Too Mooch.....

I am fuming!! And this time it’s gonna be serious. Things have been taken to a bit extreme this time around. And it is time to give it back.

It is nobody’s concern whether I want to sport a stubble, a goatee or even a damn beard. But hell no!! These accursed Gillette waala’s will poke their nose into even the most personal of things.

If anyone is lost for context then it here it is – Gillette has recently launched a campaign “Shave India Movement - Women Against Lazy Stubble” encouraging women to shun men who chose to sport a stubble. And they have managed to rope in the most jobless women in Bollywood - Neha Dhupia, Minisha Lamba and Mugdha Godse to endorse the campaign. The underlying message is women should not co-operate with men until they agree to sport a clean shaven look. And to encourage men to take up the razor, Gillette has come up with a Rs 125 razor pack!!

Now my opposition to this is based on two points
1. Men also have some fundamental rights
2. Under the garb of a women’s campaign Gillette are pushing their product


Point 1 first.

Dear Women,

Please do note. I am firmly against gender discrimination and believe in equality of the sexes. But if your idea of equality is to treat men as an inferior beings then I have major issues with this. Men are also human beings who like to exercise free choice and will. This campaign is definitely intruding on men’s right to decide for themselves. There is a difference between an untended for and a groomed whisker. And as long as I am doing the basis grooming it is my right to decide on my facial hair. Don’t need a battery of failed starlets to decide for me. Shaving or not having is a personal choice just like it is your prerogative to sport long hair and a mascara. Leave it to us. I will do what I am comfortable with. If I feel good with a stubble so be it.


Point 2

To Whomsoever it is concerned asshole Gillettewaalas,

Take your cheap razors up your arse buddy…and shave your arse for all I care. I don’t need your products and this campaign has definitely made me turn my back on your products. I would rather choose a product which emphasizes and educates on the importance of self-grooming. Any product which uses such despicable marketing techniques is not for me.


And for all women who have joined this so called “movement of losers”…get a life gals.


BTW I just joined a group “Men Against Women Against Lazy Stubble”. Haha you dint see it coming your ways losers!!


Over and Out,
Shubham

"Telemarketer" Salvation

I hate telemarketers. And I hate them from the very core of my heart.

Can someone please tell them that I can hardly manage to pay my current credit card bills let alone afford a new one!! My boss won’t give me an off to go on your promised “grand vacation” and since I am anyways destined to be one day hanged for murdering a telemarketer, my family won’t be able to claim the insurance. But still these nosy bastard will keep bombarding me with all bizarre offerings. Credit cards, Insurance, Demat accounts, Vacation plans. They have it all. Politely declining their offerings doesn’t work. Come to think of it even being angry doesn’t work. Disconnecting calls, shouting, abusing, pleading, begging – to no avail. These guys have some balls!! Once when I told a caller that I do not want a loan, the lady on the line had the audacity to ask “Why sir??”. Damn you. I don’t need to give you reasons.

So one day after the umpteenth time of shouting at them and banging the phone I was close to a nervous wreck. But these rascals will keep badgering me with their calls. The now dreaded phone would ring frequently. Exasperated I would pick up the call. Will this never end?? Am I destined to suffer a painful existence??

But when pushed to the wall a man fights back. And fight back I did. The next time the call came I was prepared with some stuff of my own.

Asshole 1: (Blabbers something in Tamil)

Me: (Tamil Teriyaar)- Meaning I don’t know Tamil

Asshole 1: Sir I am calling from ICICI Bank. You have been shortlisted for a preapproved loan at 15 percent interest

Me: I work with HDFC. We will offer a loan at 12 percent interest. Are you interested?

Asshole 1: Er..emm…is this Shubham Bhardwaj??

Me: No this is Rajnikant

Asshole 1 hangs up.

Phone rings again:

Asshole 2: (rand…sheri...ille)

Me: (Tamil Teriyaar)

Asshole 2: Sir I am calling from Birla Sunlife insurance. Are you interested in a Health insurance?

Me: My pet dog is not keeping well. Can you insure him?

Asshole 2: Ummm…we insure only human beings.

Me: Ohhh…does it cover treatment for lunacy?

Asshole 2 hangs up.

Phone rings again. There is a lady on line

Asshole 3: (saaaar….solunga…)

Me: (Tamil Teriyaar)

Asshole 3: A very good afternoon sir. I am calling from Country Club. We are offering a special tour for 2 for Singapore.

Me: I am single. Will you join me for the tour?

Asshole 3: (Porikki) – Rowdy

Me: (Poya)- Bhag be

Asshole 3 hangs up.

Suddenly such calls are a lot more fun.

Life is good.

Over & Out,

Shubham

The Tale of the "Outstanding" Student

Somehow I feel exploited by the education system. If I look back at my school days I feel that considering the circumstances the school was literally fleecing me of my money. Despite the hefty fees charged I never got the benefits. Just how...

A daily chronicle of my school life.

Period 1: English

English…the language of Shakespeare & Keats. The plays and poems which create a romantic web around you. In this bliss and torrent of love, how can yours truly remain unaffected? And like any horny teenager I too fell in love with my English teacher. Her recital of the rendezvous of Romeo & Juliet would leave me dreamy eyed, my imaginations running wild. Ohh...the starry night, the mist in the garden, the naughtiness of the dawn….

The glazy eyes however dint escape the attention of the my object of lust…I mean love. A prompt checkup of my attention span and soon the class would be one person short. The missing person would be standing outside ruminating over the great knowledge he is missing.

Period 2: Physics

The means to becoming the next Newton or Einstein. The magical world of thermodynamics, electromagnetics, relativity…

Now don’t get me wrong. I loved the subject. But its hard not to laugh when your teacher is wearing sports shoes with a three-piece suit. And with the Bihari English our masterji had!! Exclamations such as “No problem is there” , “Open the windows, let the weather come inside” were doled out quite freely. Not hard to imagine the utter helplessness we experienced. As the mastermind of the ensuing chaos, I was soon sent outside the class, for as masterji put it “the more good of the class”.

Period 3: Biology

Ugggghhhhhhh……….I hate the subject. Bones, cockroaches, frogs. Gawd!! I would always feels nauseated in the biology lab.

Now the subject was taught by a frail old lady Mrs Ghosh..which unsurprisingly was changed to Mrs Ghost for our internal reference. The old lady always had an axe to grind against me…well….hmmm…ahem…she once saw me doing a “Goodmorning Mrs Ghosh” to the skeleton kept just outside the lab. Hmmm…I could consider myself pure unlucky.

Now Ghosty had a habit of starting the lesson by asking questions on what was taught in the previous session. And whoever failed to answer was promptly asked to leave the class. So five minutes into the lesson and I would be issued the eviction notice. Class after class, week after week...

Period 4: Maths

Now this was a subject I was good at. Dealing in numbers really egged me on. But given my short attention span and the plethora of opportunities for mischief and fun, the teacher could somehow never restrain himself from reading the riot act to me. So the “Outstanding” student keeps his slate clean.

Period 5: Chemistry

Damn. Despite my utmost efforts the balanced equations never balanced, the periodic table was periodically mixed up, acids gave me acidity and bases made me forget my basics…

Add to this my checkered record of “accidents” in the lab. Understandably the teacher developed a phobia of me. And the results were predictable. A trip to my designated spot…

Period 6: Computers

1+0=1,

1+1=1??

What confusion!! C, C++, Java...all conspired to bedazzle me. The classes, methods, objects were all mumbo jumbo for me. And when the hottest chick of your class sits next to you, its hard enough to concentrate. The eyeballs tend to rove about. And promptly you are sent on your way out.

Man!! School was fun.

Life is good,

Signing off,

Shubham

Ponga Pandit

The day when I donned the attire of a pujari…..

I can envisage some raised eyebrows, head scratches, utter disbelief, and all varied expressions of bewilderment. After all a non-believer like me who never lets go of any opportunity of God bashing, acting as an agent of God?? Hehe…the incident always manages to bring a smile on my face (which given my Aloo ka paratha fiasco last week is a premium these days).

Being born in a Brahmin family is the worst thing a person can do to himself. Not only are you looked down upon by the political class, you have to also put up with all the idiosyncrasies of a typical Brahmin household. We have prayers, sermons, and religious taboos for the smallest of events! Unfortunately for my folks (and fortunately for me) I never took to the God-fearing ways.

Ahh…the irony of all

The event which unfolds below occurred while I was staying in Delhi. The landlord and his family used to stay a floor below. On a typically quite sunny day, nascent beginning to the summer season, the birds chirping which felt like sweet music to my ears….Ok ok, I will cut the crap.

I just lay on the cot, lost in some intellectual thoughts when suddenly the fat landlady barges in. Before I can even open my mouth, she drops in a bomb – “Beta, I want puja to be performed for the well being of family”. So, I wondered? She continued her rambling – “and as the temple pujari has gone to his village, can you please conduct the puja for us?” Stunned for a moment, I stuttered “I, I …" looking around for an excuse to get out of the situation. Finally managed to conjure up some lousy excuse about not being the religious types and not conversant with all the ceremonies. But you know how women are. She pressed on with her demand until I finally agreed (only to get rid of her) on the assurance that she will be guiding me throughout. Other than religious blasphemy I didn’t for see much danger. Given my skirmishes with GOD I could take that bit of a risk.

So next day morning, attired in a neat kurta pajama your sham pujari makes his way to the fatso’s place. A peep inside and I froze at the door. The first signs of danger were in front of me. I had been expecting an audience of 3-4. But lo and behold!! I was staring at some 15 fat housewives looking expectantly towards me to wash them of their sins (Pun intended). I had the utmost urge (sixth sense??) to turn back and it was only some forceful dragging by the bitch…I mean fatso…that got me inside.

Regaining my composure I took my designated seat (with 15 eyeballs following every movement of mine). Now it was my turn to expectantly look at the Fatso. She smiled. I smiled. She smiled again. I smiled again. She smiles again. Something was amiss. I smiled harder with a ‘what next’ look. She keeps smiling. I was increasingly becoming desperate. Suddenly realization dawned on her. Relief dawned on me. She spoke up – “Since you are the Pandit, you know better. Please guide us”.

Shell-shocked! Speechless! Do I need to tell who?

Momentarily I had a feeling of a trapped animal. Not even in my wildest dreams had I imagined being caught up in even a vividly similar situation. Desperate thoughts came to my mind to somehow escape this ridiculous situation I found myself in. I was even toying with ideas such as using the oil lamp to set something on fire, or even feigning a heart attack. Man this lady had me in a real soup. It was as if someone had poured vinegar down my throat!!

But then…

The devil in me raised its head. It was as if I suddenly achieved enlightenment. The path ahead was lit up for me. I thought. Why not give it back to Fatso? What she had done needed an equal measure of response. If she is pouring the vinegar down my throat why not throw up on her? She wants a Puja, let her have a puja….the non-believer way. What if I don’t know all the rituals & prayers? I can always make some up ;).

And so I began the mumbo jumbo…an unholy cocktail of prayers & rituals. Intertwined with curses & abuses. Who says we can remix only music!! Definitely the fatso will not derive any divine benefits from the exercise. As for me - I enjoyed the creative license given to me by the absurd situation. Hum to hamesha se bahot creative rahe hai….

Life is good.

Signing off,

“Paakhandi Pandit” Shubham

My Tryst with Aloo Parathas

Uggghhhhhhh!! Trust the world to conspire against me.

To do or not to do??

This was the question playing on my mind this morning. To give a background – it suddenly occurred to me to prepare some aloo parathas to take to office for lunch. Now then! I know I am the worst(bordering on dangerous) guy to have around in the kitchen. But some days you get this keeda of doing something different. And of course! the alternative of eating at the God forsaken office cafeteria was too frightening.

And Aloo paratha!! My favorite…I could well imagine wolfing down buttered parathas with curd…..Yummy!! The thought was way too good to ignore.

So with a trepidation of setting the kitchen on fire, and the hopes of a delicious lunch I set about my task.

Lights! Sound! Action! and Fireworks!!

Task 1: Kneading the flour

Now this took some doing. Howsoever hard I tried I never seemed to get the proportion of flour and water right. Either it would become way too sticky or way too dry…..not exactly the best of starts but then the greatest triumphs began with difficulties. To cut a sad story short I finally did managed to curse/coerce/coax the dough in shape!

Task 2: Roll a perfect round paratha

Aha..hmmm…mmmm

To tell you the truth I hadn’t expected to roll out the perfectly shaped “things” at the first go. I would have settled for even a map of India….but unfortunately, I ended with what resembled South Asia, with Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh ready to fall apart.

But then normal is boring. Anyways once in the stomach it won’t matter whether the paratha is round or ahh…uniquely shape

Task 3: Fry the paratha

Booooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhh……

If task 1 and task 2 were nightmarish then this was plain worse…the “thingy” got stuck to the pan and coaxing it to come unstuck was like hell. In turn I was managing to burn the parathas and intermittently my fingers. All dreams of having tasty golden brown parathas were slowly vanishing. Instead I was managing to come up with brown black connotations which remotely resembled something edible. Gawd!! Is there no way of getting things done without this much of effort!!

Finally!! All done and ready. Two uniquely shaped, brown black parathas gleamed at me. Lovingly I packed them for lunch……..looking forward to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

End result

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.

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On my way to office I dropped the lunch box somewhere. Had to again partake the slow poison at the office cafeteria.

Life is good.

Over & Out,

Shubham

Much "Abuse" About Nothing

An account of my daily existence:

7 am: The alarm rings up. Get up and first thing abuse the inventor of the alarm clock

7.15 am: On my way to the Gym. Glare at the honking car drivers & whizzing bikes

8 am: Curse the trainer for overworking you. The donkey needs to know the limitations of the human body

8.30 am: Prepare breakfast. Abuse the maid for the dirty utensils

9 am: Curse the company for such ‘early’ timings

11 am: Reserve some obscenities for the boss for loading you with tons of work

1.30 pm: Lunch. Lay out a platter of choicest abuses for the caterer in response to the dreadful platter he lays out for you

3.00 pm: Cuss at the whole world for conspiring against your very existence

4.30 pm: Crib at the shitty life you are living

8 pm: Leave office. Snarl at everybody who crosses your path. Everyone needs to know you had a bad day at office

9.30 pm: Dinner. Shout and hurl abuses at the waiter for the poor service, poor food, etc

11.00 pm: Hurl abuses at the neighbor's blaring music

12 pm: Sleep time. A quick “Fuck the whole world” for a better sleep

Life is good…

Over & Out,

Shubham

The Forgotten Indian

After a long hiatus I am back to the blog. Will not make any promises of keeping the blog updated since I have realized how lazy I am.

Back to business then!! The post has been prompted by the event which happened a few days ago. No doubt a great day for a man and the sporting world. I am referring to Roger Federer finally overcoming his long drawn jinx and finally laying his hands on the coveted French Open. Man!! After all his trials and tribulations and of course tears (courtesy a certain Mr Nadal), his efforts were finally fruitful. A heartiest congratulations to him and best wishes for more silverware in years to come.

However, I have a point to pick here. Not against Roger, who has most certainly been a sporting icon of our generation. It is against us Indian fans of tennis. Right after Nadal’s ignominious exit against Soderling I could see my Facebook home page plastered with my friends status messages egging on Federer. Status message like “Go Roger Go”, “Fedex on the way”, etc were visible all over my FB home page. Almost everyone who knew the T of tennis was throwing his weight behind the man. A most notable indicator of the fan following Roger has.

Amidst all the hoopla surrounding Roger’s march to the title there was another discreet march going on in parallel. It was our very own Leander Paes quietly progressing and then winning in the men’s double. But my FB friends who were going gaga over Roger had no time for our very own countryman. Or maybe they were not aware of Paes’s progress, or maybe they were aware and don’t care. After all in a country so used to mediocrity in sports (with some exceptions) we have resigned ourselves to supporting players/teams of other countries (Brazil in soccer, etc). Nothing wrong in supporting excellence, irrespective of nationalities, but then we should not forget our own sporting stars.

Ever our over-enthusiastic press went gaga over the Federer mania. Flip over to any news channel and it would be showering adulation on the Fedex. Must have repeated the video of Federer weeping atleast a 500 times. And all the weeping ensured that Leander was consigned to a very small mention somewhere in the news. Agreed that Federer is the bigger star with a larger mass appeal. But then Leander’s contribution to Indian tennis cannot be looked over. His triumphs in Davis Cups and the Atlanta Olympics still give goose bumps because of their sheer fervor. Certainly he deserves more of our attention span.

Food for thought!!

Over and Out,

Shubham