Elections 2009

I am loving the results. Bhaji-kha has been fucked, well almost. Kalu has been fucked harder in Bihar. I kinda like Kalu  because in spite of all the corruption that his government indulged in (when he was in power for many many years), he never played Hindu-Muslim politics at least. But I have never really liked Bhaji-kha. I don’t like anyone who uses non-secular agendas to come to power (even when that hardly works in this country). I think Indians are growing up finally. I wish Godi could have been fucked in Gujarat. At least some are blaming his projection as future PM by Bajhi-kha as a reason why Bhaji-kha got raped this badly – that’s bad enough for Godi. But he still did good in Gujarat. The day Godi is fucked in Gujarat, I would believe that Indians have truly grown up. In spite of all the evils, the good thing about Godi is that he is already moving away from communal politics – at least focusing sincerely on the developmental works – so Gujarat as a state is doing good under him. I wish he could have done the same without butchering the Muslims. I would have loved Godi if he had been like that.

All those vague ad campaigns promoted by Bhaji-kha showing Fart-vaani as the lauh-purush (steel man) of India were disgusting because all he kept saying all the time was that Sing was weak and he was super-man. What makes him a steel man? What a vague disgusting propaganda Bhaji-kha thouht of! I am so happy none of that worked. Ask Fart-vaani who is weak now. I think he will commit suicide soon. I think he will soon run away and hide somewhere in the Himalays before Bhaji-kha throws him out.

In Orissa, Haan-win is so happy that he shoved away Bhaji-Kha at the right time. How many seats did Bhaji-kha get in Orissa? 1, 2? Something that low. I feel so good. I don’t know much about Haan-win but at least, like Kalu, he also refrains from playing communal fundays to get votes. I am loving the results.

Sing will soon be the PM again. Without the Left. Without even Bummer Sing or Ayawati. And without the fourth front – it should be renamed the fucked front (and fucked back) if you ask me. I love the Indian voters. I am happy today.

my freaky stories

The right thing

The shop looked bigger. It didn’t seem to have expanded physically but it did look more spacious. May be it was because of the now lighter coloured walls. Not many years ago, these very same walls had nothing but a ragged covering of grayish brown raw plaster. Now all the sides were yellowish-white while the ceiling radiated a shade resembling the noon-sky.

The tea arrived. I didn’t look up at the boy who brought me the beverage. I didn’t look at anyone or in any direction in particular. As the boy moved to other customers, I picked up the thick glassed tumbler, inhaled the aroma of the tea-vapours and then gently took a sip, with eyes closed. Finally I could recall where I had seen the doctor last. He was the one – shit! I continued sipping.


‘How is it’?

‘Too sweet’.

‘Again? I hardly added any sugar today’.

‘But you added something else – an overdose of love’.

Like always, she blushed. Like always, I kissed her on the lips and returned to my tea and newspaper.

‘You should stop doing that now. Ahmed is growing up real fast’.

‘Parents kiss in front of their kids in US’, I protested.

‘This is Mumbai. Here they beat up couples holding hands in malls. They won’t raise their hands against a drunkard raping a kid but they would thrash educated people in love with each other, telling them it is against the Indian culture’. No one does the right thing these days’.

She might have had a point but she had drifted away. I didn’t want to answer her. I returned to my newspaper. A small news in the seventh page was about a doctor who had been kidnapped and killed. He was the same doctor who was there during my boy’s delivery.

‘I think I will visit my old shop soon’.


‘Ah, you are back so soon’.

Sardarji smiled. This time he had a brief-case with him. ‘Oh yes, I wan’t to get it done today itself – it’s a lucky day’.

Papers were signed and the deal executed.

‘Thank you. And please be in touch. Mumbai is a crowded city but believe me, people there are the loneliest. Sometimes you might miss your old tea shop. So whenever you are in town, feel free to drop by’.

I could have smiled back without replying but I felt like replying.

‘I have a new life to begin now and I wonder Paji if I would even remember I had a tea-shop once. But if I do, I am sure I shall drop by. That would be the right thing to do’ – with that I headed towards home.

Ten years ago, they had tried real hard to take over the property but they couldn’t. No one could figure out from where did a twelve year old kid arrange for enough money to bribe the police. The fact is, the police didn’t care a bit about the source. They cared about the money and that they had. So they saved me from the wolves and the wolves couldn’t do much about it. The riot had died down about a week ago – it was not the right time to re-start it and with the cops on my side, it made sense for them to give up. They gave up.

When Ahmed died, I was mad not just at the hindus but also at the police. I wanted to kill them all. But first, I wanted to kill the guy who had started it all. I returned to the burnt shop, so that I could find him. I never found him. I wondered what he would have become by now – a politician? A laywer? Or may be a doctor? But I knew what I had become – I had become a businessman. Instead of killing the police, I was bribing them.

When I had returned to the shop to take revenge, taking revenge had appeared to be the right thing. When I stole money from a temple to bribe the police so that I could not let Ahmed’s shop go away to the hands of hindus, it had appeared to be the right thing. Four years down the line, I was not sure what was right anymore. Four years down the line, things were back to normal and I was a successful businessman. I had my own tea-shop that served hindus and muslims alike.

The year I turned twenty, I married a hindu girl. Yesterday, she gave birth to my boy. I can’t tell you how happy I felt when the doctor gave me the news. I think I have seen that doctor somewhere but cannot really recall. Anyway, you should see Ahmed someday, he looks so cute. When he grows up, he shall always do the right thing. Tomorrow we are moving to Bombay.


Here I am, at the railway station, wondering if I should leave this town. Hindus are killing muslims, trying to teach the miyas lessons they would remember all their lives. It is but obvious that the government is not interested in doing much about this mass murder. What is more disgusting is the ubiquitous observation that the government is instead promoting the riot from underground. The government wants us dead.

It had all started in front of my own eyes a mere three days ago at Ahmed’s shop. Ahmed was a good guy who had adopted me and given me home and work and a muslim name.

Three days ago, in his shop Ahmed beat up a guy who must have been not more than twenty. The guy had been teasing a younger girl sitting in the adjacent table for the past ten minutes. Ahmed did not start off with physical assault.  Initially he was polite and all that but the guy didn’t seem to be in the mood to behave. Finally when Ahmed couldn’t take it any longer, he landed a slap. It was a hard slap. Blood oozed out of the mouth of the young man. Before he fled he abused Allah and his men.

‘I know that girl – she is a hindu’.


‘He was abusing Allah when you were thrashing him. He must have been a hindu too’.

‘Are hindus allowed to eve-tease women’?

‘How does it matter? Let them do what they want to do as long they don’t interfere with us. Why bother’?

‘I didn’t know whether you were borne to a hindu or a muslim when I adopted you kid. Why did I bother to do that‘?

I didn’t reply. For the first time it occurred to me that I might not be a real muslim, so what if I had a muslim name. Ahmed never bothered to teach me anything religious – he only taught me the importance of hard work and the courage to do the right thing. Ahmed had always done the right things. To Ahmed it didn’t matter who my real parents were. To Ahmed it didn’t matter who was teasing whom. There were certain things that were right and certain things that were wrong. To abuse a girl was wrong. To fight for the girl was right. Ahmed did the right thing by slapping that guy. The hindu guy.

The next day, they killed Ahmed and torched his shop. They had had tea there for the last eight years and one fine day they killed the owner of their favourite tea-shop and burned down his shop. The life of the adopted kid was spared after an inspection of his penis that showed no signs of Islam. But I was beaten up and told to keep my mouth shut if the police enquired. The police never enquired. This agitated the muslim friends of Ahmed who gheraoed the local police-station and demanded action. A hindu constable was minorly hurt. That’s how the riots began.

Since the last three days I have been running from here to there, occasionally making my way through heaps of smelling corpses and litters of blood-stained skin.

The train on platform number 1 just left. I have decided I won’t run anymore. I don’t think I can run anymore. Running away is not the right thing to do. I will do the right thing.


The more intellectual you are…

Finally I went running – after like two weeks. Didn’t run much – just a quick sixy.

I think the more intellectual a living being is, more bored he or she gets with things. I mean look at dogs – what do they want in life? Food of course. That’s all they want (besides occasional sex of course) and they fight for it amongst themselves and keep doing it all their lives till they either die or are forced to die when they get rammed down by a moving vehicle. When they are owned by human beings, they fall in love with their owners. Have you not noticed how much your pet loves you – the way he wags his tail – the way his gem like eyes gleam when he sees you – the way he barks with all the affection that is there in this world to welcome you every time it senses your arrival? If you have ever had a pet, you must have noticed all of this – this love – this loyalty – this most-genuine-affection -  and what’s behind it all? Food sweetheart – plain simple food. Human beings so easily satisfy a dog’s most basic need in life that the only thing he is left with is to lick you and love you and chase away everyone that he feels is not a good person / animal / thing for you. So you see, dogs never ever gets bored of doing this job – never. They can’t think beyond food.

We insaans get bored of things. As fragile babies, food / milk on time makes us shut up every time we start howling in that high pitched fragile-baby-cry. Then as we grow into those bad-ass kids, we want this toy and that. As teenagers we move on to kisses and making out because we are too bored of  toys. When we take up a job, we get bored of it and we take up another job and then get bored of it as well and we keep on changing jobs till we get bored with changing jobs itself. The more intelligent we are, the more we hop – the quicker we get bored of things.

I guess this is the kind of post that comes out when you are yawning out your ass with no real work in office and when you are still cursing those street dogs who barked and chased you during the morning run. I am so bored and I so hate these street dogs!

Ads senseless videos

Someone did defy convention!


LOL. Someone took this commercial too seriously, didn’t he? 😛 Reebok should seriously consider making the journo who threw shoes at Bush, their new Brand-Ambassador.


Listen to this ass-hole

Forget about making out (not that I have made out with too many girls anyway)- it’s been long since I even flirted with anyone! Everyday makes me realize that I am missing romance. Badly. I can blame Bhubaneswar for that. But let me not do that. Let me have hopes even with this small city with a dead night life- hopes of someone beautiful walking once again into my life and adding few sparks. I am not as desperate for a kiss or other things physical as I am for just a simple delightful company of someone with eyes that when looked at make one feel good about everything in this world. I want to smile casually once again, looking at her lips move up and down, watching her hair slide and swing, as she narrates stories from her life, giggling once in a while.

But God please, don’t send any overweight girl again – please – that’s a sincere request. Look, I tried  – and you know that – but let me just accept it now – fat girls are not my cup  (or rather jar) of tea. Fat people are funny and cute and actually good people with nice soul and all that but they just don’t turn me on! This could be the meanest statement that I might have made in a while but this is as honest as I can get! There’s nothing wrong for a girl or a boy to have more weight than is needed –  it’s just me. I am an ass-hole and I confess it. But you do listen to ass-holes God, don’t you?

PS: I fear that ill-wishes from all the fat people who bother to read this post will ensure that I will soon suffer from obesity and will weigh more than Manuel Uribe when I die. But I can’t help it. Truth had to be told. And if you are a fat guy / girl and got deeply hurt – don’t be. Curse me for a while, hate me and then be happy carrying that extra fat on your body all your life.


Shyam Babu

A friend’s friend’s boy-friend lost his life in Mumbai, thanks to the terrorist attacks. Another friend’s girl-friend escaped firing at railway station yesterday (moments after she took train from the station, firing took place). Thankfully, all friends in Mumbai are still safe – or so they declared when I called them up today to ask them about what part of their body they had already lost.

I cannot keep talking about Mumbai and all the terrible shit that has happened and is still happening after more than 40 hours. I will instead talk about the life of Shyam Babu who can be found anytime in the cute little garden that I happened to visit (yesterday for the first time and today morning for the second time).

Shyam Babu’s gray colour statue that stands over a small cuboid shaped platform in the centre of the garden has something about it. The statue looks almost like a real bald person, lunatic enough in his old age to first have his body painted gray and then climb up the platform and stand over it, only to have a great look at every other character in the garden, trying to hide his cute paunch in the process. And oh, the characters…

Majority are uncles and aunty, there’s just one – who walks around the garden in a sari carrying a sleepy and sad face, along with her grown up and obviously unmarried daughter who usually walks faster and remains ahead of her mother. The daughter, by the way, is the only girl who roams around in the garden. In spite of her attractive slim physique, she looks as dull and boring as her mother in the salwar-kurta that she wears, the colour of the dress very well matching her looks. Two young dudes sitting on their laps in the centre of the garden, right below the statue, forming an upside-down T (hands straight – vertically aligned and parallel to each other and the straight chest, palms pressed against the grass) keep swinging their folded legs up and down about the centre of their hips – looking from far away like two dragonflies trying to drill the earth with their heads, flapping their wings in joy. Then of course, which garden in India doesn’t have it’s share of Baba Ramdev disciples? These uncles sit on their laps, close to each other, and unlike the dragonflies, focus more on their elastic and bulging bellies and enjoy kneading the same by way of sucking in and blowing out the early morning cold air. It’s fun watching their tummy blow up and then deflate – reminds you of the ups and downs of life!

One uncle who prefers walking  and who sports a dense beard, keeps a scarf tied along his tummy, as he does his walking – probably in the hope that this cloth-wrapping would ensure a faster reduction of his stomach dia. And last but not the least there are those in the walking-lot who use the scarf for the right purpose. But then that makes you wonder – what are they doing on a cold November morning outside their rooms anyway, if they are not even ready to uncover their faces or ears or neck and let the morning air  hit them?

As our men (and aunty with her daughter) bring life to the cute little garden every morning, ShaymaBabu remains firm in his pose and platform, his paunch as evident as ever, truly enjoying the rotation, revolution and all such kinds of movements of the human bodies all around him. Shyam Babu’s statue  definitely has something about it. 🙂

Adult my freaky stories


She wore a cotton kurti that was green over her bosom and orange over her belly and waist. She also wore shades that belonged to a totally different era – she must have picked them up from her mom’s collection. She took off the shades almost as soon as she closed the door. Her face was unattractive but the same won’t be true for her eyes for the two black dots floating inside a white sea were no less beautiful and cute than a pair of gold-fish trapped in a water filled flask. She smelled of milk. The smell had been rather strong – making him wonder if she had just taken a milk-bath. She probably believed that rinsing her bare skin with something as white as milk would make her fairer.

Lost in her smell and her eyes, he noticed her lips only when they had come real close to his own. Before he could do a mental analysis of the exact shade of the lipstick that she had applied, their lips were locked. For the first few seconds, it felt just like eating Milkybar although it had been long since  the last time he actually tasted one.  He was used to chocolate. Nothing at the moment however, suggested that he was going to get anything else but a dip in pure white milk. Once the kurti and whatever else she was wearing below it, were gone, it was all white inside, adding in turn to the milkiness of the moment. The undergarments were not just white, but were certainly new as well. He already knew he wanted to call her gaay as his left hand started working over the breasts and as the shining white milk-smelling bra hung by the tip of the forefinger of his right hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore a white undie – probably never. As he let the piece of cloth drop off his finger, he knew he would ask for a white one the next time he would go to buy one.

Probably if she hadn’t insisted, he would have spent the entire night, smelling her breasts and playing with them. He wasn’t sure when that last piece of clothing had disappeared from her brown body. He wasn’t even sure about the separation of his own body with his dress. He was too lost. Probably it was one of those nights when his mind floated beyond sex. More than the desire to penetrate her, he wished he could paint her white from top to bottom. He really wished that. But it was mean of him to leave her unsatisfied. He cared for her. He probably loved her. And so they had sex – he still lost in the milky odour that radiated from her chest, his eyes closed – trying to see her as a white marble statue in the darkness of the shut eye-lids. The orgasm felt like a powerful bomb blast – throwing shattered particles of the white marble in all directions. Gradually, he fell asleep amidst the bits and pieces of the white stone, some around him and some over.

When he got up in the morning, he knew one thing for sure – drinking two liters of milk everyday was certainly not a solution to stop night-falls.


From London – 3

I never changed my wrist-watch settings to UK time – that let me stay connected to India. Boots over jeans are extremely popular here in London. I went to Leeds for a day to catch up with Bua and family – was nice staying at a home and eating home made food and jalebi and samosa and all that. Even the countryside car drive was cool. I am bored. I am fed up. I am glad I will be back to India – back to work in just another day. I think I will do nothing this Sunday. As you travel in tube, you can listen to people talking about job-cuts, or at least reading newspapers flashing effects of economic crisis. After a while, when the natural charm doesn’t attract you anymore, London is just like any other city – where people get up every day and go to work. Work is all that there is to life. And company – someone to speak to about your work. In company, even when you don’t do any work, you don’t feel bad about that. The false pride of being successful is addictive. I am waiting to see that shock on everyone’s face when I finally leave all these wonderful things that a ‘settled’ life and a ‘settled’ job has brought to me. IIT wasn’t the truth of life. Nice job wasn’t the truth of life. And now, London isn’t the truth of life. I am happy I have the guts to believe in my true calling.


Fat people dancing

When fat people start dancing, and especially when they really start enjoying doing that (which shows when the amount of time they spend in air – because of excessive jumping during the dance movements, exceeds the amount of time they spend on the floor), the attention shifts from their dance steps to the floor. Yes, you want people to be happy. And yes, you know when people are happy, they might dance. But if they are fat, they better control. No one is denying fat men and women the right to shake their asses. But can they please keep it at that and stop jumping on the ground?

This was just so mean of me. A post after so many days and me expressing my weird views on fat people dancing? What’s wrong? But they still shouldn’t jump so much, should they?

I have this feeling that someone fat is going to come to my dreams today and start jumping all over me, the frequency and intensity going up every second – me starting to bleed under the force, the impulse, the momentum, the mass into the velocity – me shouting out loud for apologies for this post – tha fat person not listening at all – totally lost in music and the dance. Bloody dance. Stop dancing. Please. Dance, but stop jumping at least. Stop. Stop. Stop.

poems senseless

Through the red

He was passing

through a storm

or red dust.

He couldn’t see much;

his speed cut short.

He didn’t stop.

Through the red,

he crawled,

with closed eyes

but open heart.

And one day

when red gave way

to white,

to the truth,

he stood

like a winner

with a soul

that shined

of freedom

and smelled

of God.