In case you haven’t watched it yet, the first episode of the show is available online.

As I watched the episode in segments of 20 minutes each, I felt my eyes welling up. By the time the closing song finished, i had tears in my eyes. You know there are evils in our society, that female foeticide is rampant, but you casually brush it aside as just another of the problems we have. Like dowry deaths, domestic violence, child marriage or what not. By the way, these are topics they will hopefully cover in upcoming episodes.

This show makes it impossible to turn your face away and pretend the problem is gone.

Like always, there are the naysayers. There are already people questioning the point of the show. That they are merely talking about stuff everybody knows already. That Aamir is charging 3 crores per episode. That it will not change anything. That people will continue to do what they do. That we are doomed to continue with our ills forever.

To me, there is a point. Our daily lives allow us the option of closing our eyes and pretending there is no problem. This show brings it right inside our living rooms, with full facts and figures. We can no longer pretend that this is somebody else’s problem. It is OUR problem. If you abort a girl foetus, think of the life you took. Think of what the mother went through. Think of what will happen when your beloved boy grows up and there are no more girls for him to marry.

Think. To me that is the biggest point of the show.

Obviously there are no silver bullets. We will not change overnight. There are really only two options.

1) wait for the Mayan predictions to fix everything for good by the end of this year
2) accept our problems and do something to fix them.

It is easy to lose all hope and say that this is somebody else’s – the government’s job. Yes, a big part of our problems stems from the apparent collapse of our law and order machinery. Citizens have no trust in the police anymore. We have laws but there is no enforcement. The judiciary runs at it’s own pace, where time apparently has no meaning and undertrials spend years in jails just awaiting judgment.

The example pointed out on the show said it all – these brave journalists risked their lives, covered over 40 cities and got incriminating evidence against doctors openly indulging in t. What happened to those doctors? Nothing. What happened to the poor journalists? 8 years later they are running from one Rajasthan court to another, stuck in the rigors of our judicial process.

So obviously waiting for the government to solve our problems is not going to do anything. Will Aamir Khan solve our problems? Likely not. One man can only cause as much change as we let him. In Aamir Khan and this show, we have that medium to spread awareness, propose some solutions and hopefully get some small wins along the way. But there’s the key word.  ”We.”

We are the ones who will effect any change that happens. Satyamev Jayate is just a medium.

This all sounds very nice and all that, and people several times ask me – “what is the point of writing this? What are you doing about it?” Which is a fair question. What is the answer?

Should all of us become crusaders? Should all of us start NGOs and take out morchas? Should we become RTI activists and risk getting shot in the middle of the night by people we are trying to expose.

Perhaps. Most of us won’t.

But we can start by trying to change ourselves. Learn to respect people around you. Be better citizens. Be better persons. Don’t litter. Don’t try to honk an old lady crossing the road into scared withdrawal. Don’t bribe. Pay your taxes.

Maybe i am naive, but these small steps may just become the medium to much bigger change.

Let’s take it a step at a time. Let’s change ourselves. The nation will change along the way. Rome was not built in a day.

Related posts:

1. (Dis)Unity in Diversity?
2. The Other India
3. Divided We Fall

Among them was I, who had accidentally deleted a solitary copy of the resume from the desktop the previous night after making painstaking additions to it.

In short I was still looking for the promised land where manna would fall from heaven. A week later, long after having been rudely awakened from the dream of pioneering research I had started looking for the lowlands of Dice and Monster. And one day by the power of whoever’s-up-there I got a call from an American dude, Jigs!

Jigs said he had a perfect opportunity for me if he was convinced that I had a thorough understanding of a certain “technology”. He only needed a 6-month commitment. My accommodation and food would be taken care of. The location being a city in the north-east of the US. In short, Jigs was Moses. He was taking me to the land of milk and honey. I noticed that Jigs sounded surprisingly Indian when he pronounced words like “opportunity”, “thorough” and “accommodation”. At other times he was the occidental dude again. Given my situation, I couldn’t care less if it was a red-butted baboon on the other end of the line.

So I flew to Jigland. Those in the know may have guessed it already. New Jersey.

Jigs had provided me a number that I needed to call for pickup from the airport. After having left four missed calls and two voice-mails, just as my doubts were taking root a mini-van screeched to a halt in front of me. Out came a sombre looking dark-skinned man wearing a doodhwallah mustache. I was not surprised when he introduced himself as, Ramu. Ramu had three white streaks on his forehead (as if three F-16s had flown their sorties across it).

Not knowing what rank this soldier held in the company I introduced myself well. Ramu wasn’t interested. He simply ushered me to the rear of the van like a professional kidnapper. The next half hour was spent in eerie silence among cans of milk, frozen meat, bags of apples, bananas, and baskets of vegetables as the van sped past the busy city-life. Now, I agree that the past few months of fruitlessness at the university had reduced my self-esteem. But never in that time had I envisioned myself as a future vegetable vendor in some obscure farmer’s market in North America. I was afraid fate was playing a dirty jig again.

We reached a narrow road with two-storeyed apartment complexes on either sides. There were huddles of inquisitive stares from every door. I realized that I was a newbie in town and was being paraded in front of the pros like that scene from The Shawshank Redemption. I secretly wished a different fate. I noticed with a degree of satisfaction that they were all Indians. As if SRK had landed in town with his million side-actors and paid all the gora to take a hike. As the van stopped, there was a stampede. It took a while for me to realize that I was not the prize everyone were fighting for. The stuff Ramu had brought in his van was their weekly ration. I must say it was an awful lot. People were carrying dozens of bananas, crates of egg, and bottles of milk back to their apartments. Some were even demanding certain brand of corn-flakes, snacks and biscuits for breakfast. In that commotion, Ramu unceremoniously dropped me and fled to safety. I barely heard him saying, “room 18″.

I picked my luggage and walked towards the door that once had metal numbers saying “18″ but not any more. A dozen hand shakes greeted me. I was told that I would be the thirteenth inhabitant of the apartment, originally designed for six. I set down my luggage, shared my story with my new roommates and confessed for having naively believed that I was joining an actual job. They laughed themselves silly and some even fell from their seats at the mention of a “job”. They pointed at each other recounting the months each of them had stayed here waiting for a job (the top being 18-months). Then the venerable Anna, named so by virtue of his seniority-by-stay at the place very modestly explained to me the following; “Babai (in Telugu), this is a consultancy.

First they train you in a technology of their choice. Then they put years of experience in your resume according to their will. They you go on bench and wait for interview calls. On the call you defend everything on the resume. Finally, if selected you go to work and do justice to that resume. Half of your salary goes to them. With the other half you can live your American Dream. Fair enough?” I wished my fear of becoming a vegetable vendor had come true. That night, Mr. Jack Daniels lulled me to sleep in a way only he could. The next morning I dressed up and went to confront that bastard, Jigs.

Jigs turned into Jignesh Patel in less time than the frog must have taken to turn into a handsome prince. The accent fell apart very quickly as we braced for hand-combat. He assured me that a certain technology was doing very good in the market recently and soon they were looking to place twenty “heads”. I reminded him of our earlier conversation and all the assurances that he had given me regarding the “job”. He faced all my ire with the nonchalance of a professional con artist. Finally, he handed me a couple of CDs and asked that I go through them in the training room.

In the training room there were a dozen more diligent “trainees” preparing for the battle ahead. With headsets on and eyes glued to the computer screen they were acquainting themselves with technologies that they may not have heard only a week ago. They were blindly preparing to defend the lies on their resume that may already have reached the hands of some company looking for expert consulting. Each had a six-page fabricated resume to commit to memory. I crept back to the apartment telling myself that it was no wonder that my emaciated resume was finding no takers.

Back in the apartment things were merrier though. Anna was having a party, along with Venky, Raghu and Malle (all names changed). Here was a creed of men who knew the murk they were in and had learnt to opiate themselves from it. They had long lost the interest of looking for jobs. They were enjoying the “free lodging, free food” part of the bargain. They did odd jobs all day like working at a mall or attending a grocery store or manning a gas-station to fill their pockets with enough green bills. At night they partied. An American dream of a kind I must confess. I joined the guys in their merriment. Knowing that they loved a nice chicken meal (but did not know to cook) I set myself the task of cooking a chicken curry for the dozen. It gave me an odd satisfaction of doing something useful for someone other than myself. I spent the night regretting it though as the apartment reverberated with the snores and winds of a dozen bellies filled to brim with that curry.

In the two months that I spent at this place, I realized how similar it was in social structure to the US penitentiaries that are portrayed in so many Hollywood movies. True there are no Mexican, Negro, or Caucasian factions. But there sure are the Gults, the Gujjus, the Mallus, and off course the Northies. Each abiding by a code of allegiance and secrecy. However, every time a “someone” got a job, all factions would come together to congratulate the soldier. On the day of his parting sympathies and good wishes would pour freely for him. He would need both in plenty defending the heavy burden of a six-page resume. I could only imagine the plight of the poor soul shouting “Freedom!” from his office seat like Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

Every night I stayed there my resolve to get away grew stronger. I kept applying for jobs and preparing for interviews. Ramu used to visit us every morning to say “hulllo”. I soon discovered that he was counting heads to make sure no one had left in the darkness of the night.

Finally, they day of my anointment arrived. I was ceremoniously handed my six-page resume by Jigs. I could barely believe it. Every technology under the blue sky was listed there. I had worked on them all. I was an “expert” in most if not “exceptional”. I had worked in three firms in the US and two back home. And, there was no mention of the Masters’ degree that I had painstakingly pursued for the past two years. That had to make way for two years of concocted industry experience. I would be interviewed in two days time where I must be straight faced about the lies that I now held in my hands. I went to Anna’s room and broke the news to the guys. They exclaimed in unison, “we’re very happy for you ra!” and started planning for a party. I told them, “I want to leave this place tonight”. Somehow, it did not come as a surprise to them. They had known me more in two months than I had expected them to. That night I packed my bags, opened a bottle of whiskey took the first sip and left the rest for the wolves. I left Jigland in the darkness of night under the watchful eyes of Anna. I left for greener pasture, where perhaps even my nightmare of becoming a vegetable vendor could bear fruit!

PS: This author is known to hallucinate. Therefore the above incident may or may not be from the author’s own experience. The characters certainly are fabricated. The author suggests you read the article in zest and not to read too much into it.

[Guest post by Saptarshi Moitra who blogs here. If you would like to write for amreekandesi.com, please read this first, and shoot me a note at contact@amreekandesi.com]

Related posts:

1. From UP, With Love
2. Sharing Some Love
3. Love Thy Tourist

Thailand and Mali – countries that have had coups in recent times with several others showing remarkable potential. If you’ve wondered whether we had the potential to go that route, there are some important aspects to consider before being alarmist.

The good news is that a large majority of Indians in a recent Hindustan Times Survey indicated that they didn’t think the army would overthrow the government. But for the 32% that believed that the army might overthrow our civilian government, this might be a mildly reassuring read. It’s not sure whether they said they would ‘like’ the army to do that or whether they believed that the army was ‘going to do that’.

Now let’s get real. Has the army nothing better to do that they will now proactively improve the lot of the common man? Sure, there is political instability, the economy is in the dumps and our social-economic outlook is as dim as a light bulb in a shanty town. But let’s talk about today’s political reality and where the army fits in that context.

First, let’s bring up bureaucratic ineptitude. This possibility has not even been considered in various discussions on the subject. After all, Indian intelligence failed to see 20 Pakistani terrorists armed to the teeth sail across the sea and invade India. The Minister for Agriculture has been more worried about cricketing events that he missed than the deaths of 2,56,913 farmers in the last 16 years. Half of this time, he was in charge. The threshold for gargantuan goof-ups is pretty high and New Delhi’s ignorance about this troop movement isn’t that worrying. Feel better?

Second, why would our army want to overthrow a civilian government? Do they really want to get in the mud and wrestle with politicians? Do they want to give us excellent roads that BRO (Border Roads Organisation) provides those few lucky jurisdictions? Or do they want to change the vast landscape of India into what army cantonments in Punjab, Himachal and Coonoor resemble? Somehow, that’s too altruistic to be true.

Third, let’s talk coup logistics. Unlike Pakistan, where each dictator leaves behind a ‘How to overthrow a civilian government and not be shot dead’ manual, India has no such body of literature or even a simple ‘Dictatorship for Dummies’. Although the Central Government is in Delhi, recent spats with allies have shown that government mandates come from Chennai, Calcutta, Lucknow and sometimes even from New Delhi. The army would have to secure not just the premises of politicians in Delhi, but sundry allies and opponents (since a party is a political ally only depending on a set of existing circumstances) all over the country. This of course assumes that all of the military is going to support the top brass. In India, friends and enemies are relative – we are equally at ease hating ourselves as we hate our neighbours. Any mutinous intent can easily be thwarted by a tangential argument on what cuisine will be ordered for lunch or which IPL team to support. So it’s debatable how willing southern and eastern commands will be in such an escapade.

Fourth, let’s talk next steps. Assuming the army does manage to overthrow the government, then what? Given India’s geopolitical and strategic role in world politics, we can safely say that no dictator here will be at the wrong end of international politics or die like Saddam or Gaddafi. Therefore, at some point, a successful dictator will have to negotiate terms with a transitional government. Let us imagine the dialogues with some key political parties –

BSP – The army is ruled by Brahmins and upper caste Hindus; we will not deal with them until a Dalit is made at least a Brigadier.

CPI – The Indian army uses arms from Israel and US……therefore Israel and US are trying to take over India. We must not negotiate with them.

DMK – ……we will talk to anyone as long as someone from the family is made at least a General.

Shiv Sena – Army is good! If a Maharashtrian is the COAS (Chief of the Army Staff), we don’t even want civilian rule!

The army might be able to negotiate extreme climates, inhuman terrain, sub-par equipment and brave bullets – but they are bound to find their comeuppance in Indian bureaucracy and politicians.

Fifth, the dictator’s Golden Parachute. Our poor candidates have none. Assuming our intrepid General starts off okay but things turn ugly for him, what next? Unlike dictators from other coup-y nations who have some “retirement program” with countries in the Middle East or less popular island nations, most countries would be loath to take an Indian dictator. Where would this lonely dictator go? All other successfully retired world dictators would make fun of him.

The maneuver for the coup seems hard enough but the journey till the transition to civilian government would be even more traumatic for the poor General. It therefore begs the question – why would any right thinking General choose to overthrow civilian government? After all, if it is unimagined sums of money and unaccountable power for their lives– they should join politics like everyone else!

[Guest post by constitutional lawyer M.S. Ananth who is a Georgetown Law graduate, Non-Resident Researcher and generally amiable human being at Brookings Institution Washington D.C. He also argued cases at the Supreme Court of India and survived to tell the tale. Knows a thing or two about filter coffee and killing lizards. Oh and constitutional law.]

[If you would like to write for amreekandesi.com, please read this first, and shoot me a note at contact@amreekandesi.com]

[Image courtesy]

Related posts:

1. Eunuch Army
2. Open Letter to Arms Dealers
3. Khel Khel Mein – Solving the Indo-Pak Problems

Advertisements. Hate them or love them, you just cannot escape them. Every ten minutes, in the middle of a highly engrossing match or a TV show, you are subjected to random models or celebrities strutting their stuff across your screen, and urging you to buy products that you will never need to use. So whenever Priyanka Chopra poutily proclaims, ‘It’s not just a phone, it’s who you are,’ or Sachin declares that Boost is the secret of his energy, we have young boys and girls who will insist on buying the very brand that his or her favourite celebrity endorses, regardless of whether they really need it, or whether it is the best product available in the market, or whether they can afford the really expensive ones.

Advertising, on the whole, disgusts me. Because the basic message you’re sending out to people is that – ‘You’re not good enough’. Look at Fair and Lovely. Arre wah, you’re telling people that you cannot achieve success unless you are fair, especially in the ad in which a dark-skinned girl with the voice of an angel is shunned simply because she’s dark. Once she uses their magical product, people start appreciating her (Really?!). Or Axe. You cannot attract chicks unless you wear our deodorant. Complan – You cannot grow taller unless you drink our growth-enhancing potion. I could go on, but I think you get what I’m saying.

No related posts.

People were discussing this article by some Aakar Patel. The guy was on top of Twitter trends for the day. Needless to say, i had to read it to stay in sync with the happening crowd.

Three minutes and twenty five seconds later, i was feeling ashamed of my life. The guy made me realize just how pathetic an existence we North Indians live.

There’s hardly anything going for us northerners. 

We can’t appreciate Carnatic music. I didn’t even know who MS Subbalakshmi was and had to resort to Wikipedia to find out. We are uncouth. We flaunt our Honda Cities. We are not tolerant of others. Just look at how the North Indian BJP treats our good PM. Even my pretty face suddenly felt like a burden. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I suddenly had flashes of all the smart Tamil kids who always scored higher than me in the FIITJEE test-series. Now i knew why.

Why god, why couldn’t i have been born into a nice Brahmin family of dosa-eaters?

I was appalled. I went outside, got into the Honda City and turned on the radio (factory-fitted, Bose speakers), determined to listen to some quality Carnatic music. Red FM was playing that Pungi song. Super addictive. Then Chikni Chameli. Half an hour later, just as i was busy picking my nose, the wife came out of the house pissed at me about wasting my time and not helping out with dinner. Another example of our north Indian intolerance.

Aakar Patel suddenly appeared in my head and said, with a slight smile, “Hence Proved”.

The radio was useless. They only played those awesome but meaningless Bollywood songs. I figured Youtube must have something. Did a quick search, and found an MS Subbalakshmi track with a few million hits from knowledgeable, cultured Madrasis. This should be good. I was ready to get some culture.

5 minutes later, i was in tears. Not because it was awesome and i was making ‘little clicking sounds by striking the tongue against the back of the front teeth, gently shaking his head from side to side in mock helplessness‘ like people who can appreciate good music.

Not quite. To my primitive ears, it didn’t make any sense. I just couldn’t understand why the woman was so sad. I heard the track five times. Nothing. I felt bad for her though. Going by how much her voice trembled, i guessed she must be really old.

But something had to be done.

I formulated a quick plan. Going forward, Roadies will be followed up everyday by 15 minutes each of Sun TV, Gemini TV and DD Kairali to increase my culture quotient, and soon i should be able to understand multiple languages like the good people from the south. Junior will learn Tamil as a third language, and call me Appa. Sundays will be started with a breakfast of Idli (no giving up the rajma chawal lunch for now.). Henceforth, i shall go to work with a head soaked in at least 200 ml of Coconut oil. The wife shall wear those nice smelling flowers in her hair.

I am not kidding. Not going to stop till my fellow North-Indians start making fun of me and call me a Madrasi.

Like Lord Ayappa must have told his disciples, man creates his destiny, even if he is born in North India. I will create my own South India right here in the land of Yadavs and Jat Boys.

If Michael Jackson could go from black to white, surely going from wheatish to a couple of shades darker must be a relative cakewalk?

Thank you Aakar Patel,  for my life will never be the same again.

[Image Courtesy]

Related posts:

1. 8 Lessons for Indian Managers
2. Smile. You’re Indian
3. Dont Mess With Our Sentiments, We’re Indian

Newspapers these days are full of reports about people having all sorts of weird things happen to them. Murders over parking slots, rapes, thefts, acid attacks, battered kids slammed against walls, Abhishek Bachchan having a baby, and what not.

Makes you long for the good old days of chain snatchings, tires being stolen from under your parked car, and the weekly episode of Superhit Muqabla on DD2 to brighten up our Sunday nights.

But what will you do? All countries on the cusp of greatness go through their crazy moments. In a few years, or more realistically – a few centuries, we will get over this Banana Republic phase. That, or there won’t be any more people left to kill or rape. Then we will be able to focus on Gandhi’s true mission of world domination.

For now, here’s some tips on how to stay safe till India becomes a more inhabitable place.

Prevention is Better than Cure

Thinking of going out to India Gate for an ice-cream? A club in Gurgaon on Friday night? A New Years’ eve party?

I have five words for you. What the hell is wrong with you? Ok, seven, but more importantly, why do you need ice-cream? Can’t you eat something more Indian, like Parle-G bicsuits? Or Musli power?

And club? Really? Why, you loose (wo)man, do you want to do that? Get a room. Find some speakers, a bottle of IMFL, smoke whatever it is that you do , and be done with it. Going out is like opening the screws on the back of your laptop. Voids the warranty instantly. Sensible people don’t do that.

Don’t go out anywhere, and you face no problems. Noone stalks you. Noone can grope you on the Metro. On the road, you can’t get rear-ended by a Scorpio with dark black windows, and then be stabbed for not apologising.

You save petrol, reduce your carbon footprint, avoid overpriced food/alcohol sold at fancy places, AND you get to live. It’s a win win situation.

A Stitch in Time Saves Nine

This one is quite simple. Cover up. Wear a Burqa if you can.

The advantages of wearing full clothes are many. You protect yourself from mosquitoes and sun-burn, you help promote the local textile industry and people in Gurgaon know immediately that you are not available for a rape attempt.

So get that sewing kit, and stitch up. It will do wonders to your confidence, well-being, and to India’s crime statistics.

Gandhiji’s 3 Monkeys

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.

Don’t mess with anyone. Don’t fight strangers on the road if they smash your car from behind. If in doubt, just bend over and apologize. If you must shout, control your emotions, go home and fight with the wife. She’ll froth at the mouth, curse and shout, but at least she won’t kill you. Hopefully.

Needless to say, this is more of a back up plan in case you fail to agree with the first principle and decide to head outside the house for whatever reason.

So it really boils down to that. Don’t get out of the house if you want to stay alive.

Opinions are for Donkeys.

…and Chetan Bhagat, whose inspiring ToI columns convert our Sundays into Fundays.

But he’s a rare breed, and statistically speaking, you are probably nowhere close to his level of intellect and influence. So keep your opinion to yourself. Or be prepared to answer the Big Brother, who watches your every move. ND Tiwari will vouch for that.

You got that Twitter account to voice your political thoughts – very good. Just make sure you don’t criticize anyone important. Which in simpler terms is anyone powerful enough to get away with killing you in cold blood.

BJP is fair game. The way they are going, they will forever keep the opposition benches warm. You can crack Gadkari jokes without any fear. Everybody else is always in with a chance, so make sure you don’t joke about important people, like Diggy Singh, central cabinet ministers, and even B-grade celebs like Rahul Gandhi and our good Prime Minister.

In general, politics is tricky. Tweet about what you ate instead. People always love the #nowhaving tweets. Movie reviews. Fart jokes. They always work. You get RTs and new followers. Twitter followers only, no one from CBI. Don’t mess with the powers-to-be and you won’t go to jail.

So there…follow these and be happy forever. Or till the world ends later this year.

That’s it for now. You may send in your thanks for increasing India’s average life expectancy by some 20-30 years.

[Image courtesy]

Related posts:

1. 10 Lies of Modern India
2. 21 Tips On Surviving Life in Modern India
3. Road Rage – A Survivor’s Guide

This is in reference to the recent news about the measly 14 crore bribe offered to the Indian army chief, General VK Singh. As a resident of a modern, developing India with a high rate on inflation, i am appalled.

Nothing in India is cheap anymore. I went to a Costa Coffee the other day and the coffee cost me Rs 150. And it wasn’t even hot. A shabbily constructed 3 bedroom apartment in a moderately upscale Gurgaon neighborhood costs in crores. For 14 crores, you’ll probably get a 3 BHK in suburban Mumbai, maybe somewhere in Vashi. Vashi? Who lives in Vashi?

An army chief has high standards. He only drinks the best liquor. His clothes are always starched stiff, and shoes always in the darkest shade of African-American. He is a 62, no 61 year old man who commands a force of a million men who would go to battle for him at the drop of an INSAS rifle. Being the chief of the Indian army is a big deal, you know.

And our people look up to him. For millions of Indians, he is the person they expect to see kicking Pakistani butt if they dare attack us, in a manner much similar to Sunny Deol in Border. [Sunny Deol. What a man. What amazing scream presence!]

Indian people sleep at night feeling safe that our hostile neighbors cannot kill us in our sleep, because we know that

1.) Pakistan doesn’t have missiles to reach a long distance inland
2.) Our army will never let us down.

What will happen to that confidence if the Army chief falters? More importantly, what will happen to the army chief’s confidence if he is offered a bribe that is a fraction of the alleged rate charged by petty politicians for the smallest of tasks? This is a massive blow on the safety of the nation.

WE JUST CANNOT LET THIS HAPPEN.

Dear arms lobbies and their middlemen, for these reasons we Indian people implore you, no we beg of you, please raise your standards. You must pay our top army brass the going rate and not try to undercut them.

At least pay them enough to buy a nice 3 BHK in Bandra, if not Colaba. Remember, Army chiefs cannot live in Vashi. They do have some standards to maintain.

It’s a nation’s honor at stake. Please don’t let us down.

Regards and all that.

[Published as an online petition as well. Please sign to get this going.]

Related posts:

1. Open Letter to MS Dhoni
2. Open Letter to the BCCI
3. Open Letter To Mike Hooper

We used the full designated hour, in true Indian tradition. Rinsed the mouth, got the dose of saunf, and completed two rounds of the office complex while discussing important issues like how much money the Indian cricketers must have been paid to throw away the Australian series. Or how the Gulab Jamuns today seemed a bit harder than usual. 

Suddenly the desk rumbled. It was a bit like in the movies where Jeetendra goes behind a bush with the young lady love and it starts shaking.

I shouted for whoever it was to stop right away. Someone yelled ‘Earthquake!’. 

I picked up my wallet, bag, and cleaned up the desk cabinet including my set of white-board markers. My knowledge of evacuation procedures helped. They always say don’t waste time collecting stuff; save your life first. Which was why i didn’t waste much time trying to remove the phone.

Tried posting an update on Twitter. “Running for my life. Earthquake in Gurgaon. #FML.” It didn’t go. Airtel chooses just the right time to screw up. I retried about 7 times before a hand grabbed me and led me away.

No no, it wasn’t lord Krishna. Just the only other person left on the floor. We reached the nearest fire exit and galloped down the stairs.

Once we were outside in the safety of the open ground, it struck me. This was god’s dress rehearsal for the end of the world, currently scheduled for a December go-live as predicted by the Mayans.

However, the building was still standing. Not even a window had cracked. Like with everything else in our country, obviously we had managed to screw up the exercise.

But nevertheless, at such moments you realise the morbidity of life. I immediately repented only eating a single Gulab Jamun for dessert, and promised myself that next time i was not having any less four. Let them glare if they want.

The thoughts were flooding my mind.

No more wasting time on exercise. 

Must find a way to use up all those piled-up sick leaves.

Use the bonus; go on a world tour. No, didn’t get too much this year. Will go to Shimla instead.

Spend more time on meaningful pursuits. Twitter.Facebook. Still need to checkout Pinterest.

There’s so much that needs to be done.

30 minutes passed. One hour. The fire warden announced that we could go back in the building. Still not even a teeny crack in a window. The damn quake did not make even a leaf fall to the ground.

A bit disappointing if you ask me. Major credibility loss for the Indian sub-continent’s tectonic plates.

The good thing was this incident made me see the bigger picture in life. I am never going to say no to Gulab Jamuns ever again.

Related posts:

1. A Sneak Peek at 2012

So i took the car keys and headed out to finish the crucial business. The Mother-Dairy is about 800 meters away from home, but walking down would be so middle class. Besides, i am Punjabi. What use is the Honda City if the world doesn’t know about it.

But there was a problem. Somebody had parked their car bang in front of the driveway. Our car was blocked.

Somehow when Indian people sit in their cars, their IQ levels seem to drop down to Ekta Kapoor soap levels. The British introduced us to automobiles, but the snarky rascals didn’t bother teaching us how to drive.

Unfortunately the Indian economy did well and people have since managed to buy progressively longer cars, with not much idea what to do with them. Or how to park them with consideration to other less-important fellow men. I won’t be surprised if the third world war originates in a Delhi colony, over a parking dispute.

Anyway cutting back to the present, i wondered what to do.

The car might belong to someone who had come to the park for a morning walk. Checked inside, and the only people in the park were 4 kids smoking near the fountain. Kids these days start early. 8 am in this case.

The car wasn’t theirs. The neighbor confirmed that they didn’t have any visitors, so that option was also ruled out. Which meant that i had to endure the walk of shame to get today’s milk.

But someone had to pay for my misery. I peeped inside the car. The still-in-place plastic covers on its seat announced proudly that this was a brand new Hyundai.

I evaluated the options.

Keying the side to leave a long, deep scratch would be a constant reminder to the owner not to mess with others again. But suddenly the vision in my head changed to a gang of 20 hefty men running towards me with hockey sticks and a few cricket bats, the next best use sporting equipment is put to in our country.

Something advised me against doing this.

What if i call the police? Bah. They will likely not even pick up the phone, and then what are the odds they’ll just bundle me into their van and take along as a return gift?

What if i just break one of the lights? The 20 men came running back, and they seemed even angrier.

Go with the threat i have seen outside many houses. “Unattended cars will have the air of their tires removed.” This time the 20 sportsmen were running in slow motion. i think i even saw Nana Patekar in the group. For some reason he was killing mosquitoes as he ran towards me. With his bare hands.

I reminded myself of the message of the great Mahatma. Violence is never a solution, unless you have 20 hefty hockey wielding men on your side.

I shouted at the wife to get me a bag, and walked to the Mother Dairy.

No related posts.

Here, breaking on the Baking News Network, is an exclusive story of what really happened in Australia.

It was all Captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s masterplan.

It all started when Dhoni heard of the FIH Olympic Qualifying tournament being held in Delhi. Winning this tournament was India’s last change of making the 2012 Olympics. For an 8 time winning nation, nothing could be more shameful than not even qualifying for the biggest stage in world hockey.

Dhoni discussed his idea with senior board members, who were initially sceptical but the Indian captain convinced them that in the bigger interest of sport, this was required. And then he formulated his plan. The team fitness trainers were to be diverted to hockey. Sahara were to announce the decision to withdraw support for cricket and instead sponsor the hockey team. The Indian team learnt go-karting to develop an effective alibi for days when they will miss practice.

Vice captain Sehwag joined in. The idea for a public spat between him and the captain was his. The duo spent the month before the tour planning the finer details. Go-karting trips were booked. Snorkeling vouchers were procured. The board even managed to find a sponsor for unlimited supply of beer to help the team look naturally unfit. For good measure, Virat Kohli agreed to become a perceived bad-boy with a well placed middle finger salute.

If the planning was thorough, the execution was perfect. The team lost match after match. They won a couple in between though, just so it didnt look too obvious. But it was all coming together. The Indian team cut a sorry figure in Australia.

The Indian junta responded as expected. They were angry. They were disappointed. Countless fans broke their mobiles and TVs by throwing one into the other. The public had had enough of cricket. They needed something else.

And at this time, the hockey tournament started. A perfectly timed stroke, like a Sehwag cover drive India didnt get to see in the entire series.

Cricket’s loss was Hockey’s gain. Frustrated junta started watching the matches on TV. After India won the first few matches, people actually started going to the stadium to watch, taking along the same tricolors they had saved for Cricket matches.

On the day of Indian hockey’s crowning glory, the final of the tournament, Indian cricket suffered the final blow. As the Indian cricketers perished in yet another listless display to be knocked out of the tournament, Indian hockey won the final by a massive margin to give the Indian public what they really needed. Excellence.

India was ecstatic. People were bursting fireworks like it was Diwali. They were jubilant. Indian hockey was back in the picture.

As per our sources, Dhoni watched the Hockey final from his room. After India won, he ordered a full tandoori chicken and a six pack of budlight. This called for celebration.

He had won, even though he had lost.

[Baking News presents to you half baked news that may have no credibility in the real world. All characters in this piece are fictional and have no semblance to anyone real or imaginary. We are confident that the Indian cricket team's losses in Australia are fully attributed to their lack of talent and/or application. No external factors should be allowed to take credit from their performance.]

Related posts:

1. Kick Starting Indian Hockey
2. A Middle Finger to Indian Hockey?
3. Old Toys New Story