How to survive a pregnant wife

A wise man once said that pregnancy brings out the animal in a woman. I don’t exactly remember who said that but I think it was me. It is also said that pregnancy is the most wonderful period for a woman but whoever said that must have been Justin Bieber. You can mildly compare a pregnant woman with a werewolf. Bring out that full moon of empathy/sympathy/apathy and you might be mauled in unimaginable ways. Those nine months are a litmus tests of patience for not only a lady but her husband as well.  Especially the husband. His situation is similar to a walk on burning coals. But let me not put the whole nine months in a single bracket because there are blissful times as well, like seeing your wife turn into Pamela Anderson.

First Trimester (first 3 months) – The vomit generator

After the initial euphoria of witnessing two red lines on the pregnancy test kit dies, the arduous journey begins. Your wife will turn into a recycling machine. Anything that goes inside her will come out in mashed form. Sometimes food and medicine will come out in exactly the same form as they went inside. So don’t be surprised if you see a crisp samosa lying in your wash basin one fine morning.

Husbands should try to avoid making any remarks in this duration if they do not want to be karate chopped. Here are a few sample conversations you should never make while your wife is producing hot dimsums.

Husband – I know what you are going through.

Wife – Do you now?!? *Dimsum 1* Believe me you have no *Dimsum 2* bloody idea so stop pretending *Dimsum 3*. Go away before I *Dimsum 4* kill you.

Husband – *does the mistake of patting her wife’s back while she is hovering over the washbasin*

Wife – Don’t touch me, you sex maniac. This is all your fault. You have had your fun. Now sit back and enjoy the next nine months.

Husband – This will be soon over. Every pregnant woman goes through this. You will be Ok.

*Big fuc*ing mistake*

The guy ends up with a broken neck.

The best approach during the first three months will be to hug her cautiously when you think she will not split you into two. Such occasions will be rare but they will be there.

Second Trimester (months 4-6) – Pamela Anderson

Your wife will start looking like those clandestine celebrities in this duration. The tummy will start showing in the 5^th or 6^th month but it will not be prominent in comparison to her other *ahem*. If you are one of those few unlucky souls, she will carry her first trimester problems in this trimester also. Most women don’t. You should be prepared for some extra shopping as it will appear that the last time your wife shopped was when she was in kindergarten. Nothing will fit her. Her bra size will horrify her. She will buy extra large everything with immense sadness.

During this trimester, the husband should be credit card ready. One tiny sound of rebellion and he might be flying out of Pantaloons. He will be reminded that this photoshop-ish distortion of the wife’s anatomy is all his mistake and now he has to ‘pay’ for it. It will not matter when the husband tries to reason that he is delirious with joy at the photoshop-ish enlargements.

Third Trimester (months 7-9) – The planet

By the ninth month, your wife would have turned into a planet. She would eat as if an asteroid is going to hit Earth tomorrow and vaporize all the ice-cream shops. Do not be alarmed because there is a baby inside her who needs all that nutrition.

The wife might find it uncomfortable to sleep. There will be instances when she will complain that the baby kicks all the times.

Do not try this at home –  

Husband – It will be soon over darling.

Wife – Yeah? What do you know? Have you ever tried pushing a baby out of you? OH GOD! I AM GOING TO DIE! 

Husband – Oh! Come on! It is not as if you are the first woman to….. *Was not able to complete the sentence because of a kick in the balls*

It will be during this trimester that there will be times when the husband and wife will be freaked out by the fact that another human being is growing inside the wife. It might sound like those alien movies but watching the baby play football as your wife’s tummy heaves like a turbulent ocean will not help. This might sound absurd but try talking to the baby. Make a paper boat and keep it on your wife’s tummy while making ridiculous storm sounds.

The D-Day

It gets worse once the labour pain starts. It is like a full moon night and the husband is under immense danger of being flung out of the window of the hospital building. Husbands should be prepared for all the groaning curses flung at them and take them sportingly. Sentences like –

–          This is all your fault you pathetic bastard. God will never forgive you.

–         Wait till this thing gets out of me! I will put you in the washing machine.

–         Don’t ever think that you will make me go through this again. I will snap your neck at the mere mention.

A husband might be alarmed that his wife has been possessed and needs an exorcist more than a mid-wife but that is not the case. Try to dab away the sweat from your wife’s brow when you think she will not dig her nails in your hand. Be quick about it.

Once the baby is delivered your wife will be back to normal except that now she has turned into Mother Dairy and will be dripping milk all over the house. The husband might feel isolated at this point of time as the Dairy will be open 24X7 for the baby. Try not to sulk. 

Surviving a newborn will be covered in another post.

p.s. Pregnancy is a beautiful time. A couple goes through myriad emotions during those nine months. They forget all the pain when they notice the child moving in the tummy, when they try to figure out the head and the arms in the ultrasound report, when they do shopping for the baby before the grand arrival. If the post has given you any negative concerns, then that is purely your pessimistic imagination.

[image from here]

Time to bury chivalry?

I was sitting on a ladies seat in a DTC bus. Now before you take out your knives, let me clarify that I was very tired and there wasn’t a single lady around who was glaring at me. A girl boarded the bus a few minutes later and courteous and chivalrous as I was, I got up to offer her the seat. I guessed that like me, she too was studying in Delhi University as both of us were wearing that unmistakable, funky college kinda stuff. She declined to take the seat and asked me to keep sitting. There was a near contempt in her voice, as if I had insulted her in some way. Confused and bewildered, I sat at the ladies seat while she towered over me for a while and then got down at Mall Road. Finally, my confusion gave way to respect.

This happened almost 15 years back but the incident plays on a loop in my mind whenever I see demarcations etched out all around me for the opposite sex. In our quest to solve a problem we have created a bigger one. Quick fix I call it but they never solve the real issue, do they?

The era in which we live will leave any man confused. The age old concept of chivalry somehow does not fit in. We cannot talk about equality and special privileges in the same breathe. Ever since that incident, I hesitate to open the door for a lady, I hesitate to pull a chair for her at a restaurant, I hesitate to get up to offer a seat. What if she turns around and glares at me? What if she tells me in very definitive terms that she is capable of taking care of herself? That she does not require any help that is provided considering her gender, considering her weak.

All the women I know are capable of handling things on their own. They are independent and self-sufficient. But you see, that is where the confusion begins. Sometimes, I have been asked to help. When I have refused, citing the fact that the woman in question is completely capable of handling the situation herself, I have been called unchivalrous.

So how much is too much and how less is too less?

What is the point at which I go from being helpful and courteous to being completely irritating and sexist?

Giving an example from my personal life, Geet has been a very independent and headstrong woman all her life but sometimes something gets into her and she behaves all dependent-ish. A few days back, she called me up at the office and asked me to call up her bank for an enquiry.

“Why don’t you call them yourself?” I said.

“Because I don’t feel like doing it. Please can you do this for me?” she said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you can do this on your own.”

Stony Silence.

This went on for a while before she understood that I was not going to do it. She finally told me that I was useless and I asked her whether she would like to replace me as I was still under warranty. She called the bank on her own and got the information she wanted. This wasn’t the first incident as I have done similar routines a number of times with Geet and my sister because I don’t want them to depend on me for things they can handle on their own. In the end, once the task is accomplished, I am greeted with a look-we-don’t-need-you snort. And that is exactly what I am looking for.

But then, am I being a bad husband and a bad brother? Am I been unchivalrous to my wife and my sister? It is not as if both of them don’t know the first time around that they can do it on their own but as much as I am able to understand, women sometimes ‘like’ to depend on men. They like it when we do things for them. It is, for reasons unfathomable to me, taken as a sign of love, affection and respect.

Please don’t take me wrong. I like being helpful. But if I hold a door for someone to pass through, I will do that irrespective of that person’s gender.

I have been running this thought again and again in my mind and I have reached a conclusion that I do not like the idea of a woman asking me for help for a task she can perform on her own. I do not like the idea of extending courtesy to a woman because she is a woman. I do not like the idea of providing special privileges to woman to save them from acts of crimes instead of taking measures to prevent those crimes. Can you sweep a really independent woman off her feet by an act of chivalry? Today, when women have been fighting for equal rights and the power to make their own choices, does it really make sense to mistake dependence with a sign of warmth?

I believe chivalry and equality cannot co-exist. Is it time to bury chivalry?

A woman’s perspective – The Awww-topsy

[image from 1,2]

10 Disadvantages of being a Male

It is not easy being a man. Today when India is hit by a tsunami of Feminism, the men stand at crossroads. Should we jump in too and let go the flood of tears we have been holding since decades? We too have problems with the way the world and nature treats us. It is just that we bear our burdens in silence.

Here are the 10 biggest disadvantages of being a male.

No homemaking

There are times when we don’t feel like slogging. There are times when we are tired of wiping our boss’s spit from our face when he has finished shouting. We have to carry on the mundane task of being a cash machine. We are not even allowed to think about the alternative of letting our wives take that responsibility. How we wish to puff those pillows, dust those expensive showpiece, make dinner, raise our kids and be a perfect homemaker, but all those are distant dreams.

The Tennis Ball

Do you realize the kind of pressure we undergo when Momma and Mate pull us from both the ends? We are not allowed to sit and watch the tennis match between the two ladies because we are that ball. That ball, which is smacked violently and repeatedly in this never-ending match. We are supposed to take sides. Our eardrums hurt.

Road runner

There is always a war on the roads in India. A woman driver is given space and respect because everyone in her vicinity thinks that they will die otherwise. Men on the other hand have to jostle for each and every inch of a road amidst roaring honks and glaring swearwords. We are all Gladiators ready to beat the daylights out of each other.

Probably a rapist/child molester

We are at the end of our tethers trying to duck every woman and child out of our way. A slight brush of our hand on a woman’s skirt and we might be under a hailstorm of sandals. We might talk to a child with a smile and we might end up being pasted to the road by the his father’s SUV. Do you know how straining living like this is? We are a human bomb walking on needles. Of course there is the other end of the spectrum too, but they are more animals than men.

Shares. Stocks. Bonds. Budget.

Men are supposed to act smart. Even if we believe that shares are sung in a Mushaira and Bonds is the name given to all the girls who bonded with James Bond, we are supposed to act like Harshad Mehta. We should follow the rise and fall of the stock market like a Bollywood actress’s bosoms in a dance number. The latest budget should be on our tips if we want some respect.

Under a lens. Always.

Ever since we open our eyes, we are under constant scrutiny. Our parents burden us with all their unfulfilled dreams as if we are a cargo ship. Then we spend the rest of our lives dodging our wives as they suspiciously go through our shirts for a whiff of an affair, our bosses as they take a smelly dump on our career and our children who start treating us as losers the moment they develop sex organs. When we are old, the nurse treats us as an unwanted cockroach that she is too scared to crush under her feet. Ditto for our children.

Sports Journal

Even though the only sport we are good at is the in-the-night-no-control types, we are supposed to have passionate knowledge about a sport, preferably cricket. God forbid if we confess that we are not interested in it or do not remember the color of the underwear Sachin wore in an unforgettable 1993 series, we will be immediately shunned like a woman carrying an illegitimate child. Knowing about Soccer, Baseball and Rugby is an added advantage. It is not easy to be a walking encyclopedia on sports when all you really like is burgers and breasts.

The rise and fall of Junior

The problem with junior is that it is like an alien entity attached between our legs. Like the Ring of the dark Lord, it has a will of its own. It sometimes rises with the Sun and refuses to subside. It refuses to rise and shine when it is actually required to because of performance issues. It rises at the most inappropriate of places and thus has to be covered up with whatever props we can muster – a book, a lost puppy, a bowl snatched from a beggar. Compare this to women – they might be aroused even in a funeral and not a single soul will know. They could be walking on the street, sitting in a bus or sleeping in a room full of guests and no one will ever point at a hill between their legs and laugh. Oh! The pleasure of that freedom!

Facade

Since childhood we are brainwashed into being a real man who don’t cry, who does not take but give emotional support and who can break a jaw at the drop of a hat. Basically we should be robotic providers who do not go beyond a Hmmm when our children run towards us screaming that they have been selected in IIT. It is taxing. We feel desperately like crying at times, we sometimes wish we could treat our children as friends, sit with our wives and pour our heart out but we can’t. We feel unmanly with the mere thought of it. Instead we get drunk and scream swearwords at strangers on roads.

Dispensable. Always.

Yes! She could have saved him!

What boils our blood is that whenever a tragedy strikes or there is a war, we are the ones who are left to die. Women and children are the first ones to be saved. If time and situation permits, men are given a thought. Remember when the Titanic sank? Men were left on that sinking shit while women and children sat on lifeboats and saw the show. Rose had a whole goddamn wooden plank! Why are we always so dispensable? Just because we are in excess and selectively chosen over girls to live does not mean we don’t have a life and can be treated like a street dog.

So you see, it isn’t all that rosy for us men too. The world has been subjugating us in its own way. Nature have had it’s revenge too as we can’t even have pleasure at our own convenience. We are living in unbreakable molds like a Mummy and there is no escape.

[image from 1,2,3]

Respect the Commode!

To maintain decorum of this blog, the word ‘Politicians’ will be used in place of certain unwanted solids and liquids that leave a human body at regular intervals.

I am not a cleanliness freak. It takes meticulous, vigilant planning spanning months for me to get up and wipe dust off my laptop screen which looks as if it has been hit by a desert storm and I might unearth a camel’s carcass while cleaning it. So, I am fine with a bit of inherent laziness that seeps into my countrymen which vanishes with a sudden urge to jump on an empty seat in a bus as if it is a dead deer amidst gluttonous tigers. But I do not understand men who enter a washroom and let loose politicians anywhere other than the precise location they are supposed to go. And, no, I am not talking about men using the roadside facilities which resemble a concentration camp but men using sparkling clean washrooms in swanky high-rise offices.

While I was in Manchester for two years, I had to take precautions that no one noticed me going in and coming out of the washroom. I was not scared but ashamed. As my office was filled with fellow countrymen from various companies, the washrooms were filled with embarrassing notices like this –

“Please leave the toilet in a condition suitable for use by the next person”

The darned notice appeared on every door inside the washroom and stared at me every time I visited the best invention in the history of humans – The Loo.

Being in India, I was used to the indifference with which the wall loving Indian men treat the sophisticated commode. Yes, I have flushed the poor thing before he could cry his heart out on seeing his savior in me. Yes, I have picked up tissue and cleaned its rim, relieving it of the political remains of the sinner who has made unholy this greatest creation of mankind. If it was left to me, I would have worshipped a commode, shuddering with fear thinking of a life bereft of its company. Unfortunately, my fellow countrymen do not share my sentiments and molest the commode at every possible opportunity.

What really shocked the Bejesus out of me was that my countrymen carried their passions to foreign lands. They gave the British a taste of how alarmingly misguided their aims could be and the sparkling commodes of the developed nation could not believe their bad luck. Some of them went into a deep uncontrollable coma and refused to flush the politicians out, which lead to the icy notice on the doors. If commodes had legs, we would have witness thousands of them running and jumping off the island.

Mind you, these passionate countrymen were software engineers who would have shamed Gagan Narang in hitting the targets in their own homes in the fear of Ma breaking their necks. They were not rickshaw pullers, who have never seen a commode and might take it for a mini well. Still, they could not treat the foreign commodes with respect just because they were not a part of their families. Leaving aside the abused ones in India, the men left an irreplaceable scar on the minds of the commodes at onsite. Alas! There was no hope to reverse the damage. No psychiatrist deals with depressed commodes.  

Why this apathy?

Why this indifference towards picking up a tissue and cleaning the results of your own aiming misadventures?

Why this coldness towards flushing, checking and flushing again?

Why this deep-rooted mindset that someone will do it for you?

Yes, we could be filthy and education has nothing to do with it, the same way education has nothing to do with female feticide and dowry deaths, the same way education has nothing to do with spitting on roads and jumping signals.

So, while I clean another commode, wiping its tears and promising it better times, I think about the men that would use it in the future without concern and sympathy and wonder when men would begin to acknowledge its importance and marvel at our best creation. There aren’t many things in life that are so pure and selfless, who can smile all the way while taking our shit. Where would we be if all the commodes muster a revolt? Do we have the stamina to dig the soil to bury politicians like the medieval armies did during wars? And what if you work on the 10th floor?

When would we understand that there cannot be a better friend?

When would we hug a commode for being there for us when the need of relieving the politicians was colossal?

When would we truly and genuinely come to love and respect the commode?

[image from here]

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*

Slurrrrrape!

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 5^th 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.

Cricket

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.

Honking

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.

Bitching

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.

Ogling

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 boy with orgasmic hair

nce upon a time, there lived a boy in India, whose hair were like that of a bear. Amateur barbers feared his presence because they could not comprehend the dense forest that grew on his head. They feared that they would have to use a magnet to find a scissor dropped accidentally in that lushness. Seasoned barbers approved his presence with a nod and a curt smile, just like a Gladiator would acknowledge a fearsome tiger. The boy’s viral hair growth was a challenge which they gracefully accepted. Some barbers would plead him to have a haircut more frequently because they could not afford to break so many combs and lose so many customers and spend half their day serving him.

The boy was not sure whether to pity the barbers or laugh at them. Their hands would go numb snip-sniping as the boy’s locks fell like trees falling down to make way for cities. Sweat would drip from their brows and stain their underarms. Sometimes, the boy would admire his hair as he stood in front of the mirror, moving his neck here and there and tossing them like noodles tossed in large bowls in street food stalls. He would run his fingers through them and feel that part of his body where sunlight never reached (his scalp that is). Sometimes his fingers would get stuck and he had to untangle them.

Then one fine day, in the midst of a collective barber-ist-sigh-of-relief, the boy left for Manchester. There was a celebration in his locality that day. The Barbers gave free haircuts to everyone.

The barbers in Manchester did not use scissors to cut his hair. They used trimmers and would just ask for the attachment comb number before mowing down his hairs as if they were grass gone wild in a lawn. What surprised the boy was that in a country where an alarming number of men were bald or were going to be bald soon, not a single barber praised his hair. They were so full of themselves, jabbering about their life all the time as they trimmed his hair to vapid styles.

A year later, he got married and his wife moved in with him. It was that year when he discovered a small barber shop tucked in a corner of a road near his home. It was run by three she-barbers and he had the privilege of getting serviced by all three of them.

 on’s Encyclopedia

The first she-barber who sheared his hair was a slim, handsome woman. She had black hair and black eyes. As she cut his hair, she told him about her son Mike who was nine years old. She talked so much about him that by the time she was done with the boy, he knew that little Mike had a mole on his left butt and his second molar was making its bucket list. He knew that Mike loved to play basketball and hated onions. He knew that Mike was learning Judo and loved Shrek. The boy was now having a feeling that he had known Mike ever since his mother pushed him out of her body. The she-barber also asked him about India and how she hated Manchester’s rainy weather. The boy invited her to come and live in 45 degrees in Indian summers. 

 rimming fingers

The next time the boy went to the shop, he found a smiling, chubby blonde waiting to slice his hair. By this time, he have had enough of trimmers and those ughhh haircuts that he asked her to use a scissor. She blinked and stared at him as if her had asked her to use some alien technology. She obliged and soon the familiar snipping sound of the scissor filled the ears of the boy. He closed his eyes to treat his eardrums. The sound of “Oh Shit!!!!!!” brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes and found that the she-barber number 2 had snipped her own finger and was dripping blood all over the floor. The boy had an impulse to laugh out loud and roll on the floor holding his stomach but he controlled it and asked her to put her finger in running water. He asked her not to use the scissor anymore after she bandaged her finger but she insisted. He held his breath till she finished because he was expecting his blood smeared ear to fall in his lap anytime.

 y Orgasmic Hair

She-barber number 3 was a beautiful young woman beaming at him as he entered the shop. Her eyes twinkled as she laid them on him. As the boy settled on the seat, she ran her fingers in his thick hair. She did it again and again and again till the boy started to worry that she will keep doing this for the rest of her life. He cleared his throat and she said – “Your hairs are soooohhhh thick!”. He smiled. It was after such a long time that someone had noticed his hair. She kept running her fingers in his hair as she snipped them slowly and kept repeating this at regular intervals.

“Your hairs are soooooooohhhh thick!!!”

“Your hairs are sooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh thick!!!”

He was sure she was having multiple orgasms by just running her fingers in his hair and he was alarmed by it. Then she started talking to him and asked him about his hobbies.

“I watch a lot of movies and read books,” he said.

“Wow! Me too! I go for movies on weekends. Your hairs are sooooooooohhhh thick!”

“Great! I usually roam around in the City Center, watch a play at times.”

“Do you party on weekends? Go out or something like that? God! Your hair are sooooooohhhhhhh thick!!!”

“Sometimes.”

The boy knew where this was going. He was now supposed to ask her out but he kept his trap shut and the moment passed.

 ater when the boy reached home and told his wife about his adventures, she stared at him for a few seconds.

“Why didn’t you tell her that you are married?” She asked.

“What?!? When a girl is running her fingers in your hair, biting her lips and moaning that your hairs are soooooohhhhhh thick, you do not tell her that you are married. That is very rude.”

“She was not biting her lips,” his wife said.

“You were not there.”

“You would not have missed that detail in your first narration. Who else was there in the shop?”

“Ahem. Just the two of us.”

Silence.

“I love you baby,” the boy said.

“I hope so!”

It took a few days for the boy to bring things back to normal in his house but he never went back to that particular shop again. His wife always gave him a peculiar look when they passed it but always found him concentrating at the ducks and rowboats in river Mersey which ran under the bridge next to the shop.

A picture of the frozen river Mersey which the boy took as he and his wife passed the shop and when she gave him ‘that’ frozen look.

[Images from 1, 2, 3, 4]

A survivor’s guide to dodge Uncle-ization

As you hit thirties, you discover that your scariest nightmares are about to come true – Someone, somewhere is (accidently) going to call you ‘Uncle’ and you might die a Virgin. This post will not deal with virginity issues of stay-with-parents, pot bellied, balding, in his 30s Indian male whose face is hard to differentiate from his laptop screen. We are exclusively going to discuss the effects of being called ‘Uncle’ and their remedies.

The first thing every Uncle Above-30s-Man (ATM) has to remember is to be prepared. The word is going to hit you like shrapnel and you will run towards a mirror in a failed bid to ensure yourself that you still look vaguely in your twenties. A time will come when college kids will call you uncle. That will be the time when you will truly lose this battle (unless you are super rich like all our 50 year old Bollywood actors and know a good injection happy doctor), but this is not the time. You still have a few years, and here are a few steps which will help you regain your floundering confidence.

See the difference!

Mow down that Moustache

The first mistake ATMs commit is of growing a moustache to look manly. Now if you are not Anil Kapoor and do not have some sort of a hair malfunction disorder, you really do not need to have that hideous shrub on your face. In college, I was not able to sleep when a friend told me that I looked like an ATM because of my moustache. My dad was of the opinion that razing your moustache to the ground is equivalent to snipping off your dick, so I was left with no choice but to accidently slip the razor on the forbidden area. On my face. Dad came very close to saying – You are not my son anymore, but I discovered the younger, confident me. That was the beginning of a new era – The cute chocolate boy was born.  So unless you are not Ritesh Deshmukh, ATMs can drastically reduce their age by 3-4 years by this simple process.

Get those spikes

If your hairstyle resembles Sachin Tendulkar’s new hairdo, then 99.5% of the people around you (including your dog) will already be making fun of you and will be waiting for a chance to pull off what they think is your wig. The rest 0.5% is you and your laptop. Throw that 70s Rajesh Khanna (May his soul RIP) style in the bin. Get those spikes, colour the tips with a really eye-hurting colour, gel them hard like a rhino’s horn and become a Yo man. Get some smart shades (try not to wear them inside malls and while watching movies. That sucks) and see how the 99.5:0.5 ratio changes to 1:99. Well, your dog will still try to pull your hair. He is a dog after all. Attack him with your spikes and he won’t bother you after that.

Revamp that wardrobe

If your wardrobe contains bell bottoms and those polka dot shirts with collars as big as ostrich wings, you really need to come out of the cave. Try round neck T-shirts, collared striped T-shirts, Google, faded jeans, Converse shoes, Google, leather jackets, hand bands, Google and you might be in for a shock of a lifetime. Dear uncle ATM, a wardrobe that changes with changing times has the capacity to astound you and make you feel young at heart. You do not have to wear Govinda colours. Try milder tones with current trends.

The workout

Do a simple test. Try to pee and see if you can see your peepee. If you can’t see it, then your belly has turned as massive as Arnab Goswami’s mouth. Try this – suck in a lot of air and expand your chest. Now can you see your peepee? If you still can’t then it’s a miracle that you haven’t already exploded. The only thing which can save you now is loads of sex but don’t try that unless you want to induce multiple fractures on a poor soul. The next best thing you can do is to move your butt and hit a gym. Run on the treadmill as if you are stalked by Rakhi Sawant. Make sure you do not fatally injure someone by hitting them with the flab dangling from your body. The result will be worth it. There is no better sight than seeing your stomach go in and finally re-discovering the source of your pee.

Don’t do that burger

As you turn into an ATM, the worse you could do to yourself is eat junk food dripping with cheese and surrounded by potato wedges. A workout will not work if you are drowning in a pool of burgers and storing soft drinks in your belly as if you are going into hibernation for a year. We do not step on garbage (if we find a clean patch of road which is as rare as Priyanka Chopra not pouting), we do not drink sewer water (well, at least we pretend), then why do we eat ‘junk’ food? Can the name be more obvious? Do you want to look like a huge shapeless pile of molten rubber? And seriously, it’s a bit off-putting to see you open your mouth as if you are going to swallow a bus when you eat that burger. Try Sushi.

Think young

Change with time. Do not be a rock no one can move. Such rocks are finally removed by explosives. An ATM ages quickly if he stagnates. The lines on your face will appear more quickly, the hair will fall more rapidly. Every generation comes with its own set of problems. Try thinking like them. For example, try SMSing someone, listening to songs and crossing a road simultaneously and see if you are still not hit by a truck OR go to Yahoo adult chat rooms and pretend to be a girl.

Always remember, all these steps will work for you if you implement them simultaneously. An ATM wearing a tight T-shirt and displaying spiked hair but having a pot-belly will be worse than a regular ATM and so will be an ATM with a moustache and wearing bell bottoms even if he has a flat stomach.

Shedding a few years off you is not difficult. Homo sapiens are the only species capable of doing that. Now you do not want to let go of this wonderful offer of a lifetime, do you? Keep your laziness for another life. God knows, you might be a hippo in your next birth.

Now get up and enjoy your life.

Open letter to all Phuddu married men

Dear Phuddu Married Man,

If you are wondering what Phuddu means, let me enlighten you. It means a coward, spineless douche bag.

Sometimes I wonder what grave necessity threw you into the act of marriage. Was it your parents? Was it some sort of inferiority complex because people around you were getting married? Or was it just a robotic impulse imbibed inside you since you were born? Or you just needed a woman to fu*k?

You do not deserve this woman you have married. Remember the day when you came back from a holiday in Singapore with your wife and your mother opened all your suitcases as soon as you entered the house, to dig in all the things you might have bought without her knowledge? How dare you allow her to do that? Yes, you whimpered like a scared puppy, vomited out something inaudible but when your mother explained that this is how things have been in this house, you went to a corner and sulked. Yes, that was the best you could come up with in front of the woman whom you have married. Could you have got any more phuddu-er?

The overnight flight from Singapore had left your wife very tired. She went to the office the next day and by the time she came back in the evening; she could hardly stand due to exhaustion. Your mother asked her to prepare dinner for 12 guests in three hours. Your wife made the dinner while you stood like a complete loser and let that happen. And then your mother had the nerve to come in your room at midnight and lectured you on respecting the elders! Of course, you listened respectfully, while your wife cried.

Dear Phuddu,

You are a software engineer, well-educated, born and brought up in a city. Do you even understand what the institution of marriage stands for? Do you understand that when a woman leaves her house after marriage, she blindly relies on her husband to sail her through. She is scared. The only person who could share her anxiety and who could support her is you. And what did you do Phuddu? You let your parents dictate whether you need a maid in your house or not, even though they live in a separate house? And to prove to your wife that she could not have found a phuddu-er life partner, you agree with your mother that your wife should do all the household chores in addition to her job.

Phuddu,

You are an adult. You do not wear diapers anymore. You don’t have to take permission from your parents every time you go to toilet. You do not have to piss in your pants every time your mother raises an eyebrow. Which part of this are you not able to understand? You are married for fuc* sake! Have you ever bothered what your wife is thinking about you when you pout and brood instead of setting things straight, when you are too afraid to speak in front of your parents, when you are unable to make simple decisions?

And, what kind of person takes money from his wife’s parents? Do you know what a big loser you project yourself while indulging in this act? You are not even capable of taking care of your finances, beg for money from your in-laws as if it’s your birth right and then have the nerve to mistreat your wife. Really! You take Phuddu-ism to an entirely new level.

You don’t like a girl as your child, do you Phuddu? Reality check – You married a girl assho*e! You would have ended up as a nondescript, pathetic loner if not for this girl who did the biggest mistake of her life by marrying you. And your mother was a girl once too. Now come to think of it, imagine a scenario where your mother was killed in her mother’s womb; the world would have been a happier place without a phuddu like you born years later.

I know you have indulged in taking dowry, raping your wife, beating her mercilessly and burning her alive and Phuddu is a very small word for such a man. I know the law is very lenient on you. Thousands of you roam the streets. The only punishment worthy of you is to cut off your pen*s and hang it on a chord around your neck in a bottle of preservative. And then tattoo “Phuddu” on your forehead and let the world see what you really are. Yes, that is what you deserve.

Phuddu,

You are a disgrace to married men. We are ashamed that you are a part of our community. Given a chance, we would love to throw you off in the Gobi desert with a  Gobhi shoved up your ass.

Really, grow some balls and a brain while you are at it.

Yours truly,

A Sensible Married Man.

p.s. The incidents narrated in the post are true.