Desicritics Category: Culture: Satire

Comic Strip: It's Not A Lie If It Makes Someone Happy

IdeaSmith — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 10:30:22 EDT

Well, what else is a woman to do?

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Heard the Divine Music of Love Lately?

Fleiger — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 15:04:31 EST

Recently, I was waiting for a bus when a car stopped near me. A beauty looked at me, and smiled...

... and music blared around me. I smiled back at her...

... and got out my iPod to lower the volume so it would leave my eardrums intact.

It happens to all of us. We all go through the life waiting for The One. And we all know at his/her entry, the God will give us a clue in the universal language (not math, you idiot, the other universal language).

And one day it happens. A vision from heaven steps in front of you, heralded by an orchestra. You can't see anything except her, and she is rendered in soft focus (even though your glasses are smudge-free). But when a mistake can make a target for a #7 sandal with heels, you have to be completely sure that she is The One For You.

The quick and easy method to being "Completely Sure It's The Right Person" is presented as a simple-to-follow flowchart (click to enlarge). Follow these steps before you do anything :

Did you reach F14? Good, now look up. If the girl is still there, it is because:
a. She is really into you
b. She is following the above steps. Wait for her to finish.

In either case, congrats! You may just have found the love of your life.

What to do next? Try A Guide to The First Date, A Single Guy's Guide to 14th February.

Till next time...

Novice Interpretation of Dreams

Suresh Naig — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 05:12:35 EST

Do dreams have meanings? This single question had generated many answers in the past and I am sure many more are in the queue. Many a time a single dream would throw different meanings, and all the meanings might appear right. I started reading many books to understand my dreams, but the more I read the more I was confounded and I solicited the views of many learned pundits to decipher my dreams.

Had it not been for the recurrent dream, I would have stayed happy like all my other friends, singing duets with Hemamalini and Waheeda Rehman, around a tree. My dream was like a cardiologist’s expression of a certain heart condition- "regularly irregular", in haunting me.

For a very long time, I used to get up in the middle of a night, soaked in sweat. I used to dream an elephant chasing me and my feet stuck in ground like an automobile stuck in slush, not in a position to move. By the time the elephant comes menacingly close to me, I used to get up from the bed soaked in sweat. The dream was recurrent for two reasons, primarily because of my fear of the huge animal and secondly, not even once I had allowed the dream to complete, by waking up in the dead of night. Taking pity on me, a wise man in our neighbourhood, who was respected for his divine disposition, advised me to visit a local Ganesha temple regularly for 21 days to rid of my haunting and incomplete dream. Closing his eyes in trance, he pronounced that I had left a vow unfulfilled in my earlier birth to Lord Ganesha, which gets reminded in this birth through the haunting dream.

My visits to the Ganesha temple had to be abandoned in less than two weeks, since the regularity of my elephantine dream increased with my regular visits to the temple. The wise man was very creative like all soothe Sayers, he declared, ‘God wants your previous karma to linger for some more time and that’s why you could not complete your 21 days visit to the temple’, which I believed for a long time, until I came across a well read person with a scientific bent of mind, who believed little in God and very little in previous births.

He narrated the famous dream of Singer, which was instrumental in perfecting the sewing machine. He said, ‘Singer had perfected everything other than the needle for the sewing machine. He was confused as how to mount the needle in sewing machine, which had a hole at its hind portion. One night he dreamt, that he lost his way in a forest and surrounded by aborigines. He suddenly woke up and got an answer for his pressing problem, because he saw all the aborigines were carrying spears, with a hole in the front.’ My session stopped with him as abruptly as it started, from his very first proclamation. He told me with an air of superiority, ‘all your dreams, I am sure would have been only in black and white and never it was colourful.’ He had only reproduced what he had imbibed from many books and had it not been for the timing, he would have succeeded in convincing me.

Only the previous night than his pronouncement, I had dreamt Rakhi attired beautifully in a pink coloured saree confusing me sufficiently, since that saree was the favourite of the most favourite girl in our neighbourhood. As I grew in age my fear transformed to inquisitiveness, to find the climax of my dream which was prolonging like the never ending TV serial, but to no avail. The dream had abruptly stopped, queerly coinciding with my marriage. However I could not muster enough courage to discuss the haunting dream and the timing of its culmination, to my healthy wife who always considered an hour-glass figure as unhealthy.

There was one dream which turned out profitable for me, due to an innocent interpretation by a wealthy aunt of mine. When I narrated a phenomenal dream of mine, of visiting a temple in a wooded area on a river bank, and curiously worshipping the presiding deity carved out of an onion, my aunt became emotional and said that her family deity, “Marthanda Bairava”, who is fond of accepting onion as offering, had blessed me through my dream. That dream was phenomenal, as it bestowed on me a sizable inheritance from her, but the real reason for that dream was due to my unusually high quantity of raw onions ingested during dinner from a Marwari Bhojanalya and going to bed without brushing.

Mangalore: Special Insider's Report by PM, Head of the SRSena

annamma — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 14:36:41 EST

A report on our heroic actions in Protecting Indian culture

What, you are tired of reading about our sanskriti? How unpatriotic of you! I do not accept that. Unless you want me to send our Moral Sena to your house, kindly do not speak against Indian sanskriti. Do you not know that we have the oldest, the most holy, the most family-oriented sanskriti in the world? We - my friends and I - will defend our sanskriti against all such pseudo-secular people as you; we are not scared even if you are girls. We will deal with all who threaten Indian culture. I think the majority of people on Desicritics will need to be dealt with. Some are all alright, we will spare them.

Yes, so let me describe to you our heroic feat in Mangalore. We understood from some time that immoral activities were going on in this pub. You say it was a lounge bar? I do not understand what is a lounge; we were told it is a pub. We do not want all these pubs; imagine men and women mixing together shamelessly, drinking foreign liquor, and the girls wearing short skirts, and lipstick. This is not Bharatiya sanskriti. Only toddy should be drunk, and only men can drink. And no mixing. If you want to see girls, go and see a Bollywood movie. They wear short skirts also, and lipstick; there's no need to see real girls.

And dancing! We heard there was dancing going on there sometimes also. That was when we decided to take action. How can we permit such goings-on? You want to dance, go to a wedding, go with the barat. Or go to a religious festival, and dance with the procession. Or go and see a Bollywood movie, where there are so many nice dances. Even Tollywood will do. But to go to a pub, and dance, boys and girls together. That is not permitted in Indian sanskriti.

So we went to the pub, thirty of us. There were some guys with cameras who came with us, I don't know why. They said they wanted to get photos; I thought OK, since if our brave effort is aired on TV, more people would be warned about how dangerous these things are for Indian culture, and also our party leaders would be pleased, and they would know I am the right guy to lead our area shakha. Also, I had left another party which also carries out such activities, and it is always good to let the competition know your capability.

You should have seen those girls. Sitting and standing there so shamelessly, pretending to be so innocent. Pretending that they were just having lunch! They were wearing jeans and shirts, imagine. I gave the order to get them out. Two of the pub employees tried to stop us, huge fellows, but we were able to deal with them. Then the girls started running, but good thing, we were so many they were no match for us. Two of us caught one girl, she had a fancy bob cut, we slapped her so hard she started crying. It is better she cries now, than later, right? One fell down, and we pushed her out. Another had her hair all down her back, long hair, the shameless hussy. We beat her, too. She didn't dare show her face to us, just ran. I told you, they were no match for our brave volunteers.

Molesting? What molesting? We did not molest anyone. When the Hindu said we groped a girl, it is all lies by these pseudo-secular newspapers. We had to hold them tightly to force them to get out of the place, that's all. By God, it was all in a brotherly way.

I am really glad I have done my bit for Indian sanskriti. I do not mind if I have to go to jail. No cost is too high for keeping our sanskriti pure. What is our next project? Good question. I am thinking of getting together some volunteers and stopping the karate classes being held in the convent school near our shakha. It is shameful the way they are teaching karate to our children. Violence is not part of our sanskriti.

Spice, Spouse & Migraine

Suresh Naig — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 11:15:47 EST

After my graduation, when I was inducted into pharma sales, I started learning enthusiastically little bit of human physiology, anatomy and pharmacology, besides the nuances involved in pharma selling. I was enthusiastic since I misread the title of a book given to me as Anatomy and Physiology of Nurses instead of the original title Anatomy and Physiology for Nurses.

Though my stint in pharma selling was brief, it taught me some valuable lessons in tiding over difficult situations. I don’t know whether to owe it to my acquired knowledge of pharmaceuticals or sales, or a combination of both.

Having conditioned and indoctrinated for long in class-room training, where one training manager would have a field’s day on several new recruits in a classroom; and field training, where a manager would convert the filed into an improvised classroom; I was compelled to learn that my product was the best. As an ideal student, I learned to believe that everything pertaining to me was the best including my health, which obviated the need for me to experiment the medicines I sold, contributing to my sound health in turn.

One of the medicines I promoted to the doctors, to be tried on unsuspecting public was a brand intended to relieve the symptoms associated with Migraine. It had a combination of all possible poisonous substances, major being “ergotamine”, which is derived from the fungus infected “ergot of rye”, which has the capacity to shrink blood vessels, technically known as vasoconstrictors. By constricting the dilated arteries to the head, which had caused that pounding head-ache known as throbbing, this medicine, I was taught to believe has the capacity to alleviate the headache due to migraine. To improve the veracity of sales statements, I was briefed to caution the doctors, that this medicine should not be prescribed during pregnancy and as a standard procedure, not more than four tablets per day and not more than ten tablets in a week should be prescribed for all others.

In the 80s during the first trimester of pregnancy, my wife had severe bouts of migraine one night, demanding me to give the medicine for migraine, which was in my possession as physician’s sample. Her migraine had numbed all her other mental faculties, whereas it had sharpened my bluffing skills, so as to save the foetus growing in her womb from drug induced abnormalities. Without switching on the lights of the bedroom, I stomped to the store room, where I had kept all the physician’s samples. After getting what I was searching for, I walked up to the bedroom and made her swallow two tablets with a cup of water, without switching on the lights of the bedroom. After half an hour she felt the head-ache was tolerable and went back to sleep. What I gave her that night, was not the medicine intended for migraine, but a “placebo”; again a valuable information I picked up during the training programme. Placebo is a blank drug without any therapeutic action, used in double blind trials, to evaluate the true physiological potential of a drug against the false psychological effects. The two tablets I gave to my wife were nothing but B-complex supplements.

Though I could avoid a potential disaster by administering a “placebo” to my wife during her pregnancy, her migraine continued to be a cause for my head-ache. She tried different medicines and therapies, ranging from Ayur Veda, Homeopathy, Unani, Siddha, and Reiki, which made many practitioners richer by knowledge and purse, but she continued to suffer from frequent bouts of migraine.

One doctor with a scientific bent of mind suggested her to keep a tab of food she consumed, so that he could discover the food item which triggered her migraine. My wife picked up abundant knowledge about migraine from him, and she learnt that migraine could be classified into different categories such as, hunger triggered migraine, food triggered migraine, tension triggered migraine and at time certain spices too trigger migraines. His logic was to identify the trigger of migraine, so that it could be avoided to avoid migraine.

Her methodical documentation of food and spices eaten was of little use, since the doctor could not peg a single food or spice to her migraine. After eliminating many food items including spices, as the source for her migraine, the doctor concluded “tension” as the causative factor for her migraine, and my wife concluded “spouse” as the causative factor for tension.

After so much of research, she concluded that migraine could never be cured but could be avoided, and realised the spouse can neither be cured nor avoided. She started believing in the dictum “what cannot be cured should be endured”.

A chance discovery of mine rescued her from the sufferings of migraine. When tried on her, the associated complaints of throbbing headache, nausea, photophobia and spousophobia of migraine dramatically stopped, relieving my head-aches too. One day I told her that migraine afflicts only intelligent people, her face brightened like a thousand watt incandescent bulb. Her joy was twofold, since science declared her to be intelligent and more so because I don’t get bouts of migraine.

Does Palmistry Work?

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 00:19:06 EST

Does Palmistry Work? The answer is yes. You can predict behaviour based upon certain medico-engineering facts based upon your hand measurements. But a bit of history before this. Once upon a time, in the dim and distant past, I was laid up on a hospital bed for months on end. At that time, I was handed a copy of Cheiro's Palmistry book. As it so happens, its available on Project Gutenberg as a free downloadable e-book. Knock yourself out. At that time, I was a spotty teenager and soon got into it. Besides the obvious benefits of getting to hold women's hands and saying profound but totally BS stuff that spotty teenagers do to impress girls, it was fun.

But I did dig around a bit about this palmistry business. Did you know this stuff emerged from India from our old friend, Valmiki? Who wrote a treatise on this subject. But two things sort of made Palmistry a bit of sense to me. The first was that after my accident and being on crutches for well over 18 months made the lines of my hand change. I had a different palm line structure in 1987 and by 1988, the lines on my right hand were significantly different from what they were before.

Second was a scientific explanation. Did you know that the palm area is one of areas of the skin which has the highest density of nerve endings? Given that you and your behaviour is driven quite significantly by your nervous system, it made sense to understand that the lines made on the palm have something to do with the nerve endings and thus have some predictive ability.

Also, let us not forget the fact that the development of the opposable thumb is one indication of the difference between us and the animals. The very fact that we have opposable thumbs means that we have fine motor skills and our intellectual development path has diverged from the animals. For example, the fact that we have a thumb means that writing is possible. So, our hands and digits do have "stuff" to do with our own personal development. But I am slightly drifting from the point.

But its a childish pursuit, fit only for people who are not confident enough to rely on their own skills but require confirmation from others. That's what I thought about the range of studies relating to jewels, palmistry, astrology, numerology and the like (even though I ended up studying them way too much, but then, you dont have much option when you are stiffed inside the hospital bed for months on end).

But others do believe in it. My own marriage came nearly a cropper when my father in law spotted the length of the fingers on my right hand. See above on the fingers of my right hand (its on the left) (and no jokes on hairy hobbit hands and feet, I have heard them all!). The middle and ring fingers are roughly of equal length, in fact, the ring finger is slightly longer even than the middle finger as is the case on my right hand. Guess what he said? He said that people with that condition are great gamblers. He gave me a very suspicious look and mumbled something about how his daughter will be married to a gambler and how that's not good and and and. Close shave, I tell you, I had to talk very quickly. But he still gives me a pained look whenever we meet.

So since then, I spasmodically do the palmistry stuff, usually when I am drunk or when I am drunk. But you know what I mean, its only for a bit of a laugh and fun. But not true.

Here's an experiment which you can do. Go grab a ruler or a scale. Measure the length of your index finger from the knuckle to the tip and the same with your ring finger. Then divide the 2 numbers. The higher the ratio, the bigger is your ability to do do profitable trades. This ratio is called as the 2D:4D ratio. I quote:

Traders with the lowest 2D:4D ratios had an average annual income of £680,000 – 11 times higher than those with the highest ratios. The ratios, measured from photocopies of volunteers’ hands, ranged from 0.90 to 1.02.

I further quote:

Researchers at Cambridge university have found a strong statistical link between the profitability of male traders at a London bank and the ratio of index to ring fingers on their right hand. The longer the fourth digit in relation to the second, the more money the traders are likely to make.
This ratio, known as “2D:4D”, is affected by the amount of male hormone to which people are exposed while growing in their mother’s womb.

Previous research has shown that higher prenatal exposure to testosterone and other male hormones leads to a lower 2D:4D ratio. Finger ratios have been used to predict performance in competitive sports.

Go now you have ended up with another scientific explanation for human performance as measure by bio-engineering factors on the hand. So Palmistry does seem to work in certain aspects. Now where is the damn parrot?

Technorati Tags: Humour,Financial Institutions,trading

My Upcoming Film: CoolKat Urbanoir - Life in Amrika

Sonal Panse — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 13:42:16 EST

Inspired by Slumdog Millionaire, I'm going to make a movie featuring 'gritty realism' in the USA. The movie will be called CoolKat Urbanoir.

The story goes like this -

A young African man gets kidnapped and sold as a slave in the US of A. He goes through many trials and tribulations, marries a slave girl, they have children, the children are sold, the parents suffer, fall ill, try to escape, are caught and beaten, try again and escape, join the Native Indians, are uprooted from several reservations and starved, are hunted and die under horrible circumstances.

Flash forward several hundred years.

A descendant of these slaves is born in the most dangerous part of an Inner City neighborhood to an unwed teenage hooker with a cocaine habit. Father unknown. Child is abandoned in a garbage heap. Rescued by a church mission and taken to a hospital. Suffers terribly from drug withdrawal (got the habit from Ma during the pregnancy). Later put in an orphanage and shuffled through endless foster homes. Abused physically and sexually in the foster homes. Goes to an Inner City school infrequently and learns nothing there. Gets beaten up by street gangs to and fro from school. So, to save his own hide, joins up one of the brotherhoods. Condition is that he help them peddle drugs to school children. So he does.

Gets caught. Gets sent to jail. Gets raped in jail. And beaten. Many, many, many times. Gets plenty of tattoos too and decides to do a course in body building as well.

Comes out toughened and mean and with plenty of contacts to further advance the criminal career. Furthers criminal career. Adds pimping and armed robbery to the resume. Starts freelancing as a hitman for the Columbian, Korean, Chinese and Japanese drug cartels.

Gets involved with a white woman who wrote him love letters while he was in jail and 'true love' blooms for a while. Then she gets pregnant and wants to get married. He doesn't want to get married. She says he'll have to pay for child support anyway. He doesn't fancy paying child support for eighteen whole years. He's already been stealing money from the druglords to make ends meet. So he murders her and dumps her body over a bridge into a river.

But someone sees him do this and informs the police. He is arrested and tried.

And gets released on a technicality. The police that arrested him forgot to quote that Miranda dialogue, it seems, and subjected him to racist epithets besides.

Lays low for a while and then takes revenge on the informer (a white man, incidentally).

Then goes on a run. An exhilarating chase around and around the US of A follows. Wonderful scenic scenes. Lots of clambering around the Grand Canyon and so on. Ends up in the American South in a small town where the interbred population are still fanning the fires of the Ku Klux Klan ideology. They gladly beat up the new black man in town and strung him up from a tree outside the town. They leave him for dead....

But, of course, he is still alive. Another man comes along, sees him hanging from the tree and cuts him down (in a scene borrowed/inspired from Hang 'Em High, a tribute to lovely, wonderful Clint Eastwood).

This other man happens to be a smuggler involved in the trade of smuggling Mexicans into the USA. He's home on leave, but is off to the Mexican border again and our hero decides to go with him and see how much this type of smuggling business pays.

Unfortunately luck is not favoring our hero (like it ever did!), and, after a few smuggling rounds, he gets shot at by White Nationalists patrolling the border.

He is rescued by a black US Army sergeant, who gets him to a hospital, visits him, bonds with him and feeds him the 'Join the Army, it's a great life' spiel.

Our hero swallows, gets false identification and joins the army. And is nearly killed in basic training.

Somehow he survives and is sent to Iraq to fight the just war and protect the homeland from the wogs. Unfortunately the wogs know how to kick ass. So life in the army on the warfront is not exactly great. Our hero however gets the chance to rape plenty of enemy women and torture many enemy men. A conscientious fellow soldier complains about his behavior to the 'superiors', but the superiors exonerate him saying he is 'only following orders'.

Our hero is pleasantly surprised. This is the first time in his life that the 'establishment' ever spoke out in his support. However, pleased as he is, he ensures that the 'informant' dies in a friendly fire while out on patrol.

Later, he sees an army poster asking if anyone is interested in touring Afghanistan. Our hero volunteers and has a Rambo-like career there.

He is much decorated and felicitated and comes back home on leave as a 'hero'.

Unfortunately, those pesky people in the Police Department are still on his case. They read what Thomas Friedman wrote about our hero in his usual laudatory style in the New York Times, see his photograph and exclaim "Why, that's the man we've been loooookin' for!"

So they contact the Army. The Army hedges, prevaricates, obstructs, but finally 'honorably discharges' our hero and lets the wolves have him.

The wolves have him only for a short while. Some patriotic folks, indignant that a war hero be held accountable for a long-ago murder of a long-dead woman, help him break out of police custody and drive him all the way to Canada.

He applies to stay in Canada as a conscientious protester. The Canadians don't buy that. They read Thomas Friedman in the New York Times too. They don't want him there.

So he takes a plane to Venezuela. He figures he'll be welcome in Chavez's land. Enemy of my enemy is my friend, that sort of thing. He figures that Chavez, taking a cue from the New York Times, will feature him on his TV show. He day-dreams of using the TV show to kick-start a new career as a rap artist. Maybe he'll even write an autobiography and flog it on Oprah - over videophone, of course. Our hero, you see, after a lifetime of anonymity, is beginning to enjoy the taste of fame.

However, there's fame and there is fame. Sometimes fame hurts. The minute he lands in Venezuela, he is spotted by a Columbian drug-runner. After he disappeared from their midst earlier, the druglords had figured out that he was stealing from them and now they want their pound of flesh.

Our hero is on the run again. He's running out of places to run to though. The USA is out, so also the US Army, Canada and South America. And North Korea, South Korea, Japan, and China - remember the Japanese, Korean and Chinese drugpins? They want him too and they have long arms. Italy is out too. Our hero had run-ins with the Italian Mafia when he was in jail and they're not forgetting either.

Wondering what to do, our hero seeks shelter in a low-dive in a red light area. He is nursing a drink morosely, when a stranger at the bar strikes up a friendly conversation with him. Our hero is initially suspicious, but the stranger, who is called Moshe, appears to have no underhand motives. They get along well. Just then two Arabs jump Moshe and try to knife him. Our hero goes to his assistance, saves him and their friendship is really cemented.

Our hero, over another dozen drinks, finally confides to Moshe about his 'situation'.

Moshe is sympathetic and offers to help. He is on his way back home, and suggests our hero come with him. He'll be safe there.

And so our hero goes to Israel.....

-------

End of Part I. Sequel to follow, featuring lots of scenic scenes from Lebanon and Gaza. Stay glued.

------

So that's the story. Anyone wants to come and act in it? No pay. At least not before we sweep the Golden Globes.

The Emotion Analyzer

IdeaSmith — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 07:42:47 EST

Here's a question I've had a chance to ask recently,

How does a relationship go for you?

Does that makes sense? I can't think of another way to word it, without sounding overly-analytical (a charge I've been accused of more than once). But it's an important question since obviously different people see relationships differently. This in defense to the oft-repeated instructions to 'not think so much!'. I mean, how can I not? It's like telling a person to 'not breathe so much' or something like that. Do I like, literally, count the breaths I take...or thoughts I have? Do I hang a NO ENTRY board across my forehead?

I have it quite figured out in my mind (never mind the fact that I don't have one success story to back it up). A basic framework model of assessing relationships. True to my nature, it's a checklist (a series of them actually). So here goes the one titled 'Indications that it's a great first date':

You two:

Don't run away at the sight of each other

Get beyond the first hello

Are able to talk about things other than how both of you know the person who introduced you, what the weather is like and the latest movie/book/play

Laugh (and not nervously)

Lose track of time at least once ("I didn't realize how long we've been talking!")

Want to meet again

These are the action points of the first meeting and if you should proceed further only if they ALL check off.

Let's go one level higher and discuss the 'Key Areas of a Relationship':

Attraction

Comfort Level

Shared Grounds (hobbies, beliefs, social circles)

Complementing (as opposed to similar) Personalities

Respect

Committment

Each one needs to be constantly monitored for absolute level and vis-a-vis the others. All of them are important but the actual weightages can vary from relationship to relationship and over time as well. Conversations, meetings and incidents are opportunities to explore and validate each of the important areas.

Sometimes it gets confusing. (Hell, whoever said love was easy?) For example,

Differing points of view can extend your Respect for each other's intelligence and independence but what does that do to Comfort Level and Complementing Personalities?

How does sex play out - If there's too much Comfort Level, do Attraction and Fun suffer?

Is Committment possible without Attraction or can it actually cover for the lack of it?

Can Respect replace Shared Grounds? And vice versa?

How important is Complementing Personalities? Can a relationship sustain if it is strong on the others but not on this?

How do Fun and Committment offset each other? Or do they clash and inevitably get entangled with Respect?

I can just see a whole lot of men I know shaking their heads in disbelief. Oddly enough, women are the ones accused of being 'over-emotional' and not practical enough.

Personally I don't see any problem in being analytical about relationships. Being analytical is not mutually exclusive to being emotional. I can be and am, both. After all, your emotions are your most valuable resource - they dictate how you feel about what you do and hence who you do it with and how well you do it. Damned if I'm going to fritter them away without an eye on the balance-sheet of the relationship. Besides, don't forget that I am a woman; I was born with a masters degree in Relationships and a Ph.D. in Emotion. :-)

Aamchi Sarkar Raj

thedeskjockey — Sun, 4 Jan 2009 04:53:17 EST

There is something uniquely mystifying about visionaries. They think on a level we take years, decades, perhaps even generations to understand. But when we do, we are awestruck with the grandness of their plan. Which is why you should all think twice before dissing one of the grandest visionaries of our time – Raj Thackerey.

Seriously, who thinks of a party name which includes the word “Navnirman” whose prime motto is to drive out anybody who can do “nirman” but cannot speak Marathi? Who can think of doing something more symbolic than digging up cricket pitches just because they hate Pakistan and hence Pakistani cricketers? Who dares to dream beyond the unscrupulous secularism of our country that forces us to live with those geeky Madrasis, loud Sardarjis and unintelligible Bengalis? It requires a special kind of visionary and orator to feed such grand plans down the throats of people who call themselves soldiers or “sainiks” but yet resemble the neighborhood gang who breaks windows and vandalizes walls just because they believe in their brand of coolness.

Other such visionaries that come to mind are Osama Bin Laden, Pol Pot, Benito Mussolini and of course Hitler, who the venerable Balasaheb, Raj’s uncle and one time mentor, admires to such an extent that he made statements to the effect "I am (the Hitler) of the whole of Maharashtra and want to be of whole of India." and my personal favorite, "If the Muslims of India behave as the Jews in Germany did, they will deserve the same treatment". Priceless wisdom!

To understand Raj, you would have to understand his grand visions right from his younger days when he wanted to take his skills as a cartoonist and film maker to Walt Disney Studios. However, his love for the Marathi Manoos kept him within the confines of Maharashtra. The world’s loss of Walt Disney Marathi themed cartoons was the average Marathi Joe’s (lets call him “Joe-kar”) gain. The sacrifices the man and his family have made! Think of a conversation his little son Amit might have with him

Amit: Dad, I want to have a birthday party for all my friends!
Raj: Sure buddy, now who do you want to call?
Amit: The Khans?
Raj: Nope, we hate them. None of them speak Marathi.
Amit: The Bachchans?
Raj: Are you kidding? After we threw bottles at their house and called Jaya an old witch?
Amit: Sigh. How about the Tendulkars?
Raj: Dude, unfortunately we don’t like Gujjus either! You know, Anjali is one. I mean really, those fat businessmen eat undiyo-jalebi-fafda and fart all day in an AC train compartment with no outlet for all that smell.
Amit: Never mind dad! Let’s just do a family thing.
Raj: Now that’s my boy. See you are picking up on our family motto already…”All in the family”.

Shame on all the political commentators, media persons and so called experts who claim that the man is a divisive force in a united India. Really? Come on here to the US in any university and you’ll see the Tamilian share a 2 bedroom apartment with 10 other Tamilians but won’t live with the 2 Delhi-waalas across the street. The Mumbaikar prefers to live with his fellow denizens ‘coz he can’t quite understand the frugality fuss of the Andhra dudes. And the Gujarati Patel won’t even live with the Shahs ‘coz his daddy told him they are not nice people. So if people naturally confirm to the people within the people theory, why decry a man who calls it like it is and encourages other people to do the same? You can imagine my angst at all this when I’ve used the word "people" 4 times in the last sentence.

So what if he encourages taking out anything and everything related to Pakistan? For e.g., nobody seems to like Atif Aslam’s quivering voice [video link 1][video link 2]. And how many books from famous Pakistani authors can you name anyway?

So what if he wants migrants from UP and Bihar to leave the state? Isn’t the average gunda in the movies always portrayed from these states?

It’s about time we got a guy named Raj who has some balls and breaks the unfortunate image we have associated with that name. It’s about time we got someone who cared enough to bring the plight of his people out in the open. And it’s about time that people get past the violent demonstrations, the jingoistic speeches and the lack of any contribution from him. For the true genius of a vision lies in the patience of the people to wait a reeeeeeeally long time for it.

While the tone of this post may be satirical, my heart remains firmly on his side. And being a non-marathi, I pledge my support to his cause by staying far far away from his beloved state.

Fiction: An Office Incident

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:59:56 EST

Armaan walked up to Kritika as she waited for the lift and tapped her lightly on her bum with the flat of his palm. Kritika ignored him, though a small hiss did escape her, raised her right shoulder a little in a defensive manner and summoned the lift yet again. Armaan did not bother to hide his lascivious intentions or his smirk when he repeated his action, his body language conveying a sense of anticipation rather than any fear of retaliation. Kritika lifted both her shoulders by an inch and stared straight into the closed lift doors.

Unfortunately for Armaan, the Human Resources Director, a smart and snappy lady who had just moved back to India from Philadelphia, was just a few years behind him and saw everything. Shocked beyond words, it took her a few moments to express her indignation, by which time Armaan had repeated the outrageous act. Since it was obvious that Kritika was going to be a passive victim, the HR Director took it on herself to protect Kritika.

‘How dare you?’ she shouted, as both Kritika and Armaan spun around in stunned silence. They stood there in silence, which infuriated the HR Director since there was no reason for Kritika to remain silent now that someone had spoken up for her. ‘How dare you?’ the HR Director repeated yet again as the lift arrived and opened soundlessly. This time Kritika’s face actually paled as though she had done something wrong while Armaan’s face had the look of a naughty boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar. This made the HR Director angrier still. In fact, she was a lot more bugged with Kritika’s passivity than with Armaan’s behaviour. She knew that women put up a lot of shit without complaint in India, but it was nevertheless shocking to see it played out in front of her eyes.

‘Can I have your name please?’ the HR Director demanded of Armaan and immediately felt like a fool. Both Kritika and Armaan dangled around their necks their corporate identity cards which not only gave away their names, but also their employee numbers. The HR Director noted down Armaan’s name and employee number and then decided to take down Kritika’s details as well. If Kritika should decide to disappear in order to avoid the enquiry that would follow, as she might well do, being the timid creature that she was, she would find that the HR Director had other plans.

The HR Director made Armaan sit in a room all by himself (to stew) whilst she had a word with Kritika.

‘Do you know how important it is to report incidents like this? Why on earth do you take this shit lying down?’ the HR Director asked. Kritika was silent.

‘I just don’t believe it,’ she declared, more to herself than to Kritika.

‘Has this happened before?’ she demanded of Kritika.

‘No,’ Kritika said, speaking for the first time.

‘You are senior to him. Nine years senior!’ Kritika was a team leader despite her youthful looks while Armaan was a puppy, not more than a year old in the company.

‘Even if you don’t make a formal complaint, I intend to take action against that bbbass…...that guy,’ the HR Director grimly added. Kritika did not look particularly happy at that and so the HR Director added softly, ‘don’t worry. He’ll never enter this office again. Today is his last day here.’ It was so tragic; a team leader was scared of reporting a one year old programmer who had the audacity to sexually harass her at her workplace.

Armaan’s project leader had not sounded too pleased when the HR Director demanded that Armaan be fired, but the HR Director had reminded him that they were a subsidiary of HeptaCorp Inc. which prided itself on the highest standards in matters such as these.

‘Can’t we please drop the matter?’ Kritika asked the HR Director all of a sudden. By that time, the branch manager had joined them.

‘Why are you so scared?’ the HR Director asked Kritika, her voice dropping to a whisper.

‘If my husband hears of this, I won’t be allowed to work again,’ she said, close to tears. To the HR Director’s surprise, the branch manager seemed to be in empathy with Kritika. He looked at the HR Director with sad eyes, as though it was the most obvious thing to happen. As the HR Director racked her brains for a diplomatic response, instead of the ‘for Christ’s sake, which century are you living in?’ the branch manager to his credit said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make sure not many people get to know of this. We’ll fire Armaan, but I’ll make sure he keeps his trap shut.’

The HR Director was tempted to ask how the branch manager planned to make sure Armaan kept his trap shut, but she decided not to. That was none of her business.

That evening Armaan sat on the sofa in his bachelor’s pad, nursing a glass of whiskey. His mobile rang.

‘Where are you?’ he asked the person at the other end.

‘Almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Armaan finished his whiskey in two gulps and kept the glass on the mantel piece.

The door bell rang and he opened the door. Kritika ran into his arms.

‘How was it?’ she asked him breathlessly without bothering to disentangle.

‘If only that bitch wasn’t around, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I warned you so many times to not to try that in office.’

‘Not my fault. You were irresistible. Your butt, that is.’ Kritika bit Armaan on his neck by way of a response.

They were silent for a minute. Then Kritika said, ‘you’ve been drinking.’

‘Just a small one.’

‘Tell me what happened. Have you been fired?’

‘Yes. Immediate termination! Not even a month’s notice. But I will get a reference, provided I keep my mouth shut.’

‘Thank God for that!’ It must be the branch manager who arranged for that, Kritika thought.

‘Why don’t you ditch your husband and come and live with me?’

‘Especially now that you are jobless,’ Kritika teased Armaan.

‘Of course. I’ll get a job soon, just a matter of time.’

‘Fine, get a job and I’ll come over with both my kids. You will enjoy looking after them, won’t you?’

‘Why don’t you bring over your husband as well? We’ll make him look after the kids while we have fun.’

‘You bastard, you,’ Kritika said as she kissed Armaan and they both laughed out aloud.