Desicritics 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?

(Click on thumbnail to view idea-toon on a new page)

Protests Against the British Day of Science - UK War Crimes?

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Wed, 4 Mar 2009 06:35:05 EST

Two Museums in France decide to rent out space to an exhibition called as "British Day of Science". It is supposed to showcase the achievements of seven British universities. Each and every one of these Universities are funded in some shape or form by the the British Department of Defence. Several of these universities actually hired former members of the British Defence Forces as staff members. I quote:

British Day of Science is aimed particularly at sixth-form students, who can be expected to come in parties from schools across the country. What reaction can be expected from the many young people, already disaffected from science, who will associate the science museums with this British public relations exercise? The event is being billed as a celebration of science. In fact it is an attempted celebration of the United Kingdom.

In the immediate aftermath of the indiscriminate slaughter and attempted annihilation of all the infrastructure of organised society in Basra in Iraq, how can this "celebration" be allowed to borrow some respectability from the use of these distinguished institutions? The museums should cancel these unseemly events.

We are the great and good who are complaining against this.

(A selection is given below, see the link for more of these worthies)

Mairead Maguire Nobel Peace Laureate Dr Ian Gibson MP Mermber of Parliament Prof R.S.MacKay FRS Director of Mathematical Interdisciplinary Research, Mathematics Institute, University of Warwick Dr Jenny Tonge House of Lords Prof Steven Rose Life Sciences, Open University John Rose College lecturer/ Middle East author Prof Jonathan Rosenhead Operational Research, London School of Economics Dr Monica Wusteman Research Scientist (retired) Prof Jules Townshend Politics and Philosophy, Manchester Metropolitan University Mike Cushman Management, London School of Economics Dr. Sue Blackwell Linguistics, University of Birmingham Professor Mohamed El - Gomati Department of Electronics University of York Prof. Yosefa Loshitzky Film and Media Studies, University of East London Prof. Daphne Hampson Theology, University of St Andrews Prof Peter Hallward Modern European Philosophy, Middlesex University Prof Janet Watson Arabic Linguistics, University of Salford Prof Patrick Williams Nottingham Trent University Prof Hilary Rose Emeritus Professor of Social Policy, University of Bradford Prof David Seddon University of East Anglia Prof. Adah Kay City University, London Prof David Wield Open University Prof Mona Baker Translation Studies, University of Manchester Prof Myriam Salama-Carr University of Salford Prof Gabriel Alexander Khoury Imperial College London and Padua University Italy Prof. David Mond Mathematics Institute, Warwick University Prof David E Pegg Biology Department University of York Professor Tariq Modood, MBE, AcSS Professor of Sociology, Politics and Public Policy, Director, University of Bristol Prof Frank Land Information Systems and Innovations, LSE Prof Ailsa Land Operational Research, London School of Economics Prof Hans Haenlein, RIBA, MBE Architecture, University of Reading Prof Wolfgang Deckers University of Richmond Prof Malcolm Povey Food Physics, University of Leeds Prof Sol Picciotto Law, Lancaster University Prof James Dickens Arabic, School of Languages, University of Salford Prof David Elworthy Mathematics, University of Warwick Prof Roger Iredale International education, University of Manchester Prof Jim Al-Khalili Professor of Physics, and of Public Engagement in Science, University of Surrey Prof Colin Green Northwick Park Institute for Medical Research Prof Haim Bresheeth Cultural Studies, University of East London Prof Uri Davis Al Quds University, Jerusalem Prof Martha Mundy Anthropology, London School of Economics Prof Paulette Pierson Mathy hon. Prof. ULB, Brussels Prof Randa Farah Anthropology, University of Western Ontario Prof. Anthony C. Alessandrini Kingsborough Community Coll-City University of New York Dr Derek Wall Visiting tutor, Goldsmiths College ……

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Replace the italicised UK at the top with Israel and you will understand why each and every one of these people have immediately identified themselves as eligible to go back to their schools now and request for a refund of their educational fees on grounds of idiocy. Here is a list of science based exhibitions and events that an arm of British Government, the British Council organised. Presumably this list of people will do the same, because the UK has been accused of War Crimes in Basra? See here, here, here. Interestingly enough, the 'Stop the War Coalition' has signed this petition. The 'Stop the War Coalition' works with the Campaign for for Nuclear Disarmament which has accused the UK government of war crimes. Confusing or what?

Reminds me of what Anatole France said: "If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing." As an Alumni and visiting professor of the University of Manchester, I would say, do it and be damned to these purveyors of foolish behaviour. I am thinking about Bill Buckley’s famous comments that he would rather be governed by the first two thousand names in the Boston phone book than the two thousand faculty members of Harvard University. I am so surprised that so many professors and educators would be so inclined to think of science in this way that it is related to nationalities, political ideologies or what have you. Truly the inconsistencies of people who demand boycotts is incomprehensible. It is silly! Just imagine these worthies protesting against the UK and how they will be treated? Just about the same way that they will be treated if they say that science and knowledge is country national specific. Grow up, you guys.

Technorati Tags: Israel, United Kingdom, Discrimination, Anti-Semitism

America's Foolish CEOs: Medco's Dave Snow Gets The First Award

Ashoka Chakra — Mon, 2 Mar 2009 09:45:46 EST

With the global economy heading south thanks to the tsunami that originated in the USA, many blame capitalism or globalization for all the economic travails. I think it has a lot to do with poor policies and oversight, individual greed, and last, but not the least, stupid CEOs running corporate America.

In the 2001 – 2003 recession, we came across lots of incompetent and/or ethically challenged CEOs and Chairpersons. They include illustrious names such as Ken Lay of Enron (dead of a heart attack before he could be tried) and Bernie Sanders of MCI (in jail for fraud).

This recession has bought to light a new crop. A fascinating list of politicians, celebrities, and CEOs can be found at Time. To this august list, I now nominate Dave Snow of Medco.

For those who do not know what Medco is, it is one of the largest drug re-distributors. To keep it simple, it buys drugs from pharmaceutical companies and sells it to retail chains such as Rite Aid. It profits from being a middleman.

Dave Snow recently wrote in a blog in the Wall Street Journal about his ideas and his interview was published on Jan 16, 2009. To quote from the WSJ:

Snow said the time has come for doctors to follow set protocols on how to treat patients, and to be paid based on whether they do it. Basically, ‘If X, then do Y,’ and ‘If Y, then do Z,’ sort of stuff. Snow concedes the public doesn’t trust the private sector to come up with these kinds of rules. So he wants some smart folks to get together in an “apolitical” body like the Fed, and do it themselves. “I’m fine with this big, national board creating this standard,” Snow says.

It is obvious that Snow has no clue how medicine is practiced. Patients and their disease do not read textbooks and come with single, well-defined problems. The permutations and combinations of problems are literally endless. For example, a patient with a headache could have a bullet in his head (true, happened to a patient of mine) or a tumor (alas, also true) or anything in between. If the patient has other issues such as weight problems, hypertension, etc, the possibilities are infinite with no set formula that can be designed. How would Snow handle so many permutations and combinations? Does he plan to install an IBM supercomputer in each physician’s office? Good for IBM and outsourcing for India, but it won’t help patients much. As this financial crisis has shown, mathematical quant formulas fail in complex environments, and a patient is about as complex a microenvironment as possible.

In addition, Snow wants the government to step in with an “apolitical” body like the Fed. Maybe the ‘body’ would also be just as adept in handling doctor’s offices as the Fed has been in handling the economy? I can see a diabetic suffering from hyperglycemia for 5 years, followed by hypoglycemia (just like interest rates) at which point the unfortunate individual would be pushing weeds.

It is obvious to any person with a scintilla of sense that Snow’s ideas are nonsensical. I have only one question. How do people like this become CEOs?

Fiction: Burn After Viewing (NSFW)

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 13:01:05 EST

====WARNING: NSFW====

The fan made an irritating clucking noise and rotated above the Kalyan Sabha's chief ominously. The fan had been threatening decapitation since the socialist era but the head of the Sabha, Prakash, liked to live dangerously. Everything around him was perched precariously - the journals, the photos of his wife and kids but what were stacked neatly were pictures of semi nude and nude blondes in his mahogany desk drawer. He had cataloged them by year and by the time he masturbated to them in his office. He, after all, liked to live dangerously.

Dangerously enough to masturbate in his office but not stupid enough to have a whore give him a blow job while he fondled her teen boobs and stared hard at Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch bikini. He had an image to maintain. He was the white kurta guy and those in white kurtas never squirted on prostitutes and definitely not on their all male office staff in their not-so-Oval offices. He snickered at his own joke and fingered the key that was safely tucked in his kurta pocket.

Santosh Shrivastav was due any minute but he wanted to see his dolls one last time. He smacked his lips and felt a slight rise in his shriveled penis. Wait for Santosh or take a peek? It was post lunch time and the chaprasi was asleep and the other workers were snoozing in cool rooms in the arms of their paid by the hour beloveds. And he was bored.

He opened the drawer with one hand and held his tool with the other. Just one look. His index finger began to leaf through the stacked pictures. He knew them by heart - blond with small nipples, blond with big nipples, blond with three breasts, blond on blond, horse on blond and ah! his favorite Asian man on blond woman.

He pulled the picture out and smiled. The boy in his pajama smiled as well. He caressed his dong but the knock on the door snatched him back from the exquisite blond in a motel room to his shabby Sabha office.

"Choot!" he muttered, shoved the picture in the drawer, removed his inappropriately placed hand, tied the nala and turned the key on the drawer.

"Come!" he barked at the door. Stupid Shrivastav came at exactly three in the afternoon. Who comes on time? Only morons, he muttered to himself and grabbed one of the journals.

Shrivastav let himself in tentatively. For a man of his sizable girth, he walked lightly with a delicate elephantine gait. Rumor was he was somewhat gay. Unmarried and a bit of a loner. To put it bluntly, macho men made him nervous and he never showed interest in women.

Prakash didn't like him but he seemed to be the most cultured in his coterie of crass well-meaning bumbling workers. He was the only one who had his finger on the pulse of the urban middle class youth. Pansy Shrivastav was right for the job.

Shrivastav fidgeted on the hard wooden chair and his trouser-covered bums itched due to the holes in the woven strings of the chair's seat. Prakash sir seemed to be busy writing. Shrivastav clutched his file close to his chest. He reminded himself for the tenth time not to fold the file. It held important photographs.

Prakash finally emerged from his supposed work and eyed Shrivastav with a lofty eye.

"Yes, Shrivastavji, what do you have for me?" he asked

"Sir! The women have gone wild." He cleared his throat and nearly rolled the file. He took his white perfumed handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his sweaty forehead. They have started a Kali Sena drive against our Kalyan Sabha and here is a picture they have put up to symbolize their fight."

"What is this?" Prakash gasped. "Is that a woman? Is she showing her buttocks?" His tone went up a couple of octaves and Shrivastav felt like a mouse in a lion's den

"Sir---" he tried to speak up but was interrupted by Prakash

"And where is Kali? This thing looks familiar. Where have I seen it before?"

"Sir, I don't know but it gets even worse. They took out another picture making fun of our demand that women stop wearing trousers."

A grim Prakash reached over and stared at the picture.

"Female Ninjas? Is this how they are planning to fight our soldiers on the road? See!" Prakash thrust a stubby index finger against the picture and pinned it against his mahogany table "See! they call themselves the sluttiest Ninjas! We were right! These women need to be taught a lesson."

Shrivastav cleared his throat " Sir, this one is worrisome."

Prakash crossed his arms against his chest and rocked his chair. Sweat dotted Shrivastav's forehead again. It was getting hot in his boss's office.

"The next one they sent to our office." He held the picture close to his chest and his upper lip quivered.

"Show me" Prakash muttered.

Shrivastav's adam apple bobbed.

"Show me!" Prakash barked and Shrivastav handed him the picture.

Prakash stood up abruptly and his chair fell. The sound of metal thumping against the floor made Shrivastav jump and he delicately eased back in his chair while his chief began to stalk the office. Shrivastav's head sank into his chest. It was getting from bad to worse and it wasn't even his fault.

Prakash thundered. "They are telling us they will ambush us with assault rifles. Get in touch with the Home minister and tell him that these renegade women are threatening bodily harm and have AK-47s. Call them now!!"

Shrivastav seemed to fold over his chair. Prakash turned and looked at his quaking worker "What?! Didn't you hear me?"

"Sir! There is more!"

Prakash walked over to Shrivastav. "How many more?!"

Shrivastav whispered. "Only one sir." He kept his head down and handed over the last picture

Silence prevailed as Prakash stared at the picture. Shrivastav croaked "There was a letter with it. It said - we know about Pamela and others."

"Out!"

Shrivastav jumped up and ran for the door. He wanted out. As he opened the door he heard his boss speak to him for the last time for the day.

"No one is to know, Shrivastav. I will have your balls if this gets out!"

He paused, handing back the first three pictures and saying, "Burn these ones."

Shivastav nodded and left the room with a quiet click.

Prakash straightened his chair and sat down. For once, Pam didn't do anything for him.

Singing Telemarketers Away

Mike Ghouse — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 10:50:52 EST

On a Sunday afternoon, the phone rings as I was wrapping up with my usual routine; folding the clothes. It was a tele-marketer from India and she wanted to sell the long distance phone service to me. I thanked her for the call and said that I already have a service and will stick with it.

The Tele-marketer was not easy to get away from, and I wasn’t going to be rude to her, she is earning her living. She was determined to sell the service to me no matter what and later on her boss joins her. Now a team of them have decided to “get” me.

I insisted that the service is not for me and that they should take my number off their records.

She would not give up, so I decided to have fun, instead of getting frustrated.

The phone rang again and I picked up and without missing the beat, I started singing. Those who know me from my Radio days know what it means; some one has to pay me to stop it. If you are in the fifties and are a Desi (they-see), meaning people from the Subcontinent – i.e., India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka, you would enjoy the following scenarios. Heck you may smile any ways.

The kids on the other end were debating about the song, the singer and the like. I started out with “I yeiy ya, karoon my kya, sooku sooku”. I can hear the debate on the other end, “it’s got to be Jeetendra” and one actually said Shah Rukh Khan. I jumped in to their conversation, “it is Shammi Kapoor in Junglee singing Rafi and not Sonu”. Jeetendra was Oo, Ooo from Farz.

A “Thank you sir” in unison came from the other end. They could not be happier, they were courteous and hoping that at least at the end I would listen to their pitch. I wasn’t going to do that! They hung up, and called back to see if they were calling the right number.

I started “ O door ke musafir, hum ko bhi saath ley lay” .. there goes the debate again… They hung up and called back.

“ Ai mere dil kahin aur chal, gham ki duniyan say dil bhar gaya” This time the response was “What the hell was that?”. They did not know the song, nor could they figure out the singer, if it was Sunder Naidu singing, they could have guessed it, but meri tooti phooti awaz say o gana kaisay pehchanien ge? Even if it was "Yeh mera deewana pan hai" they would have recognized Prem Shah's awaaz. And of course, their parents would have just born in 1957 to recognize the movie Daag and the singer Talat. (yes, Lata also sang). They were saying in unison “thank you sir” hoping again to possibly get business.

You may be surprised at my attempt to do “Sunshine on my shoulder” I did not even complete the sentence they were gloating on the other end “John Denver” they knew the song even if it is an oldie, at that time most of the songs remained fresh in India for another decade or two. Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline is an evergreen, ever fresh number.

It went on for about 20 minutes… Finally they gave up.

By God, this is the first time in my life, that I sang the whole song to a captive audience, may be second time. I sang once celebrating Najma’s life a month after she passed away. Growing up, my sister did not want to hear me sing, she pointed out the mangled up words and then my late wife did not want to hear either. She told me to take voice lessons and then she would listen, and I had seriously considered learning from Renu Chandra or Nasreen Reza. Heck, my friends in India did listen to my songs, on Sundays, five of us used to go out on a farm or a lake and sit down and take turns and I lucked out being in the circle and took my turn gleefully.

Thanks to the tele-marketers, I sang to my heart's content, five songs in full! I have memorized 1000 Songs. I was ready to play their game and was going to go all night.

Then the phone rings and I start singing again… they called back, and I sang again… then when they called for the third time, I realized they were calling about a remodeling job I was doing for them. They enjoyed it though and they knew it was me.

March Ahead

annamma — Mon, 9 Feb 2009 21:59:09 EST

Exam fever is setting in as March and April approach; and this seems as good a time as any to reflect on the illness, and its cures.

"Why exams?" wail generation after generation of students, as they sit up late, or get up early, depending on their cycles of alertness (which brings me to another interesting point - where are the early-morning persons these days? They seem to have died out with the ashram system).

No one can satisfactorily explain why 'exams'?

We tell those we cannot avoid, such as the ones who live in our homes, that exam are no big deal, they are merely tests of our knowledge; should be taken seriously, but only as giving us help in understanding our academic strengths and weaknesses, etc, etc. To those who say that class tests would be good enough, we say, patiently, "Yes, but its just that you need to be tested on the entire syllabus, to see whether you can connect it all up". To those who say that the questions are exactly the same as asked in class tests, with no linking up or connecting being done, we mutter, "Well, that's not the fault of the system. That's the teacher's fault. She should have set you a more innovative paper". To those who say, "What, you want her to make it even harder?" we say, not quite so patiently "Not harder, just more creative". To those who say, "This is hard enough, Ma, I've got fifteen chapters to finish by tomorrow", we snap, "Then shut up and study".

Actually, though, we agree. We heartily wish there were no exams. Think of the electricity that would be saved. Think of the coffee that would be saved, and the milk, and the sugar. Think of the movies we could watch, which we give up so as to not tempt the offspring. Think of the extra hours we could sleep, instead of waking the offspring -the same one - (at her own insistence - "Pleeeese wake me at five, dad") at five, five-fifteen, five-thirty, five forty-five, six, six-thirty, seven. Think of the other things we could do with our precious leaves, rather than using them to ferry the offspring to their exam centres. Think of the struggles we go through, attempting NOT to say, "Well, what did you expect?" or "Right, sure" with amusement when the offspring wail, "I could have done much better if only I'd studied so-and-so chapter a bit better" or "If only I'd studied chapter three in the morning instead of chapter four". Think of the heroic efforts we put into NOT asking, "How much did Payal (Topper in class, but only because 'she only studies, ma, NOTHING else') get? And I still have not yet experienced the horror of nation-wide entrance exams which I am sure would throw up a lot of further interesting things I'd rather NOT do....:-)

Well, (shrug) back to the parade. Chin up, shoulders back, and march on...

Ten Things That Never Happen in Desi Erotic Stories

Aaman Lamba — Sun, 8 Feb 2009 12:32:01 EST

The Indian sexual instincts have not always been repressed, limited to the traditional perception of Indian morality, or avoided literary/artistic interpretation. Even today, in the midst of overt repression and social inhibition, it should probably come as no surprise that the baser instincts combine with literary and exhibitionistic outpourings to make certain Indian websites rank higher in terms of traffic than many others. These sites form a certain subculture of post-modern, post-Colonial Indian society (Yes Dorothy, we have left Oz), and deserve perhaps greater sociological analysis.

Having subjected myself to a wide array of desi literary frottage and worse, all in the name of science, I can now reveal, only partly tongue-in-cheek, ten things that never happen in desi erotic stories. My sources are impeccable and diverse, and can only be revealed in private messages so as to avoid undue publicity and their further going underground, more power to them.

Warning: The following is definitely NSFW, and politically incorrect

1. Not all Indian women are Savita Bhabhi

2. She does bankers or lawyers, never techies or salesmen.

3. He has a small wiener. He is not always god's gift to women

4. She does it even though her husband gives it to her every night, and has no guilt afterward.

5. She does the dentist, not the doctor or the nurse.

6. Your colleague's wife comes on to your wife, not to you.

7. Both of you crash out on your Suhaag Raat because you're too tired from all the functions.

8. The young hot star gives your wife his autograph, and nothing more.

9. The tailor has a long ruler, but he uses it to measure a form-fitting blouse, which you try on at home.

10. The neighborhood aunty has a great kitchen, and she cooks in it.

The desi equivalent of Arthus Miller is still to arrive on the scene, although there are many claimants, so one is hopeful.

An Open Letter to temporal

temporal — Sun, 1 Feb 2009 12:22:06 EST

Dear temporal:

I am a bit hesitant to write to you, but since this is the season of open letters I am tempted to speak my mind.

Why are you so dense mostly?

I know you claim to revere words and pray at the Temple of Words, but sometimes you do treat the words as altar boys are 'allegedly' treated by some in the Catholic Church.

And your witticisms. Mostly I chalk it up to my inexperience, but on the odd occasion when the mule in me wakes up and I go all over Google to dig up the semi obscure references and then come back to your post the maza has dissipated. Can you speak more clearly, less obtusely?

And what is it with your polite demeanour? What kind of facade is it? How come you are so selective and pointedly ignore responding to some desicritics? I mean not always, but there are the odd times when they do make a good observation. Do you run a mental blacklist? If so, that is discriminative, even though I read somewhere you call it discerning.

Did they run away with your girl friends? Go easy on them. It is apparent that you equate them with dogs chasing moving cars and it is prudent to drive on. Dogs will remain dogs. But still...

And your obsession with Palestinians and your ire at Israeli occupation and intransigence. Where I come from, there is a saying Jis ki laathi oos ki bhains (He who pays the piper calls the tune). I am sure you would have heard of it. Then why are you so obsessive about it? Let the Palestinians figure out the simplest and easiest route to their problems. To the last man, woman and child let them convert to Judaism. Once they become Jews, they will have their cake, and get to eat it too.

And finally your poems, what can I say? I would forgive you, because of that am no god poem. I carry it in my wallet all the time.

no offence intended,

a passer by

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.

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.....

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

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