The next time I hear a Mumbaikar complain.... I will hit the looser... all of us from Mumbai are loosers... we are back at being the city that "bounces back from the depths of despair"... some spin doctor coined that... and coined that to eclipse that distasteful fact that what we really are is "apathetic"... Worst of all... we fucking believe the spin doctors... we believe that we are indomitable... bring it on... natural disasters, terrorists... we the brave Mumbaikars will prevail... bull shit... the only thing that gets us cowards out of our houses is the stomachs that we have to feed.
Were was the other 60% of "brave" Mumbai when they were needed to make one little contribution that could potentially drive major change. When all one had to do was stand in line and vote. Hello...Where did everyone vanish... the lot of them...
Brave Indeed! the fuck worths could not even brave the sun!!
But wait... for the fuck worths... there is still hope... the spin doctors are at it again... look at the excuses...
1) It was too hot (its fucking Mumbai... its hot and humid all through the fucking year)
2) Summer Holidays - the north Indians went back home (who the fuck thought this up???... the chap is a talent... find him... honor him... kill him!!!)
3) Extended weekend - everyone is out of town (Ya... the streets of Mumbai were empty indeed... who thought of this one???)
4) All politicians are corrupt (and if you don't vote.. you fucking looser... you bet the most corrupt is also the most likely to win... and you share responsibility... fuck worth)
I am ashamed of being a Mumbaikar... I am ashamed of being a part of an indifferent dumb people... I am ashamed of being a Dumbbaikar.. I hate me...
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Moments that Mattered
The Best Compliment I Ever Got
Friend to Me: Boss, If you write... you are a writer...
The Worst I was ever abused
(Different) Friend to Me: Ay bhaire... dikhta nahin hai kya???
Friend to Me: Boss, If you write... you are a writer...
The Worst I was ever abused
(Different) Friend to Me: Ay bhaire... dikhta nahin hai kya???
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Slumdog Thrill-ionaire
We are a divided people… yet again…
And this time it’s a film…. It’s the Slumdog's film
It wasn't very long back when it was so cool to rave and rant about this wonderful (???) little film about this kid from Dharavi who makes it big.
Now, for many, it suddenly is so uber cool to run down the Slumdog film as anything but cool. Those singing hosanna a few weeks ago have now turned up their snot-filled noses and talk about the same film as:
And when are we going to make this an election issue boss... Are they crazy... its election time soon.. get down to dharavi... ban the movie... I cant believe this... have our politicians suddenly discovered a conscience???
Jokes apart... I agree. I do agree to an extent, with all the above (not mutha-lick mind you). They did show poverty and Mumbai does have another swanky side. Maybe an Indian could have made a better film… someone like Anurag Kashyap could have worked wonders with the subject. Rehman does get better with age… this is definitely not his best… his best is yet to come. This IS not an Indian Film.
What I don’t understand is this… it is the same film… nothing changed in the last few months. The book has been out for years… It was written by an Indian... no one complained all this time. So what changed in three months…
And this time it’s a film…. It’s the Slumdog's film
It wasn't very long back when it was so cool to rave and rant about this wonderful (???) little film about this kid from Dharavi who makes it big.
Now, for many, it suddenly is so uber cool to run down the Slumdog film as anything but cool. Those singing hosanna a few weeks ago have now turned up their snot-filled noses and talk about the same film as:
- Yet another instance of the foreign hand's cinematic exploitation of India’s poverty (Not one shot of the skyscrapers or the multiplexes man… what the f@#k... Is Dharavi all we have to show to the world)
- An eighties potboiler all dressed up in Hollywood chique (Imagine if Subhash Ghai had made this… would they take it to the Oscars...haan…) Wait man... this ones easy… it even has Anil Kapoor… only... he would have been playing the role of the teenage millionaire if Subhash Dada had laid his hands on the script first
- One of the masters lesser works (b@nc##t... theek hai yaar music… par saala Dil Se, Roja type nahin hai. Even f#@%ing Delhi 6 has such mind blowing numbers man…. Par saala Hollywood film hai… is liye chal gaya… l@udu saala…)
- A foren film… (What the hell man… Everyone is behaving like its an Indian film yaar…. stupid d!@#heads... It’s a Howlywood film dude… we have nothing to do with it… ch@tiyas)
And when are we going to make this an election issue boss... Are they crazy... its election time soon.. get down to dharavi... ban the movie... I cant believe this... have our politicians suddenly discovered a conscience???
Jokes apart... I agree. I do agree to an extent, with all the above (not mutha-lick mind you). They did show poverty and Mumbai does have another swanky side. Maybe an Indian could have made a better film… someone like Anurag Kashyap could have worked wonders with the subject. Rehman does get better with age… this is definitely not his best… his best is yet to come. This IS not an Indian Film.
What I don’t understand is this… it is the same film… nothing changed in the last few months. The book has been out for years… It was written by an Indian... no one complained all this time. So what changed in three months…
- Is it more intellectual (and therefore more swanky) to be snobbish and go against the tide… to be seen as someone with an independent mind and an independent opinion
- Are we living in denial... The film was not about Karan Johar's next door neighbours... It was based on a book about an underdog from the slums... who makes it big... Karan Johar's neighbours could be dogs (owned by a real millionaire) but they definitely not underdogs... no way...
- Is it that we just cannot stomach success by our compatriots
- Is it that we just cant view the film impartially just because it was made in our backyard… and… again… yet again... we missed the bus… we lost the plot… somebody whisked away OUR success story from under our noses AGAIN (like mutha from under Mr. Mutha-licks nose)
As for me... I loved the film.... absolutely loved it. And I haven't seen it yet. Probably wont ever. That's the way it works with me. Either is see it in the first week or my lazy bones just refuse to move by body and take me to the theatre.
I loved the film because I would love anything that acts as a catalyst to bring our countrymen international recognition.
I would love anything that can bring that 1000 wat smile to the face of that little kid from Dharavi who happened to find himself teleported from the grime, the dust and the shit of his everyday life. Teleported straight to a dazzling red carpet that might just fly and take him to his dreams. The dreams that he had dare not dreamt of just a year back.
If the movies are about dreams... dream on slumdog... Life ain't all shit all the time...
Saturday, February 21, 2009
CARS CAN PUMP KIN
I had a dream. Oh, I had one of those bigger ones. A big car. One of those big ones that you buy and imagine yourself driving down the road and everyone drops everything and looks at you with their eyes wide and mouth agape.
And...In my dream it actually happened… I drove down the road and everyone looked at me with their eyes wide in astonishment. I could almost read their mind. The eyes were actually wide. The mouths were really agape. A child asked his mother “What is this thing mamma??… Why does it croak? It is a Big Froggy, no??”
“Yes my child” I wanted to tell him “It is a big froggy that uncle…no… sorry... bhaiyya... It’s a biiiiiggggg froggy that bhaiyya’s mechanic dissects every month in his metal laboratory.” Children are sooo cute, no. Can I choke one to death please?
I dreamt that I bought this car for my mechanic. At least, that is what it seemed. The man, in his almost shoulder length Caribbean hairdo, dark glasses, long!! Shorts (are they Bermudas… does any one wear them anymore), floral shirt, rum breath, a$$H@@!# drove my car more than I did. I could almost see his gleeful smile and his hair blowing in the wind as he took the 500th post repair trial. I could see his golden tooth sparkling in the sun (this wasn't true… made it up in my dream… was frustrated… please understand). His father, of curly hair fame, thanked me when I paying him. “Tank You” ha baba, lemme know if any ting happens, Ok.”
These ‘Ting’ happened like shit happens.
I dreamt that I had bought the damn car second hand. Yup. I know you are grinning too. You B!tc#. I was always smart. Born smart. I am a work of art. Just like a whistling fart.
Why pay all that dough for a new car when it depreciates like a D!@k after a fu@K. Might as well buy a good (???) second hand car and save all that money. You idiot… you.
So, in my dream, I went to this friend’s (???????) brother’s wife's uncle’s wife’s brother’s nephew, who happened to be a car dealer. “Mere rishte mein hai yaar… kidhar aur jaega to maamu banega”. Reassured, I went forward with my head in the sky and my feet in my a$$. And as it turned out, my friend WAS right. Barabar bola tha… maamu nahin bana…
Ch@t!ya ban gaya…
This smooooth operator. This grease bag. This fat pumpkin sold me a bigger pumpkin. He made me feel good about pumpkins. “Boss”, he said, “Boss, Yeh pumpkin hai naa… ekdum best hai. Aur pumpkin ka color to dekho, hain. Pumkin kya dikhta hai boss. Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baithoge. Pumpkin mein ek baar bait ke to dekho. Wah! Kya Pumpkin hai sirjee”. In retrospect, all that remained was this small round pumpkin pulling his d!#k out (after finding it somewhere, hidden under multiple layers of meat) and getting off on the bigger “pumpkin”. Well, he did sound as if he was getting an orgasm.
I was his relative’s friend. So he thought he should pump-kin. He must have. That’s what my friend, in the dream, said a few months later when the engine screamed WHORE WHORE one morning. Horny pumpkin… my pumpkin.
And the things that happened to my pumpkin... apart from screaming out for WHORES every couple of months (a mating cry which, by the way, was answered, at lightening speed by the wannabe Caribbean mechanic slut), it found new ways to deprive me of my hard earned money between each WHORE cry. Oil leaks suddenly sprouted and when the mechanic had fixed that with his D!@k, it was time for the pumpkin to land on its ass as the suspensions gave way. Then the Air conditioning thought that that its only objective in life was to warm the cockles of my heart.
I contributed too. I loved my car, so I took it swimming. In the rains, that is. Then I pampered it more by buying it a brand new engine made by (guess who???) a Caribbean.
Now, in my disturbed sleep, I saw that my pumpkin has gone crazy. It has lost its gears. Literally.
And I am finally about to take a post pumpkin meal dump. Anyone who likes pumpkin… please give me a shout. I promise to sell you the most expensive pumpkin shit ever.
Who knows, you might just make it to the record books as the proud and bankrupt owner of the most expensive pumpkin... if you do manage to convert shit back into pumpkin.
Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baith ke jaoge, sirjeeeeeee.
And...In my dream it actually happened… I drove down the road and everyone looked at me with their eyes wide in astonishment. I could almost read their mind. The eyes were actually wide. The mouths were really agape. A child asked his mother “What is this thing mamma??… Why does it croak? It is a Big Froggy, no??”
“Yes my child” I wanted to tell him “It is a big froggy that uncle…no… sorry... bhaiyya... It’s a biiiiiggggg froggy that bhaiyya’s mechanic dissects every month in his metal laboratory.” Children are sooo cute, no. Can I choke one to death please?
I dreamt that I bought this car for my mechanic. At least, that is what it seemed. The man, in his almost shoulder length Caribbean hairdo, dark glasses, long!! Shorts (are they Bermudas… does any one wear them anymore), floral shirt, rum breath, a$$H@@!# drove my car more than I did. I could almost see his gleeful smile and his hair blowing in the wind as he took the 500th post repair trial. I could see his golden tooth sparkling in the sun (this wasn't true… made it up in my dream… was frustrated… please understand). His father, of curly hair fame, thanked me when I paying him. “Tank You” ha baba, lemme know if any ting happens, Ok.”
These ‘Ting’ happened like shit happens.
I dreamt that I had bought the damn car second hand. Yup. I know you are grinning too. You B!tc#. I was always smart. Born smart. I am a work of art. Just like a whistling fart.
Why pay all that dough for a new car when it depreciates like a D!@k after a fu@K. Might as well buy a good (???) second hand car and save all that money. You idiot… you.
So, in my dream, I went to this friend’s (???????) brother’s wife's uncle’s wife’s brother’s nephew, who happened to be a car dealer. “Mere rishte mein hai yaar… kidhar aur jaega to maamu banega”. Reassured, I went forward with my head in the sky and my feet in my a$$. And as it turned out, my friend WAS right. Barabar bola tha… maamu nahin bana…
Ch@t!ya ban gaya…
This smooooth operator. This grease bag. This fat pumpkin sold me a bigger pumpkin. He made me feel good about pumpkins. “Boss”, he said, “Boss, Yeh pumpkin hai naa… ekdum best hai. Aur pumpkin ka color to dekho, hain. Pumkin kya dikhta hai boss. Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baithoge. Pumpkin mein ek baar bait ke to dekho. Wah! Kya Pumpkin hai sirjee”. In retrospect, all that remained was this small round pumpkin pulling his d!#k out (after finding it somewhere, hidden under multiple layers of meat) and getting off on the bigger “pumpkin”. Well, he did sound as if he was getting an orgasm.
I was his relative’s friend. So he thought he should pump-kin. He must have. That’s what my friend, in the dream, said a few months later when the engine screamed WHORE WHORE one morning. Horny pumpkin… my pumpkin.
And the things that happened to my pumpkin... apart from screaming out for WHORES every couple of months (a mating cry which, by the way, was answered, at lightening speed by the wannabe Caribbean mechanic slut), it found new ways to deprive me of my hard earned money between each WHORE cry. Oil leaks suddenly sprouted and when the mechanic had fixed that with his D!@k, it was time for the pumpkin to land on its ass as the suspensions gave way. Then the Air conditioning thought that that its only objective in life was to warm the cockles of my heart.
I contributed too. I loved my car, so I took it swimming. In the rains, that is. Then I pampered it more by buying it a brand new engine made by (guess who???) a Caribbean.
Now, in my disturbed sleep, I saw that my pumpkin has gone crazy. It has lost its gears. Literally.
And I am finally about to take a post pumpkin meal dump. Anyone who likes pumpkin… please give me a shout. I promise to sell you the most expensive pumpkin shit ever.
Who knows, you might just make it to the record books as the proud and bankrupt owner of the most expensive pumpkin... if you do manage to convert shit back into pumpkin.
Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baith ke jaoge, sirjeeeeeee.
