar and John Abraham cry. Yeah! That’s how bad things are.

Hiding women as pubs+drinks+women = Rapes

Being sentimental about our Indian culture and values is another way we love to police everyone who do not agree with us. A girl goes to a pub, drinks and gets raped and suddenly everyone gets sentimental over the incident. The Chief Minister of the state in which the rape happened gets sentimental about the future of her political party and blames the opposition for the rape. The guardians of our culture (who are avid porn fans) get sentimental over the fact that a girl was in a pub and drunk. The rest of the population gets sentimental about the safety of their mothers-sisters-wives and start debating on how we have to ensure their safety by not allowing them to go out of the house and stop them  from wearing jeans. The police get sentimental over the fact that there is another FIR in their kitty and they have to do some work and end up making a “clerical mistake” of revealing the victim’s identity.


You are turning your child into a steam engine

Drink my dreams child. They are tasty!

We get sentimental over the future of our children and almost choke them to death in the process. We make them study till their eyeballs hurt, reminding of the harrowing times we went through to make them stand on their feet. We sentimentally shove our dreams down their throat and remind them how they have to take care of us in old age. The children, oblivious of the albatross around their neck, shed a few tears and hug us, realizing a few years down the line that they have been sentimentally tricked.

Rainbows and fragile cultures

Gay and lesbian rights are also something which ruffles the sentimental feathers of a majority of our population. It’s against our culture, they say, secretly praying that their sons and daughters don’t end up with the “sickness”. The fact that a man can love another man horrifies us. Our underdeveloped sentimental brain refuses to understand that it is not a matter of “choice”, something similar to the fact that you cannot choose to have 17 nipples on your chest.

Rahul Gandhi Dalit Dinner

Prince eating Pauper food

Princes and Paupers

The politicians are sentimental about their votes. They promise quotas till there is no general category left. Promising something (like FDIs) and backtracking is the norm as such promises end up making the opposition froth sentimentally. It gives them a chance to overdramatize the situation and vouch to burn all the Walmarts. Votes make Princes of dynasties very sentimental and they end up eating food in huts with the poor people who are sentimental enough to vote for the prince for their 30 seconds of fame on national television. Politicians also are dangerously sentimental about their black money and they end up following their heart and do foolish things like

  • throwing Anna Hazare in jail just before a protest is about to begin.
  • ordering the police to beat and kick people sleeping peacefully at night at a protest venue.
  • blaming Facebook and Twitter for any future riots.
  • Trying to pass a Jokepal Bill which had more holes in it than Amitabh Bachchan in the climax of Coolie.

Suck my religion

Try throwing a stone up in the air and chances are that it might hit a sacred tree, a sacred animal or a sacred river and you might end up starting a riot where hundreds will be burnt alive. Yes, we are deeply sentimental about our religion. A wise man said once that religion is like a penis. It’s good to have one and be proud of it but please don’t open your zip and flaunt it in public and don’t shove it down our throat. Well, sentimental Indians believe that it is important to flaunt it in public (religion that is) and so we always have our zip down and we love gagging people with it. We throw writers and painters out of the country because they have hurt our fragile religious sentiments. We make foreigners apologize if they just mention any of our gods or religious buildings in a fit of good humour. We love shouting “Hail Mother India” with moist eyes even though we have no idea what it means.

A sentimental conclusion

Of course our sense of humour is as dry as the Thar Desert but we are as abundant as the oceans as far as shedding a sentimental tear is concerned. We turn dangerous when we are sentimental. We rape, butcher, burn and dance with swords in our hands. And then suddenly, there is war with another country and we stand united and shed copious tears for the dead soldiers. Ditto for a cricket cup.

Yes, that is how much sentimental we are.

The Horny Indian

Blogadda's Spicy Saturday Pick

No matter how much we try to hide a coupling couple by moving the camera away from the bed as they settle beneath the flower printed bed sheet or by bringing two flowers shaking vigorously suddenly in front of the camera, we cannot snuff out our Kamasutra connections. We are 1.21 billion people who have not been dropped by storks or erupted from the ground. We have been reproducing like eggs lying Godzilla and it somehow seems that chasing the British away was a mistake. We seem to have taken Aryabhata very seriously after he invented zero and are busy including it in our population count as a sign of flattery, which brings me to the point – ours is the horniest nation in the history of mankind.

Think about it. 41.6% of our population fall below poverty line. Of course they haven’t heard of “precautions” and the only source of entertainment is having unprotected sex and producing causalities called babies. Now, I must not put the whole blame of India turning into a dangerously tilted overcrowded bus on the poor. Laluji is not poor. My 10th standard maths teacher was not poor whose production line produced six girls before it was abruptly discontinued after manufacturing a boy.

We have a lot of anti-population plans in place. Our government is trying its best to stop Indians from mating by showing them 1-3-2 (Fayde Ka mantar) family planning adverts in which a lustful couple dwells into something which borders very close to soft porn. Hell, we don’t even have the live-in concept. We have balding, pot-bellied, in their 30s males living with their parents (I am one of them. Thick hair. 8 pack abs). We have people living in rooms smaller than prison cells. We have Khaps, religious groups, cricket, prehistoric parents and a very nosy society structure in place to cater population growth but none of this seems to be working.


It’s our Horny genes. We love bed sheets with elephants printed on them. They turn us on.

Look at the statistics. Raping women is as popular as learning cricket. Horny men are rampant on the streets just like those zombies in Resident Evil. Delhi is famous worldwide for its horny men who achieve the impossible feat of raping women in moving cars. We have also tried both the ends of the spectrum – from an 80 year old to a two year old. We love eve teasing also. We have the courage to address a rotund middle aged mother of two as Chikni. It comes naturally to us. Controlling our hormones is against our culture.

Our movies inspire us a lot. Latka, Jhatka, Thumka and of course the patented moving-breasts-up-and-down is something our visionary directors have to create to quench the thirst of millions of horny citizens. Small time theatres which showed desi porn movies are on a decline. We don’t need them anymore. Who wants to see fat women curling around fat moustached men like two tangled hippos when our John and Bipasha can do it? Has anyone tried connecting Munni, Sheila, Jalebi and Chameli to the Eve teasing graphs? I’ll bet my porn collection that there is a connection. Of course I am not blaming Bollywood. It’s a sophisticated sex toy for the horny underprivileged.

And while I am on this topic, I find us horny in another sense also, which in truth, was the real reason to write this post – It is the fact that we are a horn friendly nation. Horn friendly, horny, got the drift? We love to honk. We honk egoistically at poor pedestrians who are like those pesky cockroaches and have no right to salsa in the middle of the roads. We honk at rickshaws pullers who desperately try to move their sole bread earning rickety vehicle out of our way before it gets mowed down. We honk at other cars specially if there is a big red L pasted on them. And traffic signals? They are just disco lights. They turn us more horn(y). They remind us of dance bars.

We are horny for speeds also. How else can you explain the recently created racing tracks with cars and stray dogs competing in Noida when the other developed nations are shunning the sport? How else can you explain the speeding Mercedes and BMWs which end up in a pile of scrap and dead bodies being scrapped off roads?

Do I need to mention money? Money turns us on like an eighteen years old who has popped 10 pills of Viagra. We are on a collective hard on from the last 60 years.

Well, in India, being horny is good. It’s cool till it is done under veils. We have the art to cover it up, even if it includes covering up the women in real life and dis-covering them in every other medium. We encourage it. We are not apologetic about it. We are always turned on.

We, are the incredibly horny Indians.