Boyfriends Rejoice, Chintu Pissed

This article has been selected to be published in Rashmi Bansal's 'JAM:Just Another Magazine'. (Find online link here.)
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This article was also selected as 'Tangy Tuesday Pick' on Blogadda. Find the link here.

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My sequel to this article was published on FAKING NEWS!! Find the link here.

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The Telecom Regulatory Autocracy of India (TRAI) has come up with a new pigeon off its hat. No consumer shall be allowed to send more than 100 sms per day from September 27. 'This is it! This is how the world's gonna end in 2012,' exclaimed a perspiring Chintu profusely thumbing his way to glory. 'This was all I did all day! Copying Ramesh Srivats's tweets and sending them to everyone on my contact list. Or, forwarding anything remotely funny that came my way.'

Chintu aka 'StudMale17' – as he likes to call himself – is worried that the babes might not 'dig' him anymore. He said, 'Shayari se ladkiyan patai jati hain, maamu.' When asked about when he last went out with a girl, Chintu got agitated and threatened to spam the correspondent's inbox if he didn't leave immediately.

India Against Corruption And Almost Everything Else (IACAAEE) has announced another fast-unto-death in opposition to the new regulation. 'The constitution gives us the right to send as many SMSes as we like,' remarked a visibly stoned ICCAAEE president, 'Or something like it.' He also added that a Lokpal would not have let such draconian regulations get passed though he seemed to have no explanations how, as usual. Our sources tell us that the IACCAAEE camp is pissed by the fact that they won't be able to send any more mass-inflammatory SMSes that rhyme so much every line ends with the same word.

The Frustrated Boyfriends of India (FBI) is celebrating, though. They have changed their tagline to 'We have a life, now'. The association members seemed to have been victimised for years by continuous tele-stalking: a phenomenon mastered by the urban Indian girlfriend who needs continuous text updates about her beau's whereabouts, whatabouts and whyabouts along with a daily minimum of 50 texts that smelled of mush and cheese. The celebrations were short lived, though.

FBI's counterpart 'Girlfriends of India: Just Ossom' - that has no logical explanation why they use the acronym GI-JOE – has issued a new charter of demands that makes it mandatory for every boyfriend to own a dual-sim cell phone and send at least 190 sms/day. When asked about the relaxation of 10 texts, the spokesperson answered that the remaining would be used by the girl to vote for her favourite contestant at Splitsvilla through her boyfriend. GI-JOE also approved of FBI's new tagline and allowed them their booze party of the month.

Also celebrating is Indian Beliebers, the national chapter of Just-in Bieber Fan Club. They left an official text to the correspondent that read: 'Nw wl d wrld relyz hw u can typ lyk us n sav chrctr spce. V stnd crrctd.' The correspondent will get back to you once Justypography experts have deciphered the text that seems to have originated from the area surrounding Rahul Gandhi's residence.

Mumbai Blasts and Armchair Patriotism on Facebook

The post was published on Viewspaper. Find the link here.

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It's the same old tale. Explosions in country's favourite city and ensuing knee-jerk 'reactions' on social media. Fits of armchair-keyboard patriotism. What suddenly gets fashionable is talking about Kasab/Afzal and blaming the goverment - the easiest one can do without the tiniest of research/understanding. The media is in a frenzy misinterpreting every single official press release: rabble-rousing at the time we need it the least. I'm still unable to come to terms with how are news/entertainment channels broadcasting half-hour programs unfairly blasting an uncharacteristically balanced statement by Mr. Rahul Gandhi. What follows is my understanding/response to whatever happened and is happening.

One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. A cliche beaten to death. Still relevant. Religious scriptures are misinterpreted and people are brainwashed. They think they have a cause. And they're passionate about it. So much so that the desired ends justify every possible means. It's incredibly easy to rationalize when you have a decent education and food in the belly. The root cause, as I understand, is the sheer volatility and inflammable sentiments of what we term 'terrorists'. To me, they're just a bunch of extremely passionate believers standing by their belief. Isn't that exactly we are taught and we appreciate?

You're no different. They're told that their 'brothers' (criterion: same religion) are being massacred. They react. You see that your brothers (criterion: same country) are being massacred. You react. On Facebook.

It's just that they're ready to take a couple of steps more than us rational-in-our-AC-rooms intellectuals. But the root is the same. The volatility. The impatience. The urge to revenge. The tendency to club together individuals who happen to share nothing more than the same faith.

Killing Kasab/Afzal doesn't solve shit. If at all, it'll make matters worse. I'm not justifying the inordinate legal delay. The protracted (lack of) prosecution is indeed shameful for the entire nation. But let's move on and not crib about the same old thing. Can someone please explain what will killing them achieve? What message do we want to send across? And more importantly, TO WHOM? The to-be bombers? Let's get a hang of the ground reality. Our stereotypical Mr. Terrorist doesn't consume the media we do. For all we know, Mr. Kasab/Afzal might just be projected as ideals who made the ultimate sacrifice and who need to be idolized. What next, Mr. Facebook-status-updater?

War with Pakistan is not a solution. War is not a solution. To anything. Does anyone understand the consequences? Does anyone even know how is a war started? On what grounds? Like Uncle Sam does? Go - bomb - fuck civilians - destroy economy - destabilise region? I don't know either. All I know is that it is more difficult, destabilising and detrimental than beating up an eve-teaser.

Fuck you, media. Do I need to explain?

Stop envying Rahul Gandhi. The sooner you accept the fact that he was born with a silver spoon in one of his holes and you weren't, the better it gets for you. Stop blaming him and his motherfuckin' family for everything that goes wrong in this nation, however rotten they are.

Acquired wit, Inherent Stupidity. I have special sympathies for people with status updates: 'Kasab's birthday, have a blast'. Trust me dude, you're not funny. Escpecially when 500 people have posted exactly the same! At least make the minimum effort of validating. Kasab's birthday was Sept 13 for the record. Plus, ramblings like India should have expected something like this is dumber than anything Digvijay Singh has ever farted. How I wish you had the ability to think!

For fuck's sake, understand the meaning of a 'secular state'. What amazes me is the tendency to update 'status' in a fraction of a second spewing venom about a word one doesn't even understand. Foremost, we are a secular republic only in theory. Officially we don't have a religion and that's everything we can boast about. Religion is involved on a daily basis on both macro and micro level. But I don't want to even get started in that direction. What beats me is allusion to secularism-fathered impotence. Now, what's being potent? Let's have the balls to uneuphemise our life. It directly refers to seeing every Muslim in bad light just because the perpetrators have often belonged to that religion. Can any premise be any more flawed? Can we be any more prejudiced?

Ravi Shastri and The Orgasm

Disclaimer: Adult material. If you're below 18 or feel offended by graphic images of lovemaking or simply are a jerk/prude, DO NOT PROCEED. Also, if you're not a cricket maniac, I'm sorry.

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I'm sure anyone who has ever watched 10 cricket matches in his life has seen/heard him. He is the chronic illness this beautiful game has been suffering from for at least a decade and a half! He is someone who makes you wish cricket could be karaoked. He is someone who can say exactly the wrong things at exactly the right time making you wish you could slit your throat right when your team is about to smash those winning runs.

We stand united in our hatred towards him. But recently, I decided to think 'out of the box' as Mr. Shastri puts ever so clichedly. I noticed a pattern. A string of steps. A hidden sequence to the Holy Grail: an orgasm. And boy, was I stunned! He's an absolute belter of a commentator.

It took more than a week but here it is. The secret code. His most infamous lines that have fucked our ears beyond repair if arranged in a particular order narrate a porn film as great as the likes of Naughty America. Voila! [Mind it, the sequence is the key.]

The build-up

• I get a sense that something’s gotta give.
• I think he has been tempted into indiscretion.
• It will be a tricky chase under lights.
• He’s got the license to go for it.
• They are in with a chance now.

The 'Out'

• That looked out.
• Oh, he flashed and he flashed hard.
• He’s hit the cover off the ball.
• Fans are having an absolutely great time.
• The new ball is crucial.
• That’s a biggie.
• It can’t get bigger than this!

The Foreplay

• He takes his time to get in.
• He knows where the leg (stump) is.
• First hour is crucial.
• I think he has given the finger.
• Up goes the finger.
• Oh, that was a tentative poke.
• He played that with soft hands.
• It was all hand-eye coordination, no feet.
• He really has quick hands.
• He's got a good arm.
• It’s the kind of game where anything can happen.

The..ummm..THING!

• He might give it the Full Monty.
• He’s the the kind of player who likes the ball coming on to the bat.
• He’s decided to use the long handle to good effect.
• And...he goes for the big one.
• That's edged and taken.
• That was close.
• He went hard at it.
• That went like a tracer bullet.
• When he hits them, they stay hit.
• He is knocking around.
• He is mixing it up nicely.
• You just can't snatch the momentum.
• It's all happening here.
• He has given it the kitchen sink.
• He has disturbed the furniture.
• It might go down to the wire.

THE BIG O!

• He didn't know where the boundary was.
• I just get the feeling.
• At the end of the day it doesn’t matter how they come as long as they come.
• What an absorbing session!
• That will do his confidence a world of good.
• That's just what the doctor ordered.

Well, at the end of the day, I guess cricket is the real winner.

Dhobi Ghat: an amateur's mini-review

A pretentious attempt at realistic cinema by a novice who made even Aamir Khan stink. Cinematic collage got a new nadir while Aamir's dialogue delivery is best left undiscussed. Monica Dogra is a breath of fresh air with her innocent yet sultry avatar. Prateik, although underutilized, impresses for a newbie.

The start is unreasonably dreary and the plot never really picks up. There is no story - we have no qualms about it - but the details are conspicuously missing from a movie that would want to go down as a collage. The dullest plot - that of Yasmeen - makes the viewer feel cheated when he gets to know that the entire melo has been for nothing. Actually, only when the 'secret' is revealed does Aamir radiate sheer brilliance: the eyes doing it the good old AK way.

Camera angles are weird but impressive - sometimes giving the feel of a documentary. There are minor patches of sheer excellence which is the least you expect from an Aamir Khan Productions' baby. Background score - or the lack of it in the most part - fits stunningly seamlessly with the theme despite the use of unfamiliar instruments.

All in all, probably an experimental blot on the production house that boasts of some real gems. But then, anything for the missus.

And cricket it is.

It's been exactly a month. Many topics floated across the mind. None actually made me sit and take notice. Till today, that is. Finally, it's the first love of my life that made me blog again: cricket. It's a wonderful feeling, this.

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Last month has been more exciting than ever. On a personal front, I have never been happier. I took one of the most important steps one could ever take in life. And I'm proud of it. The schedule of the last term seems to have been struck by a meteor. There are more blank spaces than those on Dada's paycheck. Batchmates are getting 'placed' in hordes in the biggest corporate giants. Bollywood finally seems to be finding it's feet at original dark comedy exemplified superbly by 'Phas Gaye Re Obama' and 'Mirch'. Test cricket has regained it's superiority through two nailbiting tournaments: one leading to the most dramatic African tour of the men in blue and the other making a mockery of the Aussie supremacy leaving them in 'ashes'. And God is the peak of form at what seemed like the fag end of a magnificent career.

The ongoing LOIs have been exceptionally nostalgic as well. I seem to have opened the doors the 1999 WC semis, 1996 Titan Cup finals, or for that matter, the 1994 Hero Cup semis. Chokers are back in action. Probably the best Protean side ever is being really incapable of holding onto the nerves when it matters the most.

Today was an exception, though. They didn't choke. It was the might of the Indian batting line up. Those well judged shots disguised as miscues and inside edges took them by a storm. Harbhajan Singh, the cleanest slogger of the cricket ball this world has ever seen, selected shots as accurately as ever. Zaheer Khan seemed like swinging his mace - and missing everytime - at everything that was hurled at him while he was actually leaving the dangerous ones alone, baseball can take a leak. Ashish Nehra - with looks that petrify the opposition - flexed his well toned muscles defending every overpitched delivery with the watchmaker's precision. And the winning shot: what a beauty!

It was our game from the start. We just gave them suckers a little heads up through the worryingly frequent top order collapse. The Proteas didn't leave any stone unturned either. The fielding was A-class, dropping more catches than the number of times Carol Gracias has dropped her dignity. The master strategist Smith's ingenious plan of finishing off Steyn was a masterstroke as well. Botha was just the pace that could drive the tail-enders to their graves.

All's well that ends well. We are leading 2-1. And I've rediscovered my passion for DD National, if it ever existed. I bow to thy blatant disregard towards commercialization, Prasar Bharti. At least more cricketers are seen on the field than off it on advertisements during the telecast! And I could actually watch the first delivery of every over!

She

A romantic January night. Cool breeze from the window. Dim lights and some soft Elvis number pouring out of the speakers. I saw her for the first time. She was just perfect. Flawless. Awesome. I wasn't expecting her, like, at all. She was way out of my league.

I had fantasized about her in times of loneliness and despair. Lust knew no bounds. And I wasn't even ashamed. If only I could have her just one time! And here she was. Mine. All mine. The very sight of her gave me goosebumps. It was surreal: beyond all limits of conceivable thought.

But destiny had it's own plans. We soon had our differences and the damage was beyond repair. It wasn’t like she went out of my life. I bumped into her time and again in the arms of others, often being shared by multiple partners. It was painful. I even began questioning her character. Having no hopes of finding her back, I succumbed to anonymous mediocrity.

She was the first A I got in XLRI way back in Marketing 2. Eleven months and three trimesters down the line, I had her again. (And again, today! :D)

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Okay, I'm doing this for the first time. A little newbie to Indiblogger, I'm finding my way around. Promote this post on Indivine by clicking here.

Why MBA?

Type a 'why' on Google and the first suggestion that it throws up is 'Why MBA'. If you've landed here through Google search, I pity you. Please do not be under any illusions of enlightenment. Leave.

People all across the country, even Sri-sri-ek-hazaar-aath Arindam Chaudhuri, have torn their hair apart only to find themselves more confused every time. Some versions of Ramayana narrate the sleepless nights Rama spent in the endless pursuit. Even some great saints have been known to observe extreme penance to find the Ultimate Answer.

I still puke at the sight of brown newspapers. I still can't figure out the head or tail of an annual report. I still think that market research and statistics are buckets of shit. I still don't know how a stock market works.

But it's not been for nothing:

• I can define 'core competency' without falling down laughing
• I reply to 'What's Up' using a SWOT Analysis
• Requests for financial aids to parents are referred to as IPOs
• I ask my four-year old niece what the 'mission statement' in her life is
• I advise friends to lend some semblance of 'sustainability' to their relationships
• I talk to my girl about our future in terms of all the 'value' we can 'co-create'
• There are never less than six tabs on my browser
• 'Ctrl' is the most pressed button on my keyboard
• 'Reply to all' is my default action on reading a mail
• I make daily diary entries in MS Power Point

But the biggest 'value-add' to my life till now has been the mastery over GASing. For the uninitiated, GAS expands to Global Action Strategy. It refers to the art of blabbering/typing absolutely fucked up bullshit to a captive audience.

It usually starts with an epiphany - "Damn. I do not know jack about this" - usually followed by a quick reference to The Handbook Of Versatile MBA Jargon starring the likes of 'value', 'sustainability', 'strategy', 'organisational', 'leadership', 'hierarchy' and 'culture'. And then starts the quest for the Holy Grail: Frameworks!

Frameworks have been the most crucial inventions to mankind since sliced bread, wheels and condoms. For starters, these are lethally effective weapons of gas construction sired by jobless academicians and money-laundering consultants available to the rest of the world in hour of need/greed. The best of lot, my personal favourite is called a "Two-By-Two Matrix". TBTM is a motherfuckin' gem that swears to generalize even the most specific phenomena on earth. No person, animal or thing has ever been able to escape it's venom.

So, why MBA? The closest-to-acceptable answers are fat pay cheques and networking. If grades are any indicator of the cheque's flab, mine is bound to be severely malnutritioned. And networking, tch. My scorecard on this front shows all red. 553 days into the hallowed portals, I'm still as clueless as Manmohan Singh!

Here's FedEx take on the evil.

The Grand Old Sleeper of India

The good old times were so bloody different. Or probably, it was the ignorance-induced-indifference of my age. Whatever be the reason, the sleeper coaches never used to bother me. They were taken for granted on a family trip. Travelling in air conditioned compartments used to be considered extravagance of the highest vulgarity.

22 hours in the sleeper coach of Purushottam Express brought back everything. It was a kaleidoscope of all the possible colors, dialects and cultures. The toilets stank. Males ogled blatantly at the plateaus of female anatomy. Discussions ranged from instantaneously solving political quagmires to making roadmap of the Indian cricket team to the WC. Hawkers sold spurious packaged drinking water with impunity. Some destitute-turned-junkie swept the entire coach with his shirt – that he would still wear after the exercise – for quick change and some glue to sniff. Ticket examiners made moolah at the expense of the employer. And everyone seemed to flash their ‘chai-neej’ phones squirting the latest Bollywood chartbusters that superimposed with one another making me beg the Lord to enlighten them about earplugs!

Today, I’m one friggin snob. Today I cringe in disgust. Today I travel AC.

Today, I travel with the crowd that throws huge words like ‘civic sense’ and ‘etiquette’ in a split second. The crowd that changes colors like a chameleon. The crowd that does “upar neeche” with the TTE without the slightest of hesitations. The crowd that uses the choicest expletives once it gets out of the coach. The crowd that thinks the world is it’s dustbin. The crowd that contributes more than it’s fair share to the smelly heap of garbage next door. The crowd that knows just one game: that of blame.

Will the buck ever stop? Will Musaddi Lal ever come out of the lazy reluctance bred by the ‘Chalta Hai’ attitude? Will we ever start using dustbins, however scarce they might be? Will we stop promoting beggary by offering them food instead of hard cash? Will the stranglehold on spurious water bottles ever tighten? Will the TTE’s wings ever be clipped? WILL PEOPLE EVER START USING EARPLUGS?

P.S. I’m totally convinced that the education system in UP sucks. This is Ishika (niece)’s take on English:

…C-A-T cat, D-O-G dog, E-O-G elephant…

Some Text, One Video and Six Images

There's this asshole of a Surd (link) whom I usually approach whenever in a dilemma and always regret thereafter. Having decided to participate in a national-level video-making competition (organised by 9XM) just one hour before the deadline,I went to the same chimp. We procrastinated for twenty minutes: better known in B-school circuit as brainstorming. Basically, all we could come up with was the fact that we could not come up with anything on such strict timelines. Meh. So, we gathered other equally-worthy-assholes-in-their-own-right and made this. Voi-fuckin-la.

They didn't shortlist us. :| [Die, motherfuckers, die!]

On the other leg, this series of six print ads that I made for Axe Deodorants in straight 60 minutes did get a shortlist. Yay.

Pissed Off

Well, I've been off blogosphere for a full month now! This very place once used to be my escape-route to a non-artificial world. Not only did it serve as a vent to all the shit inside, it also made me connect to some really awesome writers (and persons). Sorry, folks for not keeping in touch, like, absolutely.

Reason 1: Absolute inability to express anymore. Or, something like it! I've tried and tried some more. But there are no shapes, there are no figures and there are no fuckin expressions. Blogger's block, probably, if such a creature exists.

Reason 2: MBA. But that's no news. I have been suffering from this goddamned disease for 525 days now and I should have gotten used to it. But I haven't. Actually, things are in the worst probable shape ever. I want out and I want it now. I'm mighty pissed off with everything associated with this fuckin plague and that makes the mood ever-irritable.

Reason 3. MBA, again. I have lately been swamped with work. Lots.

Reason 4. Sticksports.com. I just want the motherfucker who coded this shit called Stick Cricket to get ants in his ass. Alternatively, the site can be brought down. When there's no work, I play the absolutely addictive flash game, like, all the time.

Not much has happened in life in this last month. Well yeah, Facebook happened. I finally took the plunge and am sorry I did so. For all I know, this new fad has turned everyone into a crybaby vying for attention through 'like's and comments. More on that later, sometime, probably, in the near future, if at all.

Well, that's all. Also, Indi-fuckin-blogger, all of a sudden, thinks that my blog stinks (the ratings have fallen from 80 to 65 during the month I was inactive).