An Absolutely Unreliable History of India

Sixty four years ago, our countrymen awoke to unbridled joy and hope, which was quickly followed by anger and despair when they found out that it was a dry day. But we’ve made some great strides since then. We’ve gone from being a nation ruled by parasitic tyrants, to a nation that offers its people the freedom to elect their own parasitic tyrants.

So on this special day, let’s relive some of the key events that shaped Independent India, beginning with the partition.

I’ve always been fascinated by the history of Partition. Various versions exist and various entities have been blamed, including the British, the Congress and Mohammad Ali Jinnah, who had perhaps foreseen Coke Studio India and wanted nothing to do with it.

According to the Indian version, Jinnah, having realised that he would never become Prime Minister here, stormed off and took a country with him. This is like the snotty cricket buddy every kid had, who, upon getting out, would leave in a huff, taking the only bat with him.

Another landmark event was the setting up of the first IIT, at Kharagpur in 1951. This was followed by six other IITs, which provided generations of Indian men with the ultimate pick-up line: “Hey baby, I’m an IIT-ian. Wanna take me home to your parents?”

In 1961, India became one of the first members of the Non-Aligned movement, which was like the peace-loving hippie of political organisations. We were being wooed by the biggest superpowers in the world, and this is how it went:

USA: Join us, and we’ll defeat Russia together! Then we’ll get rich selling our stories to the History Channel!

USSR: Join us, and we’ll defeat America together! Plus we’ve got vodka!

India: Uhhh, y’know what, I think I’ll just chill with my buds Yugoslavia and Ghana. Maybe do some farming, be groovy and just like, peace out man. Anyway, capitalism’s gonna be dead soon, so like, yeah.

This was all part of our affair with what is now derided as “Nehruvian socialism”, and unlike most affairs, it had all the excitement and passion of a post-lunch PWD office in Saharanpur. From the 50s to the 80s, our growth stagnated at about 3.5%. On the bright side, socialism worked wonders for the kajal, jhola and ethnic jewellery industries.

Then we had the 1971 Indo-Pak war, which led to the liberation of East Pakistan and East Bengal, or as it’s called now, “that place where the bai comes from.”

A few years later, in 1975, we had to contend with the draconian Emergency. Civil liberties were suspended, dissenters were locked up and free speech was shot down with a vengeance. Overenthusiastic patriots should note that this is the closest we’ll ever come to being like China.

Let’s move on to the ’80s, which are important because that’s when my generation arrived into a world where babies did not have Facebook pages. We are the last generation to know that phones could actually make for great bludgeoning devices. We are the last generation to have manually rewound audio cassettes and thankfully, we are the last generation to have seen what grown women look like in frocks.

The transformation began in 1991, when India’s reserves had dipped to 1.2 billion dollars, or about one Mayawati Garland. Dr. Manmohan Singh, then free from the responsibility of managing a scam factory, swooped in with reforms and saved the day. If there was ever a Roadies for economists, Manmohan Singh would win hands down.

Cut to now, when India is a great brand ambassador for dichotomy. We’ve got broadband, but most people online are astoundingly idiotic. We’ve got supermodels flaunting the starving-farmer look. We’ve discovered water on the moon, but we’re still arguing about whose God put it there.

So clearly, there’s a lot to be done. As Indians, we owe it to ourselves to go out there and do it. Really, it’s time we stop complaining, get off our butts and buy booze before the wine shops shut. Jai Hind.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 14th August 2011)

The Curious Case of the Crazy Cut-offs

This week, I realised yet again how lucky I am to be living in these times. Sure, we have our fair share of problems – for example, global warming is threatening to turn the entire planet into the second class general compartment in a Virar fast, even as the powers that be spend all their time looking down each other’s pants to see who has the biggest nuclear warhead. (Oddly enough, this is one size battle that the Chinese can easily win)

But everything said and done, I’m still lucky because I don’t have to run around seeking admissions to colleges where the brochure reads as follows: “Those desirous of applying to our highly esteemed institution that exists only to crush the human spirit should note that in addition to a 100% aggregate, we will also need one of your kidneys, and later you must sacrifice your first-born at the college gates. If you are unable to do so, then our Dean is legally bound to come to your house and spit in your grandmother’s face.”

My consternation stems from the 100% cut-offs issued by Shri Ram College of Commerce for their B.Com (Hons) course. Like all major decisions in Delhi, including the ones made in Parliament, this too seems to have been fuelled by ungodly amounts of alcohol. The last time a bunch of professors got so drunk, they set up IIPM.

So this is clearly a serious matter and gives begs an obvious question – why are students killing themselves over the chance to be a glorified accountant? Just to put things in perspective, to become a politician and take on the massive responsibility of governance, all you need are criminal tendencies and a pulse. And looking at the BJP’s top brass, I’m not even sure about the pulse.

Delhi University has always been notorious for its cut-offs, and yet it has no trouble filling seats. So it logically follows that there should be a sizeable number of intellectuals there who’ve managed to get in and complete these courses. And therein lies the puzzle. I mean when was the last time you went to a Delhi pub, looked at a ‘Jat Boyzz’ in an Ed Hardy T-shirt and thought to yourself, “Hmmm, this fellow looks like a real intellectual. I’ll go discuss India’s foreign policy with him once he’s done shooting the bartender.”

Things aren’t great in Mumbai either. Admissions begin this week and according to a recent report, cut-offs here could also touch 100%. If they do, I’m sure Manmohan Singh will pop out of hibernation and commend the students of Mumbai on their “spirit and resilience”.

The lack of seats is further accentuated by the fact that many top colleges, such as Xavier’s, are minority institutions and have about half a seat available for the general category. Then there are quotas for a number of other communities – Sindhis, Gujaratis, Muslims, Tamilians and North Indians (Although I’ve never heard of a Parsi quota. It makes sense – there’s no point having a quota when the entire community can fit onto one bench)

So given that it’s mathematically impossible for everyone to get through to the college of their choice, I’d like to offer a bit of advice: The name of your college, much like Rohan Gavaskar’s surname, ceases to matter sooner than you think.

I would know. I studied engineering at a college so backward and primitive that they had classes on how to create fire and use it to ward off mastodons. I survived that – thanks to a very close friend called Kingfisher – and so will you. Unless of course, you join IIPM.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 19th June 2011)

Cometh the hour, cometh the Cup!

It’s here, it’s here! Speeding towards our collective brains like Sanjeev Nanda in a BMW, the World Cup is here to unleash some glorious fanaticism,  thus making it ok for a straight man to say, “Dhoni’s packing some sexy wood tonight.” And in the midst of this unabashed madness, all I can say is, “Meh.”

Don’t get me wrong – I do love cricket. It’s just that as of now, I’m not jumping around like a bunny on coke the way I should be. The focus I had as a kid has now been replaced by the fleeting attention span of a – Oh look, beer!

Ahem. Sorry about that. So yes, I’m not terribly pumped up about the World Cup. This is in stark contrast to 1996, the first World Cup that I have clear memories of, wherein The Incredible Hulk came disguised as Jayasuriya (as opposed to Ranatunga, who played The Incredible Bulk)

I followed that tournament day in and day out with the dedication of a Facebook stalker, allocating large portions of my brain to vital trivia, such as the economy rate of someone called Phil DeFreitas, who was either an English bowler, or my imaginary childhood friend.

This dedication was rewarded during the India-Pak quarter-finals at Chinnaswamy in Bangalore, when Venkatesh Prasad dismissed Aamir Sohail with a historic delivery that Wisden describes as “a jolly good bitchslap”.

Cut to the ’99 semis, when my startled mother woke up to the sound of her son Tom Cruising the couch and yelling at some Lance Klusener fellow. The look I received was a mix of annoyance, disgust and despair, the kind you’d give your kid if you saw him eating earthworms.

That was the peak of my World Cup fanboyness, with South Africa ‘03 being a hazy memory (the one good thing about it was that the aural rape power of the vuvuzela hadn’t been harnessed yet). Then came the 2007 Windies edition, a tournament that lasted so long that even Ravi Shastri ran out of clichés mid-way and had to make do with his usual “went like a tracer bullet” to describe everything from a well-timed boundary to his bowel movements.

It doesn’t help that the publicity for this World Cup has ranged from the ordinary to the vomit-inducing. Case in point: The billboards featuring Dhoni, Harbhajan and Sehwag wearing nothing but green and yellow body paint, glaring at us, as if to say, “We look pretty tough for a bunch of drag queens.”

It’s also sad to see that Pakistan will not be playing host. This is a country that loves sport and respects foreign sportspersons, so much so that they once welcomed the Lankans with a 21-gun-salute.

I’m not worried about my lack of enthusiasm just yet, because I’m quite the emotional fool. All it takes is a sharply cut montage of India’s best cricketing moments set to the voice of Shankar Mahadevan, and I’m sold quicker than a bag of stones at a Kashmiri rally.

In fact, just writing this column has done it for me. As of now, I cannot wait for the World Cup to begin. The only problem is that I’ll have to make a bunch of excuses at work. If you’re wondering about the same, don’t worry – just take a deep breath and think, “What would Ravi Shastri say?”

(Note: This is my HT column, dated 13th Feb 2011)

… And Pop goes the Patriot!

I’ve felt extra patriotic all week, mostly because of the Republic Day ceremony. My favourite part was the Indonesian chief guest’s name – Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono – which sounds like the most badass Gujju porno ever.

The BJP-Congress Flag War was also interesting; especially with Sushma Swaraj using Twitter to send updates like “Detained at Jammu airport”, “Being sent to Punjab” and “Dammit! Yamla Pagla Deewana still housefull here!! </3”

While our leaders may be new to the web, the average self-appointed “patriot” figured out its power long ago. The net gave everyone a voice, but it turns out that this wasn’t a great idea because most people online are – how do I say this – stupid.

It’s amazing how people online know exactly what’s wrong with India, and also how all their opinions (usually found scattered across Rediff) fit the following templates : a) Your mother is of ill-repute, b) Everyone who disagrees should go to Pakistan and fellate a goat and c) The nation’s media are doing nothing to solve real issues (Not true. Every time you light a media-sponsored virtual candle, somewhere a Maoist lays down his arms and takes a bath)

Online patriotism is the easiest of all, which is why I’m glad the internet didn’t exist during the Raj. The freedom struggle then would’ve been limited to clicking the ‘dislike’ button on Elizabeth’s FB page, making your own virtual salt on Dandiville, and sharing blurry pictures of the famous man who answered the door at Edwina Mountbatten’s house in his night-clothes (It may have been Shahid Kapoor)

I’m guilty of pop patriotism too. In 2006, days before my engineering finals, I joined the anti-reservation movement. This may have been partly inspired by Aamir in Rang De Basanti and partly by the fact that many medical and engineering students were being used as target practice for water cannons (This was a burning issue back then, although we’ll admit that the hostel guys were never cleaner)

The agitation went online, to Orkut (which then, was brand new and hep, unlike now, where simply typing the URL can earn you four stalkers) Marches, signature campaigns, urinating on Arjun Singh’s veranda – everything was discussed and planned online, and the movement spread faster than vomit on a fancy rug.

My ‘commitment’ lasted until I got my first job, after which I’ve only worked for the Republic of Ashish Shakya.

TV’s great for pop patriotism as well. For example, MTV recently drafted a Youth Constitution (a document that includes the demands of the youth, as sent in by viewers) that will eventually make its way to the Prime Minister. It’s probably ‘typd lyk dis’ and demands the setting up of a ‘National Roadie Training Centre’ (or as everyone else calls it, Chandigarh)

Also, with the World Cup coming up, patriotism will soon be associated with Pepsi’s new slogan i.e. ‘Ungli Mein Tingly’, at which point our five remaining freedom fighters will dig up the Wankhede pitch and then forget what they came for.

Seriously though, what India needs is a credible leader. We need someone who knows his job, someone who isn’t swayed by money, someone with a mass appeal – OH MY GOD, we need Aamir Khan. And if you disagree, there’s a goat in Pakistan that would love to see you.

(Note: This is my HT column, dated 30th Jan 2011)

Welcome To the Greatest Script on Earth

Dear Mr. Johar Khan Chopra Screwwalla Shah Kapoor

Here’s a script I wrote for a movie tentatively titled, ‘The Most Perfectest Critical-Acclaim-Winning Crowd-Pleasing Hatke Bollywood Film Ever’. (You’re welcome)

DISCLAIMER: All the characters, names and places mentioned in the following script are fictional. Especially the real ones. Resemblance to persons living, dead and/or lawsuit-happy, is purely coincidental.

EXT. STREET

Rishi Kapoor (or if budgets are low, Kulbushan Kharbanda) gazes wistfully at the Big Ben, because that is what all Indians in London do.

Rishi/Kulbushan (Voice-over): England helped me make more money than I would’ve ever made working as a truck-driver in Ludhiana. Plus, it helped me avoid all those truck-driver STDs. (Pause) I hate this country.

INT. DISCO

Katrina, the spoilt daughter of Rishi/Kulbushan, is bringing shame upon her family. She also deals meth to kids and electrocutes puppies for fun. We deduce all this from the fact that she’s wearing a short skirt.

Katrina: Woohoo! I’m so English, I’m going to get drunk and sleep with a random stranger, innit!

Madhur Bhandarkar: Make sure you sleep with a black guy. They give out Filmfare awards for that shit.

EXT. MUSTARD FIELD

Akshay Kumar runs through the field, attempting to molest a fleeing chicken. This charming rustic scene is set to the tunes of that famous Punjabi singer, Snoop Dogg.

Akshay: (singing) My big mouth brings all the chicks to the yard, and they’re like, it’s better than yours! (looks around) Hey, where my bitches at?

Riteish: Here I am!

INT. KATRINA’S BEDROOM

Akshay bursts in through the window. Katrina looks shocked, thus bringing her Expressions Count to a grand total of one.

Akshay: Your dad wants you to marry me! Let’s celebrate this occasion with an auspicious lighting of Rajpal Yadav’s fart!

Katrina: Never! I’m English, and I’m never gonna -

She’s interrupted by a ‘THUMP!’ from the closet.

Akshay: Who’s in there?

Shahrukh comes out of the closet.

SRK: It is I, the King! How dare you try and take the NRI market away from me?

Akshay: Look, I know 327 different types of kung-fu, including Punjabi Kung-Fu. I can cook with aunties, swim with sharks and manage to be the worst thing in a movie that also stars Zayed Khan. What can you do?

SRK: Ummm…. I can open my arms really wide?

Enraged, Akki fires at SRK, but wait – what’s this? A twist! Hrithik appears out of nowhere, catching the bullet with his spinal cord.

Akki: Hrithik? WTF are you doing here?

Hrithik: Urk! Bhansali… said… be… handicapped! All his heroes are.

Akki: Ranbir wasn’t.

Hrithik: Yeah… but he had to drop his towel.

FADE TO BLACK. THEN BLUE. THEN RED. THEN NORMAL FOR A BIT WHEN THE DIRECTOR STOPS DROPPING ACID.

FADE IN

Hrithik’s stuck in a wheelchair, and is about as vigorous as a Pakistani terror investigation. He confides in his nurse, Ash.

Hrithik: I want to die.

Ash: Don’t worry, things will get better. In fact, they’re already looking up – there’s no Abhishek in the film!

Hrithik: Ah, good point.

Ash: *giggle* Hey, there’s a fly on your face. I’ll just swat it…

Hrithik: No! Let it be. The fly and I have something in common.

Ash: What?

Hrithik: Now we’re *both* associated with steaming piles of crap.

BAM! Suddenly Salman kicks open the door, giving Ash some massive deja vu.

Salman: I just wanted you to know that I’ve really matured as an actor. See, I now have a moustache.

Audience: OK, why is this crapfest still going on??

Cue Rolling Credits: Directed by Ashutosh Gowariker.

Audience: Ah that explains it.

(P.S. I’d like to thank Yash Uncle for this column)

(Note: This is my HT column, dated 16th Jan 2011)

Snobs and the City: The Bombay Edition

A subject that seems to seep into the slush pile of small talk – once the niceties about your name, job and item girl preference have been dispensed with – is your “native place”, or the place where your family lived, before coming to Bombay to fulfil their dream of living in a cupboard and spending half their waking hours riding the Armpit Express.

Let’s face it – as much as the loonies would like to take credit for this diamond-studded gutter that we call home, Bombay was built by immigrants (except the buildings that actually look good – the Brits did those) So most of us have extended families in small-town India, defined as ‘a place where it’s impossible to find basic amenities, such as kababs or hookers, at 3 a.m.’ It is in these quaint and homely small towns that we Mumbaikars turn into champion snobs.

When in small-town India, we’re like those annoying NRIs who, when they’re in Bombay, wrinkle their noses at sights that are dear to us, such as a man peeing opposite Amitabh Bachchan’s swank bungalow (always a rebel, that Amar Singh)

The transformation happens before you realise it. One minute you’re sitting at the shiny airport bar, and the next you’re staring at the rickety little plane that will either take you to your small-town destination, or disintegrate in mid-air if the pilot sneezes. (I went to Indore recently on a Jet Konnect flight. It was the first time I’d flown *in* a model airplane.)

I’ve spent a good amount of time in small towns. As a kid, I summered with my extended family in exotic locales like Ghaziabad, U.P. (If you want more information about Ghaziabad, simply turn on India TV and after the mandatory reports about aliens feeding on Rakhi Sawant’s breast milk, there will be a story about some dude in some place who was chopped up in a wheat thresher because it was a Saturday night and his friends had nothing better to do. That is the place I’m talking about.)

Now it’s important to turn off the snob switch, especially when you’re visiting family, because it’s offensive, plus they may revoke your inheritance (I’m really looking forward to getting some cows) This is easier said than done, especially if you have conversations like these every time:

Me: Hey man, let’s go hang out somewhere.                                                                Cousin: Now? No no, it’s too late. Everything’s shut.                                                Me: Dude. It’s 8 p.m.                                                                                                                    Cousin: (contemplates throwing me into a wheat thresher)

Of course, things are changing now, with a plethora of malls and multiplexes making their way to smaller towns, thus giving locals a chance to do what big city folk do – complain about how all these malls and multiplexes have ruined the original character of their city.

I can’t blame them, given how the favourite mall activity still involves Pappu, Babloo, Champu and Tinku, their 57 aunts, 43 uncles, 64 cousins and their dog Tuffy, trying to board an escalator all at once, even as local hotties walk around in their low-waist “jean-pant”, hoping to be recruited for Emotional Atyachaar.

Once back in Bombay, the snobbery wears off soon enough. After all, there’s no question of turning up your nose when it’s nicely embedded in the Armpit Express.

(Note: This is my HT column, dated 2nd Jan 2011)

(P.S. Do you have any weird/funny/interesting stories about your experiences in small-town India? Feel free to share in the comments section)

11 Things to Look Out For in 2011

Based on how I currently feel, my New Year’s celebrations involved being repeatedly socked in the head with a Mayawati statue. That lovely feeling aside, there are a few things that I’ve been looking forward to observing in 2011. And here they are, in no particular order:

1. WikiLeaks: Like a weird Australian ninja, Julian Assange came out of nowhere and screwed over the world of diplomacy. Maybe that’s why he was arrested for “surprise sex”. It’ll be interesting to see what WikiLeaks throws up in 2011, especially about India and Pakistan. Of course, Pakistan still needs more proof that Julian Assange exists.

2. Pakistan: In 2011, ticked off at Pakistan’s terrorist fetish, India will launch an attack using special guns that fire dossiers over the LoC. (For maximum damage, I suggest we type them in Comic Sans)

3. The 2011 Cricket World Cup: The World Cup will be back here after 15 years, bringing with it stupid ads, employment for Nikhil Chopra, and a pseudo-patriotic anthem that’ll make you wish you were in a less crazy country, like Iran. I predict an India-Australia final, culminating in Shane Warne hitting on Dhoni’s wife.

4. Reality TV: Indian reality TV plunged to astounding levels of mediocrity this year, with my favourite event being the exorcism of Dolly Bindra. The only way to top that in 2011 is to find an even more shameless bunch of crooks, dacoits and sleazemonkeys. One word: Parliament.

5. Indian Stand-up Comedy: 2010 saw the emergence of Indian stand-up comedy as a viable entertainment option. 2011 promises more fun with venues in Bombay, Delhi and Bangalore now open to both amateur and pro comics. (Pakistan remains a favoured source of material. After all, it produced a woman that willingly wanted to sleep with Ashmit Patel.)

6. 3G: 3G is supposed to hit India this year. For those reading through a monocle, I should explain that 3G is to mobile phones what make-up is to Rani Mukherjee. It’ll add another dimension to current technology with high-speed data transfer, thus allowing you to watch funny cat videos while your idiot boss prattles on about how you lack focus or something.

7. Shahrukh Khan: With Ra.One set to hit theatres this Diwali, Khan is going all out on the special effects, which essentially involve adding about eighteen inches to his pants, and then going about slapping the rest of Bollywood with it.

8. Climate Change: The words ‘climate change’ will still be thrown about at swanky green-charity events, after which donors will drive home in luxury SUVs, running over hippies and baby seals along the way. The oddities will continue – thunderstorms in November, a trickle in June and the extinction of the species nestled in Jairam Ramesh’s hair.

9. China: While China continues to manufacture everything except female offspring, India scores in the service sector by being able to pronounce the word ‘pronounce’ correctly. But where will this race lead to? Who will end up on top? Why don’t the Chinese just manufacture a little Arunachal Pradesh and leave us alone?

10. Inflation: In 2010, inflation hit India with the fury of a Punjabi man whose demand for bhangra has been turned down by the DJ. And now, with prices higher than Rahul Mahajan on a Saturday night, our politicians still don’t care. Maybe we should just hire Niira Radia to lobby for us.

11. The Ayodhya Dispute: The 2010 Ayodhya verdict elicited a unanimous reaction – “What the hell is a Nirmohi Akhara?” (Ans: A front for DLF) 2011 is going to be replete with appeals and counter-appeals, until everybody reaches a win-win solution and builds a temple to Sachin Tendulkar.

(Note: This is part of the Hindustan Times New Year Special, dated 1st Jan 2011. You can also read it on the e-paper here.)

So You Think You Can Scam?

I’ve always assumed that politicians are, to put it nicely, soul-sucking leeches. Of course, by this I mean no offense to actual leeches. I’m not alone – ever since the birth of the first political system in Greece (93% of which is currently owned by Sharad Pawar), people have placed politicians on the top end of the Scumbag Scale, followed closely by telemarketers and people who call you ‘Dear’.

But now, at the end of 2010, even cynics like me are marvelling at the likes of Kalmadi, Chavan, Raja and co., who’ve exhibited a brazenness otherwise seen only at wet T-shirt contests (try getting that image out of your head).

An analysis of the various scams will take a while, but I have beer to drink, so here’s a quick look at some of my favourite happenings from Scamfest 2010:

1. Reports claim that the now-empty Games village flats are set to be handed over to the same officials who scammed the nation while building them. Legal experts agree that this is like handing over Shiney Ahuja’s bai back to Shiney Ahuja.

2. Manish Tewari, after having extricated his face from his bottom, denies the misappropriation of the flats. It seems India is not the kind of country that goes around providing free, comfy housing to criminals (unless their name is Kasab)

3. Soon after, Open Magazine reveals that a top journalist (herein referred to as Darkha Butt for the purposes of media silence) was in constant touch with lobbyist Nira Radia, spending hours discussing important matters such as Karunanidhi’s uncanny resemblance to Ray Charles, and where to get the best ‘Middle-Aged Justin Bieber’ haircut.

4. Darkha Butt bides her time, finally inviting the editor of Open, Manu Joseph, into her TV studio for an unedited debate. Manu agrees, only to find himself being whipped by Darkha’s jockstrap on national television.

5. Meanwhile, the UPA is under pressure to act on all the scam-accused. Since this is about 98.7% of their workforce (the rest were on holiday) they have no choice but to try and distract the Opposition. Limited success is achieved with a Rahul Gandhi wardrobe malfunction.

6. The Opposition, appalled at the prospect of actually having to work, decides to press for a joint probe into the telecom scam. The Centre refuses, claiming that there are bigger issues plaguing the telecom sector, such as that fugly new Airtel logo. (A phone tap reveals its origins: The Vodafone logo had sex with the Videocon logo, and the resultant mess on the floor became the new Airtel logo.)

7. Amidst all this chaos, the UPA also has to be a gracious host to Wen Jiabao. Bored reporters play a cruel joke on the Chinese Premier by asking him to pronounce ‘Nira Radia’.

8. The CBI kicks into raid-mode, hitting more than 34 offices and residences of the 2G scam-accused. It turns out that all these properties belong to Ashok Chavan. Manmohan Singh’s head explodes.

9. In keeping with its tradition of not giving a damn, the Congress changes its symbol from an open hand to a middle finger.

This pretty much sums it up at the time of writing. Maybe things will change if Manmohan Singh mans up. Darkha should be able to help him out with that.

(Note: This is my HT column, dated 19th Dec 2010)

Pimp it up!

You know those nagging feelings when you can’t remember whether or not you’ve done something that needs to be done, like say turn off the geyser, or lock the door, or look like an ass-clown in front of a couple of hundred people?

Well, I realised I’d never done the last bit, which is why I signed up to perform at the the Weirdass Hamateur Night at Blue Frog a couple of months ago. 15 amateur comics, 2 minutes each. This is what happened:

CAUTION: Liberal sprinkling of cuss words. NSFW.

Thankfully, no one asked for a refund.

Also, as mentioned in the previous post, some people thought it would be a good idea to give me a regular column in the Hindustan Times. The following links will tell you what I’ve been doing with it:

RE-PIMPAGE: Here is the link to my first HT article, about how I was humiliated by a townie, and why Andheri sucks.

This next one’s about baby-sitting a white female tourist in Bombay. Or as a friend put it, ‘Walking your foreigner.‘

In the third one, I take on the Mumbaikar vs. North Indian issue. However, my take is nowhere as erudite or classy as Deshdrohi.

Next, I pay a heartfelt tribute to Mumbai’s shady bars, where the kids of today are turning into the alcoholics of tomorrow.

Finally, in this last piece I talk about being nose-raped by a virus.

Alright, that’s enough attention-whoring for now.

Over and out.

Raju Ban Gaya Columnist

Alright so this post should have come up a few days earlier, but procrastination seems to be the general trend around here. I just popped in to say that I’ve recently started writing a fortnightly humour column for the Hindustan Times. The first piece was published this Sunday, and you can read it here.

I don’t really have much more to say now, except that this is important to me. So, loyal readers (yes I mean the two of you, plus the porn bots) please do the online equivalent of flinging your underwear on stage in appreciation, that is, check out the column and spread the word.

P.S. Also, for more frequent updates about general rubbish, follow me on http://twitter.com/stupidusmaximus