Dan came across this bunch one-liners tied up in a pretty red string, while he was sweeping behind his cot. He blew the dust off it, untied it slowly, spread the lines on the floor, and began to go over each, slowly:
Follow your heart.
Nothing is as bad as when it is worse.
Sometimes, not having a choice is the best option you have.
Be glad you made mistakes. Some people don’t even make that.
The heart is better at thinking than the brain. Trouble is, nobody listens to it.
Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your inner voice.
Failure is not fatal.
Everything in life happens for you, not to you. You don’t have to like it; it’s just easier if you do.
Dan’s book venture - the stories he stole from his author's blog and got printed into the paperback, “Dan Mullagathanny’s Irresponsible Stories” - wasn’t going anywhere. Distributors were unwilling to supply it to stores because they felt Indians like motivational and self-improvement books and they like fiction. Or, as Dan found out, they also like a new category called commercial fiction – the kind you read when your aircraft is ready for takeoff but the pilot has just gone on strike. They were also open to another new kind of genre, having read plenty of it in the Central Bureau of Investigation's reports of the last two-odd years, namely, fact based on fiction.
But his category was ‘short humour stories’ - Indians had no time for this stuff.
Now this bundle of platitudes.
Dan was beginning to feel like The World’s Most Successful Loser. Some five hundred people read his book and liked it. Enough trials to conclude a positive response, but distributors were still hesitant to take up its sales.
Dan picked up the broom and with one swift sweep blew the lines all over the room.
“Failure is not fatal” dangled from the grill across the window, an F caught in an angle. “Everything in life happens for you, ... broke into two.
“The Cowardice of Language,” he thought,“When you’re really screwed none of these lines will help you.”
2 June 2012
26 May 2012
How to tell Indians from different states
Bengali
One Bengali = poet.
Two Bengalis = a film society.
Three Bengalis = political party.
Four Bengalis = two political parties.
More than four Bengali's = Countrywide agitation to bring Ganguli into Team .
Bihari
One Bihari = Laloo Prasad Yadav.
Two Biharis = booth-capturing squad.
Three Biharis = caste killing.
Four Biharis = entire literate population of Patna .
Punjabi
One Punjabi =100 kg hulk named Pinky.
Two Punjabis = Pinky with his bigger brother Twinky.
Three Punjabis = assault on the McAloo Tikkis at the local McDonalds.
Four Punjabis = combined IQ equal to one.
Mallu
One Mallu = coconut stall.
Two Mallus = a boat race.
Three Mallus = Gulf job racket.
Four Mallus = oil slick.
Gujju
One Gujju = share broker in a Bombay train.
Two Gujjus = rummy game in a Bombay train.
Three Gujjus = Bombay's noisiest restaurant.
Four Gujjus = stock market scam.
Andhraite
One Andhraite = chili farmer.
Two Andhraites = software company in New Jersey.
Three Andhraites = Naxalite outfit.
Four Andhraites = song-and-dance number in a Telugu movie.
Kashmiri
One Kashmiri = carpet salesman.
Two Kashmiris = carpet factory.
Three Kashmiris = terrorist outfit.
Four Kashmiris = shoot-at-sight order.
Tamil Brahmin
One Tam-Brahm = priest at the Vardarajaperumal temple.
Two Tam-Brahms = Maths tuition class.
Three Tam-Brahms = Queue outside the U.S consulate at 4 a.m.
Four Tam-Brahms = Thyagaraja music festival in Santa Clara .
Sindhi
One Sindhi = currency racket.
Two Sindhis = papad factory.
Three Sindhis = duplicate goods shop in Ulhasnagar .
Four Sindhis = Hong Kong Retail Traders Association
Mumbaikar
One Mumbaikar = footpath vada-pav stall.
Two Mumbaikars = film studio.
Three Mumbaikars = slum.
Four Mumbaikars = The number of people standing on your foot in the train in a rush hour.
Blessy Chettiar, who said, “The Goan in me feels left out,” added this one:
One Goan: confessing in church
Two Goans: bar by the beach
Three Goans: rock band
Four Goans: Portuguese visa scam
Note: I have no idea who wrote this piece, but if anyone knows do mail me - I would love to credit the author for this rare humour. - Desmond Macedo
One Bengali = poet.
Two Bengalis = a film society.
Three Bengalis = political party.
Four Bengalis = two political parties.
More than four Bengali's = Countrywide agitation to bring Ganguli into Team .
Bihari
One Bihari = Laloo Prasad Yadav.
Two Biharis = booth-capturing squad.
Three Biharis = caste killing.
Four Biharis = entire literate population of Patna .
Punjabi
One Punjabi =100 kg hulk named Pinky.
Two Punjabis = Pinky with his bigger brother Twinky.
Three Punjabis = assault on the McAloo Tikkis at the local McDonalds.
Four Punjabis = combined IQ equal to one.
Mallu
One Mallu = coconut stall.
Two Mallus = a boat race.
Three Mallus = Gulf job racket.
Four Mallus = oil slick.
Gujju
One Gujju = share broker in a Bombay train.
Two Gujjus = rummy game in a Bombay train.
Three Gujjus = Bombay's noisiest restaurant.
Four Gujjus = stock market scam.
Andhraite
One Andhraite = chili farmer.
Two Andhraites = software company in New Jersey.
Three Andhraites = Naxalite outfit.
Four Andhraites = song-and-dance number in a Telugu movie.
Kashmiri
One Kashmiri = carpet salesman.
Two Kashmiris = carpet factory.
Three Kashmiris = terrorist outfit.
Four Kashmiris = shoot-at-sight order.
Tamil Brahmin
One Tam-Brahm = priest at the Vardarajaperumal temple.
Two Tam-Brahms = Maths tuition class.
Three Tam-Brahms = Queue outside the U.S consulate at 4 a.m.
Four Tam-Brahms = Thyagaraja music festival in Santa Clara .
Sindhi
One Sindhi = currency racket.
Two Sindhis = papad factory.
Three Sindhis = duplicate goods shop in Ulhasnagar .
Four Sindhis = Hong Kong Retail Traders Association
Mumbaikar
One Mumbaikar = footpath vada-pav stall.
Two Mumbaikars = film studio.
Three Mumbaikars = slum.
Four Mumbaikars = The number of people standing on your foot in the train in a rush hour.
Blessy Chettiar, who said, “The Goan in me feels left out,” added this one:
One Goan: confessing in church
Two Goans: bar by the beach
Three Goans: rock band
Four Goans: Portuguese visa scam
Note: I have no idea who wrote this piece, but if anyone knows do mail me - I would love to credit the author for this rare humour. - Desmond Macedo
3 March 2012
A Fresh Anglo Indian Memory
Dan Mullagathanny noticed how many members of his community - the Anglo Indians - often said, they would do anything to go back to the times when they danced to Cliff Richard songs at railway clubs.
They were people who often reminisced of times gone by. Those who didn't know how to reminisce just looked back:
To the days when their English was as perfect as their hockey, which was as perfect as their train schedules, which was as perfectly outfitted as the terry cotton frock with large flowers on it that a girl wore to Sunday church, which was as perfect as the coconut rice and ball curry they gathered to eat later that Sunday afternoon, and then slept till six in the evening, after which, they’d go for a ‘small touch up’ so they could sleep the night off and get up early the next day for a perfect start to the week ahead of teaching English at school, or driving a goods train.
And though Cliff himself spent his entire life hiding his Anglo Indian identity, Anglos were happy to spend their entire memories being proud he was one of them.
They’d be willing to give away part of that coconut rice and ball curry now, just to hear their aunts scream, “I’ll slipper you with my broom.” Nobody in the world knew how to slipper someone with a broom, except a dear ol’ Anglo Indian aunty.
Dan eased in a little closer to catch a conversation he knew was coming to an end.
“And listen bugger, the high heels had the best blinking legs above them, if they were Anglo legs. They rose close to three feet high from those shoes, and were gone beneath the hem, fuckin none of us knew where.”
“You can say that again.”
“But what, nobody else was showing legs in India then, so our legs went uncontested.”
“Ya bugger, many of them had a pretty upturned nose. Of course, since they had fair legs falling gracefully down below the skirt, swishing like fuckin scissors, many turned up their noses.”
“Lucky buggers, you. I couldn’t get a look at the legs on the dance floor - I had to watch for the chords I was playing.”
“Be grateful bra, many an Anglo boy got cut by those blessed scissors.”
“And what’s this “Ooops Moment” girls have at parties these days? Our girls would have wun slip below their dresses, you remember? You wanna see any ooops, you get married first.”
Dan was amused. "How much of life or conversation among dings is nostalgia. If they just hang in there,” he thought, “every few years they could have a fresh stock of fond memories:
Of days when, no sooner they logged onto Facebook than they would read the naughty jokes shared by other dings.
Or join a full blown bitching session about someone who wasn’t even a pucca ding, rather some pariah pretending to be Indian of European Descent. “My big toe, he’s Anglo.”
Or to a certain Ashley Knife, how one ding member remarked, “Bra, your knife gone blunt.”
About one bloke, Desmond Macedo, who used to post humour stories that nobody read, and how they laughed their guts out because,“You can’t jive to that bugger’s stories.”
And, “What fun, every now and then somebody formed a new Anglo Indian Group on Facebook because we dings don’t know how to be polite with each other, especially in a public forum like FB; we’d scrap with the Administrator and our comments would get blocked.”
"What the dickens is a public forum?"
“Remember that group, Anglos United? It soon ran into trouble, and one bugger, trying to take advantage of the gap, opened another group called, Anglos ReUnited. What a farce.”
“What fun it used to be then. Beef was only 100 bucks a kilo. Now it is what mutton used to be. 350.”
Dan Mullagathanny smiled: “For people like us, always living in the past, we just have to wait a while till the future passes by, then enjoy it after it’s gone.”
They were people who often reminisced of times gone by. Those who didn't know how to reminisce just looked back:
To the days when their English was as perfect as their hockey, which was as perfect as their train schedules, which was as perfectly outfitted as the terry cotton frock with large flowers on it that a girl wore to Sunday church, which was as perfect as the coconut rice and ball curry they gathered to eat later that Sunday afternoon, and then slept till six in the evening, after which, they’d go for a ‘small touch up’ so they could sleep the night off and get up early the next day for a perfect start to the week ahead of teaching English at school, or driving a goods train.
And though Cliff himself spent his entire life hiding his Anglo Indian identity, Anglos were happy to spend their entire memories being proud he was one of them.
They’d be willing to give away part of that coconut rice and ball curry now, just to hear their aunts scream, “I’ll slipper you with my broom.” Nobody in the world knew how to slipper someone with a broom, except a dear ol’ Anglo Indian aunty.
Dan eased in a little closer to catch a conversation he knew was coming to an end.
“And listen bugger, the high heels had the best blinking legs above them, if they were Anglo legs. They rose close to three feet high from those shoes, and were gone beneath the hem, fuckin none of us knew where.”
“You can say that again.”
“But what, nobody else was showing legs in India then, so our legs went uncontested.”
“Ya bugger, many of them had a pretty upturned nose. Of course, since they had fair legs falling gracefully down below the skirt, swishing like fuckin scissors, many turned up their noses.”
“Lucky buggers, you. I couldn’t get a look at the legs on the dance floor - I had to watch for the chords I was playing.”
“Be grateful bra, many an Anglo boy got cut by those blessed scissors.”
“And what’s this “Ooops Moment” girls have at parties these days? Our girls would have wun slip below their dresses, you remember? You wanna see any ooops, you get married first.”
Dan was amused. "How much of life or conversation among dings is nostalgia. If they just hang in there,” he thought, “every few years they could have a fresh stock of fond memories:
Of days when, no sooner they logged onto Facebook than they would read the naughty jokes shared by other dings.
Or join a full blown bitching session about someone who wasn’t even a pucca ding, rather some pariah pretending to be Indian of European Descent. “My big toe, he’s Anglo.”
Or to a certain Ashley Knife, how one ding member remarked, “Bra, your knife gone blunt.”
About one bloke, Desmond Macedo, who used to post humour stories that nobody read, and how they laughed their guts out because,“You can’t jive to that bugger’s stories.”
And, “What fun, every now and then somebody formed a new Anglo Indian Group on Facebook because we dings don’t know how to be polite with each other, especially in a public forum like FB; we’d scrap with the Administrator and our comments would get blocked.”
"What the dickens is a public forum?"
“Remember that group, Anglos United? It soon ran into trouble, and one bugger, trying to take advantage of the gap, opened another group called, Anglos ReUnited. What a farce.”
“What fun it used to be then. Beef was only 100 bucks a kilo. Now it is what mutton used to be. 350.”
Dan Mullagathanny smiled: “For people like us, always living in the past, we just have to wait a while till the future passes by, then enjoy it after it’s gone.”
14 February 2012
My Wedding Invitation
Hello Everyone,
Here's my wedding invitation. Please don't look for an attachment because there isn't any. My able advertising friends failed to meet the deadline, so I'm relying on my written words to persuade you to attend my wedding or my reception.
My wedding is this Friday, 17th February, 2012. Please don't ask me why it isn't on 14th February.
The wedding is in my girl's hometown Bhilai. For those of you who just know where Zurich or Capetown is, I would like to inform you, it's a humble steel city in Chattisgarh. For those of you who don't know where Chattisgarh is, seriously, fuck off.
If Bhilai seems difficult for you to reach, here's another option.
Come for my reception. It's in Dehradun on Tuesday, 21st February, 2012.
Monday is a holiday, at least in north India. Depending on how much you love me, you can apply for a leave on Tuesday and Wednesday.So you'll have a full five-day weekend, where you can plan a trip to Auli (a skiing resort quite far from the Alps), or Rishikesh, or anywhere in the Himalayas. On your way back you can attend my reception.
So that's the deal. A friend's reception and nice holiday in the Himalayas.
Please don't feel bad if you can't make it because I won't feel that way either. We all have our job pressures and deadlines. Even I've missed quite a lot of close weddings for exactly the same reasons.
Even if you do come, don't expect it to be the grandest of affairs. My dad says splurging on weddings is for those who have black money. And in advertising there's little opportunity to earn it.
Let me add there won't be any booze either. Just get drunk on your way.
And if you do get drunk, let me assure you there won't be a cheap-ass 'Sharma DJ', but an authentic pahadi dhol to dance to.
Alright then, please consider attending my reception, and if you decide to come, wear your best clothes and make me feel proud.
That's all folks.
Abhishek Deshwal
pahadi dhol – folk music of the Himalayan region.
About the Author: Abhishek Deshwal, or Deshu, a Copywriter, is from Dehra Dun. He worked in Bombay until recently, now is in Delhi.
Here's my wedding invitation. Please don't look for an attachment because there isn't any. My able advertising friends failed to meet the deadline, so I'm relying on my written words to persuade you to attend my wedding or my reception.
My wedding is this Friday, 17th February, 2012. Please don't ask me why it isn't on 14th February.
The wedding is in my girl's hometown Bhilai. For those of you who just know where Zurich or Capetown is, I would like to inform you, it's a humble steel city in Chattisgarh. For those of you who don't know where Chattisgarh is, seriously, fuck off.
If Bhilai seems difficult for you to reach, here's another option.
Come for my reception. It's in Dehradun on Tuesday, 21st February, 2012.
Monday is a holiday, at least in north India. Depending on how much you love me, you can apply for a leave on Tuesday and Wednesday.So you'll have a full five-day weekend, where you can plan a trip to Auli (a skiing resort quite far from the Alps), or Rishikesh, or anywhere in the Himalayas. On your way back you can attend my reception.
So that's the deal. A friend's reception and nice holiday in the Himalayas.
Please don't feel bad if you can't make it because I won't feel that way either. We all have our job pressures and deadlines. Even I've missed quite a lot of close weddings for exactly the same reasons.
Even if you do come, don't expect it to be the grandest of affairs. My dad says splurging on weddings is for those who have black money. And in advertising there's little opportunity to earn it.
Let me add there won't be any booze either. Just get drunk on your way.
And if you do get drunk, let me assure you there won't be a cheap-ass 'Sharma DJ', but an authentic pahadi dhol to dance to.
Alright then, please consider attending my reception, and if you decide to come, wear your best clothes and make me feel proud.
That's all folks.
Abhishek Deshwal
pahadi dhol – folk music of the Himalayan region.
About the Author: Abhishek Deshwal, or Deshu, a Copywriter, is from Dehra Dun. He worked in Bombay until recently, now is in Delhi.
13 February 2012
It’s Scary Being An Idiot
Daniel Carey.
I am a movie buff I am going to focus this story on horror films.
Having written the above, let me just go and check the locks…be back in a moment.
Okay, fear is something we all have, other than Chuck Norris - the palms-sweating, bum-hole twitching fear that comes from being truly scared.
But what you can guarantee with all horror films, whether they are good ones ( Jaws/Paranormal Activity/The Blair Witch Project) or bad ones ( any 'Saw' film after number 2, Hostel, The Last House on the Left), all are packed to the rafters with people doing stupid things. You know, where, rather than all stay together to fight the killer, everyone decides to split up and do it on their own. If you started as group, stay as group. Once you've gone out on your own your shortcomings soon become apparent. And if that shortcoming is exposed to a knife-wielding maniac wearing a hockey mask, you are bang in trouble.
So I have put together a list of stupid or illogical things that happen in horror movies and how to overcome them:
1) People run upstairs rather than out the front door. If you are on the ground floor of a house and someone is chasing you with a chainsaw, or the head of your dead housemate, don't run past the front door and then up the stairs; try going out of the front door, legging it up the road, flagging down a cab, getting to Starbucks to have a coffee, until you calm down.
2) People offer lifts to those they shouldn't. If a bloke is standing on the side of the road asking for a lift, and he looks like his sister is also his girlfriend, do not pick him. I'm sure he won't mind waiting another five minutes for some other idiot to pull over.
3) People do things they know will lead to trouble. If someone tells you that saying something into the mirror a specified number of times will lead to your imminent demise, heed this advice, don't just jump up and yell Candyman five times whilst you’re doing your hair as he will undoubtedly turn up within about five minutes and beat your arse to death. My advice would be to get rid of your mirror, or anything that provides a reflection, just in case.
4) People tempt fate. If you have heard that there is a giant crocodile/piranha/alligator roaming around a specific lake, why on earth would you ever decide to go swimming in it? Get back in your car, drive to the nearest swimming baths. If you're lucky they may even have a wave machine.
5) People fall over for no reason. When a serial killer is casually strolling after you whilst you sprint for your life, watch your step as there is a 99% chance you will fall over something that in everyday life wouldn't send you tumbling. So that blade of grass that just the morning before you stepped over with no problem at all is now likely to trip you, so avoid it at all costs. And remember, at no point will the killer break into even a light jog, as for some reason, all horror movie murderers are lazy bastards, so you have time to watch your step.
6) People do things that are illogical. It's three in the morning, a man with an axe is chasing you, slowly of course, and you're banging on the door of a shop that says 'Closed' in the window. Quickly realise that you're being an idiot, banging on the window of a haberdashery at 3 am, how the hell would it be open? Just in case an idiot turns up looking to escape a mass murderer? If it was 17:31 and you can see the staff cleaning up, then yeah bang away, otherwise it's probably sensible to try and hide elsewhere.
7) People don't take others’ good advice. If there's a shark the size of a house circling you and someone says 'We're gonna need a bigger boat", take their advice, go back to shore, pick up something like a cruise liner or an aircraft carrier and return. Chances are, if you don't, one or all of your arses is going to end up as chum.
8) No one ever takes the advice of experts. You think your house is haunted and a ghost hunter/priest/weird man you met on the internet says “Whatever you do don't try to summon the demons yourself.” Don't do what they do in the movies and immediately run off, set up a Ouija Board, dim the lights and then start asking your mates 'Are you moving that glass?' It's 100% certain that they aren't, that it will spell out something scary, and then all of you will end up getting the crap kicked out of you by something you can't see, probably because you haven't turned on the lights.
9) The living dead like to bite people, especially the exposed flesh. So if you are under attack, don't walk around in a bikini. Get yourself some jeans, a roll-neck sweater, Doc Martin boots and ideally put on a motorcycle helmet.
And finally number 10) People don't questions about what they've been told even if it doesn't make sense. Take Gremlins for example, so you buy an animal that's certainly not your run-of-the-mill pet and the wise old Chinese man who sells it to you advises that whatever you do, “do not feed him after midnight.”
So rather than go home and break out the chicken wings, first ask when the hell 'after midnight' ends? Surely all time is after midnight. If not, then where is the tipping point? I'd want to be made fully aware that if I’m serving up a plate of chicken nuggets at half one in the afternoon that this was sufficiently past midnight and that, later, I am not going to be confronted by a monster intent on shooting me in the face with a crossbow.
It's just self preservation, people.
About the Author: Daniel Paul Carey, 31, an advertising professional, lives in Beckenham, Kent, and works in Central London.
I am a movie buff I am going to focus this story on horror films.
Having written the above, let me just go and check the locks…be back in a moment.
Okay, fear is something we all have, other than Chuck Norris - the palms-sweating, bum-hole twitching fear that comes from being truly scared.
But what you can guarantee with all horror films, whether they are good ones ( Jaws/Paranormal Activity/The Blair Witch Project) or bad ones ( any 'Saw' film after number 2, Hostel, The Last House on the Left), all are packed to the rafters with people doing stupid things. You know, where, rather than all stay together to fight the killer, everyone decides to split up and do it on their own. If you started as group, stay as group. Once you've gone out on your own your shortcomings soon become apparent. And if that shortcoming is exposed to a knife-wielding maniac wearing a hockey mask, you are bang in trouble.
So I have put together a list of stupid or illogical things that happen in horror movies and how to overcome them:
1) People run upstairs rather than out the front door. If you are on the ground floor of a house and someone is chasing you with a chainsaw, or the head of your dead housemate, don't run past the front door and then up the stairs; try going out of the front door, legging it up the road, flagging down a cab, getting to Starbucks to have a coffee, until you calm down.
2) People offer lifts to those they shouldn't. If a bloke is standing on the side of the road asking for a lift, and he looks like his sister is also his girlfriend, do not pick him. I'm sure he won't mind waiting another five minutes for some other idiot to pull over.
3) People do things they know will lead to trouble. If someone tells you that saying something into the mirror a specified number of times will lead to your imminent demise, heed this advice, don't just jump up and yell Candyman five times whilst you’re doing your hair as he will undoubtedly turn up within about five minutes and beat your arse to death. My advice would be to get rid of your mirror, or anything that provides a reflection, just in case.
4) People tempt fate. If you have heard that there is a giant crocodile/piranha/alligator roaming around a specific lake, why on earth would you ever decide to go swimming in it? Get back in your car, drive to the nearest swimming baths. If you're lucky they may even have a wave machine.
5) People fall over for no reason. When a serial killer is casually strolling after you whilst you sprint for your life, watch your step as there is a 99% chance you will fall over something that in everyday life wouldn't send you tumbling. So that blade of grass that just the morning before you stepped over with no problem at all is now likely to trip you, so avoid it at all costs. And remember, at no point will the killer break into even a light jog, as for some reason, all horror movie murderers are lazy bastards, so you have time to watch your step.
6) People do things that are illogical. It's three in the morning, a man with an axe is chasing you, slowly of course, and you're banging on the door of a shop that says 'Closed' in the window. Quickly realise that you're being an idiot, banging on the window of a haberdashery at 3 am, how the hell would it be open? Just in case an idiot turns up looking to escape a mass murderer? If it was 17:31 and you can see the staff cleaning up, then yeah bang away, otherwise it's probably sensible to try and hide elsewhere.
7) People don't take others’ good advice. If there's a shark the size of a house circling you and someone says 'We're gonna need a bigger boat", take their advice, go back to shore, pick up something like a cruise liner or an aircraft carrier and return. Chances are, if you don't, one or all of your arses is going to end up as chum.
8) No one ever takes the advice of experts. You think your house is haunted and a ghost hunter/priest/weird man you met on the internet says “Whatever you do don't try to summon the demons yourself.” Don't do what they do in the movies and immediately run off, set up a Ouija Board, dim the lights and then start asking your mates 'Are you moving that glass?' It's 100% certain that they aren't, that it will spell out something scary, and then all of you will end up getting the crap kicked out of you by something you can't see, probably because you haven't turned on the lights.
9) The living dead like to bite people, especially the exposed flesh. So if you are under attack, don't walk around in a bikini. Get yourself some jeans, a roll-neck sweater, Doc Martin boots and ideally put on a motorcycle helmet.
And finally number 10) People don't questions about what they've been told even if it doesn't make sense. Take Gremlins for example, so you buy an animal that's certainly not your run-of-the-mill pet and the wise old Chinese man who sells it to you advises that whatever you do, “do not feed him after midnight.”
So rather than go home and break out the chicken wings, first ask when the hell 'after midnight' ends? Surely all time is after midnight. If not, then where is the tipping point? I'd want to be made fully aware that if I’m serving up a plate of chicken nuggets at half one in the afternoon that this was sufficiently past midnight and that, later, I am not going to be confronted by a monster intent on shooting me in the face with a crossbow.
It's just self preservation, people.
About the Author: Daniel Paul Carey, 31, an advertising professional, lives in Beckenham, Kent, and works in Central London.
31 January 2012
A Job On The 8th Floor
Dan was once stuck in a lift when a girl inside remarked: “God, it’s so claustrophobic in here.”
Dan noticed how the inmates of the lift had suddenly turned to gaze at her. Actually, they were looking at the word she had just used – claustrophobic - and how it was slowly sliding into their ear passages, one syllable at a time, four syllables in all, one large and three medium.
After the whole word had disappeared into their ears Dan could see them ponder over it. One was trying to spell it in his mind. One was trying to count the number of letters in the word, after which, he realised he should count the alphabets, having remembered that “The letters in a word are called alphabets.” Another was trying to memorise the line, “God, it’s so claustrophobic in here,” saying to herself, “Use the line when inside in a lift.”
Dan made his own mental note of the word: Must remember to get stuck in a lift more often.
Since he was without gainful employment anyway, he decided to look for a job in a building in the lifts of which the word claustrophobic was not familiar, criteria only a place like India could afford, lifts being plentiful, what with so much development happening everywhere.
He soon landed a job in an office on the 8th floor. He was spilling over with confidence that, very soon, the lift would stall on one of his trips up or down, and he would get his opportunity to show off his stylish vocabulary – he noticed of late, that word was beginning to get shortened to vocab, though he didn’t approve dropping off any bulary, not even those from the constabulary.
Thus he set off in a lift everyday, to reach a company engaged in the manufacture and marketing of Saree Falls. He didn’t know what saree falls were, though he imagined, in their process of marketing, the falls needed to be dropped off eight floors high, while the saris came by lift.
But gone two months and the lift did not stall. He was getting impatient. Then one day, shortly after his impatience, and while he was at his desk, a girl colleague walked in and held forth as if she were making a presentation, “Has any of you had the circumstance of getting stuck in a lift? The claustrophobia is unmistakable.”
Dan Mullagathanny was so angry that he was vexed. “Two people in a building looking for an opportunity to use claustrophobic threatened to make it a cliché very soon, after which, it would be boring to use it in a sentence and pointless to use the lift,” he grumbled to himself.
Something else, he observed. Several employees were strenuously making note of circumstance in a usage so earful, the word slid into their ear passages only partially, with part of it left dangling outside, as they delicately tried to shove the balance in with the tips of their fingers.
“Hardly a pleasant stance for a circum,” Dan bitched silently, wondering what to do with his job.
Dan noticed how the inmates of the lift had suddenly turned to gaze at her. Actually, they were looking at the word she had just used – claustrophobic - and how it was slowly sliding into their ear passages, one syllable at a time, four syllables in all, one large and three medium.
After the whole word had disappeared into their ears Dan could see them ponder over it. One was trying to spell it in his mind. One was trying to count the number of letters in the word, after which, he realised he should count the alphabets, having remembered that “The letters in a word are called alphabets.” Another was trying to memorise the line, “God, it’s so claustrophobic in here,” saying to herself, “Use the line when inside in a lift.”
Dan made his own mental note of the word: Must remember to get stuck in a lift more often.
Since he was without gainful employment anyway, he decided to look for a job in a building in the lifts of which the word claustrophobic was not familiar, criteria only a place like India could afford, lifts being plentiful, what with so much development happening everywhere.
He soon landed a job in an office on the 8th floor. He was spilling over with confidence that, very soon, the lift would stall on one of his trips up or down, and he would get his opportunity to show off his stylish vocabulary – he noticed of late, that word was beginning to get shortened to vocab, though he didn’t approve dropping off any bulary, not even those from the constabulary.
Thus he set off in a lift everyday, to reach a company engaged in the manufacture and marketing of Saree Falls. He didn’t know what saree falls were, though he imagined, in their process of marketing, the falls needed to be dropped off eight floors high, while the saris came by lift.
But gone two months and the lift did not stall. He was getting impatient. Then one day, shortly after his impatience, and while he was at his desk, a girl colleague walked in and held forth as if she were making a presentation, “Has any of you had the circumstance of getting stuck in a lift? The claustrophobia is unmistakable.”
Dan Mullagathanny was so angry that he was vexed. “Two people in a building looking for an opportunity to use claustrophobic threatened to make it a cliché very soon, after which, it would be boring to use it in a sentence and pointless to use the lift,” he grumbled to himself.
Something else, he observed. Several employees were strenuously making note of circumstance in a usage so earful, the word slid into their ear passages only partially, with part of it left dangling outside, as they delicately tried to shove the balance in with the tips of their fingers.
“Hardly a pleasant stance for a circum,” Dan bitched silently, wondering what to do with his job.
18 January 2012
"What I got for a Mcdonald's"
Daniel Paul Carey.
When I was growing up I had slightly protruding front upper teeth; nothing to horrific, but bad enough for kids to occasionally chuck out a 'buck tooth' chant when they'd run out of abusive things to say about the rest of my appearance.
My lower teeth also had some issues, as they seemed to be fighting to get on top of each other like a pair of wrestlers going for a pin, but rather than giving up on the Count Of 3 they stayed in the same place for 14 years. So when I got to about fourteen it was decided by my dentist and my parents that I was to get a brace.
Before I got my brace I was told I needed to have four teeth removed as the reason my teeth were protruding and sitting on top of each other was because they didn't have room in my gums to sit comfortably, so they were jostling for position like a bunch of grannies in a bus queue.
Off I went to the dentist with my Mum and Dad in hand as they promised me a McDonald’s for being "Mummy’s brave little boy". Thinking back, it amazes me how just the mention of McDonald's made me content to have a 6-inch needle in my mouth, 4 teeth removed and a metal rod placed where my smile used to be, but it appeared to work. It makes me wonder what I would have been willing to go through for a Burger King.
"Daniel" the dentist shouted. Up I jumped and gave him a wave that contained far too much enthusiasm for a boy who was about to have parts of his body removed.
"Lean back and open your mouth please" the dentist advised.
So back I went, laying down in the chair and opening my mouth as wide as I possibly could in the hope that this would mean the dentist or his assistant wouldn't have to delve too far into my gob. I was wrong. In they went, both of them seemingly in competition with each other about who could get the farthest into my mouth, and as they tried to shove every tool they had inside it I got the sense that my gob was quickly becoming a garden shed.
After a few minutes of this rummaging around, like he was trying to find his car keys down the back of the sofa, and after his assistant had stuck a small hoover in my mouth to suck up my saliva and anything else I may have been storing between my teeth after lunch, he leaned back and grabbed the needle. Well, I say needle, but this thing to me looked more like he was preparing to go jousting, and any minute he was going to whack on the medieval armour, jump up on to horse and charge towards my gums.
The dentist’s words, "Little injection, little injection, little injection" kept running through my mind in the hope that, although the needle was like a Marlin's nose, only the tip of it would go in, and then, everything would be fine. But it carried on, farther and farther and farther, until I was at a point where I assumed it had come out the other side of my head, and I was now a kebab.
Now to be honest the pain wasn't horrific. I mean it was bad, but I've had worse since, watching any Nicholas Cage film in the last five years, for example, but more the fact that this wasn't the only injection I was having, and over the course of the next hour I ended up with six. One on each side of my upper and lower gums, then one under my tongue and one in the roof of my mouth. By the end of it, not only was I looking like one of those guys in 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' after they get lobotomized, but I was also, effectively, turning into a kitchen strainer.
All the while the dentist constantly asked me if I was "Okay" whilst he continued to stab me with needles, like he had finally got the opportunity to work on a real life voodoo doll and he wasn't going to waste it.
Once all the injections were done and I was now just a lump of mash potato wearing a school uniform, the dentist went in with his pliers and grabbed hold of the first tooth he wanted to remove. "Are you okay?" he asked. With the injections taking effect my speech slurred, so I just did a Thumbs Up. Off he went wrestling with my tooth like Steve Irwin taking on a crocodile.
After half an hour the first tooth was out, proudly displayed in the forceps by the dentist like I'd just gone through labour and he was presenting my new born baby to me. He then moved on to Number 2 and repeated the process.
Once this second one was out, he declared I'd have to come back in a week’s time for the other two. I knew it would mean another two bouts of the Steve Irwin impression, and potentially another bout of me having more needles in my face than Hellraiser.
Anyway, back I went a week later and repeated it all again.
Even the promised McDonald's didn't materialise, as just like after the first time, the thought of having anything near my mouth was enough to make me want to cry into my cavities.
About the Author: Daniel Paul Carey, 31, an advertising professional, lives in Beckenham, Kent, and works in Central London.
When I was growing up I had slightly protruding front upper teeth; nothing to horrific, but bad enough for kids to occasionally chuck out a 'buck tooth' chant when they'd run out of abusive things to say about the rest of my appearance.
My lower teeth also had some issues, as they seemed to be fighting to get on top of each other like a pair of wrestlers going for a pin, but rather than giving up on the Count Of 3 they stayed in the same place for 14 years. So when I got to about fourteen it was decided by my dentist and my parents that I was to get a brace.
Before I got my brace I was told I needed to have four teeth removed as the reason my teeth were protruding and sitting on top of each other was because they didn't have room in my gums to sit comfortably, so they were jostling for position like a bunch of grannies in a bus queue.
Off I went to the dentist with my Mum and Dad in hand as they promised me a McDonald’s for being "Mummy’s brave little boy". Thinking back, it amazes me how just the mention of McDonald's made me content to have a 6-inch needle in my mouth, 4 teeth removed and a metal rod placed where my smile used to be, but it appeared to work. It makes me wonder what I would have been willing to go through for a Burger King.
"Daniel" the dentist shouted. Up I jumped and gave him a wave that contained far too much enthusiasm for a boy who was about to have parts of his body removed.
"Lean back and open your mouth please" the dentist advised.
So back I went, laying down in the chair and opening my mouth as wide as I possibly could in the hope that this would mean the dentist or his assistant wouldn't have to delve too far into my gob. I was wrong. In they went, both of them seemingly in competition with each other about who could get the farthest into my mouth, and as they tried to shove every tool they had inside it I got the sense that my gob was quickly becoming a garden shed.
After a few minutes of this rummaging around, like he was trying to find his car keys down the back of the sofa, and after his assistant had stuck a small hoover in my mouth to suck up my saliva and anything else I may have been storing between my teeth after lunch, he leaned back and grabbed the needle. Well, I say needle, but this thing to me looked more like he was preparing to go jousting, and any minute he was going to whack on the medieval armour, jump up on to horse and charge towards my gums.
The dentist’s words, "Little injection, little injection, little injection" kept running through my mind in the hope that, although the needle was like a Marlin's nose, only the tip of it would go in, and then, everything would be fine. But it carried on, farther and farther and farther, until I was at a point where I assumed it had come out the other side of my head, and I was now a kebab.
Now to be honest the pain wasn't horrific. I mean it was bad, but I've had worse since, watching any Nicholas Cage film in the last five years, for example, but more the fact that this wasn't the only injection I was having, and over the course of the next hour I ended up with six. One on each side of my upper and lower gums, then one under my tongue and one in the roof of my mouth. By the end of it, not only was I looking like one of those guys in 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' after they get lobotomized, but I was also, effectively, turning into a kitchen strainer.
All the while the dentist constantly asked me if I was "Okay" whilst he continued to stab me with needles, like he had finally got the opportunity to work on a real life voodoo doll and he wasn't going to waste it.
Once all the injections were done and I was now just a lump of mash potato wearing a school uniform, the dentist went in with his pliers and grabbed hold of the first tooth he wanted to remove. "Are you okay?" he asked. With the injections taking effect my speech slurred, so I just did a Thumbs Up. Off he went wrestling with my tooth like Steve Irwin taking on a crocodile.
After half an hour the first tooth was out, proudly displayed in the forceps by the dentist like I'd just gone through labour and he was presenting my new born baby to me. He then moved on to Number 2 and repeated the process.
Once this second one was out, he declared I'd have to come back in a week’s time for the other two. I knew it would mean another two bouts of the Steve Irwin impression, and potentially another bout of me having more needles in my face than Hellraiser.
Anyway, back I went a week later and repeated it all again.
Even the promised McDonald's didn't materialise, as just like after the first time, the thought of having anything near my mouth was enough to make me want to cry into my cavities.
About the Author: Daniel Paul Carey, 31, an advertising professional, lives in Beckenham, Kent, and works in Central London.
9 April 2011
Lemons Hanging From My Bumper
Kim S Macedo.
Ever since i was a child i've heard all sorts of superstitions. Probably because i was born and brought up in India where people believe anything they hear.
I grew up in Bangalore killing donnekatas (chameleons) because it peed on one of the God's feet and so was considered a dirty animal.
Another slimy-looking lizard had to be killed because, apparently, that lizard would grow up to become a snake. It was called the rani saap chipkali (queen snake lizard). This became a major timepass for all of us - being eight years old and an Indian i believed anything i heard.
Next, my friends told me that a creepy looking old lady will come on Amavasya (no-moon night) and tap on everyone's door. If she spotted any children outside she would kidnap them. So i was shitting bricks ever night.
Another story, where, on a full moon night a lady in a white sari would walk the streets asking people for a lift. And the only way you could tell whether this lady was a bhoot (spirit) was by her feet. If they were facing backwards, you better hook it from there before she turns your feet around and you both start doing the moonwalk on a full moon night, backwards, in the opposite direction.
If you wanted to take a pee people would say "Don't pee under a peepal or a mango tree, or you'll get possessed." But if you do end up peeing under either of those trees and the ghosts are trying to take the piss outta you, they said "Better pee in a circle, all the way around you, so the spirits don't enter the boundary of your little toxic stream." So every time I peed under either of those trees I used to do it in circles, which later made me feel like I was playing holi with the ghosts, and the grown ups and ghosts wondered if I was a friggin retard.
Superstitions were associated with everything you did in life. If you broke a mirror, you'd have seven years of bad luck. Now the number of mirrors I've broken in my house; every time I played cricket and football I broke somebody's window pane; now i am counting my shit luck in seven-year terms.
I'd make the sign of the cross or an Om Namah Shivay each time i passed a church or a temple, otherwise i won’t be blessed with jack.
Don't have anything to do with the number 13 i was told. Imagine the guy who is born on the 13th, and it turns out to be a Friday, and his folks name him Jason...I for sure wouldn't want to have anything to do with him.
Never look at your bride’s wedding gown until the day of the wedding or it's major bad luck. As it is whether you look at it or not she's bound to nag you all your life, so don't look at it and add to your misery.
Then there is Karma - what goes around, comes around. You may as well believe in that because, if you act like a stud and go around banging women while your married, someday you'll see 10 comments posted on your wife's wall saying 'I loved the lingerie you wore the other night' with others saying 'me too', 'me too', 'me too', and then you'll have your undies in a knot.
If you buy a car be sure to bless it, especially if you live in Delhi or Dubai. With the number of road accidents happening, I've become so superstitious I feel like employing a priest to drive me around. And I'm glad I live and work in Dubai, else there’d be lemons, chillies and coconuts hanging from my fucking bumper.
Now comes “the don't cut your nails at night” superstition. It's not like your nails are going to grow two inches by 3 am and you become a werewolf. But your nails are long and ugly and you need to be groomed for work the next day, so you cut your nails anyway. The next morning for some reason you’re late to work, your boss is hopping on your arse, the shit luck starts and the superstition comes true.
One very common superstition is "Touch Wood" Anything you do or see or hear, you say 'touch wood.' If one of the guys says, “My car has never given me trouble touch wood,” he'll look around for wood, but in Dubai there's no wood except glass, metal and cement, so his friend, Mr WiseAss, says, “Here, touch paper, it's made of wood.” So instead of breaking the spell and proving this belief all wrong, he's just gone and screwed it worse for all of us.
And so dear people, I know that all of you are from India, so better be sure to forward this story to at least ten people.
Else, your arse is grass.
Ever since i was a child i've heard all sorts of superstitions. Probably because i was born and brought up in India where people believe anything they hear.
I grew up in Bangalore killing donnekatas (chameleons) because it peed on one of the God's feet and so was considered a dirty animal.
Another slimy-looking lizard had to be killed because, apparently, that lizard would grow up to become a snake. It was called the rani saap chipkali (queen snake lizard). This became a major timepass for all of us - being eight years old and an Indian i believed anything i heard.
Next, my friends told me that a creepy looking old lady will come on Amavasya (no-moon night) and tap on everyone's door. If she spotted any children outside she would kidnap them. So i was shitting bricks ever night.
Another story, where, on a full moon night a lady in a white sari would walk the streets asking people for a lift. And the only way you could tell whether this lady was a bhoot (spirit) was by her feet. If they were facing backwards, you better hook it from there before she turns your feet around and you both start doing the moonwalk on a full moon night, backwards, in the opposite direction.
If you wanted to take a pee people would say "Don't pee under a peepal or a mango tree, or you'll get possessed." But if you do end up peeing under either of those trees and the ghosts are trying to take the piss outta you, they said "Better pee in a circle, all the way around you, so the spirits don't enter the boundary of your little toxic stream." So every time I peed under either of those trees I used to do it in circles, which later made me feel like I was playing holi with the ghosts, and the grown ups and ghosts wondered if I was a friggin retard.
Superstitions were associated with everything you did in life. If you broke a mirror, you'd have seven years of bad luck. Now the number of mirrors I've broken in my house; every time I played cricket and football I broke somebody's window pane; now i am counting my shit luck in seven-year terms.
I'd make the sign of the cross or an Om Namah Shivay each time i passed a church or a temple, otherwise i won’t be blessed with jack.
Don't have anything to do with the number 13 i was told. Imagine the guy who is born on the 13th, and it turns out to be a Friday, and his folks name him Jason...I for sure wouldn't want to have anything to do with him.
Never look at your bride’s wedding gown until the day of the wedding or it's major bad luck. As it is whether you look at it or not she's bound to nag you all your life, so don't look at it and add to your misery.
Then there is Karma - what goes around, comes around. You may as well believe in that because, if you act like a stud and go around banging women while your married, someday you'll see 10 comments posted on your wife's wall saying 'I loved the lingerie you wore the other night' with others saying 'me too', 'me too', 'me too', and then you'll have your undies in a knot.
If you buy a car be sure to bless it, especially if you live in Delhi or Dubai. With the number of road accidents happening, I've become so superstitious I feel like employing a priest to drive me around. And I'm glad I live and work in Dubai, else there’d be lemons, chillies and coconuts hanging from my fucking bumper.
Now comes “the don't cut your nails at night” superstition. It's not like your nails are going to grow two inches by 3 am and you become a werewolf. But your nails are long and ugly and you need to be groomed for work the next day, so you cut your nails anyway. The next morning for some reason you’re late to work, your boss is hopping on your arse, the shit luck starts and the superstition comes true.
One very common superstition is "Touch Wood" Anything you do or see or hear, you say 'touch wood.' If one of the guys says, “My car has never given me trouble touch wood,” he'll look around for wood, but in Dubai there's no wood except glass, metal and cement, so his friend, Mr WiseAss, says, “Here, touch paper, it's made of wood.” So instead of breaking the spell and proving this belief all wrong, he's just gone and screwed it worse for all of us.
And so dear people, I know that all of you are from India, so better be sure to forward this story to at least ten people.
Else, your arse is grass.
4 December 2010
If you can’t dream it, then daydream it.
Fritz Gonsalvez
“Pay attention! Come back from the moon,” barked the mathematics tutor while hammering Pythagoras’ theorem into my fiendish little brain.
I came back at the speed of light, but not from moon. Instead, from Centre Court, Wimbledon. I was playing in the 1992 Men’s Singles Championship and the only person standing in between the trophy and me was Andre Agassi. While Princess Diana, Elton John, Naomi Campbell and John Major were seen cheering for the tennis rookie from India.
Daydreaming is the ancient great grandfather of stargazing. It always existed. Then one day an obscure drunkard joined the dots in the sky, drew a creature that was one-quarter man and three quarters horse, gave it bow and arrow, just so it looked cool, and bingo, we have legitimate employment for nursery-failed academicians.
The Centre Court siesta happened when I was in sixth grade. And a lot of daydreaming has happened in between then and now. I played a sold out performance at Woodstock, raised important questions pertaining to national security in parliament, won a noble prize in economics, took part in the Indian independence movement, appeared on the David Letterman Show, commanded the Punjab battalion, coached the women’s hockey team and danced in the rain with a Bollywood bombshell.
And as it normally happens with kids who daydream themselves through school, it happened to me. When I graduated, I didn’t have a bagful of career options or at least not the lucrative ones. So the first job I got was that of a salesman for a cordless phone company. And boy you can daydream about anything but sales figures. My boss single-handedly destroyed my daydreaming socket. From, “Be a man” jargon to, “You can sell this phone to homing pigeon”, he brainwashed me and he succeeded admirably. I started hitting numbers and started believing in reality.
I was wrong. You can take a man out of daydreaming, but it doesn’t work the other way around. So once, while I was getting plain brain fried during a boring sales meeting, I unconsciously slipped into a daydreaming siesta. I imagined myself giving a speech after receiving the “Salesman of the Year” award and thanking the CEO for giving me his daughter’s hand in marriage. My boss caught me red-handed and started blasting me. It felt like he was reading my mind. He screamed, “Hey you? Pay attention.” But it sounded like, “How can you marry the CEO’s daughter, when I am still a bachelor.” Now I might be a daydreamer, but I am also the Honorary Secretary of “The Angry Young Man’s Club.” So, I decided to quit then and there. No one was shocked.
Fast-forward to early 2000. The dotcom bubble had burst but the pipe dream run was still going strong. Nothing exciting was happening, until I saw an advertisement in the newspaper that mentioned about a computer science degree from a reputed university in America, which guaranteed a starting salary of 23 lakhs per annum. This might not sound attractive now, but trust me, it was a lot more convincing back then. I mean it even mentioned the name of the guy who had managed to get such an obnoxious salary. For my daydreaming cells, this news was equivalent to snorting Grade A Cocaine; they started working overtime: First you’ll crack the entrance, then two years for the degree and then a 20,000 square foot mansion with a swimming pool, next to a golf course, right in the middle of Silicon Valley and an American supermodel for your wife - the great American Dream, now in India.
Now, the ”believe in your dreams” rhetoric can best be termed as a “psychobabble cliché,” but believing your daydreams is plain suicide. Especially when the course fee is equivalent to your dad’s pension fund. I took the article to my dad – he asked me whether I was his son. I showed it to my three close friends. They didn’t want to be left behind so they decided to pursue it. But the real reason why they agreed is even worse. Friend number one agreed because he wanted to get married ASAP, friend number two, because his girlfriend was doing better than he was, and friend number three, because all of us were doing it and he had nothing else to do. Now four sets of parents’ pension funds were at stake and the freight train hadn’t even arrived yet. We got through the entrance exam and joined the course. On the first day, the first lecture was on Computer Architecture and the topic was Combinatorial Algorithms. By evening all of us decided to quit. By next week we were home and my dad was minus a few lakhs.
The great American dream disaster shrunk my soul and wallet to miniscule sizes. A man who has nothing will always have a few friends who also have nothing. And all they can do is nothing. Or may be they can have a few drinks. And it was during one of those bingeing sessions that somebody mentioned something about thinking, writing and advertising.
“Hey, you can write?”
“Sure I can and so can a million people.”
“Yes, but they are not funny, you can write humorous stuff, you are a funny man.”
“Sure I’m funny! Everyone’s laughing at me.”
Then he explained to me how his dad’s brother’s youngest son’s friend had once worked as a writer in an ad agency.
“What’s the minimum qualification?"
"Nothing."
“How much do you make?”
“Nothing."
The money is really bad, but there is a lot of job satisfaction.”
“Oh. That’s reassuring.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. The spurious liquor kept me wide awake. I decided to give it a shot. My daydreaming cells weren’t at all warmed up to the idea. But my brain was playing the Rocky III soundtrack. So despite all the rotten luck I had I landed a job in an advertising agency. They offered me a salary that was slightly better than what immigrant labourers make in Ethiopia. The perks included irregular office hours, vernacular profanities, cheap hangovers, perpetual cock talk, no spine, no social life, no family life, no life whatsoever. I still took the job. It’s the only job in which you are paid to think. Heck you don’t even need to think. You can just pretend. And you’ll still get paid.
Got a humour story? I'll publish it here. Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
“Pay attention! Come back from the moon,” barked the mathematics tutor while hammering Pythagoras’ theorem into my fiendish little brain.
I came back at the speed of light, but not from moon. Instead, from Centre Court, Wimbledon. I was playing in the 1992 Men’s Singles Championship and the only person standing in between the trophy and me was Andre Agassi. While Princess Diana, Elton John, Naomi Campbell and John Major were seen cheering for the tennis rookie from India.
Daydreaming is the ancient great grandfather of stargazing. It always existed. Then one day an obscure drunkard joined the dots in the sky, drew a creature that was one-quarter man and three quarters horse, gave it bow and arrow, just so it looked cool, and bingo, we have legitimate employment for nursery-failed academicians.
The Centre Court siesta happened when I was in sixth grade. And a lot of daydreaming has happened in between then and now. I played a sold out performance at Woodstock, raised important questions pertaining to national security in parliament, won a noble prize in economics, took part in the Indian independence movement, appeared on the David Letterman Show, commanded the Punjab battalion, coached the women’s hockey team and danced in the rain with a Bollywood bombshell.
And as it normally happens with kids who daydream themselves through school, it happened to me. When I graduated, I didn’t have a bagful of career options or at least not the lucrative ones. So the first job I got was that of a salesman for a cordless phone company. And boy you can daydream about anything but sales figures. My boss single-handedly destroyed my daydreaming socket. From, “Be a man” jargon to, “You can sell this phone to homing pigeon”, he brainwashed me and he succeeded admirably. I started hitting numbers and started believing in reality.
I was wrong. You can take a man out of daydreaming, but it doesn’t work the other way around. So once, while I was getting plain brain fried during a boring sales meeting, I unconsciously slipped into a daydreaming siesta. I imagined myself giving a speech after receiving the “Salesman of the Year” award and thanking the CEO for giving me his daughter’s hand in marriage. My boss caught me red-handed and started blasting me. It felt like he was reading my mind. He screamed, “Hey you? Pay attention.” But it sounded like, “How can you marry the CEO’s daughter, when I am still a bachelor.” Now I might be a daydreamer, but I am also the Honorary Secretary of “The Angry Young Man’s Club.” So, I decided to quit then and there. No one was shocked.
Fast-forward to early 2000. The dotcom bubble had burst but the pipe dream run was still going strong. Nothing exciting was happening, until I saw an advertisement in the newspaper that mentioned about a computer science degree from a reputed university in America, which guaranteed a starting salary of 23 lakhs per annum. This might not sound attractive now, but trust me, it was a lot more convincing back then. I mean it even mentioned the name of the guy who had managed to get such an obnoxious salary. For my daydreaming cells, this news was equivalent to snorting Grade A Cocaine; they started working overtime: First you’ll crack the entrance, then two years for the degree and then a 20,000 square foot mansion with a swimming pool, next to a golf course, right in the middle of Silicon Valley and an American supermodel for your wife - the great American Dream, now in India.
Now, the ”believe in your dreams” rhetoric can best be termed as a “psychobabble cliché,” but believing your daydreams is plain suicide. Especially when the course fee is equivalent to your dad’s pension fund. I took the article to my dad – he asked me whether I was his son. I showed it to my three close friends. They didn’t want to be left behind so they decided to pursue it. But the real reason why they agreed is even worse. Friend number one agreed because he wanted to get married ASAP, friend number two, because his girlfriend was doing better than he was, and friend number three, because all of us were doing it and he had nothing else to do. Now four sets of parents’ pension funds were at stake and the freight train hadn’t even arrived yet. We got through the entrance exam and joined the course. On the first day, the first lecture was on Computer Architecture and the topic was Combinatorial Algorithms. By evening all of us decided to quit. By next week we were home and my dad was minus a few lakhs.
The great American dream disaster shrunk my soul and wallet to miniscule sizes. A man who has nothing will always have a few friends who also have nothing. And all they can do is nothing. Or may be they can have a few drinks. And it was during one of those bingeing sessions that somebody mentioned something about thinking, writing and advertising.
“Hey, you can write?”
“Sure I can and so can a million people.”
“Yes, but they are not funny, you can write humorous stuff, you are a funny man.”
“Sure I’m funny! Everyone’s laughing at me.”
Then he explained to me how his dad’s brother’s youngest son’s friend had once worked as a writer in an ad agency.
“What’s the minimum qualification?"
"Nothing."
“How much do you make?”
“Nothing."
The money is really bad, but there is a lot of job satisfaction.”
“Oh. That’s reassuring.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. The spurious liquor kept me wide awake. I decided to give it a shot. My daydreaming cells weren’t at all warmed up to the idea. But my brain was playing the Rocky III soundtrack. So despite all the rotten luck I had I landed a job in an advertising agency. They offered me a salary that was slightly better than what immigrant labourers make in Ethiopia. The perks included irregular office hours, vernacular profanities, cheap hangovers, perpetual cock talk, no spine, no social life, no family life, no life whatsoever. I still took the job. It’s the only job in which you are paid to think. Heck you don’t even need to think. You can just pretend. And you’ll still get paid.
Got a humour story? I'll publish it here. Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
30 August 2010
Goodbye People
Abhishek Deshwal – his farewell letter to his colleagues
It might not really matter if I stay or leave but I thought a few words of advice might help (It might also prove that I haven’t entirely wasted my experience here).
Ok, the first thing which I repeatedly tell everyone ‘It’s only advertising and if anything goes wrong, no ones gonna die’. So stop screaming and making a deadline delay sound like the end of the world.
Make sure you’re earning enough. I’m a self-proclaimed history buff and I can show you documents from the Industrial Revolution that concluded if pays are less, people work harder. Since then, the theory has never ceased to be unpopular with corporations. Keep this in mind when slogging your ass in one place for sentimental reasons and compromising on money.
Cut down on smoking. You don’t want a heart attack at 35 right? If you think it’s cool don’t bother.
Try joining a late evening hobby. It’s better than getting frustrated at work and heading to the bar. It also solves two problems:
You stop heading to the bar.
You have a highly motivating reason to finish work early.
Now that I’ve said it, I’m sure it won’t work. You’ll give it up after a month or two. But let me tell you that when I joined evening swimming classes, every evening used to be heavenly. Enjoy it till it lasts. Even if it’s just for a month.
No matter how irritating people in the management are, force yourself to crack jokes with them every time you see them (Don’t bother about the quality; keep the best ones for your buddies). Our industry is small and people do a lot of reference checks. You won’t know how your best interview got fucked.
Do not concentrate on just earning money. I say this for two reasons:
If you get a three bed-room flat in Mumbai, what’s the use if you’re never able to spend time in it?
If you’re logic is you’ll give your kids a better future, chances are that generation will blow all your money on drugs. Keep them poor - they’ll be more serious.
Ok, an extra third one: Weekends in Goa don’t cost much. The train fare is 300 bucks and stay 500 per night.
Remember if you don’t believe in reincarnation, your only life shouldn’t be spent inside air-conditioned, suffocating glass boxes. Work in an agency with balconies.
A few quick ones to score better with the management:
* Carrying a good looking bottle makes you look really important (Don’t ask me how, just look around all those seniors carrying one).
* Also, carry a laptop from one end of office to another and back. It shows you’re really busy with meetings.
* Talk about your work a lot. Even if you feel it’s like bragging that you’re so good at.
* Talk about advertising a lot (Talking about movies is a lot more interesting but people high up are so busy devising new plans to fuck your weekends that they won’t relate).
* Try working late nights rather than early mornings (No one’s there early morning to notice that you’re working hard)
Lastly, all I ask is try not to kill yourself at work, now that I’m not there to show you the path.
Goodbye.
About the Author: Abhishek Deshwal, or Deshu, a Copywriter, is from Dehra Dun. When he speaks, it's like listening to the hills.
It might not really matter if I stay or leave but I thought a few words of advice might help (It might also prove that I haven’t entirely wasted my experience here).
Ok, the first thing which I repeatedly tell everyone ‘It’s only advertising and if anything goes wrong, no ones gonna die’. So stop screaming and making a deadline delay sound like the end of the world.
Make sure you’re earning enough. I’m a self-proclaimed history buff and I can show you documents from the Industrial Revolution that concluded if pays are less, people work harder. Since then, the theory has never ceased to be unpopular with corporations. Keep this in mind when slogging your ass in one place for sentimental reasons and compromising on money.
Cut down on smoking. You don’t want a heart attack at 35 right? If you think it’s cool don’t bother.
Try joining a late evening hobby. It’s better than getting frustrated at work and heading to the bar. It also solves two problems:
You stop heading to the bar.
You have a highly motivating reason to finish work early.
Now that I’ve said it, I’m sure it won’t work. You’ll give it up after a month or two. But let me tell you that when I joined evening swimming classes, every evening used to be heavenly. Enjoy it till it lasts. Even if it’s just for a month.
No matter how irritating people in the management are, force yourself to crack jokes with them every time you see them (Don’t bother about the quality; keep the best ones for your buddies). Our industry is small and people do a lot of reference checks. You won’t know how your best interview got fucked.
Do not concentrate on just earning money. I say this for two reasons:
If you get a three bed-room flat in Mumbai, what’s the use if you’re never able to spend time in it?
If you’re logic is you’ll give your kids a better future, chances are that generation will blow all your money on drugs. Keep them poor - they’ll be more serious.
Ok, an extra third one: Weekends in Goa don’t cost much. The train fare is 300 bucks and stay 500 per night.
Remember if you don’t believe in reincarnation, your only life shouldn’t be spent inside air-conditioned, suffocating glass boxes. Work in an agency with balconies.
A few quick ones to score better with the management:
* Carrying a good looking bottle makes you look really important (Don’t ask me how, just look around all those seniors carrying one).
* Also, carry a laptop from one end of office to another and back. It shows you’re really busy with meetings.
* Talk about your work a lot. Even if you feel it’s like bragging that you’re so good at.
* Talk about advertising a lot (Talking about movies is a lot more interesting but people high up are so busy devising new plans to fuck your weekends that they won’t relate).
* Try working late nights rather than early mornings (No one’s there early morning to notice that you’re working hard)
Lastly, all I ask is try not to kill yourself at work, now that I’m not there to show you the path.
Goodbye.
About the Author: Abhishek Deshwal, or Deshu, a Copywriter, is from Dehra Dun. When he speaks, it's like listening to the hills.
19 July 2010
Why I Left Facebook
Molly Schoemann, New York.
Because every damn time I signed on to Facebook my feed went like this:
[Girl you found distasteful in high school]: Has posted pictures from her wedding!
Click here to view her photos, while wondering if perhaps you misjudged her back in the day. Find photos distasteful, even for wedding photos. Feel slightly depressed, if also vindicated.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is home from work!
[Guy you had several ill-advised hookups with three years ago]: Has compared you to his other friends!
Click here if you find this somehow enraging. Click around some more trying to figure out whom you have been compared with, but give up after a few minutes. Feel somehow violated.
[Girl you know through an ex-boyfriend]: Is a fan of “Bill Withers”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is cooking dinner!
[Girl you were good friends with in 7th grade and haven't talked to since then]: Has sent you a friend request!
Click here to accept her request with enthusiasm. Click here to send a message to this girl, summarizing what you have been up to for the last fifteen years, and asking what she is up to in return. Wait weeks, but never receive a response. Wonder why you even bothered. Feel slightly irritated every time you notice that she is constantly on Facebook.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Hates morning commutes!
[Ex Boyfriend you are no longer in touch with]: Has left a comment on the photo of [some girl you don't know].
Click here, despite your better judgment, to read the comment and look at the photo of the girl, so you can see if she is prettier than you. Decide that she looks kind of dull and is probably not as funny as you either. Wonder why you even care? Feel animosity towards ex-boyfriend for no definable reason.
[Girl you like but haven't talked to in years]: Has thrown an apple at you!
Click here to pointlessly ‘throw’ a random object back at her in lieu of meaningful communication.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is listening to a great album!
[Hipster you are vaguely acquainted with and were always a little scornful of]: Has posted pictures from the album “Amazing Wild New Year’s Blowout Party that was Full of Sexy Hipsters Who Are Cooler than You”.
Click here to view the album. Judge all of the people in it because they are mugging at the camera and attempting to look sexy. Also, everyone is drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and wearing trucker hats. Tell yourself you would rather have spent New Year’s Eve at home on your couch, which is good because that’s what happened. Feel slightly bad about yourself for unexplainable reasons.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is a fan of “Pastrami”.
Click here if you are also a fan of “Pastrami”, because the zany, eclectic things we express fondness for help define us to others.
[Random dude you worked with two jobs ago]: Has given you a Martini!
Click here to ‘give’ a ‘drink’ to [Random Dude you worked with two jobs ago], because that constitutes rewarding social interaction or something.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Loves Grey’s Anatomy!
[Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college]:
Is now listed as ‘Single’.
Feel overwhelmingly curious and slightly appalled that this information was posted on Facebook and now as a result you are pointlessly aware of it.
[Girl who you shared some classes with in college]: Has tagged herself in a photo!
Click here to view the photo and note that while it is flattering, it also looks very little like how you remember the girl actually looking.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is hungry!
[Person you don't know]: Has left a comment on the status of [Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college and is now apparently single]: “Hey! What happened?”
Feel even more appalled that someone would publicly post a brief, impersonal question like that; do they really expect an answer? Well, maybe. After all, what does [Girl who used to be married] expect, after announcing her singleness on Facebook? Begin feeling ill about the whole scenario.
[Guy you are vaguely acquainted with]: is listed as “In a Relationship” with [Girl you have met twice].
Feel faintly surprised at the match, but mostly indifferent. Wonder how [Guy] and [Girl] decided that their relationship had reached the critical “Change Your Facebook Status” level. Speculate as to whether they discussed whether or not to change their Facebook statuses at the same time, and, if not, wonder which of them did it first, and if the one who did it first worried that the other one would feel that it had been done prematurely. Feel slightly depressed by this train of thought.
[Guy you were close to in college but haven't seen in five years]: Has sent you an invitation!
Click here for details on this invitation to “An Awesome Show I’m in that is Happening in a City You Haven’t Lived in Since 1999.” Feel flattered by the invitation, but also confused. You’re probably not going to hop on a plane to see the show of a friend you haven’t spoken with since college. But you still feel too guilty to respond to the invitation with a “No”, so you absurdly put “Maybe”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is beginning to depress you with her constant updates.
Click here to scan through your Facebook friends and realize that very few of them represent actual, current friendships or even associations that you remotely value. In fact your list of contacts feels like an eerie social graveyard of expired friendships, badly ended relationships, and vague, past acquaintances you care very little about. Begin to feel depressed by the fact that so many people have passed in and out of your life without leaving much of an impression on you. Wonder how a website that is so meaningless, vacuous and shallow has become so overwhelmingly popular (particularly with younger generations), and what that means about how we view social interaction today and the direction in which it is going.
Pour yourself a real, actual drink. Note that you have a closer relationship with Jim Beam than with most of your so-called Facebook friends.
Leave Facebook.
About the Author: Molly Schoemann grew up in New York City and began writing humor and satire during her freshman year of college. She is the Humor Editor of The Perpetual Post(http://perpetualpost.com) and is still not sure how she feels about social networking sites. Molly currently lives in Garner, North Carolina.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Because every damn time I signed on to Facebook my feed went like this:
[Girl you found distasteful in high school]: Has posted pictures from her wedding!
Click here to view her photos, while wondering if perhaps you misjudged her back in the day. Find photos distasteful, even for wedding photos. Feel slightly depressed, if also vindicated.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is home from work!
[Guy you had several ill-advised hookups with three years ago]: Has compared you to his other friends!
Click here if you find this somehow enraging. Click around some more trying to figure out whom you have been compared with, but give up after a few minutes. Feel somehow violated.
[Girl you know through an ex-boyfriend]: Is a fan of “Bill Withers”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is cooking dinner!
[Girl you were good friends with in 7th grade and haven't talked to since then]: Has sent you a friend request!
Click here to accept her request with enthusiasm. Click here to send a message to this girl, summarizing what you have been up to for the last fifteen years, and asking what she is up to in return. Wait weeks, but never receive a response. Wonder why you even bothered. Feel slightly irritated every time you notice that she is constantly on Facebook.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Hates morning commutes!
[Ex Boyfriend you are no longer in touch with]: Has left a comment on the photo of [some girl you don't know].
Click here, despite your better judgment, to read the comment and look at the photo of the girl, so you can see if she is prettier than you. Decide that she looks kind of dull and is probably not as funny as you either. Wonder why you even care? Feel animosity towards ex-boyfriend for no definable reason.
[Girl you like but haven't talked to in years]: Has thrown an apple at you!
Click here to pointlessly ‘throw’ a random object back at her in lieu of meaningful communication.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is listening to a great album!
[Hipster you are vaguely acquainted with and were always a little scornful of]: Has posted pictures from the album “Amazing Wild New Year’s Blowout Party that was Full of Sexy Hipsters Who Are Cooler than You”.
Click here to view the album. Judge all of the people in it because they are mugging at the camera and attempting to look sexy. Also, everyone is drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and wearing trucker hats. Tell yourself you would rather have spent New Year’s Eve at home on your couch, which is good because that’s what happened. Feel slightly bad about yourself for unexplainable reasons.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is a fan of “Pastrami”.
Click here if you are also a fan of “Pastrami”, because the zany, eclectic things we express fondness for help define us to others.
[Random dude you worked with two jobs ago]: Has given you a Martini!
Click here to ‘give’ a ‘drink’ to [Random Dude you worked with two jobs ago], because that constitutes rewarding social interaction or something.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Loves Grey’s Anatomy!
[Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college]:
Is now listed as ‘Single’.
Feel overwhelmingly curious and slightly appalled that this information was posted on Facebook and now as a result you are pointlessly aware of it.
[Girl who you shared some classes with in college]: Has tagged herself in a photo!
Click here to view the photo and note that while it is flattering, it also looks very little like how you remember the girl actually looking.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is hungry!
[Person you don't know]: Has left a comment on the status of [Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college and is now apparently single]: “Hey! What happened?”
Feel even more appalled that someone would publicly post a brief, impersonal question like that; do they really expect an answer? Well, maybe. After all, what does [Girl who used to be married] expect, after announcing her singleness on Facebook? Begin feeling ill about the whole scenario.
[Guy you are vaguely acquainted with]: is listed as “In a Relationship” with [Girl you have met twice].
Feel faintly surprised at the match, but mostly indifferent. Wonder how [Guy] and [Girl] decided that their relationship had reached the critical “Change Your Facebook Status” level. Speculate as to whether they discussed whether or not to change their Facebook statuses at the same time, and, if not, wonder which of them did it first, and if the one who did it first worried that the other one would feel that it had been done prematurely. Feel slightly depressed by this train of thought.
[Guy you were close to in college but haven't seen in five years]: Has sent you an invitation!
Click here for details on this invitation to “An Awesome Show I’m in that is Happening in a City You Haven’t Lived in Since 1999.” Feel flattered by the invitation, but also confused. You’re probably not going to hop on a plane to see the show of a friend you haven’t spoken with since college. But you still feel too guilty to respond to the invitation with a “No”, so you absurdly put “Maybe”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is beginning to depress you with her constant updates.
Click here to scan through your Facebook friends and realize that very few of them represent actual, current friendships or even associations that you remotely value. In fact your list of contacts feels like an eerie social graveyard of expired friendships, badly ended relationships, and vague, past acquaintances you care very little about. Begin to feel depressed by the fact that so many people have passed in and out of your life without leaving much of an impression on you. Wonder how a website that is so meaningless, vacuous and shallow has become so overwhelmingly popular (particularly with younger generations), and what that means about how we view social interaction today and the direction in which it is going.
Pour yourself a real, actual drink. Note that you have a closer relationship with Jim Beam than with most of your so-called Facebook friends.
Leave Facebook.
About the Author: Molly Schoemann grew up in New York City and began writing humor and satire during her freshman year of college. She is the Humor Editor of The Perpetual Post(http://perpetualpost.com) and is still not sure how she feels about social networking sites. Molly currently lives in Garner, North Carolina.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
9 July 2010
Just The Kind Of Face You Make
Fritz Gonsalves, New Delhi
“Your dad suffered a heart attack, but he is fine now”. That was my friend calling me at 10 a.m in the morning sometime in April and that was the first time I made this awful fart kind of face.
I allowed the news to sink in and then called up my bother and broke the news to him. There was a 30-second silence and in all probability he was busy making the same face. The next I broke the news to my boss and teammates and in no time they all had the same look on their faces. At once everyone logged on to Cleartrip, Make My Trip and Travelguru to check for cheap airline tickets to Bhopal, my hometown.
By 5-o-clock I was 72, 000 feet in the air and practicing the calm-face look. But I failed miserably. The fart look has taken over my face. By the time I landed it was already 8.00. Dad was in hospital, so I drove straight there. Greeting me at the hospital were our family friends. I was meeting them after a couple of years and because I am terrible at making polite conversation, I had absolutely nothing to say. They took me to the ICU. I saw my old man. He was wearing an oxygen mask and was busy flirting with a Mallu nurse. He looked cheerful, as if he has just found a reason to live. I exchanged some pleasantries, enquired about mom and then got moving. Our family friends took me to the junior doctor and introduced me. Suddenly the same look came over his face. He explained to me the medical condition: “Your dad suffers from myocardial infarction”. I was shocked. So now, apart from a heart attack he also suffers from myocardial infrastructure or whatever. No dumbo, both are the same thing. He didn’t say it. I just figured it by the fart face look.
Now the serious stuff, the plan of action day, the ‘take control and get it right’ stuff. Tomorrow was that day.
The doctors were going to perform angiography and then if need be angioplasty and then if nothing worked, bypass. Now if one is really lucky, and trust me, a lot of heart patients are, angiography is good enough. The doctor injects a dye into the blood vessel and they’ll get to know the exact location of the block. The dye just washes the block away. But if you are not so lucky, which means the block is this mean kid who refuses to go to school, then they inflate the vein and blast it with an air bubble. The block disappears. That’s angioplasty. But if the block belongs to this hard-arse Jat family, notorious for illegally occupying your ancestral property, then it’s time to roll the drums. Bypass, Bypass, Bypass. I somehow had the intuition it was going to be Bypass. My intuition was right.
The next day I met the senior surgeon. And the first word that hit me was ‘saint’. The guy was as white as white cement. I mean apart from his jet-black thinning hair, everything else was white. It’s kind of reassuring when the Surgeon General looks like a saint. But his looks surely got my imagination working. We were given a bypass date, which was still fifteen days away. So I decided to come back to Mumbai for a week and wait, but my dad suffered another myocardial infarction and I ran back home again.
The surgeon decided to advance the surgery. But we still had one week. Now dad still had to kill time and as I’m still single and the private ward was full of caring, homely, unmarried Mullu nurses, he went right into business. No time to waste. “Before the surgeon opens my heart, I’ll make sure my son gives his heart to one of these nurses. Perfect union.” So whenever I was around he would deliberately call the nurse on duty and indulge in polite Mallu conversation. Soon enough, I was acquainted with Jincy, Lincy and Vincy. None excited me. But there was one nurse who had my hormones running and one night when Dad was fast asleep…well forget it, we had work to do … a bypass surgery.
So after another three days in hospital Dad was wheeled inside for the Father of All Surgeries – BYPASS.
Now, bypass is one thing but deciding on a bypass is no kindergarden stuff. So while Dad is busy getting his chest opened, I’ll talk about the things that go into it before the operation. First you have to decide the doctor and the hospital. Everyone I knew had a suggestion regarding the doctor and a hospital. Everyone suggested a doctor who was better than the one mentioned by someone else. Then you have to decide whether to choose beating-heart surgery or silent-heart surgery (I think they are self-explanatory). And finally the legal papers that you are supposed to sign. This basically states that you can’t hold the hospital or doctor responsible for the patient’s death. I signed it.
One of the funniest conversations I have ever heard in my life happened in the waiting room between two middle-aged ladies. One, whose husband was being operated along with my Dad and another whose husband got operated a week back. The woman whose husband was being operated was sobbing silently. Taking pity Mrs. Consolation comes and sits next to her and starts a polite conversation. This was tolerable, but in less than a minute she dropped in a bomb that turned Mrs. Sobbing into a graveyard. It sounded something like this: “Look sister, everything is going to be fine, but God forbid anything goes wrong, then you should think of it like this - that God liked him more that you did and so He decided to take him back. It’s such a blessing.” In flat 5 seconds the sobbing became wailing. Mrs. Consolation realized that she had committed something that closely resembled Honor Killing. So to cover it up she tried another line of consolation: “But you can always meet in the next life; you do believe in rebirth, don’t you? And sometimes the love is so strong that the spirit of the deceased doesn’t even leave. It stays with you”. Honor killing metamorphosed into gruesome first-degree murder and Mrs. Consolation was at it with a vengeance.
Finally after eight agonizing hours Dad was wheeled out. Apparently, the operation only takes two hours; the other six are for the relatives to enjoy first class agony. The bypass was successful. The saint was smiling. Even the husband whose wife bravely survived the honour killing was fine. And my face was back to being a face again.
Got a humour story, send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
“Your dad suffered a heart attack, but he is fine now”. That was my friend calling me at 10 a.m in the morning sometime in April and that was the first time I made this awful fart kind of face.
I allowed the news to sink in and then called up my bother and broke the news to him. There was a 30-second silence and in all probability he was busy making the same face. The next I broke the news to my boss and teammates and in no time they all had the same look on their faces. At once everyone logged on to Cleartrip, Make My Trip and Travelguru to check for cheap airline tickets to Bhopal, my hometown.
By 5-o-clock I was 72, 000 feet in the air and practicing the calm-face look. But I failed miserably. The fart look has taken over my face. By the time I landed it was already 8.00. Dad was in hospital, so I drove straight there. Greeting me at the hospital were our family friends. I was meeting them after a couple of years and because I am terrible at making polite conversation, I had absolutely nothing to say. They took me to the ICU. I saw my old man. He was wearing an oxygen mask and was busy flirting with a Mallu nurse. He looked cheerful, as if he has just found a reason to live. I exchanged some pleasantries, enquired about mom and then got moving. Our family friends took me to the junior doctor and introduced me. Suddenly the same look came over his face. He explained to me the medical condition: “Your dad suffers from myocardial infarction”. I was shocked. So now, apart from a heart attack he also suffers from myocardial infrastructure or whatever. No dumbo, both are the same thing. He didn’t say it. I just figured it by the fart face look.
Now the serious stuff, the plan of action day, the ‘take control and get it right’ stuff. Tomorrow was that day.
The doctors were going to perform angiography and then if need be angioplasty and then if nothing worked, bypass. Now if one is really lucky, and trust me, a lot of heart patients are, angiography is good enough. The doctor injects a dye into the blood vessel and they’ll get to know the exact location of the block. The dye just washes the block away. But if you are not so lucky, which means the block is this mean kid who refuses to go to school, then they inflate the vein and blast it with an air bubble. The block disappears. That’s angioplasty. But if the block belongs to this hard-arse Jat family, notorious for illegally occupying your ancestral property, then it’s time to roll the drums. Bypass, Bypass, Bypass. I somehow had the intuition it was going to be Bypass. My intuition was right.
The next day I met the senior surgeon. And the first word that hit me was ‘saint’. The guy was as white as white cement. I mean apart from his jet-black thinning hair, everything else was white. It’s kind of reassuring when the Surgeon General looks like a saint. But his looks surely got my imagination working. We were given a bypass date, which was still fifteen days away. So I decided to come back to Mumbai for a week and wait, but my dad suffered another myocardial infarction and I ran back home again.
The surgeon decided to advance the surgery. But we still had one week. Now dad still had to kill time and as I’m still single and the private ward was full of caring, homely, unmarried Mullu nurses, he went right into business. No time to waste. “Before the surgeon opens my heart, I’ll make sure my son gives his heart to one of these nurses. Perfect union.” So whenever I was around he would deliberately call the nurse on duty and indulge in polite Mallu conversation. Soon enough, I was acquainted with Jincy, Lincy and Vincy. None excited me. But there was one nurse who had my hormones running and one night when Dad was fast asleep…well forget it, we had work to do … a bypass surgery.
So after another three days in hospital Dad was wheeled inside for the Father of All Surgeries – BYPASS.
Now, bypass is one thing but deciding on a bypass is no kindergarden stuff. So while Dad is busy getting his chest opened, I’ll talk about the things that go into it before the operation. First you have to decide the doctor and the hospital. Everyone I knew had a suggestion regarding the doctor and a hospital. Everyone suggested a doctor who was better than the one mentioned by someone else. Then you have to decide whether to choose beating-heart surgery or silent-heart surgery (I think they are self-explanatory). And finally the legal papers that you are supposed to sign. This basically states that you can’t hold the hospital or doctor responsible for the patient’s death. I signed it.
One of the funniest conversations I have ever heard in my life happened in the waiting room between two middle-aged ladies. One, whose husband was being operated along with my Dad and another whose husband got operated a week back. The woman whose husband was being operated was sobbing silently. Taking pity Mrs. Consolation comes and sits next to her and starts a polite conversation. This was tolerable, but in less than a minute she dropped in a bomb that turned Mrs. Sobbing into a graveyard. It sounded something like this: “Look sister, everything is going to be fine, but God forbid anything goes wrong, then you should think of it like this - that God liked him more that you did and so He decided to take him back. It’s such a blessing.” In flat 5 seconds the sobbing became wailing. Mrs. Consolation realized that she had committed something that closely resembled Honor Killing. So to cover it up she tried another line of consolation: “But you can always meet in the next life; you do believe in rebirth, don’t you? And sometimes the love is so strong that the spirit of the deceased doesn’t even leave. It stays with you”. Honor killing metamorphosed into gruesome first-degree murder and Mrs. Consolation was at it with a vengeance.
Finally after eight agonizing hours Dad was wheeled out. Apparently, the operation only takes two hours; the other six are for the relatives to enjoy first class agony. The bypass was successful. The saint was smiling. Even the husband whose wife bravely survived the honour killing was fine. And my face was back to being a face again.
Got a humour story, send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
27 April 2010
Same Woman. Different Decade.
Omkar Sane, Bombay
Indian advertising has and continues to be chauvinistic. When will the portrayal of women in advertising ever change from the current stereotype? Let’s tackle this issue in the oldest known format: Q & A. Answer as honestly as you can.
Q. What do you think about women?
A. They’re great.
Q. Okay, women in ads, more specifically.
A. They’re unchanged, like Bollywood actresses’ expressions.
Q. Why do you say that?
A. Because in ads they do what our grandmothers did in reality. Smile vacantly, wash clothes, drop children to school, cook, serve tea and bathe babies.
Q. Why are they doing these things?
A. Because men are doing everything else - in ads at least - signing deals, buying cars, going to work, arranging money for children, amongst other things.
Q. What other things?
A. Playing dumb charade on the Indo-Pak border.
Q. So what are women doing in ads?
A. They’re busy getting fairer, working on adding a glow to half their face, protecting themselves from all types of sunrays, waiting for husbands to return home, colouring their hair, fighting early signs of ageing, protecting kids from kitanu, etc.
Q. Okay, why are women doing only this in ads?
A. According to advertising, this is all women do in real life.
Q. But why?
A. It’s simple. Advertising looks at a woman as an object - to be looked at, to be held close, to be kept looking good, shining, kept on the shelf of society. She is either black or white, she can’t have greys.
Q. Why does advertising think so?
A. Because clients think so.
Q. Okay, so why does the client think so?
A. It’s a cycle set by 60 and 70s Indians. Advertising waits for society to create change and then show it. Society hopes advertising will create change by showing it.
Q. So, what’ll change first?
A. The channel you’re surfing.
Q. Which means women will keep doing these things in ads?
A. At least till the Director calls for ‘Cut’.
Q. Who’s the Director?
A. We are. We stop looking at women as an object; they’ll stop
showing her as one. Ads are for us, not them.
Kitanu: meaning germs in Hindi, a dig at the commercials in which women wash away germs from their children's hands.
About the Author: Omkar Sane has written a book on Advertising - Welcome To Advertising, Now Get Lost. He has an art background.
Indian advertising has and continues to be chauvinistic. When will the portrayal of women in advertising ever change from the current stereotype? Let’s tackle this issue in the oldest known format: Q & A. Answer as honestly as you can.
Q. What do you think about women?
A. They’re great.
Q. Okay, women in ads, more specifically.
A. They’re unchanged, like Bollywood actresses’ expressions.
Q. Why do you say that?
A. Because in ads they do what our grandmothers did in reality. Smile vacantly, wash clothes, drop children to school, cook, serve tea and bathe babies.
Q. Why are they doing these things?
A. Because men are doing everything else - in ads at least - signing deals, buying cars, going to work, arranging money for children, amongst other things.
Q. What other things?
A. Playing dumb charade on the Indo-Pak border.
Q. So what are women doing in ads?
A. They’re busy getting fairer, working on adding a glow to half their face, protecting themselves from all types of sunrays, waiting for husbands to return home, colouring their hair, fighting early signs of ageing, protecting kids from kitanu, etc.
Q. Okay, why are women doing only this in ads?
A. According to advertising, this is all women do in real life.
Q. But why?
A. It’s simple. Advertising looks at a woman as an object - to be looked at, to be held close, to be kept looking good, shining, kept on the shelf of society. She is either black or white, she can’t have greys.
Q. Why does advertising think so?
A. Because clients think so.
Q. Okay, so why does the client think so?
A. It’s a cycle set by 60 and 70s Indians. Advertising waits for society to create change and then show it. Society hopes advertising will create change by showing it.
Q. So, what’ll change first?
A. The channel you’re surfing.
Q. Which means women will keep doing these things in ads?
A. At least till the Director calls for ‘Cut’.
Q. Who’s the Director?
A. We are. We stop looking at women as an object; they’ll stop
showing her as one. Ads are for us, not them.
Kitanu: meaning germs in Hindi, a dig at the commercials in which women wash away germs from their children's hands.
About the Author: Omkar Sane has written a book on Advertising - Welcome To Advertising, Now Get Lost. He has an art background.
7 April 2010
Anything that’s worse is better
Anupam Basu, Bombay
The human race has perfect explanations to everything that goes on. It's not that we have the answers, we just have good justifications. They are not based on science, fact, logic, or, for that matter, on hate, love or other such emotions. Just this: beyond a point we do not want to have much to do with them.
I list here a few of the many platitudes we love to believe in.
There is a God
This is the answer to everything. It's simple: I am not responsible for what is happening to me. There is a God to take care of things. Whatever He says goes. So if someone has to be responsible it has to be God. Since no one has really spoken to Him, it is convenient to name Him for everything that is happening. And He has never said He is not responsible for it, so He is responsible. No one since the dawn of man has ever had any argument against this upward delegation. Period.
There will be a right time
When you have not got what you want, don't analyze and break your head over it. There will be a right time for it. If you don't get your afternoon siesta during the week, wait for the weekend. If you didn't get that hot girl at 30, go to Thailand at 60 and you will get a hot one to make you feel 30.
If you are constipated in the morning, wait. Sometime in the near future your body will tell you when the right time is.
If you lament “The right time never came”, the answer is “There will be a right time.” Personally, I find this platitude liberating; it takes the pressure off me. I could be a loser all my life with my wife telling me all the time: “There will be a right time”.
Once my boss asked, “Why did you not meet the deadline?” I replied, “There will be a right time.” That she didn't take it too kindly is beside the point.
It could have been a lot worse
Of course it could have been. When you are stuck in traffic, remember it could be a lot worse - you could be in a bar that’s run out of electricity and is serving you warm beer. When you fall into a ditch be happy you don't have an alligator for company. In short, you need to be happy in your present state of misery.
Everything happens for the better
If your girlfriend dumps you your friends will say, “It happened for the better”. If, after some days, she makes up with you, they will again say, “It happened for the better”.
“How can two contradictory outcomes of the same situation, both happen for the better?” I wonder. “One of them should’ve happened for the worse.”
But my friends have a reply: “The one that happened for the worse happened for the better.”
“Oh really? My girlfriend can’t make up her mind”, I say. “That is most certainly for the better”, they say.
About the Author: Anupam Basu is a young Advertising Copywriter from Mumbai, now writing ad film scripts.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
The human race has perfect explanations to everything that goes on. It's not that we have the answers, we just have good justifications. They are not based on science, fact, logic, or, for that matter, on hate, love or other such emotions. Just this: beyond a point we do not want to have much to do with them.
I list here a few of the many platitudes we love to believe in.
There is a God
This is the answer to everything. It's simple: I am not responsible for what is happening to me. There is a God to take care of things. Whatever He says goes. So if someone has to be responsible it has to be God. Since no one has really spoken to Him, it is convenient to name Him for everything that is happening. And He has never said He is not responsible for it, so He is responsible. No one since the dawn of man has ever had any argument against this upward delegation. Period.
There will be a right time
When you have not got what you want, don't analyze and break your head over it. There will be a right time for it. If you don't get your afternoon siesta during the week, wait for the weekend. If you didn't get that hot girl at 30, go to Thailand at 60 and you will get a hot one to make you feel 30.
If you are constipated in the morning, wait. Sometime in the near future your body will tell you when the right time is.
If you lament “The right time never came”, the answer is “There will be a right time.” Personally, I find this platitude liberating; it takes the pressure off me. I could be a loser all my life with my wife telling me all the time: “There will be a right time”.
Once my boss asked, “Why did you not meet the deadline?” I replied, “There will be a right time.” That she didn't take it too kindly is beside the point.
It could have been a lot worse
Of course it could have been. When you are stuck in traffic, remember it could be a lot worse - you could be in a bar that’s run out of electricity and is serving you warm beer. When you fall into a ditch be happy you don't have an alligator for company. In short, you need to be happy in your present state of misery.
Everything happens for the better
If your girlfriend dumps you your friends will say, “It happened for the better”. If, after some days, she makes up with you, they will again say, “It happened for the better”.
“How can two contradictory outcomes of the same situation, both happen for the better?” I wonder. “One of them should’ve happened for the worse.”
But my friends have a reply: “The one that happened for the worse happened for the better.”
“Oh really? My girlfriend can’t make up her mind”, I say. “That is most certainly for the better”, they say.
About the Author: Anupam Basu is a young Advertising Copywriter from Mumbai, now writing ad film scripts.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
17 November 2009
Save Conversations, Recycle Them
Kim S Macedo
It’s a weekend.
We guys meet at a friend’s place and start to catch up. Suddenly one guy says, “Did you see that car parked down the road?” One car freak will give you the car’s history, “Yeah, it’s a 1969 Ford Mustang Shelby.”
And so it starts.
While everyone is talking about cars, one guy is looking at the TV in the background. He’s watching a scene from a movie. He diverts everyone's attention, “Guys, you must watch ‘Gone in 60 seconds’. It’s a crazy ass movie.” One after the other the guys go “Dude watch this film”, “Watch that film”
How well guys change subjects … now everyone's watching the TV.
There's an interval and ad's are showing. A Pepsi commercial appears. Messi, Rooney, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Beckham, Raul, Henry are playing a game. There the guys go again. “Dude yaw’ll saw last week’s game between Barcelona & Man U? Barca kicked ass.” Another guy says: “Screw Barca. Wait till they meet Chelsea, then we shall see.” As the football topic continues the ad changes; it’s another Pepsi ad but a cricket version. Then the guys go “Dude India”, “Dude Pakistan”, “Dude West Indies” and the ad is over.
There's silence for a few seconds…everyone’s waiting for the next subject.
One guy speaks: “Dude, some hot chicks in this building man. I came up in the lift with 3 sizzling Lebanese and Moroccan chicks.” Another guy says, “Hookers Dude.” The first guy says: “Whatever dude, they're hot.” Another guy says” “That's nothing, where I work there are these hot Russian chicks.” Another guy, "Dude, Indian chicks." This carries on for chicks of every nationality.
A guy’s mobile rings. He's got a Nokia E-71. Another says: “Nice phone dude I like this one.” Another guy says immediately, “Nokia is so common.” Another guy says: “Touch phones suck.” All agree.
Guy talk goes best with drinking. And it’s a weekend, remember.
One guy starts, as he asks for the bottle, “Guys yaw'll should try Johnnie Walker Gold, it’s smooth.” Another guy says, “Gold's great, but Blue is better.” Another guy says, “You should try chilly Tequillas, Zambukas & Kamikaze's. You won’t know whether it’s morning or night.” Then to prove everybody ignorant, another guy says, “Yaw’ll should try Absent. All of you will be gone till November."
The drinks have hit everyone and the boys are a little serious. Now the subject is work.
Everyone starts asking each other, “Dude what do you do? The boys are tipsy so you get shitty answers like: ‘I do you’ or ‘I do the Dew.’ This pisses off some guys. So one guy says, “No seriously, what do you do?” One says Auto Industry, one says Marine, one Freight, one Travel, one Banking and so on. But for some freakin’ reason everyone’s in Sales and the mood is not upbeat all around due to the recession.
Then a new topic arrives after 6 pegs. Everyone wants to be entrepreneurs.
Then the guys feel hungry. “Let’s go out”, says one. They take their cars out. One takes a Dodge, one takes a Jag, one takes a Chevy, one takes a Lexus. When they reach the restaurant, guess what they’re talking about? Cars. All start with their shit like 5.7 Hemi, V8, 0-60, 1969, 2010 Supercharged and on and on and on.
Guy conversations are about Cars, Chicks, Movies, Sports, Gadgets, Booze, now and then, Business & Work.
It’s the same, weekend after weekend, until we’re 75 years and all in a ‘Home For The Aged’… one ol’ bugger there will start, "My son's got the latest Harley D."
It’s a weekend.
We guys meet at a friend’s place and start to catch up. Suddenly one guy says, “Did you see that car parked down the road?” One car freak will give you the car’s history, “Yeah, it’s a 1969 Ford Mustang Shelby.”
And so it starts.
While everyone is talking about cars, one guy is looking at the TV in the background. He’s watching a scene from a movie. He diverts everyone's attention, “Guys, you must watch ‘Gone in 60 seconds’. It’s a crazy ass movie.” One after the other the guys go “Dude watch this film”, “Watch that film”
How well guys change subjects … now everyone's watching the TV.
There's an interval and ad's are showing. A Pepsi commercial appears. Messi, Rooney, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Beckham, Raul, Henry are playing a game. There the guys go again. “Dude yaw’ll saw last week’s game between Barcelona & Man U? Barca kicked ass.” Another guy says: “Screw Barca. Wait till they meet Chelsea, then we shall see.” As the football topic continues the ad changes; it’s another Pepsi ad but a cricket version. Then the guys go “Dude India”, “Dude Pakistan”, “Dude West Indies” and the ad is over.
There's silence for a few seconds…everyone’s waiting for the next subject.
One guy speaks: “Dude, some hot chicks in this building man. I came up in the lift with 3 sizzling Lebanese and Moroccan chicks.” Another guy says, “Hookers Dude.” The first guy says: “Whatever dude, they're hot.” Another guy says” “That's nothing, where I work there are these hot Russian chicks.” Another guy, "Dude, Indian chicks." This carries on for chicks of every nationality.
A guy’s mobile rings. He's got a Nokia E-71. Another says: “Nice phone dude I like this one.” Another guy says immediately, “Nokia is so common.” Another guy says: “Touch phones suck.” All agree.
Guy talk goes best with drinking. And it’s a weekend, remember.
One guy starts, as he asks for the bottle, “Guys yaw'll should try Johnnie Walker Gold, it’s smooth.” Another guy says, “Gold's great, but Blue is better.” Another guy says, “You should try chilly Tequillas, Zambukas & Kamikaze's. You won’t know whether it’s morning or night.” Then to prove everybody ignorant, another guy says, “Yaw’ll should try Absent. All of you will be gone till November."
The drinks have hit everyone and the boys are a little serious. Now the subject is work.
Everyone starts asking each other, “Dude what do you do? The boys are tipsy so you get shitty answers like: ‘I do you’ or ‘I do the Dew.’ This pisses off some guys. So one guy says, “No seriously, what do you do?” One says Auto Industry, one says Marine, one Freight, one Travel, one Banking and so on. But for some freakin’ reason everyone’s in Sales and the mood is not upbeat all around due to the recession.
Then a new topic arrives after 6 pegs. Everyone wants to be entrepreneurs.
Then the guys feel hungry. “Let’s go out”, says one. They take their cars out. One takes a Dodge, one takes a Jag, one takes a Chevy, one takes a Lexus. When they reach the restaurant, guess what they’re talking about? Cars. All start with their shit like 5.7 Hemi, V8, 0-60, 1969, 2010 Supercharged and on and on and on.
Guy conversations are about Cars, Chicks, Movies, Sports, Gadgets, Booze, now and then, Business & Work.
It’s the same, weekend after weekend, until we’re 75 years and all in a ‘Home For The Aged’… one ol’ bugger there will start, "My son's got the latest Harley D."
20 October 2009
I think I should get married for their sake.
Fritz Gonsalves, Bombay
I’m 30, unmarried and I’m quite happy. But there is this bunch of people who have lost their sleep because I’m still unmarried. I never imagined that being a bachelor would be the cause for concern in the lives of so many people.
Now I’m not perturbed or pissed with anyone. I think I have given them the right to be concerned about me but, at the same time, I have completely forgotten to mention the areas in which they needn’t sweat over me.
What I find amusing is the kind of arguments I get to hear from them. From the stated to the bizarre. And I’ve heard them for so long now that I am writing a post about it for Desmond’s Blog. Darn, my life, nothing but a post on Desmond’s Blog.
Let me start with my married-for-27-years-aunt from Kerala. She got married when I was 3 years old and at that time her husband was working in Dubai. I’m 30 now, he is still working in Dubai, she is still in Kerala, and they are still married. Every year my uncle would fly down with four big suitcases jam packed with Lux international soap, Colgate toothpaste (written in Arabic), stacks of ball-point pens, curtains, bed sheets, chocolates, perfume, Tang orange juice, Citizen and Casio watches and every Malayali household’s favorite Panasonic two-in-one cassette player. Somewhere during these annual trips two lovely daughters happened.
Wow. Talk about long distance relationships not working, we’ve got a long-distance marriage that only God knows how it has worked for so long. Imagine this aunt trying to sell the idea of marriage to me. Like Osama trying to explain non-violence. The first thought that hit me was, “Are you even qualified for this job aunty, because your resume yells something else”. I didn’t ask her the question - I didn’t want to break her illusion of Happily Married Forever. I don’t know whether denial is powerful, but it sure can make long-distance marriages work.
Now most people might question me: “Who are you to conclude that they are not happily married?” Okay, I’m just a post on Desmond’s Blog.
She tried every trick to convince me. “A new person will enter your life and change you destiny” and “This is God’s will”. Nothing moved me. Then she tried her luck with “I want to see you married before I die”. Are you kidding? She must be in her early fifties, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, goes to church every Sunday, sings Carols during Christmas, healthier than Tropicana’s Carrot & Beetroot Juice. She is going to be around for a long time.
From my aunt, let’s move to my folks back home. My Dad believes that only faith can sort this stalemate so he has planned a pilgrimage for the family. My mom on the other hand is more concerned about material possessions. She’s clear in her head: no marriage plans will be finalized until a new modular kitchen is installed. So, for the time being, mom is on my side.
Next my younger brother and my cousin. Once I was in the middle of a trying film shoot and my brother called up. He said, “Big brother, get married”. I was too tired to reply so he kept repeating the same line for ten minutes. He lacks convincing skills.
But it’s my cousin brother who came up with this masterstroke. “Get married early. This way you won’t be too old to play cricket with your son.” he said. Wow. That’s some foresight. What if he decides to become an umpire and not a cricketer?
But the mother of all arguments came from my friend’s wife. She said, “Being married is better than being bachelor”. For a second I slipped into a coma. She sounded so cocksure, like she was quoting the Supreme Court verdict in the now-famous Mr. Bachelor Vs Union of India case, the judgment that was passed on the Sixth Day of August, 2009.
I started digging into my grey cells for a back answer. Anything…a quote, a saying, a theorem, Indian Penal Code, any words of wisdom...nothing came to my rescue. My mind denied me a back answer to her rationale. I looked at my friend who was sitting next to her. He had this look on his face which said, “I want to go home to mummy”. Call it a divine intervention, his Mom called at that moment and I was saved the shame of not having an answer.
It’s been three months now, I still don’t have one.
The Underground Writers' Blog is looking for humour writers. Send your story to dezymacedo@gmail.com
I’m 30, unmarried and I’m quite happy. But there is this bunch of people who have lost their sleep because I’m still unmarried. I never imagined that being a bachelor would be the cause for concern in the lives of so many people.
Now I’m not perturbed or pissed with anyone. I think I have given them the right to be concerned about me but, at the same time, I have completely forgotten to mention the areas in which they needn’t sweat over me.
What I find amusing is the kind of arguments I get to hear from them. From the stated to the bizarre. And I’ve heard them for so long now that I am writing a post about it for Desmond’s Blog. Darn, my life, nothing but a post on Desmond’s Blog.
Let me start with my married-for-27-years-aunt from Kerala. She got married when I was 3 years old and at that time her husband was working in Dubai. I’m 30 now, he is still working in Dubai, she is still in Kerala, and they are still married. Every year my uncle would fly down with four big suitcases jam packed with Lux international soap, Colgate toothpaste (written in Arabic), stacks of ball-point pens, curtains, bed sheets, chocolates, perfume, Tang orange juice, Citizen and Casio watches and every Malayali household’s favorite Panasonic two-in-one cassette player. Somewhere during these annual trips two lovely daughters happened.
Wow. Talk about long distance relationships not working, we’ve got a long-distance marriage that only God knows how it has worked for so long. Imagine this aunt trying to sell the idea of marriage to me. Like Osama trying to explain non-violence. The first thought that hit me was, “Are you even qualified for this job aunty, because your resume yells something else”. I didn’t ask her the question - I didn’t want to break her illusion of Happily Married Forever. I don’t know whether denial is powerful, but it sure can make long-distance marriages work.
Now most people might question me: “Who are you to conclude that they are not happily married?” Okay, I’m just a post on Desmond’s Blog.
She tried every trick to convince me. “A new person will enter your life and change you destiny” and “This is God’s will”. Nothing moved me. Then she tried her luck with “I want to see you married before I die”. Are you kidding? She must be in her early fifties, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, goes to church every Sunday, sings Carols during Christmas, healthier than Tropicana’s Carrot & Beetroot Juice. She is going to be around for a long time.
From my aunt, let’s move to my folks back home. My Dad believes that only faith can sort this stalemate so he has planned a pilgrimage for the family. My mom on the other hand is more concerned about material possessions. She’s clear in her head: no marriage plans will be finalized until a new modular kitchen is installed. So, for the time being, mom is on my side.
Next my younger brother and my cousin. Once I was in the middle of a trying film shoot and my brother called up. He said, “Big brother, get married”. I was too tired to reply so he kept repeating the same line for ten minutes. He lacks convincing skills.
But it’s my cousin brother who came up with this masterstroke. “Get married early. This way you won’t be too old to play cricket with your son.” he said. Wow. That’s some foresight. What if he decides to become an umpire and not a cricketer?
But the mother of all arguments came from my friend’s wife. She said, “Being married is better than being bachelor”. For a second I slipped into a coma. She sounded so cocksure, like she was quoting the Supreme Court verdict in the now-famous Mr. Bachelor Vs Union of India case, the judgment that was passed on the Sixth Day of August, 2009.
I started digging into my grey cells for a back answer. Anything…a quote, a saying, a theorem, Indian Penal Code, any words of wisdom...nothing came to my rescue. My mind denied me a back answer to her rationale. I looked at my friend who was sitting next to her. He had this look on his face which said, “I want to go home to mummy”. Call it a divine intervention, his Mom called at that moment and I was saved the shame of not having an answer.
It’s been three months now, I still don’t have one.
The Underground Writers' Blog is looking for humour writers. Send your story to dezymacedo@gmail.com
22 July 2009
One Day We All Met On Facebook
[Some days ago a few of us friends met on Facebook. Save a few spellchecks and minor editing, this is a pristine account of what started in the Status Box of Desmond Macedo, followed by comments]
Desmond Macedo
Now we can stop complaining about lack of rain and start complaining about floods; after the floods come, we can complain about poor administration to tackle the floods. July 8 at 10:48am
Ayesha Maya, Rochelle Potkar and Fritz Gonsalves like this.
Kashyap Joshi
By the time we finish doing all that, we'll have the October heat again to grumble about. July 8 at 10:54am
Desmond Macedo
And then we will complain about a late winter, or no winter at all. July 8 at 11:01am
Kashyap Joshi
And in winter we'll complain about colds and fevers and throat infections. July 8 at 11:08am
Desmond Macedo
And how pollution, too, is adding to the problem. July 8 at 11:20am
Fritz Gonsalves
And then we'll be so sick of complaining that we'll start complaining about everybody complaining all the time. July 8 at 11:42am
Desmond Macedo
And newspaper columnists will write about how we Indians are very good at complaining...meanwhile, we are already complaining about a water shortage and how people are using three buckets of water each to wash thier cars. July 8 at 11:51am
Shilpa Doshi
Sure enough...now that you have complained, drawing attention to the fact that a car can be washed in less than 3 buckets. Will try to find out how many buckets my car washer boy uses and give him some gyaan (scientific advice)....if needed. Long live the complainer! Anything to disassist Global Warming! July 8 at 11:55am
Kashyap Joshi
And then the residents of Bandra will light candles in their balconies and pray so people stop complaining. July 8 at 12:19pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that no one is paying heed to their complaints. July 8 at 12:24pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then advertising agencies will be inspired by all the complaining so they'll make campaigns like "Complain India" and "If India Complains India will Progress" and contests like "Complain Boy & Complain Girl" sponsored by Compla(i)n. July 8 at 12:25pm
Desmond Macedo
The VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that Advertising Companies in India are glorifying the plight of the comman man. July 8 at 12:45pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then the political parties will propose a Bill to give 33% Reservation to all those who complain... soon Mayawati will ask for 10% additional reservation for Dalit Complainers, Lallu Yadav for Bhaiya Complainers, Jamait-e-whatever for Muslim Complainers, Catholic Sabah for Catholic Complainers (Protestants, Syrian Marthoma, Jacobites, Pentecosts … too bad, you need to get organised), and then the RSS and VHP will complain that the majority is being sidelined to please the minority and start burning buses, about which everybody else will complain. July 8 at 3.07pm
Hemant Shringy
And then advertising agencies will complain about not having creative liberties.. . and Madhur Bhandarkar will make a realistic movie about the complaints that the Advertising Industry has. That's when the agency people will complain about being stereotyped about their genuine complaints. July 8 at 3:09pm
Desmond Macedo
Meanwhile, the Mumbaikar has forgotten about his first complaint, about the lack of rain, and then the floods, but he is happy that he has a new complaint, that political parties are turning complainers into Vote Banks. July 8 at 3:31pm
Priyankaa Jain
How can u guys forget Facebook. There will be QUIZZES, WHAT KIND OF COMPLAINER ARE YOU? July 8 at 3:42pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then the PM will come on FB where he will get msgs like "Fritz Gonsalves has poked the Prime Minister with a complaint." July 8 at 3:51pm
Priyankaa Jain
Users will complain about FB not having enough quizzes for them to take. July 8 at 4:05pm
Kashyap Joshi
By then parents, colleges and institutions will complain that teenagers are spending too much time complaining on FB. July 9 at 3:30pm
Kashyap Joshi
And by now, my boss has pretty much started complaining that I'm spending too much time on FB complaining. July 9 at 3:30pm
Desmond Macedo
Perhaps you should complain that he is complaining about you. July 9 at 4:12pm
Priyankaa Jain
OR u cud complain about getting unnecessary advice from DESMOND MACEDO. July 9 at 5:03pm
Preeti Sharma
Huh? No one's complaining that we have not met in a long time? July 9 at 5:12pm
End
Desmond Macedo
Now we can stop complaining about lack of rain and start complaining about floods; after the floods come, we can complain about poor administration to tackle the floods. July 8 at 10:48am
Ayesha Maya, Rochelle Potkar and Fritz Gonsalves like this.
Kashyap Joshi
By the time we finish doing all that, we'll have the October heat again to grumble about. July 8 at 10:54am
Desmond Macedo
And then we will complain about a late winter, or no winter at all. July 8 at 11:01am
Kashyap Joshi
And in winter we'll complain about colds and fevers and throat infections. July 8 at 11:08am
Desmond Macedo
And how pollution, too, is adding to the problem. July 8 at 11:20am
Fritz Gonsalves
And then we'll be so sick of complaining that we'll start complaining about everybody complaining all the time. July 8 at 11:42am
Desmond Macedo
And newspaper columnists will write about how we Indians are very good at complaining...meanwhile, we are already complaining about a water shortage and how people are using three buckets of water each to wash thier cars. July 8 at 11:51am
Shilpa Doshi
Sure enough...now that you have complained, drawing attention to the fact that a car can be washed in less than 3 buckets. Will try to find out how many buckets my car washer boy uses and give him some gyaan (scientific advice)....if needed. Long live the complainer! Anything to disassist Global Warming! July 8 at 11:55am
Kashyap Joshi
And then the residents of Bandra will light candles in their balconies and pray so people stop complaining. July 8 at 12:19pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that no one is paying heed to their complaints. July 8 at 12:24pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then advertising agencies will be inspired by all the complaining so they'll make campaigns like "Complain India" and "If India Complains India will Progress" and contests like "Complain Boy & Complain Girl" sponsored by Compla(i)n. July 8 at 12:25pm
Desmond Macedo
The VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that Advertising Companies in India are glorifying the plight of the comman man. July 8 at 12:45pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then the political parties will propose a Bill to give 33% Reservation to all those who complain... soon Mayawati will ask for 10% additional reservation for Dalit Complainers, Lallu Yadav for Bhaiya Complainers, Jamait-e-whatever for Muslim Complainers, Catholic Sabah for Catholic Complainers (Protestants, Syrian Marthoma, Jacobites, Pentecosts … too bad, you need to get organised), and then the RSS and VHP will complain that the majority is being sidelined to please the minority and start burning buses, about which everybody else will complain. July 8 at 3.07pm
Hemant Shringy
And then advertising agencies will complain about not having creative liberties.. . and Madhur Bhandarkar will make a realistic movie about the complaints that the Advertising Industry has. That's when the agency people will complain about being stereotyped about their genuine complaints. July 8 at 3:09pm
Desmond Macedo
Meanwhile, the Mumbaikar has forgotten about his first complaint, about the lack of rain, and then the floods, but he is happy that he has a new complaint, that political parties are turning complainers into Vote Banks. July 8 at 3:31pm
Priyankaa Jain
How can u guys forget Facebook. There will be QUIZZES, WHAT KIND OF COMPLAINER ARE YOU? July 8 at 3:42pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then the PM will come on FB where he will get msgs like "Fritz Gonsalves has poked the Prime Minister with a complaint." July 8 at 3:51pm
Priyankaa Jain
Users will complain about FB not having enough quizzes for them to take. July 8 at 4:05pm
Kashyap Joshi
By then parents, colleges and institutions will complain that teenagers are spending too much time complaining on FB. July 9 at 3:30pm
Kashyap Joshi
And by now, my boss has pretty much started complaining that I'm spending too much time on FB complaining. July 9 at 3:30pm
Desmond Macedo
Perhaps you should complain that he is complaining about you. July 9 at 4:12pm
Priyankaa Jain
OR u cud complain about getting unnecessary advice from DESMOND MACEDO. July 9 at 5:03pm
Preeti Sharma
Huh? No one's complaining that we have not met in a long time? July 9 at 5:12pm
End
29 March 2009
Mothers of Sons
Preeti Sharma.
"It's a boy."
That statement sets off a series of lifelong changes for a mother whose apron strings gently, but tenaciously, wind themselves around the tiny boy-child's body. Her heartbeat resigns itself to be wholly dependent on his, her self-worth now judged only by sacrifices she can make for him, her heart vows to cook his favourite foods, wash his clothes, keep shrewd girls (that includes all girls, duh) away from him and keep track of his multiple fungal infections until her own body is lowered six feet under.
Her dying breath will be all about who will comb her baby boy's hair just right and who will heat milk with turmeric for him, every morning. Meanwhile, the baby boy who may have just celebrated his 38th birthday will sit wondering morosely, darn it, ‘who will take my clothes to the laundry and wash me behind my ears?’ He may also realise sadly that he will have to be nicer to his wife (yes, she does exist, but you wouldn't know it) because she would now go from being part of the wallpaper to being his surrogate mother.
I wonder about mothers who are obsessed with their sons. Take my friend Ashish's mother:
"I am telling Ashish to get married," says Mrs. Girodia.
"Does he have a girl in mind?" I ask cautiously.
"No, no, I only will select the girl for him. Problem is he is so good looking and smart, any girl will be so lucky to have him", she says and her eyes glaze over him as if she has inhaled Grade A cocaine.
I look at Ashish closely: he still looks like a mouse with constipation. The last time he smiled was 2004.
"There are very few boys like him now," she says wistfully. I nod wisely and bite my tongue.
Ashish got married 8 months later. His poor wife looks only downwards now and his mother is still the only woman in his life.
It's much more pragmatic with girls. True, many mothers are obsessed with their daughters' virtue (sic), but there comes a point when mothers just let their daughters be. They are allowed to manage their own eating habits, pack their own suitcases and make their own beds. Show me a twenty-five year old fellow living at home, and I'll show you a mother who is still making his bed.
My friend Prerna had a child very young, but she got married recently to a man in his 40s. She ended up learning all about men only after they were married.
- His mother irons his underwear.
- His mother goes with him for his physicals with the doctor, irrespective of the body part being examined.
- His mother decides when he needs privacy and when not. She questions why the door to his room stays locked longer these days.
- His mother needs to be the last person to hug him before he leaves the house. She says it brings him good luck. As far as Prerna can see, it has caused him to lose two jobs, one car and one expensive watch.
"Why is she so damn possessive of him?", Prerna fumes.
I cannot answer because I am now distracted by what Prerna is doing. She irons her fourteen-year old son's underwear. As he bounds into the room she hands him a freshly ironed one, still hot, and looks at him with abandon joy before he disappears to change. Why do mothers think their sons' underwear should be like a chappati, best when it's hot. Since everyone is in the throes of maternal love I refrain from pointing out what warm underwear can do his sperm levels.
And so the circle of possessive and obsessive mothers continues.
"My son is very fond of me. He calls me every week from London." Her son has taken truckloads of money from her, claiming to study in London. His phone calls are camouflaged requests for money.
"All the girls who meet my son want to marry him. But that silly boy is so romantic. He is still looking for that special someone." He has been rejected by over twenty five girls because he proudly informs them that his mother, occasionally, still ties his shoe laces for him.
“When I’m around my son lets me do everything for him.” He is actually useless at all times, but his mother will never get it.
"My son is so good looking. A little plump but so handsome. He looks
just like me." Mother and son are both 110 kgs. Nothing personal against weight, but I have yet to find a mother who says her 110-kg daughter is so good looking.
A relative sums it up. She has a twenty-eight year old son who travels the world, sits at board meetings, manages mind-boggling dating schedules. Yet, she needs to tell him when to change his bedsheets (sheesh…you would think a Standford MBA would have enough common sense to tell a dirty sheet from a clean one) and then, before he can move his lazy arse, she has already jumped up and done it for him and is basking in the gratitude she imagines she can see in his eyes.
"If I can do it, he cannot."
Famous words from the proud momma.
About the Author: Preeti Sharma is a runner up of the last Humour Story Contest.
"It's a boy."
That statement sets off a series of lifelong changes for a mother whose apron strings gently, but tenaciously, wind themselves around the tiny boy-child's body. Her heartbeat resigns itself to be wholly dependent on his, her self-worth now judged only by sacrifices she can make for him, her heart vows to cook his favourite foods, wash his clothes, keep shrewd girls (that includes all girls, duh) away from him and keep track of his multiple fungal infections until her own body is lowered six feet under.
Her dying breath will be all about who will comb her baby boy's hair just right and who will heat milk with turmeric for him, every morning. Meanwhile, the baby boy who may have just celebrated his 38th birthday will sit wondering morosely, darn it, ‘who will take my clothes to the laundry and wash me behind my ears?’ He may also realise sadly that he will have to be nicer to his wife (yes, she does exist, but you wouldn't know it) because she would now go from being part of the wallpaper to being his surrogate mother.
I wonder about mothers who are obsessed with their sons. Take my friend Ashish's mother:
"I am telling Ashish to get married," says Mrs. Girodia.
"Does he have a girl in mind?" I ask cautiously.
"No, no, I only will select the girl for him. Problem is he is so good looking and smart, any girl will be so lucky to have him", she says and her eyes glaze over him as if she has inhaled Grade A cocaine.
I look at Ashish closely: he still looks like a mouse with constipation. The last time he smiled was 2004.
"There are very few boys like him now," she says wistfully. I nod wisely and bite my tongue.
Ashish got married 8 months later. His poor wife looks only downwards now and his mother is still the only woman in his life.
It's much more pragmatic with girls. True, many mothers are obsessed with their daughters' virtue (sic), but there comes a point when mothers just let their daughters be. They are allowed to manage their own eating habits, pack their own suitcases and make their own beds. Show me a twenty-five year old fellow living at home, and I'll show you a mother who is still making his bed.
My friend Prerna had a child very young, but she got married recently to a man in his 40s. She ended up learning all about men only after they were married.
- His mother irons his underwear.
- His mother goes with him for his physicals with the doctor, irrespective of the body part being examined.
- His mother decides when he needs privacy and when not. She questions why the door to his room stays locked longer these days.
- His mother needs to be the last person to hug him before he leaves the house. She says it brings him good luck. As far as Prerna can see, it has caused him to lose two jobs, one car and one expensive watch.
"Why is she so damn possessive of him?", Prerna fumes.
I cannot answer because I am now distracted by what Prerna is doing. She irons her fourteen-year old son's underwear. As he bounds into the room she hands him a freshly ironed one, still hot, and looks at him with abandon joy before he disappears to change. Why do mothers think their sons' underwear should be like a chappati, best when it's hot. Since everyone is in the throes of maternal love I refrain from pointing out what warm underwear can do his sperm levels.
And so the circle of possessive and obsessive mothers continues.
"My son is very fond of me. He calls me every week from London." Her son has taken truckloads of money from her, claiming to study in London. His phone calls are camouflaged requests for money.
"All the girls who meet my son want to marry him. But that silly boy is so romantic. He is still looking for that special someone." He has been rejected by over twenty five girls because he proudly informs them that his mother, occasionally, still ties his shoe laces for him.
“When I’m around my son lets me do everything for him.” He is actually useless at all times, but his mother will never get it.
"My son is so good looking. A little plump but so handsome. He looks
just like me." Mother and son are both 110 kgs. Nothing personal against weight, but I have yet to find a mother who says her 110-kg daughter is so good looking.
A relative sums it up. She has a twenty-eight year old son who travels the world, sits at board meetings, manages mind-boggling dating schedules. Yet, she needs to tell him when to change his bedsheets (sheesh…you would think a Standford MBA would have enough common sense to tell a dirty sheet from a clean one) and then, before he can move his lazy arse, she has already jumped up and done it for him and is basking in the gratitude she imagines she can see in his eyes.
"If I can do it, he cannot."
Famous words from the proud momma.
About the Author: Preeti Sharma is a runner up of the last Humour Story Contest.
27 February 2009
People who honk are horny
Ammi Maru.
Mumbai: In the recent past people in Mumbai are hearing less of oohs & aahs and more of peep peeps and pom poms. According to a survey conducted by AMRA (Ammi Maru Reaserch Agency), lack of sex is adding to the noise levels in Mumbai. In a citywide survey, it has been observed that people deprived of sex are more prone to honking. This has increased the noise pollution, especially in major traffic zones to alarming, or rather deafening, levels.
When questioned about this unusual finding, the Chief Research Officer commented: “It is common knowledge that sex is one of the greatest stress relievers. It helps you get rid of your pent up energy, aggression and/or frustrations, leaving you lighter and happier.
Now there is a big group of people, especially men, who are just not getting enough of it. Or, none at all. These people use honking as a release. Imagine, you get up fresh and happy in the morning, get ready, have breakfast and leave for work, all full of energy. And there comes the traffic jam. So what happens to all the energy? You honk it away!
But if you have had good hanky-panky the previous evening, you will reminisce about it sitting in the jam. Or, you will be busy kissing your partner, if he/she is riding with you. The same goes for any other stressful situation.
The analysis was also supported by observations regarding vehicle type, horn quality and tone, and frequency & length of each honk. Initial observations had shown rickshaw drivers most prone to honking. But careful study revealed that bikers were really the deprived ones and hence, the cause of all this noise.
AMRA has also deduced that the way people honk show the extent of sex deprivation.
Adding a final comment, the Chief Research Officer had a special request for the general public. “If you want a reduction in noise pollution levels, then let the loudest and persistent honker rush to his/her destination. And pray that he/she is rushing there to get laid. Amen.”
The AMRA has submitted the full report of the survey to the Underground Writers Group. They will propose a plan that will aim to create more noise in the bedroom and less on the roads.
About the Author: Ammi Maru is an Art Director in Advertising, the first art person to write a story here.
Want to write a humour story? Go ahead, send it to me at: dezymacedo@gmail.com
Mumbai: In the recent past people in Mumbai are hearing less of oohs & aahs and more of peep peeps and pom poms. According to a survey conducted by AMRA (Ammi Maru Reaserch Agency), lack of sex is adding to the noise levels in Mumbai. In a citywide survey, it has been observed that people deprived of sex are more prone to honking. This has increased the noise pollution, especially in major traffic zones to alarming, or rather deafening, levels.
When questioned about this unusual finding, the Chief Research Officer commented: “It is common knowledge that sex is one of the greatest stress relievers. It helps you get rid of your pent up energy, aggression and/or frustrations, leaving you lighter and happier.
Now there is a big group of people, especially men, who are just not getting enough of it. Or, none at all. These people use honking as a release. Imagine, you get up fresh and happy in the morning, get ready, have breakfast and leave for work, all full of energy. And there comes the traffic jam. So what happens to all the energy? You honk it away!
But if you have had good hanky-panky the previous evening, you will reminisce about it sitting in the jam. Or, you will be busy kissing your partner, if he/she is riding with you. The same goes for any other stressful situation.
The analysis was also supported by observations regarding vehicle type, horn quality and tone, and frequency & length of each honk. Initial observations had shown rickshaw drivers most prone to honking. But careful study revealed that bikers were really the deprived ones and hence, the cause of all this noise.
AMRA has also deduced that the way people honk show the extent of sex deprivation.
Adding a final comment, the Chief Research Officer had a special request for the general public. “If you want a reduction in noise pollution levels, then let the loudest and persistent honker rush to his/her destination. And pray that he/she is rushing there to get laid. Amen.”
The AMRA has submitted the full report of the survey to the Underground Writers Group. They will propose a plan that will aim to create more noise in the bedroom and less on the roads.
About the Author: Ammi Maru is an Art Director in Advertising, the first art person to write a story here.
Want to write a humour story? Go ahead, send it to me at: dezymacedo@gmail.com
27 January 2009
My feet taste really good
Fritz Gonsalves.
Before I start, let me clarify that I hold no prejudice against any community, religion and ethnic group. Indeed, there are only two things that enjoy my biased hatred - cats and bananas. But the brain is a different ball game. It can manufacture new opinions and perceptions at will. One bad incident and it cooks up a new one. And then the mouth awaits eagerly for the flimsiest of provocations to vomit it.
In my case the problem is further aggravated because I suffer from the my-feet-taste-really-good syndrome; it’s basically a version of foot-in-the-mouth disease and just as incurable.
The story starts with Raj Thackeray’s anti-Bhaiya rhetoric. I don’t subscribe to it. But it takes only one tiring day, a rude auto rickshaw driver to create a new opinion. So, on one real painful day I’m waiting for a rickshaw to go back home. It’s not quite late, but I’m dead tired. And the waiting is taking its toll on me. Finally one arrives, I ask him to take me to Andheri station, he replies back in his Bihari tone, “Nahi jana”. I ask why. He says, because he doesn’t feel like it. At that moment I loose my temper, I start abusing him, he starts abusing me. I start hitting him, he starts ducking. After sometime we are tired and decide to part ways. The altercation leaves me even more tired. I decide to walk up to my friends place and crash there.
Once at my friend’s place my anger subsides. My friend, his wife and I enjoy a hearty dinner. And as it was still early to sleep, I decide to read the newspaper. That’s when a common friend of ours rings the doorbell. Accompanying him are his wife, younger brother, cousin brother and cousin younger-brother. We know all of them, so it's cool. There was only one problem - they were all from Bihar and somehow it slipped my mind.
We all chatted for some time, had a few rounds of whisky and then the conversation turned to taxi drivers in Singapore. (The visiting friend had just returned from Singapore.) He told us how he was overcharged and duped by a taxi driver in Singapore. He also says the taxi driver was rude. This was the sign I needed to vent my anger again. I started then and there, “I am sure the taxi driver must have been a Bihari…bastards always over charge and behave as if they doing us a favour... sala you need to beg them…bh*****od, everyone of them should be given solid phatka on his head.”
I didn’t stop there.
My victims were no longer restricted to rickshaw driver. The whole of Bihar became the target of my foul-mouthed abuse. I spared none: Yadav, Singh, Kumars, Lalu, Patna, Chat Puja, Dhobies, Uncle, Aunties, everyone. I went on and on. Not realizing even once that majority of people in the room were Biharis.
Anyways, I finally stopped, emptied another glass of whiskey and went to sleep. The next day my friend’s wife innocently asked me, “Do you have any clue what you did yesterday?” I pretended to be thinking. I looked at my friend, he was smiling. “You were abusing the whole of Bihar,” he said. “Ya! So I had reasons!” I spat back. He said, “And where do you think all our friends are from?”
Oh shit, oh shit! I really felt sorry. I thought I should call and apologise, but my friend said, “Look they understood it wasn’t personal. You were just venting your anger on a rickshaw driver. I think its cool, just don’t do it again. And if you do, don’t do it in my place.”
I said I’m sorry and decided to be careful.
Fast forward to first weekend of the new-year. A Bengali friend of ours decided to throw a weekend party. Unlimited booze and unlimited chatting. We are all bashing Mr. George Bush. It was my turn to say something. I started, “The problem with Bush is that he is from Texas. Now you see Texas is basically the Bhi”…pause…longer pause…I froze…looked at my friend…he had this ‘not-again-dude’ look…he knew exactly what was coming out of my mouth. I looked at my Bihari friend, he was telepathically saying, “This time you are dead.” Another friend of mine was giggling. I was in this about-to-vomit position with a complicated ‘Bhi’ hanging loose from my mouth.
I still had to complete the sentence. Others were waiting. I quickly started looking for option. B stands for Bombay, Broadway, Bimbisaar Nagar, Bhilai, Bingo, Bishen Singh Bedi, Biwi ho toh aisi, Biwandi, Brinjal..…nothing could replace Bihar.
There is only one Bihar and there is only one Texas. And in my inebriated opinion, you can only interchange them with each other. There is no other replacement.
That’s when a guardian angel appeared and whispered something to me.
I had no other option. I had to un-swallow my foot. “Yes, yes, exactly, it’s like Bhopal. Y’know, small town and stuff, inhabited by uncivilized people and assholes.” Everyone else agreed.
I saved my skin just in time. My friend eyes were saying, “So, smart ass, nikal gayi sab akad?” I smiled back and quietly went to refill my glass.
My friend and I are both from Bhopal.
(nikal gayi sab akad?....means, all your pomp and pride has vanished?)
About the Author: Fritz Gonsalves is a writer with O&M. In his free time he is a food critic and a very precise food critic - he don't go looking for adjectives to descibe food; he just eats it.
Announcement: Contest coming up. Details below.
Before I start, let me clarify that I hold no prejudice against any community, religion and ethnic group. Indeed, there are only two things that enjoy my biased hatred - cats and bananas. But the brain is a different ball game. It can manufacture new opinions and perceptions at will. One bad incident and it cooks up a new one. And then the mouth awaits eagerly for the flimsiest of provocations to vomit it.
In my case the problem is further aggravated because I suffer from the my-feet-taste-really-good syndrome; it’s basically a version of foot-in-the-mouth disease and just as incurable.
The story starts with Raj Thackeray’s anti-Bhaiya rhetoric. I don’t subscribe to it. But it takes only one tiring day, a rude auto rickshaw driver to create a new opinion. So, on one real painful day I’m waiting for a rickshaw to go back home. It’s not quite late, but I’m dead tired. And the waiting is taking its toll on me. Finally one arrives, I ask him to take me to Andheri station, he replies back in his Bihari tone, “Nahi jana”. I ask why. He says, because he doesn’t feel like it. At that moment I loose my temper, I start abusing him, he starts abusing me. I start hitting him, he starts ducking. After sometime we are tired and decide to part ways. The altercation leaves me even more tired. I decide to walk up to my friends place and crash there.
Once at my friend’s place my anger subsides. My friend, his wife and I enjoy a hearty dinner. And as it was still early to sleep, I decide to read the newspaper. That’s when a common friend of ours rings the doorbell. Accompanying him are his wife, younger brother, cousin brother and cousin younger-brother. We know all of them, so it's cool. There was only one problem - they were all from Bihar and somehow it slipped my mind.
We all chatted for some time, had a few rounds of whisky and then the conversation turned to taxi drivers in Singapore. (The visiting friend had just returned from Singapore.) He told us how he was overcharged and duped by a taxi driver in Singapore. He also says the taxi driver was rude. This was the sign I needed to vent my anger again. I started then and there, “I am sure the taxi driver must have been a Bihari…bastards always over charge and behave as if they doing us a favour... sala you need to beg them…bh*****od, everyone of them should be given solid phatka on his head.”
I didn’t stop there.
My victims were no longer restricted to rickshaw driver. The whole of Bihar became the target of my foul-mouthed abuse. I spared none: Yadav, Singh, Kumars, Lalu, Patna, Chat Puja, Dhobies, Uncle, Aunties, everyone. I went on and on. Not realizing even once that majority of people in the room were Biharis.
Anyways, I finally stopped, emptied another glass of whiskey and went to sleep. The next day my friend’s wife innocently asked me, “Do you have any clue what you did yesterday?” I pretended to be thinking. I looked at my friend, he was smiling. “You were abusing the whole of Bihar,” he said. “Ya! So I had reasons!” I spat back. He said, “And where do you think all our friends are from?”
Oh shit, oh shit! I really felt sorry. I thought I should call and apologise, but my friend said, “Look they understood it wasn’t personal. You were just venting your anger on a rickshaw driver. I think its cool, just don’t do it again. And if you do, don’t do it in my place.”
I said I’m sorry and decided to be careful.
Fast forward to first weekend of the new-year. A Bengali friend of ours decided to throw a weekend party. Unlimited booze and unlimited chatting. We are all bashing Mr. George Bush. It was my turn to say something. I started, “The problem with Bush is that he is from Texas. Now you see Texas is basically the Bhi”…pause…longer pause…I froze…looked at my friend…he had this ‘not-again-dude’ look…he knew exactly what was coming out of my mouth. I looked at my Bihari friend, he was telepathically saying, “This time you are dead.” Another friend of mine was giggling. I was in this about-to-vomit position with a complicated ‘Bhi’ hanging loose from my mouth.
I still had to complete the sentence. Others were waiting. I quickly started looking for option. B stands for Bombay, Broadway, Bimbisaar Nagar, Bhilai, Bingo, Bishen Singh Bedi, Biwi ho toh aisi, Biwandi, Brinjal..…nothing could replace Bihar.
There is only one Bihar and there is only one Texas. And in my inebriated opinion, you can only interchange them with each other. There is no other replacement.
That’s when a guardian angel appeared and whispered something to me.
I had no other option. I had to un-swallow my foot. “Yes, yes, exactly, it’s like Bhopal. Y’know, small town and stuff, inhabited by uncivilized people and assholes.” Everyone else agreed.
I saved my skin just in time. My friend eyes were saying, “So, smart ass, nikal gayi sab akad?” I smiled back and quietly went to refill my glass.
My friend and I are both from Bhopal.
(nikal gayi sab akad?....means, all your pomp and pride has vanished?)
About the Author: Fritz Gonsalves is a writer with O&M. In his free time he is a food critic and a very precise food critic - he don't go looking for adjectives to descibe food; he just eats it.
Announcement: Contest coming up. Details below.
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