Alright, I’m kidding. I meant Shah Rukh Khan and Ranbir Kapoor.

This happened because I was part of the writing team that scripted a recent Bollywood award function, hosted by the two stars. I must refer to these as the Slimfare Awards, because we in the media hate to acknowledge the existence of rival companies, unless we beat them in sales.

Anyway, I was pretty kicked about this, because as an ardent Bollywood fan, I’ve always wanted to have a bunch of stars gather under one roof so that I can make fun of them. My other Bollywood ambitions include something with Katrina and a bubble bath, but let’s not go there.

The brief was pretty straightforward: be witty, crack jokes at stars, but without offending anyone – not an easy task in an industry where most egos are as fragile as Pakistani democracy.

Bad things happen when celebrities get offended. For example, the last person to get offended at an award show was Ashutosh Gowariker (this also took him about six hours) who famously asked host Sajid Khan to shut up. This offended Sajid Khan so much that in order to prove his awesomeness, he went and scored himself a Jacqueline Fernandez. We can all agree that this was one of the lowest points in human history and must never be allowed to happen again.

Another problem was that with 562392 film awards happening at the same time, we had to make sure our script stood out. On the plus side, we made Ra.One jokes in front of SRK, which he took very sportingly, probably because we are not Farah Khan’s obnoxious wife.

As a writer and fan, it was great to be working with SRK. Sure, we sat through marathon meetings wherein he and Ranbir dissected every word of the script, made us rework it, and then rework it some more, and then again, and again, until 15 minutes before the show. (I have a feeling that less work went into the Constitution of India. This explains the appalling lack of anatomy-related puns.)

But the best part came after the meetings, around 1 a.m. or so, when SRK called for drinks. So there we were, a bunch of nobody writers, sitting by the Mannat pool, getting drunk while Shah Rukh regaled us with some of the funniest Bollywood anecdotes ever. It is at times like these that you pause and look back at everything in your life that has led to this moment, trying to remember if you did any hallucinogens recently, because that can be the only explanation for the fact that it is now 5 a.m and the biggest superstar on the planet is giving you a guided tour of his mansion.

And then came the day of the awards. We were squeezed into a little space backstage, watching SRK and Ranbir own the room with their charisma. The laughs were coming thick and fast and that’s when it happened.

Time stood still. Rainbows appeared out of nowhere, while flying unicorns sailed across the room, farting out bursts of summer-scented sunshine, all of which paled in comparison to the ethereal aura that had gently swept across the room.

Madhuri Dixit was on stage.

As you can tell, I’m gay for Madhuri. I don’t usually get star-struck, but when she did an impromptu dhak-dhak bit ten feet away, I was *this* close to rushing on stage and asking her to marry me. I didn’t, only because Dr. Nene seems like a nice man and I don’t want him to be alone.

Later that night, Ranbir won the Best Actor award, which was presented by Rekha, who then won an award for Most Awards Presented By Anybody. Rekha is proof that with the right kind of love and affection, zombies can be a part of regular society too.

We worked hard on the awards, so do check out the telecast on 19^th Feb. We hope you like it. If not, you can mail in your suggestions to Mannat, Bandstand, Bandra.

These are just a few of the words that you cannot say on Indian television because they’ve been deemed “obscene” by a bunch of people who can’t even spell the word. We’re constantly told that this is for “protecting sentiments”, which is India’s third favourite pastime after making babies and killing off the female ones.

So yes, with Western programming, words you’d normally find in a Class VI biology textbook are censored, the burnt half of Harvey Dent’s face in ‘The Dark Knight’ is blotted out, while Indian content is mostly just a bunch of ugly, annoying characters going over the top (and that’s just the Lok Sabha channel)

So, if you use TV content and the level of censorship as indicators of progress, it becomes clear that we, as a society, possess all the finesse and erudition of a monkey flinging around its own feces. But hey, at least the sentiments are ok, right?

Well, not really. Our sentiments are like Sania Mirza’s joints – it doesn’t take much to hurt them. You like beef chilli? Nope, you can’t have it, because there are more of us and we’ll beat you to death with lathis – once we’ve dislodged them from our bottoms, that is. You’re gay? Well then, we must raid your private parties because, c’mon, no one ever won an election thanks to the LGBT vote bank. Oh, and what’s that you say? Salman Rushdie is coming to India? Excellent. Here’s my Minority Outrage card. Your move, Congress.

And we all know how that farce played out. Rushdie, one of the biggest draws at the Jaipur Literary Festival, was asked to stay away because of “security concerns”, much to the disappointment of fans who were looking forward to watching him mud-wrestle Chetan Bhagat. (Ok so I haven’t been to many literary fests, but I imagine this is what happens there.)

At the time of writing, Rushdie’s visit was very much on, although both the organisers and the government seemed to be in a tizzy over security arrangements. Last I heard, they had decided to scare away attackers by having Shobhaa De stand at the entrance, minus make-up.

Our leaders know it’s a good idea to hedge their bets on jingoistic non-issues, because it gets results without having to do real work. Consider Madhya Pradesh, a place that boasts of having nothing to boast about. In M.P, the punishment for cow slaughter (and this includes consumption as well) was recently upped to seven years, which incidentally, is the same as the minimum sentence for rape.

See, I didn’t know that eating beef was as bad as raping someone. I never saw a film in which Gulshan Grover sneaks up on a woman, and then commits the heinous crime of eating a steak in front of her.

We’re the ones to blame for this. Of course, when I say ‘we’, I don’t mean myself. I’m talking about people with stupid sentiments.

If your sentiments are based on Magic Overlords In The Sky who will get angry because someone, somewhere might be seen as going against the teachings of books that are clearly the work of generations of shroom-addled storytellers, then yes, your sentiments are stupid.

(Don’t get me wrong – you’re still entitled to believe in magic elephants, winged horses, prophetic teddy bears and what not, but I’m also entitled to call it insane, without the fear of being turned into human seekh kabab. That is how free speech works.)

Before I end, I’d like to apologise if this column has hurt your sentiments in any way. Now stop flinging around your poop. You want a banana?

(Note: This is my HT column dated 22nd Jan 2012. E-paper link here.)

That’s right – I, for the first time ever, am living in my own apartment. King of the castle. Master of the domain. Walker in the nude. You get the idea.

I’m lucky because I managed to find a place in Bandra (or ‘West Worli’ or ‘North West Cuffe Parade Province’ or whatever the builders are calling it these days) My office is just down the road, which means I no longer have to spend hours in a local, my nose buried in some stranger’s armpit (I prefer the armpits of people I know)

This sudden availability of free time is most welcome, because as it turns out, living on your own involves a lot of work. Contrary to expectation, life is not like an episode of Friends. Or wait… it is like Friends, except that I’m Monica and I have to cook, clean, scrub, decorate, host and to make things worse, my flatmate looks nothing like Jennifer Aniston (although it would be creepy if he did)

Now there are many things in life that I’m good at, like writing, performing, and having serious conversations with women about haircare. But cooking has never been my forte. However, I braved it out in the kitchen recently, learning to whip up tasty and healthy meals. Hah no, I’m kidding. My body composition is now 80% McGrease and 20% Crippling Fattie Shame.

And there is a very good reason for my lack of real-world skills; it’s called The Indian Mother.

That’s right, because we Indian boys are the most mollycoddled and dependent species on the planet, possibly ahead of Norman Bates. In all my time at home, I never lifted a finger – not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t have to. Indian mothers will pamper their sons all the way into adulthood, resting only once they’ve made them Prime Minister.

On the upside, things like storage and decoration become a lot easier if you’re a man. For example, I don’t have a cupboard, but using only my masculine skills and bare hands, I’ve managed to create a fantastic garment-storage structure, technically known as ‘a pile of clothes’. Over time, this pile has evolved into an entire ecosystem and although I cannot be sure, I think some Bangladeshis have sneaked in and set up home there.

As far as decor goes, we’ve used a minimalistic theme for the drawing room, because we have no money to buy furniture. It’s completely bare, like a dinner table at the Hazare house. This emptiness inspires two very different reactions, described below.

Female Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can decorate it with fairy lights, and new cushions and curtains and carpets and sofas and fabric – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!

Guy Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can play underarm cricket here. And this floor will be great for that spin thing I learnt in the 3^rd standard – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!

The next step is to develop my ‘Guy Network’. This is a common Bombay thing, wherein you have a bunch of guys to do everything you’re too busy to do – finish the laundry, buy groceries, repair stuff, please the wife – everything. As of now, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows other guys, so it’s all good. And if things get a bit too overwhelming, I’m calling Mommy.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 8th Jan 2012. E-paper link here)

The year began on a sedate note, until Advani, Swaraj and Co. decided it would be a good idea to have a ‘Flag Yatra’ in Jammu and Kashmir. Because, y’know, nothing ever goes wrong during a BJP yatra in a communally sensitive region. Of course, this was nothing compared to Advani’s mega road trip later in the year, which, despite all the brickbats, revealed one vital fact: Advani is so old, he was once friends with the people whose bodies decomposed and eventually turned into the fuel powering his bus.

Then of course, there was that random insignificant day when WE WON THE GODDAMN WORLD CUP! WOOOHOOO! DHONI CLINCHED IT WITH A SIX, CAUSING MILLIONS OF INDIANS TO GOOSEBUMP IN PLACES THAT EVEN THEIR LOVERS AREN’T LEGALLY ALLOWED TO TOUCH!

Then the year got even more interesting when news about Pakistan’s most famous resident caused millions to break out in broad smiles. But enough about Veena Malik’s nude picture.

Osama Bin Laden was finally shot dead, or as the average Pakistani puts it, ‘Sheikh reached the VIP lounge in Heaven and is now chilling with 72 virgins, some of whom may be goats.’

Of course, Osama wasn’t the only one who suffered a horrific fate this year. I speak for millions of innocent Indian citizens, whose hopes and dreams were dealt a cruel blow that they’ll never recover from. That’s right – liquor prices were hiked by 60% across Maharashtra, making this the only growth the state will see in a long, long time.

In other alcohol-related bias, Anna Hazare announced on television that drinkers should be flogged in public, ironically displaying the same level of logic and tact you’d associate with someone who’s twelve pegs down. However, despite these extreme, violent views, Anna is still very much a Gandhian. Varun Gandhian.

The year then hit festive mode, with citizens gearing up to celebrate one of India’s biggest and flashiest festivals, the release of Ra.One. As an SRK fan, let me just say, without any prejudice, that Ra.One was an SFX-laden load of horse poop. To top it off, the Ra.One marketing campaign was about as subtle as a shotgun wound. It basically featured SRK’s face staring at you from practically every hoarding on every signal at every road. Who the hell does he think he is – Rahul Gandhi?

Now let’s move on to slightly more recent events. Mayawati declared that she wanted to split U.P into four parts, i.e. savings account, fixed deposit, pension plan and statue fund.

Then of course, came the whopper, as Union Telecom Minister Kapil Sibal announced that he wanted to prescreen user-generated content on social networks like Facebook and Twitter. This is like standing in a downpour, trying to collect and examine every drop of water before it hits the ground.

Unexpectedly, Narendra Modi disagreed with Sibal’s views, saying that free speech was of utmost importance and that everyone in Gujarat – be it man, woman, rich, poor, Hindu, Muslim – everyone had the freedom to say good things about Modi.

So there you have it – a round-up of the subjects I enjoyed observing and writing about the most this year. This is my last column of 2011, so I’ll see you on the flipside. In the meantime, you can write in at thecongressisawesome@becausesibalsaidso.com.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 18th Dec, 2011)

When done right, a flash mob is art, it is randomness and most importantly, it’s a great way to get Youtube hits without being a cat that plays the piano while doing the Hitler salute.

The Mumbai flash mob, performed at CST last Sunday, was all this and more. Two hundred everyday citizens, between the ages of 4 and 60, broke out into a choreographed dance at CST, after which Anil Kapoor scared the hell out of white people by going all Ram Lakhan at the Golden Globes… hang on, I may be a bit confused here.

No, the flashmobbers danced to ‘Rang De Basanti’ (which is Punjabi for ‘Suck on this, you Kolaveri freaks’) much to the surprise of commuters whose idea of local train music so far had been confined to bhajan groups that could make God turn atheist.

Now at this point, let me clarify that I’m not one of those overly happy people. Not while I’m sober anyway. You know the kind I’m talking about – those upbeat dingbats who claim to be high on life, vomiting sunshine and rainbows every time they open their mouths and generally going about their day as if they’d just woken with Sharad Pawar’s bank balance.

Having said that, when I watched the flash mob video, I couldn’t help but grin like those very idiots. Seriously, just look at the people in it. What’s the one thing that you notice? Yep, that’s right – some of the dancers are hotties. No wait, I mean they’re happy. Even if it’s just for five minutes, everybody at the station is happy – the dancers, the commuters, the pickpockets – everybody.

Let’s be honest here. If there’s one thing that Mumbai needs (apart from flyovers, wide roads, a metro network, more AC buses, a drainage system that was designed for more than just four Englishmen and their pets, and politicians who have more brains than the aforementioned pets) it is random bouts of happiness like these.

It takes a special kind of Mumbaikar to look at VT and think, “I want to get 200 of my friends and dance in front of the toilets here.” I applaud that Mumbaikar, Shonan Kothari, and also request her to pass whatever she’s smoking. Of course, as far as stations go, VT was the perfect venue. It has character and history and is an iconic Mumbai location, unlike, say, Dadar which is a station built entirely out of rotting vegetables glued together with sweat.

The video reminded me of the last time I saw Mumbaikars erupt with unabashed joy. This was right after the World Cup victory. The sky was a riot of colours, with people singing, dancing, laughing, getting smashed, making out with strangers – it was like a Punju wedding on steroids. But since we can’t fix, I mean, win a World Cup every time, I’ll take these little substitutes instead.

Of course, not everyone shares my enthusiasm. There are many who’ve been cribbing about the quality, nature and purpose of the flash mob (this was after they managed to spare time from their busy schedule of kicking puppies) Ok no, if you’re one of those people, I wish you could lighten up. If not, may Kolaveri play in your head till your brain explodes.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 4th Dec 2011)

However, I’m not one of them, which is why I’m so kicked about the fact that this column is now two years old. And mind you, that’s two years in a mainstream newspaper – a medium where humour is a very low priority, usually discarded in favour of more important journalistic themes such as ‘Analysing Sunny Leone’ (she may have also starred in a movie with a similar name)

Now before this piece ends up sounding self-congratulatory, let me just say that I know what a privilege it is to be here every fortnight. I can almost see readers turning to this page for their regular fix of sharp, informative and effortless writing. Then once they’re done reading Ayaz Memon, they go further down to see me talking trash about people who are often more talented, more hard-working, and in the case of Poonam Pandey, more naked than I am.

People often ask me why I do what I do. I tell them I do it for the money, after which we laugh like retarded hyenas, because everyone knows that freelance media rates are the reason people flock towards more lucrative jobs, like selling bodily fluids. No, I do this because it’s great to have people laugh at the constant garbage spewed out by one’s brain (or as Digvijay Singh calls it, Tuesday)

I understand that two years is but a fleeting instant. It is the career equivalent of Kim Kardashian’s wedding. Having said that, ‘The Blunder Years’ has changed my life in many ways. For starters, I’m under a lot more pressure now. See, once you have a regular byline, people expect you to know what the hell you’re talking about. It’s unfair. I mean Manmohan Singh never has to face this problem.

Also, now I know (and there’s no way to say this without sounding pompous) what it feels like to be recognised. Over the last two years, absolute strangers have come up to me at bars, coffee shops, loos, on the street, bars, bookshops, bars, bars and oh did I say bars? If you think that sounds good, well, you’re wrong, because it’s PRETTY FREAKIN’ AWESOME! I don’t mean to brag, but I think that at this point, I am actually more recognisable than the Bachchan baby.

(Of course, this will change as soon as she gets her first endorsement. And that can only happen when Grandpa stops hogging all the brands)

Another fun side-effect of the job is going through all the reader feedback. Actual names that I’ve been called include, and I quote, “pea brain”, “Congress agent” and “F*c**ng A**H*le” (although aren’t these just synonyms?)

Most readers have been incredibly nice though. From those who invited me to parties, to others who, after having read a piece, turned up at my stand-up shows and had great things to say after (“You’re funnier than Russell Peters. Also uglier”) and many, many more – you have all made an egomaniac very happy. May all those promises made to you by spammers finally come true.

Also, to the wonderful people at HT who have always allowed me to go nuts with this space, all I’d like to say is, thank you for being on drugs.

P.S. Now can we do something about the money situation? I’m running out of bodily fluids to sell.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 20th Nov, 2011)

All this while, I had been living with my parents, as most Indian men who do not like getting laid do. It was a pretty sweet deal – I didn’t have to worry about food, laundry or maids, and most of all, I didn’t have to spend my nights behind the Taj, soliciting Nigerian cokeheads to make rent. It didn’t make sense to move out also because I worked from home (or as my parents put it, ‘He’s adopted’)

But with a sudden influx of work, the house-hunt had to happen. My friend and I had a simple mission: find a well-maintained and reasonably priced place between Bandra and Santacruz (W) that would be ok with bachelors. Hah. As it turns out, it would be easier to convince Scarlett Johansson to give you a lap dance, assuming of course, that Mila Kunis will even let you get out of the bath tub.

The first problem is that most owners react to bachelors the way Narendra Modi would react to circumcision. Recently, an owner showed us around her beautifully furnished place, and then categorically stated that there should be “no boozing, no girls”. A million thoughts raced through my head at this point, but I channelled my inner Arjun Rampal and kept a straight face.

However, I am still ticked off at the belief that somehow, walking around a fire and consequently crapping out a little human affirms your status as a good tenant. If anything, a wife and a kid would make me want to drink more.

Also, as freelance writers and stand-up comics, our jobs either confuse people or disgust them. It’s always “What do you mean you don’t have a fixed office?” or “You media people are just one step away from becoming the subject of Ram Gopal Varma’s next film.” I’m getting around this problem by making up more a respectable job title, such as ‘Senior Joke Engineer’.

(Pro Tip: Adding the word ‘engineer’ to any job description automatically makes it more respectable. For example, a mere accountant can be a ‘Financial Process Engineer’, a bar dancer is a ‘Public Service Engineer’ while a sex offender is a ‘Mechanical Engineer’)

Eventually, we did find a few apartments not owned by closet priests, but they were all like Rajpal Yadav – tiny, and not something you’d want to go back to every night. One of my favourites was a place where the only shower-head had been installed right above the commode. I have yet to see a more fitting metaphor for Mumbai’s fast-paced existence.

Also, if you want to experience real, industrial-strength levels of humiliation, just tell a Mumbai broker your budget. They may keep a straight face, but in their heads, they’re letting it rip like a stoned Archana Puran Singh. I bet there’s some sort of club where brokers meet every weekend and swap stories. It probably goes like this:

Broker 1: So get this, right? Today, this chump told me he could only pay 40k for a 1RK in Chinchpokli.

Broker 2: Hahaha! Fool!

Broker 1: And then he took AGES to choose which of his kids to sell for the deposit!

At the time of writing, I still hadn’t found a place. So if I turn up at yours as a prospective tenant, please be nice, make a reasonable offer and ignore the bottles of booze I’ll be carrying. They’re not mine – they usually belong to the hooker slung over my shoulder.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 6th Nov 2011)

Unless you’re in a house full of women and your name is Shakti Kapoor, there is no such thing as a fun power cut. But to serve up 3 to 13 hours of load-shedding every day is just another level of depravity, especially during October, when the entire city anyway turns into a giant, miserable wet T-shirt contest (which, by the way, I’m totally winning right now)

The worst-affected areas include Kalyan-Dombivali, Kanjurmarg, Bhandup, Vasai-Virar and Nallasopara, all of which are routinely described as “beautiful residential areas” by blind people.  But still, there’s no excuse for shoddy service, as MSEB officials found out the hard way when angry consumers set fire to their office in Nallasopara, because, c’mon, what else can you do on a Friday night in Nallasopara?

Faced with a backlash, our Chief Minister Prithviraj Chavan said that the government was working towards fixing the problem. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much faith in a guy whose only selling point is, “Hey, at least I’m not Ashok Chavan.”

It’s not just Mumbai – large parts of Maharashtra, Karnataka, West Bengal and New Delhi have been hit by major power outages as well. Of course, Karnataka doesn’t count because the authorities probably shut down the power there themselves after they saw electricity being used to power speakers that play loud western music. (I wish Karnataka would stop with the moral policing and go back to simpler times, when the only thing they hated was Tamil Nadu)

West Bengal (aka ‘Poscho Bonga’ or ‘Posh Bangs’ or ‘Push my Bongos’ or whatever it’s called now) is too broke to pay for coal, resulting in 4-5 hours of daily power cuts. On the plus side, burning buses make for excellent sources of light.

The capital is struggling with a 1000MW shortfall due to glitches in the Northern Grid. To make matters worse, New Delhi’s Power Minister Haroon Yusuf claimed that U.P has been overdrawing from the grid, messing things up for Delhi. I bet the Manoos Brigade is kicked to hear that for a change, North Indians are stealing from other North Indians.

The crisis is being blamed on a sudden nationwide coal shortage. Coal supplies from Andhra Pradesh have been hit because of the Telangana agitation, which, as you know, is the movement demanding a separate state for people with too much free time. What gets me is the suddenness of it all. When it comes to coal, our politicians are basically saying, “I swear it was here and then it was just gone!” which is also what Poonam Pandey said about her virginity.

But despite everything – despite the heat, the frustration and the desire to walk into work wearing just a towel – I urge to you to remain calm and not do anything stupid. Things will get back to normal very soon, right after I’m done burning down some offices.

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

So clearly, I’m not a big fan of dandiya, or as Gujaratis like to call it, ‘mating season’. Think about it – just like birds and animals that surface once a year and strut around, showing off their colourful plumage to attract potential mates, Gujju males too emerge at night, decked up in attire that makes their usual Charagh Din shirts seem funereal in comparison. And then begins the dance, wherein they make the women go around in circles until the blood flow in their heads is all messed up, causing them to willingly hook up with guys called ‘Viral’, ‘Pinal’ and ‘Anal’. (I imagine that names like these would render kids celibate for life. You might as well call them ‘Pustule McFungus’ or worse, ‘Amar Singh’)

If you think I’m exaggerating about the mating season bit, then you underestimate the power of repressed hormones. A cursory glance at news reports will tell you that there is always a surge in the sale of emergency contraceptives during this period, so unless i-Pills are exceptionally tasty, you know what’s happening. And so do many paranoid parents, who resort to hiring detectives to trail their child. This makes me feel truly desi, because only in India would parents willingly hire strangers to stalk their kids.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against dandiya – I just find all festivals boring and/or annoying (unless we’re talking about beer festivals)

For example, Holi overstayed its welcome when I realised that I could use the holiday to sleep, instead of spending it trying to scrub half of China’s lead output off my skin. And since many of my friends agree, the only other option is to spend Holi smearing colour on the faces of neighbours I last spoke to in 2005 or so. In terms of social awkwardness, this would rank right up there with ordering Chinese food at a ‘Free Tibet’ meeting.

Now consider Diwali – a festival wherein we worship some of the biggest names in the pantheon i.e. Big Bazaar, Vijay Sales and Croma. No seriously, I hate the shopfest this season has turned into, as opposed to when I was younger and actually got to learn about my culture and my roots by blowing things up.

(I gave up on crackers altogether as a teenager. I’d like to say it was for environmental reasons but honestly, it just got boring. And now that I’m older and wiser, I use that time to focus on the things that really matter, like Scotch and gambling)

In fact, a lot of urban youngsters now pick their celebrations based on two factors: the amount of preparation required, and how blasted one can get. This explains the rise in popularity of foreign festivals such as St. Patrick’s, wherein all you need to is a functional liver and the desire to live with bad decisions.

You also have Indians celebrating Thanksgiving, thereby displaying an IQ lower than the stuffed turkey on their tables. And post-ZNMD, many people across India decided they wanted to celebrate La Tomatina. This sycophancy never works the other way around. I don’t mean to condone irrational abstinence, but you’d never see a bunch of Spaniards give up meat and alcohol for a month because the moon is in the wrong place.

These Scroogeisms aside, I do wish you all a Happy Navratri. I genuinely hope that you find peace and happiness but most of all, I hope you find a dandiya location that is far, far away from my house.

(P.S This is my HT column dated 2nd October, 2011)

However, the future has turned out to be slightly different. For example, nobody told me that I’d have to become a drug dealer just to be able to afford petrol, or that 20 years on, L K Advani would still be in love with the idea of rath yatras (It’s probably a nostalgia thing, given that he was around when the wheel was invented)

But most importantly, nobody warned me about the fact that once you hit adulthood, the world around you begins to resemble a waiting room in a giant hospital, with invalids of all kinds going about their lives with all the vigour and vitality of a post-lunch Goan shopkeeper.

Seriously, so many people I know – and these are 20-somethings I’m talking about – are suffering from a wide variety of lifestyle-related health issues, ranging from chronic backaches, bronchitis and insomnia, to more serious mental conditions, such as the desire to actually watch Bodyguard.

On the plus side, we’re all in this together, as revealed most recently by the ‘Mission: Fitter Mumbai’ campaign, being run by The Hindustan Times, a newspaper that believes in constantly rewarding its humour columnists with hefty pay hikes *hint hint* So let’s take a look at some of the findings of this campaign:

Of all the people surveyed, 88% felt that the city did not have sufficient playgrounds, open spaces and amenities for staying fit. The other 12% lived in New Bombay.

Also, about 65% of professionals felt that the Mumbai lifestyle wasn’t conducive to fitness. Well, duh. That’s like saying the Vatican isn’t conducive to abortions. A typical day in Mumbai involves braving a swarm of armpits in train compartments that even the Gestapo would’ve considered inhumane, with the rest of your time spent at a job that you hate from the bottom of your cholestrol-laden heart, but you dare not quit, because you need to pay the rent for an apartment the size of a Delhiite’s handbag.

I’m very much a part of the Urban Dead as well. At any given point, my backpack contains painkillers, antacids and if I’m in the mood for a wild party night, a bottle of cough syrup as well. I’m sure my immune system was made in China by 9-year-olds who could probably take me in a fight.

Furthermore, as a writer, my job allows me to explore various seating positions until I find one that’s really comfortable, only to be told that it is harmful and in the long run, is the equivalent of having Sunny Deol dance on your back. Since when did sitting become so complicated? I used to be able to do it just fine at an age when I thought mud was delicious, but now apparently I need a medical degree just so I don’t end up accidentally paralysing myself while sneezing (Pro Tip: Whatever you do, never ever look up your symptoms on Wikipedia. You could have a fracture, and it would, through a maze of links, tell you that your symptoms correspond with AIDS. I’ve had AIDS about seventeen times now.)

I’d love to go on, about colds, coughs and the occasional bastketball-sized tumour one develops after five minutes in Marol traffic. But honestly, that bottle of Benadryl isn’t going to down itself.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 18th Sep, 2011)