Category Archives: Mumbhai

Sole-Searching In Modern Times.

“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.”
– Rabindranath Tagore

Life is a sum total of experiences pleasant and unpleasant. Some experiences I would gladly embrace, such as a year-long vacation to Abu Ghraib prison, a 10 finger prostrate examination or being struck by lightning; others I passionately avoid, such as shoe shopping. But when faced with the prospect of going barefoot to work or being disowned by family over the condition of my current pair of shoes, I was left with no choice but to confront my fears.

I pulled on a brave face, played the Rocky theme tune inside my head and stepped into a shoe store at a local mall.

The display cases were stocked with approximately 10 million ways of retaining a woman’s attention span for over 5 minutes. I was partly confused and partly embarrassed just as Rakhi Sawant would be, if she were to accidentally stumble into a large book store.

I gingerly sat down in the only empty seat in the otherwise packed place, and performed a quick survey of my surroundings. On my left, a pretty lady was holding up a sandal barely 4 inches from her face. For over 10 minutes, she turned it in a clockwise, anticlockwise, clockwise, anticlockwise pattern like an experienced burglar cracking the combination dial of a safe. On my right, another lady was asking a salesman if they had any thing “more trendy”. Next to her was a large pile of shoes that she had tried and rejected, and her husband blankly staring at a far corner of the store in silent despair. As the minutes passed by, the pile of rejected shoes grew steadily, casting a ghastly shadow over the remnants of the shattered husband, and rousing the interest of local mountaineers that couldn’t afford a trip to Mount Everest.

A salesman spotted me sitting by myself and rushed over. He sported the Arindam Chaudhari fake grin and he shook my hand with the fervent emotion of a childhood friend at a school reunion. He appeared to be very concerned about my health, my family’s health, my social status, and my profession. When I told him that I worked as a software developer, he told me that he also had a computer at home. I nodded and smiled politely. The awkwardness reminded me of the time I’d gone shopping for underwear at a mall in Kerala and how the mall people had, in their praiseworthy wisdom, assigned a FEMALE salesperson at the men’s counter. I remember standing there, gaping like a chimp, as the lady stretched the underwear elastic to show its quality, and made a fist and punched the inside of the front to show its…flexibility probably. I remember how her colleagues giggled amongst themselves as I stood frozen in time during the most fascinating demonstration of underwear dynamics.

“So, what are you looking for?” he asked and shook me out of the flashback. I was tempted to say, “A surfboard, suntan lotion, a pair of floral-print shorts and some nasty waves up in this bitch” but I stopped short – after all, people aren’t expected to look for surfing equipment at a shoe store.

“Black formal shoes with laces please,” I finally said.

Now here’s the thing I discovered: shoe salesmen (or any other salesmen) refuse to acknowledge clear, specific requirements as a matter of principle. They take it as a personal insult if customers think that they know what they want. They laugh off your choice and your taste and show you 1,527 useless items that you didn’t ask for, and would never buy. Finally, when you reject each one of them while constantly reminding the salesman what you originally wanted, they scoff at you for wasting their precious time in showing you what you were missing out on.

Naturally, my request for formal black shoes was denied, and he proceeded to show me the “latest attractive attractions” such as flip-flops, sneakers, Buddhist monk sandals and the state-of-the-art jet-powered roller skates fitted on to a pair of Kolhapuri chappals.

“Not really interested in all this. I’m looking for something more professional,” I reminded him.

His interpretation of professional ranked somewhere between amusing and ridiculous. He placed in front of me a pair of ankle high leather boots with metal straps dangling from the sides. Before I could even open my mouth to protest, he grabbed my right foot, ripped off my shoe and thrust my foot into the leather boot.

“Go on, try walking around and see how it feels” he urged.

I got up and attempted to walk. In only a few seconds, the blood circulation in my leg came to a trickling halt. My brain strained hard to listen to any sort of communication from the estranged foot, but it was definitely out of coverage area. I looked down at my foot helplessly, and I empathized with James Franco from 127 Hours even though I’d been trapped in this shoe for just 1.27 minutes. I reasoned with the salesman that if he didn’t get it off me, I’d be forced to use a Swiss Army Knife on myself. He relented and took it off and I could feel my toes again.

“You didn’t like it? It looked very professional on you,” he said. I assured him that I wasn’t Clint Eastwood, that I didn’t commute to work on a horse, that my profession didn’t involve killing pesky Sheriffs and hence he should show me “something more contemporary”.

Poor choice of words.

“Something more contemporary” was lost in translation, and he pulled out a thing of such exquisite ugliness that it made me stifle a shriek. I don’t think I can ever find the right words to describe the monumentally perverted creation, but it looked roughly like this: a pair of dark-reddish (he called it burnt Sienna) shoes lined with golden threading on the sides, matching golden laces, and abnormally high heels. It was as if a Salvador Dali surrealist artwork had had sex with a bullfrog, and prematurely delivered these hideously deformed twin bastard foetuses.

The salesman brought the shoes right in front of my face for a closer look. I shrank back in a corner and flailed wildly to get away from them. No doubt it was the handiwork of one of those snooty, sadistic bastards from NIFT or some such useless institution, the thieving cunts that come up with bizarre abominations and con dumb ladies into believing that it’s haute couture. I’m not kidding. I have seen women pay obscene amounts for designer shawls that looked like they had been processed by a paper shredder and then hastily glued back together by a 4 year old, marketed with pseudo-philosophical bullshit such as “the delicate material of the stole is a metaphor for the fragility of human life and the arbitrary placement of the perforations is a metaphor for the void in our souls.” Translated for normal people, it is actually “a long piece of cheap toilet paper, torn after multiple usages and now on display exclusively for you to wrap around your neck and firmly establish your status as the most Fashionable Retard of your community”.

Back at the store, the salesman had just about exhausted the last reserves of my patience. It was astonishing to see a 5 word requirement getting distorted into 5000 travesties. The final straw was when he brought out a pair of white tennis shoes.

I lost it and snapped, “I do not want shoes that adapt to environmental temperatures, I do not want shoes with USB 3.0 ports, I do not want shoes that transform into Autobots, I do not want shoes that were thrown at Bush or Kalmadi, I do not want shoes that General Luftwaffe was wearing in the daring Operation Sea Lion of 1943, I do not want shoes that resonate with the divine frequency of the universal Brahman and bring cosmic equilibrium around my feet, I do not want shoes that look like Uday Chopra’s face from a certain angle although they would make great conversation starters, I do not want shoes that Geoff Horsfield was wearing when he came on as a substitute vs. Portsmouth and scored with his first touch in a gripping final day relegation battle in 2004-05. I WANT FORMAL BLACK SHOES WITH LACES. Do you get me?”

He responded by bringing a pair of brown shoes without laces.

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door – I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. “Relax,” said the lady on the right, “they are programmed to deceive. You can check out any time you like, but do you think these Stilettos would look better in beige?”


MTNL: The Long Road Home.

This post marks the fourth anniversary of my lovingly cherished relationship with one of the most prominent organizations of Mumbai: MTNL. For the uninitiated, MTNL is this passionate, thoughtful, dedicated group of people who have been faithfully serving the citizens of Mumbai and Delhi over the years. Their major services include passionately digging up roads to put in wires, thoughtfully digging up roads to take out wires, dedicated-ly digging up roads to take out Airtel’s/Reliance’s wires, sending pan chewing assholes to your home to tell you that your telephone line is permanently fucked, charging you 250 bucks for conveying this message, and so on.

But the most romantic part of this relationship is how it all started. Sit back and grab something to eat as I reminisce the beautiful memories of the 4 golden years.

The Application Phase

Since the dawn of time, no living human has EVER got through this phase without a hitch. The Indian government has in fact announced a grand prize for any citizen whose application doesn’t get rejected in the first try – they will be awarded the Param Vir Chakra (posthumously, if that is the case) and felicitated on Republic Day. They would get to share the elephant ride with kids who have won the Bravery Award probably for passing their Board exams in the first attempt, and wave at the President who is blissfully sleeping on the chair.

The Reapplication Phase

So now, like the rest of us, you drag your sorry ass back to the MTNL office because your application got rejected due to any of the following reasons –

1. You used black ink, whereas only blue ink is permitted.
2. YoU DiDn’T FiLl ThE FoRm In AlTeRNaTiNg CaSe.
3. There was a slight crease on the form. How can a CAT scanner or a Large Hadron Collider process your form if it has a fucking crease on it?
4. You didn’t sign it using the blood of 666 fallen angels.
5. Because kuch kuch hota hai asshole, tum nahi samjhoge.
6. You are supposed to fill the form only in Sanskrit, Hebrew or Ancient Gaelic.

Raise A Hue And Cry Phase

By this time, you feel like you’re in a Christopher Nolan movie, getting lost at every turn, unable to figure out what is going on, losing your grip on reality. Finally, the confusion and the anger get the better of you and you scream out in frustration, only to be chucked out by the security.

Regret The Previous Phase And Get Down On Your Knees And Beg For Mercy Phase

MTNL staff show no mercy. You pleas for help will be laughed off with a Nazi-Taliban-esque grace.

Nothing Worked, So Use The Trump Card Phase

I remember the day back in December 2006 when my friends and I went to the MTNL office to personally talk to them about our pending connection. We were asked to meet a certain Fat Aunty about our problem.

Mrs. Fat Aunty was the branch-deputy-information-something-manager. In short, the person we were looking for.

We nervously entered her office and waited. She was talking to someone over the phone (what are the odds of that?!). 5 minutes passed with no change in status quo. 10 minutes passed and the impatience was growing. We politely cleared our throats to get her attention. She never even looked up at us. A few more minutes of audible throat-clearing yielded no results. We increased our pretend-coughing to the point that her colleagues suspected us to be Whooping Cough patients and started covering their faces, but Madam Fatass just continued to orally pleasure the phone.

Finally, some 450 hours later, she hung up. She motioned us to come over and take a seat.

“Problem?” she said.

My friend spoke rapidly: “Madam, we applied for an internet connection 3 months ago but still haven’t received a word from you… actually we needed internet ASAP to blah blah blah- ”

Fat Aunty cut in: “Not possible. There are about 85,588 people who are ahead of you.”

My friend was nearly in tears: “But but… it’s been 3 months…I have to…”

Fat Aunty: “NOT. POSSIBLE.” (makes a full stop with her eyes)

The other friend tried his luck: “Madam, please try to understand. We have been coming here everyday since the past 3 months. We are students-”

Fat Aunty scowled: “If you are students, you should go to college! Don’t hang out at MTNL office and complain about low attendance! This is not a youth hang out joint!”

(silence, crickets chirping)

I stood there, tongue-tied like a nervous boyfriend in front of a girl’s Hitler reincarnate mom.

My friend composed himself and tried again: “God hasn’t been too kind to us, Ma’am. We come here and stand everyday, sun or rain, summer or winter, weekday or weekend, in sickness or in health, with a bright hope, an undying belief that you would just look at us once and listen to our story. Look at us, Ma’am, we’ve been greeted with only withering bouquets of rejection every time. We are falling apart just like the plaster on the walls of this building. We have nowhere else to go, no one else to talk to. We are the middle children of history, Ma’am. No purpose or place.”

3 of her colleagues and 2 security guards had broken into tears.

My friend had nailed it. He had hit the second most vulnerable part of the female anatomy – her heart. We could see the sympathy welling up inside her. We had lived the dream.

“Arrey Ramesh, come here!” she yelled at the clerk.

“Yes madam?”

“These 3 students need an internet connection urgently. How soon can it be arranged?”

He looked at her as if she had asked for his father’s hand in marriage. “You mad?!! No way… no more connections till the first bird chirps in autumn next year.”

Madam cranked it up. “Shut up! Don’t give me this bullshit. I’m not the general public. Get them a connection this week and if you dare say no…”

Ramesh gulped and murmured something under his breath and ran away. The 3 of us looked at Fat Aunty quizzically.

“And so it has been written,” she said with the mysticism of an Indian Yogi, “your internet would be active before this Friday.”

We immediately fell to her feet and cried, for our emotional rollercoaster was finally going to come to a stop.

Post Acceptance Installation Phase

True to Aunty’s word, a guy came to my place that week, armed with wires, CDs and the symbolic screwdriver.

15 minutes of sorcery later, he spat: “Installation complete. 500 bucks please.”

I asked: “Is the connection working?”

“No. It will work only after you call the customer support and ask to reset the password after which a virtual connection needs to be established after which an I.P. needs to be assigned after which you would need to prove that you are the son of the noblest blood.”

“And how much time will that take?”

“Should be done in 10 to 15… light years, I think. Now, the 700 bucks please.”

“You said 500 a minute ago.”

“Consulting charges extra.”

Post Installation Traumatic Stress And Eventual Suicide Phase

This is the time after the connection becomes active, when you start getting weird problems and such frequent disconnections that your life becomes an unending nightmare. You live in the paranoid fear that the internet would suddenly stop working one day and the visits to MTNL office would start all over again. You feel like a war veteran who has come back home after long years of conflict, but still hears the sounds of guns and bombs, cries of compatriots, horrors of the battlefield. You want to leave them and switch to another provider, but are left with no energy or guts to fall into the routine once again. So in the end, you quietly curl up in your seat and stare at the modem, clinging to a fleeting hope that the lights would keep on blinking, keep on blinking…

Happy Teacher’s Day.

Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was our country’s first vice-president, second president and the third person to have a chain of expensive schools to his name.

Dr. Radhakrishnan celebrated his birthday on 5th September. The celebrations would usually be a private affair, with only a very few close friends and family gathering at his place, cutting the cake and struggling with his complete name while singing the Happy Birthday song. They would have a plate of samosas, potato chips, a cup of Fanta and then head home with their return gift of a pencil, an eraser and a plastic scale. Literally very old school celebrations, you see.

However, on his 50th birthday, his close friends and family got together and planned a different theme for his surprise party. As the clock struck 12 on the night of 4th September 1963, about a 1000 friends, students and relatives raided his home with 10 tankers of tequila, 50 cartons of colourful pills and an unknown number of male and female strippers tucked away in as many birthday cakes.

The drunken revelry went on till the wee hours of the morning, when the neighbours, ably assisted by the National Security Guards (NSG) finally managed to drive everyone home and clear up the evidence.

When Dr. Radhakrishnan opened his eyes in the morning, he realized that two floors of his 3 storey house were not there anymore. He found himself lying upside down on a large strawberry cake, with a couple of silk stockings around his neck, a golden sceptre in his left hand and a live grenade in his right hand. A few feet away, two people were lying face-down on the ground. He identified one of them as Lord Mountbatten with his pants missing.

That was when he decided he had enough of birthday parties.

The very next day, he addressed the press and said, “Umm, birthdays are cool, but you know what I would really like? If instead of celebrating MY birthday on 5th September and thrashing MY house, you celebrate it as Teacher’s Day! Nobody pays much attention to them anyway. And I’d appreciate it if you cleared Mountbatten off my backyard immediately.”

Dr. Radhakrishnan’s missing floors and Mountbatten’s missing pants continue to remain history’s unsolved mysteries, but India has since observed 5th September as Teacher’s Day – a solemn tribute to the memorable party.


Today, on Teacher’s Day, I am going to revisit my school days and pay homage to some of the most amazing teachers I’ve had the privilege of learning from.

Mr. Man-thony.

Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym.

Whenever I think about Mr. Man-thony, the Physical Education teacher, I always wonder: what makes a man “manly”?

Some of you might imagine tough cowboys from old Westerns taming wild horses and eating bullets for breakfast as manly. For others, it might be sportsmen such as boxers and rugby players who regularly break bones with a smile on their faces.

Well, I beg to differ with all of you.

According to me, a real man is the one who doesn’t pause to think when it comes to beating 9 year old kids for not standing straight during a physical exercise routine in the blistering summer heat. Depending on his mood, he would beat kids with his bare hands, a wooden scale, or with a cane. On many occasions, it became very difficult to choose between the 3, which is what made Mr. Man-thony special : he always knew how to hit, where to hit and what to use for hitting. His decision making skills were impeccable, making him a formidable figure in the fascinating world of Physical Education teachers. And that, my friends, is what made him “manly”.

Now that we have covered his personality, let us go a bit into his abilities as a teacher. I have to start by pointing out the stark, ridiculous irony that Mr. Man-thony, himself out of shape and weighing over 100 kgs, being entrusted with Physical Education. This minor discrepancy notwithstanding, we were expected to take fitness instructions from a man with a belly so huge that it made us believe he was pregnant with quadruplet rhinoceros babies.

That said, it must be noted that Physical Education is not an easy thing to teach. This is not like pussy Mathematics or Science which you can learn sitting in the comfort of classrooms; this is much more hands-on. Children have to be taught the mystic art of running, jumping and waving their arms in roughly symmetrical patterns – a skill previously practised only within the closed confines of the Shaolin Temple. Much respect to him for sharing with us this invaluable, rare superpower which transformed us mere school students into hunky Greek Gods with sculpted marble physiques.

On Teacher’s Day, I want to thank Mr. Man-thony personally. Thank you for taking out the anger stemming from your utter incompetence and failure at life on little defenseless kids. You sir, must be awarded with a private dungeon equipped with the finest quality Italian leather belts, spiked clubs and canes made of redwood trees that you can use to discipline future generations of unruly 5th graders.

Miss Virgin Scary

Dear Lord, please protect me from your followers.

Miss Scary was one of the few teachers that I didn’t relate to. She taught us history, but I never understood why she had to commence all classes with prayers praising Jesus Christ. I’m not making this up – she really did this. She would ask us to close our eyes and pray to someone’s Holy Mother for a reason we are still not entirely sure about to this day.

I vividly remember a day back in sixth grade. I remember that day because it left a lasting impression. It was the day she told us about “The Rapture”.

She had a crazy, deluded look in her eyes… the look you find in the eyes of people who wear “The End Is Near” signs around their necks and stand around street corners. It was probably due to the temporary unavailability of antidepressants at that time, or maybe the cult that she belonged to had a nervous breakdown; we’ll never know. What we do know is that she seemed very disturbed that afternoon.

She skipped history lessons for the day and started telling us about how the world was going to end very soon. She said that in the year 2000, a great flood will begin, that it will be pitch dark outside and it will rain day and night, that only a red cross will be visible high in the sky, that the only way to save ourselves and our family was to cover our windows with newspapers and read from the Bible. Those who believed in Christ the Saviour shall be saved, the others doomed. She told us all this in the kooky, shivering voice of a woman who lived alone in her apartment with only stray cats for company.

I was 11 at that time and I was fucking scared. So were my friends.

I went home feeling extremely rattled and repeated whatever Miss Scary said in front of my mom. My mom was pissed. She said, “What kind of humans are they to brainwash my little boy with such utter nonsense? Don’t they understand that such obscure religious statements can have a drastic effect on a child?”

She then sat me down and calmly explained that there was no such thing as a Rapture, and even if it were to happen, nothing could harm us Hindus because our Lord Krishna was there to protect us. He was the dude who had once lifted the Govardhan hill with his pinky, saved a whole village from heavy monsoons, and then played an awesome flute solo inspired by Jethro Tull. As long as I prayed to Him, I didn’t need to worry about any floods.

Problem fucking solved! I was so damn relieved. Haha, losers! You can’t touch me, biatches!

You can very well see how that incident has helped in shaping my religious beliefs.

This is my holy book. Amen.

On Teacher’s Day, I want to thank Miss Scary personally. Thank you for confusing 11 year old children with your stupid religious ideologies. Thank you for believing that faith is something to be enforced upon and not something to be experienced by oneself. The year 2000 is long gone, but I’m still waiting for the Zombie Apocalypse. The umbrella and the Bible that I bought to save my family are still untouched. Do give me a call if J. Christ and da J-Unit decide to show up.

Mrs. Fat Gujju Aunty

I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.

I cannot stress enough on the importance of arts in a child’s life. Have you ever noticed how children seem to be blissfully lost in their own world when they are drawing? It’s probably the only time their imagination is fuelled, their creativity is unrestrained and they connect to a part of themselves they’ve never seen. With a blank canvas, a pencil and a few crayons, a child’s mind breaks free of all barriers and explores distant avenues. For once, the child experiences true freedom from the somewhat rigid patterns of thinking required in regular subjects.

But Mrs. Fat Gujju Aunty, my drawing teacher, didn’t give a flying fuck. To her, drawing fell in 4 categories: grade A (very good), grade B (kinda good), grade C (stick to Math, you nerd) and grade D (did you puke over this?).

I enjoyed drawing the most, but dreaded it only for the fear of getting a C or D.

I don’t blame her. She is a part of a system that believes art classes are a waste of time. Drawing classes meant copying obscure images of sunflowers, animals and a bunch of vessels from textbooks and having an older sibling (or worse, parents) help out with the colouring. These would then be impartially graded (Gujju kids got better grades because they were… well, better than you) and even if you got a D, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t a subject that you needed to pass in.

This is how creativity is stifled in schools. At an age where talent should be identified and encouraged, children are made to believe that it is worthless. If you’ve watched Taare Zameen Par, you would know what it is like to be Ishaan Awashti’s parents.

On Teacher’s Day, I want to thank Mrs. Aunty personally. Thank you for scribbling large, red ‘D’ marks over our drawings and firmly putting us back in our place. Had Vincent van Gogh been your student, he would have shot himself before the class even ended.

Miss Palm-ela

We may not pay Satan reverence, for that would be indiscreet, but we can at least respect his talent.

Miss Palm-ela was my English teacher in fourth grade. She got her nickname from her trademark open palm slap which would just sweep you off your feet. I have fond memories of being one of the gifted few to have tasted her meaty palm across the face. To this day, I rate it higher than Federer’s backhand and Nadal’s forehand.

Miss Palm-ela was no ordinary woman. When she entered the classroom, the whole class would drop whatever they were doing, shut the fuck up and wet their respective pants inside 4 milliseconds. After all, she was this massive beast of a woman with a voice of… ah her voice. I appreciate her voice much more today than I did then because it sounds EXACTLY like this.

Oh yeah, she was Satan’s daughter herself.

I remember experiencing my first Palm-ela slap when I struggled with the pronunciation of a particular word during the English class. The impact sent me reeling to the ground. She stood over me and bellowed:

Palm-ela: To manipulate the fears of others, you must first learn to master your own. Are you ready to begin?
Me: I-I can barely stand.
Palm-ela: Death does not wait for you to be ready, death is not considerate or fair and make no mistake about it, here you will face death! Now read that sentence again!

I tried again. I failed again.

Palm-ela: I’m trying to free your mind, Sachin. But I can only show you the door. You’re the one that has to walk through it.

She then pointed to the classroom door. I walked out quietly.

Our principal spotted me standing outside the classroom and asked her why I was punished. She didn’t answer, but during lunch time that day, she ate his liver with Fava beans and a nice Chianti.

On Teacher’s Day, I want to thank Miss Palm-ela personally. Thank you for demonstrating how the human hand can break the sonic barrier with illustrative examples. Discipline is necessary, but damn you bitch, those slaps really hurt. They still hurt.


Moral of the story?

Some of this might seem amusing, some tragic, but this is how the Indian education system works. A system where Mathematics is about mugging up formulae; where arts, music and sports are looked upon as “out of curriculum” subjects that add no value to education and actually interfere with studies; where parents are told that their 8 year old or 10 year old will never do well in life because of low scores in a fucking mid term test; where the story of our own countrymen who gave up their lives for freedom is worth about 10 marks in the exams; where poems are not meant to be understood and appreciated for the emotion conveyed, but for parroting out as is; where your grades will determine how successful you will be in life; where the notion is to carry on with the same old textbooks with obsolete information and still expect kids to be the future leaders; where beating, scolding and yelling is supposed to improve a child’s learning abilities; where parents feel the need to send their kids to private tutors, many of whom are teachers at the same school; where many children are denied love and attention they might not get at home; where society can’t break out of classroom walls and the mental walls where young minds are imprisoned at a very early age.

And in spite of this sad state, you find some of the brightest young minds coming from India. I think this is probably because for every bad teacher, there is one good teacher who’d set things right. For every teacher who beats children, there is always one to pick them up. For every teacher you hate to see at school, there is one you look forward to learn from. Those lucky enough to have that one good teacher turn out okay.

On Teacher’s Day, I want to thank all the good teachers personally. It’s your values and your blessings I live with today, and I’m proud to have learned from you. You might not be in the majority, but even a small number makes a world of difference to thousands of young students growing up.

I hope there are more teachers like you and less of those who poison a child’s mind with doubt, insecurity and fear. I wish that children can look at schools as a place for learning and growing, not as a place where dreams are crushed under an absurd load of unrealistic expectations. I’d like to see schools without illusive boundaries, clipped wings or indelible red ink marks.

Happy birthday, Dr. Radhakrishnan. Happy Teacher’s Day.

Coffee, Tea Or Sodomy? Tee Hee Hee.

A country weeps in agony.

A country wades through rivers of grief.

A country stands in disbelief and outrage, shame and humiliation.

The country needs hope and strength to get back on its feet again.

My country.


As a polite citizen of this splendid society, I humbly yell in anger, “what the bloody fuck is wrong with the Indian Judicial System, huh?”

3 years ago, it was Afzal.

“Let’s hang him.”

“No, don’t hang him.”

“Let’s hang him.”

“No, don’t hang him.”

“Oh look, he’s running away.”

“Don’t bother. We have much more important matters to deal with – like banning violent cartoon shows such as Tom and Jerry that could possibly corrupt little kids.”


Last year, it was Kasab.

“I want lawyer.”

(was given a lawyer)

“I want newspaper.”

(was offered Midday – only for the Midday Mate)

“I want high fibre Marie biscuit and tea.”

(Served in finest silverware)

“I want 1 Happy Meal, free toy, warm chocolate sauce and 72 virgin lesbians.”

(Free toy offer was no longer available, but other items were delivered with sincere apologies)

This year, it is the magnum opus of all travesty: Homosexuality is no longer a crime.

Seriously, what were they thinking? What the hell would the High Court think of next? Legalizing bestiality? Legalizing paedophilia? Legalizing necrophilia? Legalizing romantic comedies starring Reese Witherspoon?

On the same note, why don’t they just go ahead and legalize public screening of gay porn in malls, hotels and railway stations? It would be delightful to watch, wouldn’t it? “A ‘fairy’ tale come alive!”

Thanks to your highly unbiased judgment and your ‘make-everyone-happy-and-gay’ rationale, all fruit cakes have come out of their neatly arranged closets and are now infesting the land, nearly blinding the entire country with the multi-coloured attire, like a sea of brightly coloured chunky gay vomit flowing in the streets. Complete with feathers, frills and fur.

I turn on the T.V, and the Whiners are celebrating the court’s decision. They can’t even complete a fucking sentence without moving their hands and touching their shampooed and conditioned hair 50 times/minute, for fuck’s sake.

I walk out of the house and it’s horrifying. It very closely resembles one of those zombie movies where the entire city is taken over by radiation afflicted dead people. “The Night of the Living Gay.”

A couple of men look at me, smile and wave. I can taste the bile in my throat. Ugh, I get the same icky feeling when I see cockroaches, lizards and Shoaib Akhtar.

I can’t even begin to imagine the scenes inside a Fashion Design college hostel. Dear Lord, be our saviour.

They call this shit Gay Pride. Where’s the pride in that, I wonder. It’s almost as stupid as saying “B.M.C. sweeper pride” or “U.A.E. cricket team pride.”

In my humble opinion…

…all this is utterly ridiculous because I do not understand the *concept* or *logic* behind homosexuality. When God created Adam and Eve, He gave them parts that are supposed to fit for a reason. It takes just the minimum amount of common sense to figure that out. Now what part of “your thing goes here AND NOT IN THAT CAVEMAN DUDE’S ASS” is so complex for homo sapiens to understand? Do they want this tattooed on the woman’s belly with an arrow pointing to the appropriate location? Why else would they go after illegal holes? Why can’t they just follow the Indian “Penal” Code? So many questions, but so few answers.

We can’t let this go on, can we? As I see it, this is going to strongly affect both straight men and women –

1. Men would have to deal with other men making passes at them
2. Women, who used to worry about their boyfriends having affairs with other women, now have an additional issue to bother about.

The time is now. This is the straight man’s hour of need. Let us all join hands, while strictly maintaining a distance of 3 feet of course, and pledge to put an end to this pestilence.

The solution is simple.

Men: always keep your spiked baseball bats handy. If bothered, aim for their pretty heads. Swing till you can’t hear their whiny voices no more. I call this a “homo run.”

Women: wear skimpy clothing. Shower your love and attention on your boyfriends. Act horny all the time. Show these fuckfaces what they are missing. That will surely de-homogenize them.

Pharmac companies: find an antidote, morons!

God: Kill ’em all. Please.

The onus lies on every individual’s effort to contribute as much as we can to this noble cause. As John F. Kennedy once famously said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do to a country that’s doing each other up the ass.”

The fag end of this blog post:

Think I’m a prejudiced asshole? Tell me, what is life without prejudice? Prejudice gives us a fresh new perspective. We would have been one large, happy, loving family if it wasn’t for the gift of prejudice – and that, in my opinion, would have been just very gay.

For you see, a certain amount of bigotry, a dash of close mindedness, a sprinkling of intolerance and a pinch of hate crimes all contribute to the well being of the society. Else, these people would do to India what Ekta Kapoor has done to television.


If the High Court’s verdict wasn’t funny enough, here are some more fag jokes – extremely offensive, but that’s the point:

Did you know that only 10% of the homo population was born that way?
The other 90% were sucked into it!

How can you tell if a novel is homosexual?
The hero always gets his man at the end.

Did you hear about the two queers who had an argument in a gay bar?
They went outside and exchanged blows.

How can you tell if a bank robber is gay?
He ties up the safe and blows the Security Guard.

What do you call a gay Japanese woman?
Yoko Homo.

What has hit more balls than Ronaldinho’s foot?
Elton John’s chin.

How do you know if you’re in a tough Lesbian Bar?
Even the pool tables don’t have balls.








Kindly read with your eyes:

1. Please, do not leave your pricelessly accurate insights such as “r u a closet fag????” or “were u sexually abused as a child??” as comments. The answer to both is no. I did not spend my childhood playing with dolls or prancing around in skirts, thank you.
2. Well done, HC. They call you the ‘High’ Court for a reason… you were clearly high when you banged your hammer on the table. And no, that’s not a gay metaphor for crying out loud.

Broken News Update – Live And Excluded.

Oh look! They have “detained” him. In his own house. With added security.

The whole world can now heave a collective sigh of relief. The bad guy has been “detained”, phew.

No parties or pocket money for a week, no TV after 10 and no sweets. No chatting to friends at night either. You are “detained”, young man. Now go to your room!


In other ridiculous news, U.S. asks Pakistan to “ensure there are no more terror attacks.”

That’s like asking Micheal Jackson to ensure your kids are well looked after. Consider it done, no sweat!


Irresponsible, corrupt politicians have been asked to resign so that the honest ones can take their place.


Pakistan cracks down on militants.

The Pakistani army then exchanges notes with the militants. That way, they can learn from each other and grow. Sharing is caring, knowledge is power.


Ram Gopal Chutiya to make a movie about 26/11 titled “Sarkar Taj in Sholay.” Riteish Deshmukh’s face to play the lead role of The Intelligence FAILURE.

That’s what the folks at Failblog call “AN EPIC FUCKING FAIL.”


Sales of candles and black (or white, depending on individual preference) T-shirts have gone through the roof.


Politicians realize the importance of High Scool Grammar in these testing times. After all, they need newer adverbs to prefix the word “condemn” – fastly condemn, highly condemn, strongly condemn, Olympically condemn, enormously condemn, tremendously condemn, awfully condemn etc.


Unnecessary mathematics : “This is India’s 9/11”, “Taj is India’s Ground Zero”, “5000 people supposed to be dead <<< 200 people dead.”


Wait and watch, wait and watch, wait and watch. Actually, just wait.


Excessive (ab)use of 9/11. I really don’t know what purpose it serves.

“26/11 was almost 9/11”

“This was just an unsuccessful 9/11 bid”

“9/11 is the new black”

“9/11 is not the value of Pi”

“0.81818181 is Math’s 9/11”

“Which 9/11 was worse? India’s or America’s? SMS 9/11 (space) India or 9/11 (space) America to 911911. Premium call charges apply – 9 rupees and 11 paise every minute”


Scene at the Thackeray household : Raj dancing away to the song “Mere haathon mein 9 11 choodiyan hain, thoda thehro Mumbai majbooriyan hain…”


Mumbai Police have been asked to deposit their old, defunct .303 rifles. Finally, I say. The government has decided to provide them with the latest, state-of-the-art, cutting edge weaponry, also known as pogo sticks. So the next time they are confronted with AK-47s, they can at least hop away to safety.

Constable More : “Oh shit, they have AK-47s! Now what?!”
Constable Kale (on his pogo stick) : “Shut up and bounce, bounce, just keep on bouncing. Behki behki hawayein…”


Media having a field day with the “sensational footage of people having dinner inside the Taj just days before the terrorist attack”, “breaking news : Pak president denies involvement in the attack for the 911th time” and “our special correspondents shoving microphones in the faces of people who have just been rescued. We want to know how they feel.”


Terrorists now have their own Rotary Club in Mumbai. They are also organizing a Laughter Club at Nana Nani Park every morning at 7 to wholeheartedly laugh at India.


A sudden shift in the attitude from “We’ve had enough, we are fuming! Like, really!” to “We are SO not going to go easy this time!” to “Hey, I think we are totally the only ones left here” to “I’m getting late for work. I don’t want my career to be like India’s 26/11, India’s 9/11 or America’s 9/11.”


Increase in the sales of Rang De Basanti DVDs followed by a sharp increase in the number of personal security guards standing outside defense minister’s home.


The nation’s top brains coming together to fiddle thumbs and whistle when asked about the status of the action against militants who are still roaming free.


Pointless lists – LeT on India’s black list, Lakhvi on ATS hit list, ATS on ISI’s shit list, JeM on US banned list, US banned list on Pakistan’s Unban list and Maulana Masood Azhar no longer on my Orkut friends list.


Documentaries that show pictures of old Mumbai with the song “Mumbai Meri Jaan” in the background and then suddenly cut to the Taj in flames and sound of gunfire and explosions in the background. Let’s salute the creativity.


Pictures of Ajmal Amir Kasav dude with a gun. That photo has been posted all over the place ad nauseum, ad infinitum. The new shaved face of Pakistani terror. Sources say Gillette are all set to sign him as the brand ambassador.

As a concerned citizen, it is my responsibility, nay duty to post that image in my blog too. So here it is :

New face of Pak Terror. Age no bar.

The Pakistan Navanirmaan Sena now recruiting. Age no bar.

Drop in sales of Versace T-shirts. India brands Versace shirts as “terror outfits”, giving a new meaning to the term “fashion victims.”


Slogans like “enough is enough”, “shit’s going down”, “don’t mess with us yo” and “bomb the dance floor” gaining popularity.


Finger pointing to no one in particular. The “Hey look at me, I’ve got 10 fingers, that means I can point towards… uhh ..7, 8, 9 suspects!” syndrome is spreading.

“It was the Lashkar-e-Toiba who did it!”

“No, this kind of sophistication is clearly the handiwork of Al Qaeda.”

“No way, Deccan Mujahideen have claimed responsibilty. Or was it was the Deccan Chargers? Or maybe Air Deccan. Ugh, too confusing. Let’s read it in the Deccan Herald tomorrow.”

“Bah, it is a huge conspiracy by Hindu-Zionists. Noticed the red strings around their wrists? Elementary, my dear Waseem.”

“Pfft, kids. Wake up people, blame the SIMI activists already. They are the ones who hate the country.”

“I’m telling all you morons, this was SIMI Garewal’s idea. She has a habit of bombing things wherever she goes. Even if she didn’t, please kill her.”

“Martians. Aaj Tak have irrefutable evidence.”


Allegedly, someone with a wacky sense of humour crank calls Pakistan and impersonates Pranab Mukherji. Everyone is expected to believe that. Pakistan sure has a lot of ways to keep the world entertained with amusing episodes like these in this seemingly never ending Star One soap.


Inidan Intelligence Sources have now been replaced by Artificial Intelligence Resources : an Intel Quad-Core Duo Processor with 4 GB RAM and NVIDIA 9800 GTX graphics card. No more intellegence failures, just high performance and unmatched efficiency.Ting ding ding ding!


Rs. 1 crore to be given to the kin of deceased army men and Rs. 5 crore to be given to the kin of deceased terrorists.


The next generation of punk rebels putting on black eyeliner and singing “don’t wanna be an Indian idiot, don’t wanna nation controlled by the media…”. They are featured on NDTV with the tagline “The next generation of punk rebels.”


Orbit white now available in fruit flavour.


Just like you forward patriotic e-mails and SMSes to combat terrorism, forward this post to as many people as you can. Do it only if you’re a true Indian and have any love/respect for your country. Besides, every time you view this blog, 9 rupees will be donated towards rebuilding of Taj and 11 rupees to the ISI Charitable Trust for future innovations. Jai Hind.

Terror Attacks – India Reacts.

Every terrorist action has an equally opposite lame reaction.

Newton’s words ring true, as 10 guys aged 18-28 row, row, row their boat gently down the stream and make it look oh-so-easy.

I was hopeful that it would be different this time. That maybe this time we won’t let them walk away after what they did. Well…

How does India respond? Read on.

India “asks” Pakistan to hand over 20 fugitives. Below is the transcript of the mail that the Indian Government wrote to Pakistan, listing their demands :

Dear Islamabad,

We hope this mail finds you all in the pink of health. It’s been a long time since we met and had a nice cup of Peshawar tea. How is little Mushy doing? Give him our love.

Now to the topic at hand : just wanted to point out that a few of your naughty kids having been playing mischief in our country. Boys will be boys, we know. Haha. But can we make this teeny-weeny request? Could you please hand over that goon who resides in the palatial mansion that the ISI has lovingly built for him in Karachi? Oh pretty pwease? We just want to give him a sound hearing and a nice spanking for his horrific, but cute pranks. And while you’re at it, could you also deport Maulana Masood Azhar? You know, just to keep Dawood company? D company, ahahaha. Send them over only if you don’t mind, or if it isn’t too much of an inconvenience; it’s not that important anyway.

Evidence you ask? Yeah, we do have a couple of clues. The boy who was caught said that he and his friends are from Pakistan, that the calls they received were from Pakistan and that they were trained by ex-soldiers from Pakistan. In addition to this, we also found the following items on Kuber, the boat which the terrorists used to come to Mumbai :

  • AK-47s made and assembled in Pakistan
  • Cellphones with Pakistani prepaid SIM and lifetime validity
  • Dry fruits purchased from Karachi Bakery in Pakistan
  • Groceries purchased from Reliance Fresh Pakistan (bill included for your reference)
  • Clothes purchased from Fashion Street, Pakistan
  • “FaYar ‘N HeNdSoUmE” fairness cream purchased from Pakistan (why would they need fairness cream while on a terrorist mission?)
  • DVDs of movies featuring Meera, Jia Ali, Mussarat Mizbah, Salahuddin Toofani and Adnan Sami
  • Pakistan edition of Stardust
  • Pervez Musharraf’s autographed poster
  • A tiffin containing Lamb Pasanday, Chicken Jalfraezi and Kashmiri Naan (these are no longer available)
  • A Pakistani flag flying at half-mast
  • 3 United Nations representatives condemning this barbaric act

The most incriminating piece of evidence : history.

But you don’t necessarily have to believe us; our intelligence is a bigger failure than Uday Chopra’s career.

And yes, if you wish to terrorize some more, please feel free to do so. We are proud that our country is a training ground for your talented students.

Just to reiterate, we tolerate all kinds of shit. So much so that our country has become a public lavatory for everyone to “drop their bombs” in and shoot the piss out of everyone. Free of cost.

Best regards and gaajar ka halwa,
The Indian Government.

Last heard, this mail had become an immensely popular e-mail forward among YahooGroups Pakistan. It’s being forwarded with the subject : “Must read : Funny Indian demands lololol!!!!!Dont miss it……….”

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE: Reports say that Pakistan have, in fact, handed over two people in reply to the Indian demands – no, not Dawood and Azhar, but Shoaib Akhtar and Mohammad Asif. They were deported with this note:

We no longer want these idiots in our country, and you may use them as you please. We don’t want to waste any more time over their stupid bowling action controversies. There are a lot of other important things to look at… terrorism for instance. We have multiple terrorism projects to monitor at any point of time, and we can’t get any productive work done if we have lameass losers like them to bother about. So please accept them as a humble gift from us. Chuck de, ho chuck de India!

Hugs and kisses,

The Indian Government was not amused.

And this is how the politicians reacted to the incident :

The Patil Trio : Protectors of the Universe

1. Pratibha Patil

When I turned on the TV set and witnessed the attacks, I immediately set down my cup of herbal tea and mildly condemned the attacks. The next day, I got up from my rocking chair and medium-rarely condemned the attacks. On the third day, however, I did something completely out of the ordinary – I strongly condemned the attacks. Thyanchya maila aaicha gho condemn karoon taakin me! Yeh Pratibha ka style hai!

*Cough cough cough* Arre Ganpat, maazi blood pressurechi goli aan re…

But seriously, what do they expect an old bai like me to do anyway? I am just the country’s grandmother who can narrate wonderful bedtime goshti and teach you how to play chippi-chippi and saakhli. I can also make lovely pooran poli and kurkurit pohe.

Oh wait, I can scold them if that’s you want. Here goes –

Aga deva, hey kay kartay porano? Kashala terror-birror kartay konas thouk? Ghari zaa mullah-non, ikde kide-kaandi karoo naka! Tumchya aaila phone karoon tumchi khabar ghyayla saangnaar me. Lai labad aahe hi pora!

*waves her walking stick at them*

Phoota tikde! ‘chya maila, dokyala shot devun takle aahe hyani…

*wears her scary dentures* Oogaboogabooga!

1 week has passed and I’m still going strong with my incessant condemning. But don’t worry, it won’t last for long because I’m going to take some action now. Right after I go to the doctor and get some treatment for my ailing back and arthritic legs. Vay zaala go maza, aata pahilyasarkha zamat naahi malaa. Aga aai go. You go too. Zopayla dya malaa

Check out her quote

“This mindless attack is the work of those who have no regard for human lives, and are pursuing a path of destruction.”

Look out! The Queen of The Obvious strikes again! By cleverly repeating blatantly visible facts, she has not only helped in successfully bringing the perpetrators to justice, but also made the LeT realize how pathetic their actions were.

LeT spokesperson hung his head in shame and responded, “We were pursuing a path of destruction?? Really? We didn’t have a clue! Thanks for pointing that out to us, daadijaan. You have shown us the light and we promise never to do that again. All apologies.”

*does uthak baithak 10 times*

[Considering that the president of the country is a 73 year old woman who should be singing lullabies and knitting sweaters for her great grandchildren, what happened to India was on the cards anyway.]

2. Shivraj Patil

It’s an outrage! Complete outrage! The terrorists were wearing branded Versace T-shirts and Calvin Klein underwear while I was just wearing a plain old bandhgala! I simply cannot let them steal the spotlight from me! This is just barbarism in the name of fashion! I am hereby resigning from my post as the best-dressed Home Minister and angrily marching towards Westside to do some shopping. And if someone calls, I’m not at Home (literally). But if it’s about the clothes I ordered from Mango the other day…

Oh and almost forgot : take a look at this

Heaven knows what would have happened if I had reached on time. I would have straightaway changed to a body fitting Amul Macho vest and low waist jeans, rushed inside and beaten them with my bare hands! And then changed back to regular clothes. It was their luck that they ran away in time.. grumble grumble…

3. R.R. Patil

I was nicely sitting at Marine Lines and nicely eating roasted singdanas when I heard about the attacks. It took me some time to come out of the shock and finish the singdanas before getting back on my feet and running the fuck for my life.

Bade bade shehron mein choti choti baatein hoti rehti hai senorita hehehehe hehehehe…

Manmohan Singh

If Patil is the Queen of The Obvious, then Singh is King!

Read this statement by the P.M.

“These attacks are an act to destablise the nation.”

Act to destablise the nation, are you sure? I mean, it could also have been one of many ways to spend a boring Wednesday afternoon, don’tcha think?

These Patils, Singhs, Deshmukhs and their idiot-value statements remind me of Information Theory and Coding all of a sudden. Let me explain why.

Remember Shannon entropy? It says, “The information entropy of a discrete random variable X with possible values {X1,X2 …, Xn} is given by

H(X) = ∑ (1 to n) p(X).I(X)
Where p = probability of the event, I = information content.

Applying this formula to Manmohan Singh’s statement,

Probability of a terrorist attack being an act to destablise the nation = 1, information content = 0

So, H(X) = ∑ (0).(1)

Thus, H(X)= 0

He could just as well have said, “Sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Stars are not visible during the day due to sunlight,” and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. But that’s according to Shannon, not me.

Pranab Mukherji

I have called up Pakistan Foreign Minister Mehmood Quereshi and Prime Minister Yousaf Gilani several times. They never pick up the phone, and quite frankly, their Jal callertune is irritating the balls out of me. I understand ki ab toh aadat si hai unko aise jeene ki, but I’m really pissed now. Plus the balance on my cellphone is also very low. We can think about an anti-terror plan later, let me think of a nice postpaid plan for myself first.

Raj Thackeray

[Mr. Thackeray is currently busy in his bathroom, and hence unavailable for comment. He may, however, claim that Biharis were behind this attack when he finally comes out from his hiding place. Meanwhile, the MNS activists have started slapping and kicking everyone arriving at Gateway of India in a boat, even if they were just tourists returning from a trip to the Elephanta caves.]

V.S. Achuthanandan

We should be proud that we were attacked! If not India, not even a dog would have attacked us. If not Mumbai, not even a cat would have infiltrated it. If not the Taj, not even a rat would have entered it. If not my ass, not even a rhinoceros would have fucked it. Oops, that never happened. Cough.

If(! Achuthyalikeme)
Not even an error would have entered this loop;

Vilasrao Deshmukh

This tragic incident has left me completely Nishabd. Oh Shiva, what the Phoonkh have they done? Terrorists maybe on the Daud in my state, but don’t you worry folks, Darna Mana Hai. I’m Mast, Darling, and if they extend my Sarkar Raj for another term, I’ll make them Naach until death. This is my promise to you, and this time, I’m speaking nothing but Satya.

Think twice before asking me to resign. Without me as the C.M., Darna Zaroori Hai.

Err… on a totally unrelated note, my son Ritiesh is very handsome, no? Acting is in his blood since childhood. Please, just one small role, bara ka?

Now if you excuse, I shall proceed to shove my head up Ram Gopal Varma Ki Arse.

The final word by a special guest :

Osama Bin Laden

First of all, I would like to congratulate Pakistan on this joyous occassion. Kaabil-e-taarif work, boys!

Always keep this in mind : India will go on with their condemning, threatening and demanding resignations, but expect no other action from them. They are as harmless as the soft, lazeez chicken that we have for dinner every night. So at this point, I would encourage you to increase your terror – it’s your life, make it large!

The ease with which you paddled your boat into their waters should be a clear indication of their security cover, which seems flimsier than Victoria’s Secret-e-Lingerie. Insha Allah, the day is not far away when you would be able to book terrorist vacations to India through They shall continue welcoming you every single time. Who knows, you might even get your own reservation seat quota in their IITs and IIMs. Masha Allah, ROTFL-e-LMFAO, Masha Allah!

Oh, and if you’re planning to hijack planes, you may avail of our newly constructed Kandahar Airport, exclusively reserved for hijacked aircrafts, hostages or some such. World class amenities, the last word in luxury terrorism. Parking for Pakistanis free.

*smoothens his beard and smiles*

Disclaimer : This post is not meant to cause any sort of controversy, or to blame anyone for anything. If I sound insensitive or unnecessarily caustic, it’s just my frustration pouring out. No Pakistanis were harmed in the writing of this post.

Just to be on the safe side, I got this post personally approved by the ISI. Jai Hind.

ISI dwaara pramaanit. Jan hith mein jaari.

ISI dwaara pramaanit. Jan hith mein jaari.

Training to Survive – A Mumbaikar’s Account

An eyewitness account of a recurring nightmare, otherwise known as a Mumbai local.

You wait on the platform, in anticipation, like a paparazzo waiting for Britney Spears to step out of a limo. You are not alone. There are 15,576 others, with their fists clenched and backs hunched, like those Kenyan athletes at the start of a marathon. The Train arrives. The hustling and bustling begins. But wait, that’s just the warm up. The hustling soon turns into a full-fledged stampede, and the sounds of footsteps and expletives like “abey ch*#?ye aage badh!” fill the air. Within seconds, all the 15,576 are packed inside the same compartment that you’re in. After taking a few moments to come out of the shock, you silently thank God for keeping all your bones intact, and still within your body. You are also thankful that you have Mediclaim, just in case.

The train starts moving. You start planning your exit strategy. You realize the strategic importance of standing behind a big, fat guy who can act as your ‘shield’ against the incoming public. As the next station arrives, you and your co-passengers plot and scheme against those who are getting on, just like the bitchy contestants of a reality show (I’m sorry, I’m no good with analogies).

Two stations pass and your posture has changed dramatically. You are now standing on the big toe of your left foot, which is bearing all your body weight. You can’t feel your right leg. Your hands are strewn apart, and you are holding on to a handle with only your pinky (pinky, as in little finger. As in the one which is on your hand). From a distance, you actually look like a very clumsy ballerina. To make matters worse, you have to wriggle away from the guy standing behind you, because you realize(from his not-so-subtle actions) that he’s either a pickpocket or just openly gay. You turn around and glare at him. He smiles coyly and flutters his eyelashes. You wish he was a pickpocket.

As more and more people pile in, you get wedged into the big, fat guy’s ass. You can actually hear your spine creaking. The straps of your bag form a noose around your neck, choking the life out of you. Now you know how Saddam must have felt. Still more people push in, but now something magical happens. You don’t feel any pressure at all. You start wondering whether that was because of quadriplegia or due to some other reason. But your scientific mind soon comes up with the explanation: When there are many forces acting on a body from all directions, there comes a point in time when all the forces cancel each other out, so that the body feels no pressure(In this case, the body is yours). Voila! All the laws of Mechanics seem clearer now. You have achieved Train Equilibrium or Trainirvana. The thought is so comforting that you drift off into sleep.

You are lying on soft, green grass under the vast blue sky. Beautiful wispy clouds float overhead. The stream which is flowing beside you sprays a few drops of salty water on your face. You wake up from that little reverie. You realize that the water droplets are still on your face. Damn! The big, fat guy’s armpit’s leaking. As you’re fidgeting around to wipe your face, the corner of Economic Times that someone is pretending to read gets into your eye. “Don’t worry, Mediclaim will cover that one”, he says reassuringly.

You forget the pain for a moment when you realize that you have to get down at the next station. The train slows down at the platform. You prepare to step out of the train feeling very relieved. Just about then, the knee of an incoming passenger meets your crotch with a dull thud. Your lungs deflate. You see stars, then darkness and then some assorted psychedelic colours. You might hear music too, but that depends on your personality. Your entire life flashes in front of you. You collapse on the platform with tears in your eyes. People walk around you. Some kind aunties throw loose change at you. You are thinking, “This cannot get any worse”. And then, your girlfriend, who was in the adjoining compartment, sees you lying on the platform.

The first thing that you do on reaching home is start cleaning your old bicycle.