If you are a married man, you know what trouble it is to live with a lady who has an opinion of her own. In my case you can double that trouble – and you will know what it is like living with my daughter and my wife. Of course, my daughter’s opinions are still handle-able. It is my wife’s opinions that make my life hell.

I can handle any amount of attitude in my wife Rekha, what I can’t handle is her opinions. The other day, she said: “Rajan, you need to start working out again.”

“Why?

“Just like that.”

Since, it was of no use arguing with my wife, I decided to start working out. I bought 500 grams of all the dry fruits available, mixed them in a bottle and kept them handy for the next day. As luck would have it….I couldn’t beat the North Indian cold and head for a jog the next day.

“Aren’t you going for a jog?”

“No. It is too cold.”

“Come on…don’t be a sissy. Go and work out…get some stamina.”

“Stamina? Wait…do you have some reason for pushing me to head for a jog?”

“Nope.”

“Come on…tell me,” I insisted.

“Since you insist. And mind you…only since you insist…you aren’t holding up the bed anymore.”

“Ohh my God! You feel so?” I was shocked. I could have run a marathon at that moment…just to prove a point.

My wife just nodded and left the room. I had only two options – start jogging soon or get a second opinion. Getting a second opinion would mean, trying to find a girl at 36 years of age (yes, that is how old I am)…which I have come to realize is a Herculean task. So from the next day, I started jogging.

Ten days went by, and suddenly my wife asked me: “You seem to have started enjoying your jog?”

“Yes indeed. The first few days were a drab, but now it is fun.”

My wife thought for a while and then asked: “Why do you always leave at 6.30 am? Anything special with the timing?”

“Just fits right into the schedule. If I leave at that time, I can be in office by 9.30 am.”

“Hmm…” My wife was thinking.

“Why do you ask?” I questioned her while I tied the laces of my running shoes.

“In my opinion, you wouldn’t start jogging at 6.30 am everyday if there wasn’t something in it for you.”

“Yes, I am getting healthier. Not to mention the improved stamina.” I stressed on the word stamina, and gave my wife the naughty look which she has started hating after our marriage.

“Nothing else then, huh?”

“Nope. Nothing else really.” Saying this I said my byes and headed for the lift. Just as I was entering the lift in my tracksuit and running shoes, I heard my wife’s voice from behind: “You aren’t punctual, for a pretty girl who comes jogging…or are you?”

It was one of those close moments where the benefit of doubt could be provided to either side – so I stepped in to the lift and stayed quite as if I hadn’t heard my wife. She also never brought up the topic again.

But, it really pains me to know that my wife still hasn’t realized that at 36 years of age even if I was willing, it isn’t possible for me to connect with a younger lady. Most I do manage connect with end up calling me ‘Uncle’ or ‘Sir’ or ‘Bhaiya’ within the first 30 seconds.

The more I jogged, the more I started loving it. It had been two months since I had started and every day I would leave at 6.30 am. My wife couldn’t take it after two months – she had to find out for herself. So, one find day, she also bought tracks and running shoes and followed me ten minutes later.

I didn’t know she was following me till, I spotted her hiding behind one of the trees. I had nothing to fear…I would do my rounds and then head back home. And it would be my wife’s responsibility to explain the circumstances – and I loved such scenarios.

But fate had something else in store for me. As I finished my third round around the apartment complex, Sunita, who is a mother of a two year old baby boy, came right in front of me and said:

“Hi! You are Jammy, right?”

“Yes.” I was cautious because I knew my wife was watching.

“Rhea’s father, right?”

“Yes.”

“I have seen you around many times. You don’t know me…but I know you.”

“OK?!”

“I have been seeing you jog for the last two months, and you have inspired me to take up jogging.

“Wow…thats nice. But why did you stop me now?”

“Do you mind, if I also jog alongside you – I have a problem pacing myself.”

Guys, you all know me…I try to help as many people as possible. Even if sometimes I end up in trouble as a result of the act. I agreed, and she ran three rounds of the apartment with me. When tired, she shook hands, thanked me and left.

God’s ways surprise me. Just the day you don’t want a girl to cross your path, he throws a pretty one on the road and asks you to fight it out with your wife.

As you have guessed by now, I couldn’t convince my wife that Sunita had started jogging only that day. My wife still believes that I woke up every day at 6 am and headed for a jog at 6.30 only for Sunita.

To prove that there was nothing going on between Sunita and me, I had to give up jogging just when I had started loving it. And just when my stamina had started improving.

————X————X————-

Two days back, Rekha, Rhea and I were shopping. Rhea was sitting in the shopping cart and I was pushing the cart….while Rekha was picking up the items to be bought and placing them inside the cart. It all went well for fifteen minutes…and then we lost Rekha.

I looked every where. For her bit, Rhea also tried shouting ‘Amma!’ ‘Amma!’ but to no avail. We just couldn’t spot her. That’s when an idea stuck me…I approached a pretty young girl in her early 20s standing near the Toiletries section and stuck a conversation with her.

“Hi!” I said.

“Do I know you?” The girl had an I-don’t-flirt-with-married-men look on her face.

“No you don’t know me….but I have lost my wife.”

“So? What do you want from me?”

“No nothing…we just need to talk for five minutes and the problem will get solved.” I said with a grin on my face which she was finding difficult to understand.

“What do you mean?” She was getting rude.

“Whenever I am talking to a pretty woman my wife finds me. So hold on for a few more seconds…and we are home.” My naughty grin continued.

“Look Mister….I am from a respectable family.”

“Don’t worry. Just a few more minutes…I am sure by now my wife has sensed…..

I hadn’t even finished the sentence when I heard Rekha call me from behind: “Rajan, what are you doing there? Your daughter is alone here.”

It worked. It always works!

Related posts:

1. Rekha and I differ in our opinion
2. Looking for smiling joggers

Four nights back Rekha turned towards me in bed and started at me. Been married to her for the last six years I knew this was a dangerous move. As a weapon, it ranked a little below Arnold Schwarzenegger’s AMT Hardballer Longslide (with laser sighting) in the movie Terminator but above Sylvester Stallone’s SVD Dragunov in Rambo III.

I immediately closed my eyes and lay still thinking playing dead might work. But through the dark room, Rekha’s piercing eyes noticed that I was still breathing and she started: “Rajan, you awake?”

I continued to play dead.

“Rajan, you just adjusted your pillow. You can’t be asleep so soon?”

The problem with my wife is that she can never make up her mind. She is always confused if her sentence should be a statement or a question – and that confuses me to bits.

I continued to play dead. Better be dead than fight a battle weaponless and die injured.

“Rajan, I am feeling romantic. Must be the fact that you came home early from office, after about two months.” Rekha sure was persistent.

But at the mention of romanticism, I lowered by guard just that little bit. If you are married you would know that wives never feel romantic, leave alone in bed. So when she does feel romantic you don’t want to let that chance pass.

I said: “Sorry, you were saying?”

“What is it with you men? You force me to play dirty…I am not romantic or any crap like that…just wanted you to respond.”

“Rekha, I just liked the thought of it. You should have at least continued to play dirty for a while.”

But Rekha was determined to not let silly girly thing called romanticism come in between her mission.

“My friends and I have planned a picnic this Saturday.” She was blunt.

“Picnic?” I shouted. And almost woke up our daughter Rhea whom Rekha conveniently places between the two of us every night. If I were the Prime Minister of INdia, I would have definately suspected that ISI had a hand in placing Rhea in between to stress me out…but alas no.

“Yes picnic. In the Leisure valley park, this Saturday.”

Rekha’s voice was commanding now. It felt as if she was coach Tony D’Amato (played by Al Pachino) in the movie Any Given Sunday…and I was one of her players. She was playing me.

“This Saturday? But why? Can’t we just chill at home?”

“Nope. I have already agreed to bring you along.” Rekha continued to insist.

“Agreed to bring me along? Then there are others as well?”

“Yes, my friends in the apartment complex.”

“But Rekha, I barely know them.”

“Rajan, in case you haven’t noticed I barely know any of your colleagues but when they come home…don’t I behave?”

“Hmmm…behaving is such a subjective word. Anyway, that is for later. So, how many ladies are coming?”

“We are four – Sonal, Pallavi, Meetu and Smitha – and we are the gang in Uniworld.” Through the dark I could see that Rekha had a smile when she was reciting the names. She must really like them. How naive, I thought.

“Not fair right? Five ladies and just me? You know me…I would be shivering.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. They are all coming with their husbands.”

“No way Rekha. I can’t come. If it were just the women I would have managed…how do you expect me to have a picnic with strangers?”

“But Rajan, this isn’t fair. I always do it for you.”

So saying, she grabbed for my hands in the dark. She always does this when she has to convince me…and every time I fall for it. Anyway, to cut the long story short, after 30 minutes I was laying on the bed thinking…what a stupid idea it was …to sacrifice one whole day on picnic with strangers just for 30 minutes of you know what.

We were the first to reach Leisure Valley Park – I wanted to be done with it and move on with life.
It was as if I was indebted to somebody and I just wanted to pay it back and be answerable to no one. Within an hour everybody had assembled. Rekha introduced me to all. Here is how it went:

“Rajan, here are Sonal and Rahul and their kids. Remember we have been to their house on their son’s birthday?”

Rajan: Did we?

“Forget about it. And this is Pallavi and her husband Anmol. We have met them before, remember?”"

Rajan: Yeah? Hmm….I don’t remember.

“Anyway, this is Meetu and her husband Amit and their daughter Molly.”

Rajan: “Hi Molly!”

“Rajan, do you want to say a Hi to Meetu and Amit as well? I have told you so much about them…haven’t I? ”

Rajan: Have you?

“And this is Smitha. They are Konkani and have settled in Kerala…so I can speak to her in Malayalam.”

Rajan: She knows English, doesn’t she? Or should I speak in Malayalam as well?

“Rajan, she knows English and now if you don’t mind saying your greetings…I would really like it.”

Rajan: Hi Sunitha.

“Not Sunita….Smitha.”

To cut the long story short….the first one hour of the picnic was a disaster. The wives and husbands were telling their kids not to go near me. I did notice two of the parents pointing their index finger to the sides of their head while telling them to stay away from me. And five minutes later I did hear a few of the kids calling me crazy and throwing stones at me.

—–X——-X——

In moments such as these the genes in the 24th chromosome of the Rajan clan gets activated. The right juices started flowing and soon, I was that suave, sophisticated conversationalist that the World has seldom hoped for but never seen.

If you have been reading this blog for long, you know that the Rajans are a clumsy and crude lot but when challenged, they rise up to the occasion. That is exactly what happened at this picnic. Within the next 3 hours this Rajan had become the most popular picnic-er in the party.

When the stray dog attempted to eat our food, I was chosen by all to chase the dog away till a distance of 2 kilometers and come back. When a child from another picnic party was lost, I was told to go and find his parents…and that took a whole 45 minutes away. And when we ran out of water, I was the guy who was selected to take the car and buy some bottles of water. We had great fun at the picnic…and my co picnicers loved me!

I am sure my wife is pretty proud. Do see some pictures below:

Related posts:

1. Sonia yet to find friends
2. Inviting friends over
3. Heard among my friends

In the last ten years, the fuel prices have really gone up. One would have thought with Iraq under US control (well, almost) and all other parts of the World where fuel is found under US influence, the World would be a better place to live in. But no.

I have a few thoughts on why we are where we are today, and how we can laugh it over….so let us start with a joke I read sometime back. Here goes:

A horse and a chicken were playing in a farm. Suddenly, the horse falls into the quicksand and starts sinking. He quickly shouts out to the chicken to go and get the farmer so that he could help in pulling out the horse. The chicken goes out …tries her best but is not able to find the farmer. Desperate to help her friend, she drives back in the farmer’s Mercedes Benz C Class bought on Mercedes Star Lease Plan. The chicken then ties a rope to the car’s bumper and throws the rope for the horse to latch on to. She then drives the car fast out…and the horse gets out on land, safe.

Being animals, the horse and the chicken don’t learn their lesson and continue to play in the same area. A few days later the chicken falls into the quicksand. Faced with the prospect of dying, the chicken requests the horse to run to the farmer and fetch him for help. But the horse refuses. He says, “I think I can stand by the edge of the quicksand and pull you over. So he stretches over the edge and says, “Grab my ‘thingy’ and pull yourself up.”

And the chicken does precisely that and gets pulled to safety.

Here is the moral of the story: “If you are hung like a horse, you don’t need a Mercedes to pick up chicks.”

Ninety percent of the traffic to Ouchmytoe.com comes from India, and its no secret that Indian men aren’t as well hung as a horse. Which helps us conclude that we all need cars to pick up chicks. Extrapolating further, one can safely assume that it is the men who are affected by the rising fuel prices. So read on.

Fuel price hike: The Current State of Affairs

I don’t need to tell you the current scene with fuel price hikes. There are jokes all over Facebook that before Sachin Tendulkar reaches his century the fuel price will hit a 100. Or the various Facebook status updates which suggest that it is Vijay Mallya’s conspiracy to make beer look cheaper at Rs 65 per bottle.

While on the subject of Vijay Mallya of the Kingfisher fame, I have to tell you about the real life incident which happened at Hyderabad Airport recently and which I heard from a pilot. Being the pilot of a cash-strapped Kingfisher Airlines, this friend of mine had to take off with a full plane but a half-full fuel tank. Midway through he realized that he couldn’t land at the Hyderabad Airport with the fuel he had so he radioed the Control Tower at the Hyderabad Airport. He blurted out into the radio: “Quick! Urgent! Emergency! Call me a mid-air refueling plane immediately!”

The Tower replied: “You are a mid-air refueling plane,” and cut the conversation.

However grave the problem, I don’t think Vijay Mallya is worried. The only thing on his mind currently is how he is going to manage the Kingfisher Annual Swimsuit Calendar….which I personally don’t think should be a problem because they were anyway on a shoe-string budget. The models, could just wear their shoe strings and pose.

It isn’t just about the airplanes. Even folks who have fuel guzzlers on the land affected. So much so, that Harbhajan Singh who owns a Hummer has found a new expansion for the abbreviation HUMMER: Hungry Ugly Monster, Mostly Eats Rupees.

So, you fell for that one? Ah! That was easy. Bhajji didn’t come up with that one, I did. He is only good at throwing balls at sticks. Ask him to do anything else and he gets stressed out under his turban.

Talking of stress, I am really worried about the current state of affairs. I mean, imagine having to exchange arms and legs for a tankful of petrol.

“Sir, that would cost you an arm,” the fuel pump attendant would say.

“Here, keep my right hand as well. I had already given my left hand when I did a tank full last year.”

“Thanks sir. Would you prefer the Premium petrol? That’s available for a leg…and if I were you, I would go for the Premium Petrol. At least you will be able to drive your car with one hand.”

“OK fine. Give me a tankful of premium petrol please.”

“Sir, be happy that you are driving a small car. You see that Harbhajan driving away in his Hummer?”

“Yes…was that him?”

“Yes sir. He just got a tankful and in exchange just offered his first born male child.”

Crazy, isn’t it?

This is why I am not surprised when I hear of stories where people try to cheat the system. In Mathura if you give your credit card to the fuel pump attendant after doing a tank full, he will ask you for your car key as well.

“Sir, can I also have the car keys?” He told me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Sir, we have had incidents when people have done a tank full, given expired or stolen or no-cash-left credit cards and made a dash for the highway,” the fuel pump attendant was apologetic.

“Ok, here you go. I would still suggest you have an eye on the car. Because for a tankful of petrol I wouldn’t mind handing over stolen car keys.”

While waiting for the attendant to come back and give my credit card, I struck a conversation with my five-year-old daughter.

“Rhea, did you know that when we were your age we used to walk five kilometers to our school – every day.”

She immediately looked up from the Barbie doll on her lap and asked: “So, your parents couldn’t afford gas, either?”

And then she turned towards her mother (that’s my wife) and asked, “Amma, why don’t the cars go a long distance with little petrol?”

“Because cars are not horses, Rhea.”

That’s when it struck me….cars with amazing fuel efficiencies should do the trick. We are talking about mileages such as 100,000 kilometers in 1 liter of petrol. But how do we achieve that?

All this Multi Point Fuel Injection (MPFI) shit is hogwash. We need to start building cars which will have three monthly appraisals to check on performance (defined as fuel efficiency). And we need to build cars which can be shot at and killed if they didn’t perform as per expectation. Are we really naïve enough to think King Maharana Pratap’s horse Chetak went all the distance because he was dedicated to his master? No! He had seen what happens to horses that don’t last
the distance.

Fuel price hike: The Future Scenario

At the rate at which we are going, burglars, bandits, robbers will soon start carjacking the vehicles which fill the ATM machines with money and surprise all of us by returning the cash but siphoning off the petrol.

Or maybe, New Zealand will become the next Dubai – the tax free, shopping destination. With no petrol, all lawn mowers will be replaced by sheep. And who has the highest number of sheep in the World? New Zealand, of course. And if all goes well for New Zealand….in 25 years or so we will start complaining that the cost of sheep have started going up. Imagine…elections will be fought on the prices of sheep.

The property prices near Police stations will increase many-fold. Rich and smart people will start moving near the Police stations. In the mornings they will reach their offices in their cars, but park their vehicles in no-parking zones. Once the Police tow them to the Police stations near their houses….the car owners will reach the Police stations, pay the wrong-parking fine and retrieve the vehicles. Thus, the return trips will cost them next to nothing.

The way we propose to girls today will change. Eager boyfriends will buy barrels of gas before proposing to their girlfriends. They will point at the barrel and pop the question: “Rekha, will you marry me?”

The girl will look at the barrel of gas and shriek. And say: “Yes! Yes! Yes! I will marry you.”

Car or no car…we are poised for an exciting ride.

Related posts:

1. I am an environmentalist with blood on my hands
2. The increasing cost of living
3. One for the road…

Two days back my wife called me when I was in office. I said, “Rekha, I am in a meeting. Can I call you back?”

“Sure.”

And after ten minutes she called me again. I cut the call and messaged her that I couldn’t talk since I was still in the meeting. She just SMS-ed an “OK”.

After half an hour, she called again. This time I was angry and said, “Rekha…I am still in the same meeting. Don’t you understand, I am at work.”

My wife replied: “If you are in a meeting why are you commenting on your ex-girlfriend’s status updates?”

Damn! These Facebook newsfeeds. I muttered under my breath but only let out a “Hmm….”

“You have time for her, but not for me?”

“Hmmm…oh that? I was in a meeting….a boring one….so was just fiddling around with Facebook while the meeting was on.”

I waited long for a response. After a while she replied: “If the meeting was boring and useless, why not come out and talk to me?”

I tried to explain to Rekha that coming out of the meeting wasn’t a possibility but if she could come online I would be able to converse with her even if I was in a meeting. And for the sake of our four and a half year daughter Rhea, we agreed to disagree that this was the correct approach.

One thing is for sure, this Facebook is going to ruin my married life. But I am not worried much about that. I am more worried about all those boys-wanting-to-be-men who will be winding up their love affairs with a ‘it is not about you, it is about me’ comment and then start identifying the girl they want to marry and live a life with.

I can almost foresee detective companies coming up which would specialize in Facebook investigations. Companies with tag lines such as ‘Helping find the Real Him via Facebook’ or ‘Saving girls from assholes, one asshole at a time’. Shop signs such as the one showed in the picture aren’t far away.

I can foresee the girls parents visiting a private detective firm titled ‘Fancy Facebook Investigators’ and having a conversation such as this:

“We are planning to have our girl married off to a boy from Delhi.”

“Sure. Let me know how we can help you.”

“The boy’s name is Prashant Saxena. And we want to find out if he is a good fit for our innocent daughter.”

“Hmm….do you know his Facebook ID?”

“Yes…our daughter has alreday started chatting with him. His ID is: prashant.saxena.”

“And his email ID in Facebook?”

“His email ID is prashant.saxena@gmail.com”

“Thank you. Consider your job done. We will need at least 15 days. If we find him not good for your daughter, we will not just give you the proof of his past but also generate proof in the present.”

“How much will this investigation cost us?” The cost concious lady of the house will speak up.

“Madam, just think about it for a while. How much will you be willing to give to ensure your daughter has a good married life?”

I won’t go into how much these detective agencies will charge the hapless parents, but they would make a killing for sure.

And once the parents exit the scene, one young trainee will be put on the job. He will immediately use one of his Girl IDs and send a friend request to Prashant.Saxena. Being already deprived of Friend Invites from girls, the poor Prashant will will immediately accept it and fall into the trap.

Side Note: It would be great to find out what percent of the total friend invites sent out in Facebook every day are sent out by girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if it is only 1-2%. I am sure 98% of the Friend requests are sent out by the men. If there is a girl out there, the men will find her out and send her the request.

The young trainee will then go thro’ Prashant Saxena’s life history on Facebook and find out that he has changed his relationship status with different girls at least 3 times in the last four years. Based on the status updates and the comments, the young Trainee will also form a report on the kind of relationships Prashant Saxena has had with these three girls.

With the report in hand, he will go to his reporting manager to discuss the future action plan.

“Sir, Prashant Saxena has had three girl friends in the last four years. And they were all very intense relationships. Here is the report.”

The trainee’s reporting manager will go thro’ the report and finally look up and say: “This is proof of the past. We also need to prove that he hasn’t changed. Start chatting with him and get some proof of his intensions.”

“Will do sir. Just so you are aware I will be using either Priya Dixit’s or Neha Gupta’s profile for this assignment.”

“Sure. As you wish. You my man! Or should I say girl?!”

After the go ahead from his reporting manager the trainee will get onto the task of exposing Prashant’s present intensions.

This is how his initial chat conversations with Prashant start:

Priya Dixit: Hi Prashant

Prashant Saxena: Hi Priya, sorry but do I know you?

Priya Dixit: Hmmm….does that matter?

Prashant Saxena: Obviously not. It doesn’t matter but it helps.
(In such instances, a man is forced to take this stance. How many times in a lifetime does a man get a Hi from a girl anyway?)

Priya Dixit: You don’t know me. But I know you. I studied in the same college as you.

Prashant Saxena: Is it? How come we never met?

Priya Dixit: I was scared to approach you. You were so popular.
(Who doesn’t want to hear that he/she was popular in college)

Prashant Saxena: That I was. What did you study there?

Priya Dixit: I did BA Economics

Prashant Saxena: Wow. Where do you stay?
(For a man the territory is important. If there are little chances of meeting in person he won’t waste his time)

Priya Dixit: I stay in Noida. And I know you stay in Delhi….your FB profile says so.

Prashant Saxena: Yes, I stay in Delhi. Smart girl.
(A well-trained man knows that girls like to be called smart & beautiful)

Priya Dixit: Thanks. I was home alone and was getting bored so thought I might as well gather the courage to buzz you. Hope I am not disturbing me.

Prashant Saxena: No…no…not at all. In fact, I myself am bored.
(The logs in Facebook servers are proof that a man has never been too busy for a girl)

Priya Dixit: Thanks. You are a nice person.

Prashant Saxena: Thanks. Is that your real profile pic? You look pretty.

Priya Dixit: Yes of course. Why would I use somebody else’s pic?

Prashant Saxena: No just checking.

Priya Dixit: So…what else?

Prashant Saxena: What do you mean bored?

Priya Dixit: Ever since I have broken up with my boy friend three months back, life has become dull. No thrills.

Prashant Saxena: Ah! You have come to the right person.

Priya Dixit: What???!! What do you mean?
(Real girls have to do this. After years of chatting a man starts suspecting if the girl comes easy)

Prashant Saxena: Was just saying that I know Delhi-NCR region in and out. So you have come to the right person.

Priya Dixit: Better. I thought you were meant something else…you know what I mean.
(During investigations, it is the job of the trainee to lure the man into the trap by giving enough hints)

Prashant Saxena: I know what you mean. But I generally go slow.

Priya Dixit: How slow?

Prashant Saxena: As slow as the girl wants.

The chats continue for around ten days and in these ten days Prashant Saxena starts feeling that he has known the girl for ages. And when in this comfort zone he commits the blunder.

After fifteen days, the Detective agency sends its report to the girl’s parents. This is how the report looks.

Same day Prashant Saxena’s parents get a call from the girl’s parents that they aren’t interested in pursuing the relationship. Prashant is informed the moment he is back from office.

After dinner, a dejected Prashant logs on to Facebook and finds that Priya Dixit has removed him from her friend list. But wait….now Priya Dixit is friends with one of his Facebook friends and future brother-in-law Keshav Bajaj…..talks are on and Keshav might end up marrying his sister Deepika Saxena.

Related posts:

1. Facebook dashboard changes due to Facebook Mail
2. Character
3. Mission Quit Facebook Addiction

In recent times SmartPhones are gaining ground. It is cool to flaunt a smartphone, and even cooler to try out various applications and talk/discuss about them.

There was a time when an application meant a form you filled and submitted in a bank, post office or any other office just few hours before the deadline.

Gone are the good old days when an application meant a means of siphoning off money from parents legally. “Mom, I have to submit an application for All India Pre-Medical Pre-Dental exam tomorrow, give me Rs 500.”

And she would. And she would follow it up with an extra Rs 50, for you to have lunch in case you got late standing in the line to submit the form. Not anymore.

“Have you tried that app yet?” I was asked.

“App? Whats that?”

“So, you don’t know apps? What phone do you use?”

“I use an Phone.”

“Jammy, you use an iPhone and haven’t tried a single app? That’s criminal…..if Steve Jobs knew he would have flown down to Gurgaon himself to flog you.”

“What is an app? And who is Steve Jobs?” I remember insisting.

“Well…an app is an app yaar. I can’t explain. Try it yourself.”

That’s when I went about trying Smartphone apps (or applications, however you call them). There are some really weird apps out there.

But here are a few I would have made on for iPhones, Android phones and Nokia’s Symbian phones if I were a Software Engineer.

Piss Me App

This app will be targeted at the youth, who want to play pranks on their friends. Once downloaded, the smartphone user will have to carefully pee into the small space in the phone to insert the charger and save up enough piss inside the smartphone. Once the target (read friend) is near, the smartphone user has to open the app, and just press a button called ‘Eject’. The moment this is done, the piss stored in the phone will sprinkle out of the hole meant to insert the headphones. Care should be taken to NOT point the hole for headphones at yourself while pressing the Eject button. This app also acts as a emergency toilet…..when you can’t find a nice, clean toilet (women have this problem a lot)…all you got to do is open the app, pee into the phone and store it till you reach a nice, clean toilet. Once inside, you can eject it into the toilet bowl. Bingo!

Am I married app?

This is an app that men who are confused whether they are married or not will use. Once installed, this app will run in the background – be it an iPhone, Android phone or a Symbian phone. This app works based on Sound decibels. Whenever the app catches high-pitched voice at high decibels nearby, the siren starts with a big, red ‘Careful, you are married!” message flashing across the screen. If the app spots high-pitched voice in soft decibels nearby, it the message reads “Careful. I don’t like the sound of this woman. Don’t marry her.” And if it spots heavy breathing by a woman nearby, it displays this message: “Oops! You had sex with her? Bad Dog! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

Showoff Travel App

Once you download and install this app, you will have to connect your Facebook, twitter and any other Social networking accounts. And based on the travels of your friends in your social network, this app will automatically respond with your own travel itinerary. Don’t worry you don’t actually have to travel….this app will do everything for you. You may be in your office working the shit off your face but this app will automatically update “Just booked my flight tickets for Pataya.” After a few days it will follow up with “Pataya, I am coming”. On Friday in the evening, it would send an update: “Just landed in Pataya.” And over the weekend it will upload photos in your Facebook & Twitter profiles – photos that will look natural and would have been picked up from Google’s image search for Pataya. Since you won’t be in the pictures this app will also leave a description saying ‘Damn! People in Pataya don’t like taking pictures for others”.

Vacuum Cleaner App

How many times have you looked at your laptop or desktop and wondered “if only I had a small vaccum cleaner, I would suck all the dirt out of the keyboard”? Well, your wait is almost over for this app does exactly that. Once installed on your handset, there is a small button called ‘Start’…which when pressed, the phone starts sucking in the dirt. Remember to point the charging hole towards the dirt….you don’t want your nose hair to get sucked, do you? To complete the vacuuming experience there is also a ‘wife mode’ which when switched on makes the app say all things that a wife says when she vacuums even as the man watches sports on TV. Stuff like: “Can you stop watching TV and help me reach this cobweb?” or “Here, move this sofa around…will you?” or “if only I had married that guy my mother had found – the one from Pepsico company….I am sure he would have helped me during vacuuming.

The Aladdin App

For long, financial experts have been saying that the World Economy has been heading for recession, but nobody believed them. Until, one of the experts recently said that the World Economy is so bad that women have started marrying for love, AGAIN. Primarily because they know that with the bad state of the economy, there is no marrying for money. This Aladdin app taps just this need of the women. Once installed, this app acts like your genie. It wouldn’t do anything but talk…and talk in such a way that the girl you are with thinks that like Aladdin, you also have within your control a genie who can give you money, palaces, food, clothes, lipsticks, shoes etc. All you have to do is activate it before walking towards the girl and the app does the rest. If you tell the girl: “Hey, come lets visit a restaurant.”……the app will butt in and say: “My Master, why do you have to go to the restaurant….what do you want…tell me…I will get it here.” That’s when like that true boy who wants to live off his own earnings you will look into your phone and whisper: “No genie….I want to buy my girl lunch from my earnings.”

This whisper needs to be low enough to sound genuine and loud enough for the girlfriend to hear. After saying this to your genie (or app), remember to cover your mobile with your hands, and then whisper to your girlfriend: “Don’t tell anybody, but I have a genie trapped inside my mobile.”

Any more app ideas that you have?

Related posts:

1. Cutting costs at home
2. Difference between a train & an aeroplane – a guide for the first time flyer
3. Traveling – the things we will miss in future

The last 14 months my father in law and mother in law have been living with us. My father in law was undergoing treatment at Artemis Hospital in Gurgaon for cancer in his Oesophagus. He gave it his best shot….but didn’t quite make it. We gave it our best shot, but again didn’t quite make it happen for him. He passed away at Artemis Hospital, at 5.32 pm on 20 September.

As was his last request, we flew him to Kerala (unfortunately, in a coffin) and had him cremated on 22 September.

I admired the guy. Both Rekha and I agree – if we are half as good as he was in brining up his children….we would have done our duty towards Rhea, our daughter.

How else does a writer pay tribute….but by writing. So sharing here a few posts that were centered around my father in law.

# My association with Mr Chandrashekaran Nair, Engineer, Kerala Govt started when he handed me the sacred thread to tie around his daughter’s neck. No actually, that would be a lie….I had met him a few months before when he along with a few of his relatives had visited Madurai to meet my parents. He could have refused to the marriage, but didn’t. See pictures of our marriage.

# When my in-laws visited us for the first time after marriage, and I was supposed to pick them up at the railway station, these were Rekha’s instructions: “Make sure my parents don`t have to wait. They don`t know our address, they don`t remember phone numbers and they don`t know Tamil.” Read More about their first visit

# My father in law was the Treasurer & General Secretary of the Sri Annapoorneshwari temple in Cherukunnu, Kerala….thus a popular man. As a result whenever I visited their home I couldn’t smoke or drink. I couldn’t drink because Rekha said that would be disrespectful of her father and I couldn’t try it outside because if I did the informers would reach home before I did. Read more about my plight whenever I travelled to Rekha’s house.

# After spending some time with my father in law, I realized that there are different types. I have tried to list them all here. Though, I found it difficult to typecast my man. Read about the types of fathers in laws

# Whenever I visit my father in law’s house in Cherrukunnu, Kerala I meet a new organism in his washroom. This time it was a big, wet frog. Have detailed it in this post. Whats NOT funny is that nobody in my in laws family is worried about these creatures in their washrooms. Read more about the frog in my father in law’s washroom

# Know what happened when my wife gifted her father a mobile? It lead to a fight between the son in law and the father in law. To know why, check out why my father in law didn’t get any calls on his mobile

# My father in law and I had regular fights over who was supreme – the Tamilians or the Malayalees. It always ended with Rekha emerging from behind the scenes and giving me a stare. Read about one such fight

# My father in law and mother in law braved the Delhi cold in cotton clothes. This really made life difficult for me because I couldn’t get the water heated for bathing without being jeered at. And many more such uncomfortable instances. Read about how my in laws braved the Delhi winter

Related posts:

1. The frog in my father in law’s house
2. A tribute to Women
3. A tribute to Navneet Potti

My parents hated going out to eat. In fact even when we were traveling and stranded outdoors at odd times, we would still stretch ourselves, reach home, cook food and then eat. As a child, I hated this. Even my two sisters hated it. But both my mother and my father didn’t see anything wrong in this.

“Why eat out when you can have home cooked food,” my father would ask.

And my mother would chip in: “In our ancestral homes, the workers used to be given lunch and dinner in the verandah. I don’t want to be sitting in somebody else’s place and eat like a worker.”

“But ma, we are paying them. They aren’t giving us food because we can’t afford it.” But my arguments never reached the intended conclusions.

By 1995 I had started going to college and started meeting richer kids. Now, I started hearing stories from my friends on how they visited such-and-such restaurant and had family bonding time.

“You know Santosh’s whole family of eight visited Pandian Hotel for a buffet.”

“Isn’t buffet where you go and pick up your own food?” My mother would ask. “How distasteful,” she would add.

“Why is it distasteful?” I would frown.

“Imagine…what kind of a host wouldn’t serve you food where you are sitting? It is as if saying go there-is-your-food go-get-it.”

My father would agree. “I would never set my foot inside such a place,” he would complement my mother thoughts.

My sisters and I suspected that my parents were against eating out because it would cost them more money. On the advice of my elder of the two younger sister I tried to find out how much a lunch would cost in such restaurants.

Now the question was to ask the right person. Somebody who wouldn’t judge me. Nitish Popli was a rich classmate I had while I was doing BA Economics in American College, Madurai. I approached him.

“Nitish bhai, you go to restaurants on Sundays, don’t you?” Back then, Sundays were the weekends.

“Yes indeed.” He was least interested.

“So, how much does it cost per person?” I closed my eyes after asking the question….just so I don’t see his expressions.

“Depends on which restaurant you go to.” He was still least interested.

Since I didn’t know the names of any good restaurant, I decided to rely on him. “What is the starting range? And what is the maximum?”

“Let us take Saravana Bhavan for example. The Unlimited Thali is Rs 20 and if you enter the Family Room, which is Air conditioned, the same Unlimited Thali will cost you Rs 25.”

Please note this was still 1995, the days before the IT industry had taken off and increased the cost of living for all others.

The moment I reached home from college, and my mother opened the door for me I blurted out: “Amma, Unlimited Thali at Saravana Bhavan is only Rs 20 in non-AC and Rs 25 in the AC room.”

Our landline hadn’t been working, else I would have called them from an STD booth itself.

“What?” Was my mother’s only response. On my insistence it was decided that once father was back we would discuss the issue.

My father came back home by 8 pm, and I just couldn’t hold it. But my sister beat me to it by running to open the door for my father and shouting right at his face: “The Unlimited Thali is only Rs 25 in the air conditioned room of Saravana Bhavan.”

“I know. What about that?”

The ground slid from under our feet. So our father knew. So he had been cheating on us. He had been going out and eating in restaurants but never taking us there. This was gross injustice, we thought.

Being the eldest child in the family I had to take control of the situation. So, I called my two younger sisters (one was 16 years old, & the other was 13) into a room and we agreed to go on a Hunger Strike. Anna Hazare would later steal my idea and use it to get the LokPal Bill passed.

Being the anointed spokesperson of the Group, I spoke out first: “We will not have food till you promise us that we will be visiting a restaurant soon.”

At 10 pm, our parents buckled and agreed to take us to Saravana Bhavan the next Sunday. But not before telling us how the lunch would cost Rs 125 for all five of us. And how this money would have been enough to buy one month’s supply of cooking oil or 15 days supply of vegetables.

The next day I was raring to go to the college. Once in, I informed Nitesh Popli that we were going to Saravana Bhavan for lunch the coming Sunday. He seemed least interested and didn’t even acknowledge.

From that day onwards, our house food didn’t taste good. We were yearning for the restaurant food. My parents knew what we were thinking, but kept to themselves.

Next Sunday, we all got up at 6 am itself. By 8 am we had all taken bath and put on our best clothes. My parents didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

By 12 noon, my father made one last ditch attempt to dissuade us from going to the restaurant. He said: “Why don’t I buy a kg of chicken and you guys help me cook. We can all then have a hearty meal in the house itself.”

My younger sister spoke up. She said: “But that’s something we do every Sunday.”

My father’s face fell. So did my mother’s. But we were least interested. We wanted to go to Saravana Bhavan for lunch.

My father called the autorickshaw. If only I were accompanying them we would have gone by the Pandian Bus Service. But since my sisters were also accompanying us – I always suspected him to be more loving towards them – he had booked an auto.

At 12 noon, we hit the road – all five of us huddled in an auto. Since I was the most able-bodied I was asked to sit next to the auto driver.

My sisters and I haven’t been able to recreate the joy we experienced walking into Saravana Bhavan, that fateful Sunday afternoon. In the last 16 years I would have dined at the best of places, but never felt the joy walking in that I felt that Sunday.

Since I was walking ahead of the pack, the waiter motioned me to a table in the non-AC section. With great pride I waved my hand and said: “We are heading for the air conditioned section.”

It was quite a family affair. My parents, who till now were against eating out, also partied. After lunch my father asked for the desserts and we even ended up spending Rs 5 extra per person.

We came home an excited lot. It was the best Sunday we had ever had. Well, that’s if we didn’t include the Sunday when we watched the only movie we have seen in a theatre as a family in the last 30 years – the 3D movie Kutti Chatan (Chotta Chettan, in Hindi).

Once back, my parents had gotten into their shell again. “We have now had food in a restaurant. That’s all. This shouldn’t become a habit.” My mother said. Which I was sure my father agreed to.

Later in the day, I overheard my father tell my mother that the whole outing had cost us Rs 220…….Rs 125 (lunch for all), Rs 25 (dessert for all), Rs 20 (food for autorickshaw driver) and Rs 50 (autorickshaw fare).

I also heard my father say: “That’s ok. Don’t worry. We will manage.” And my mother followed it up with: “Yes, I know we will.”

Being a teenager, I didn’t think about it much then.

——–Present———

As you are aware, I was in the beach-side Tirchendor temple in Tamil Nadu recently for offering prayers on the 5th death anniversary of my father. My mother and I had found the priest who was to help us with the prayers. All three of us had to walk 50 meters barefoot on beach sand heated by the 10 am sun. Not a difficult task but I started complaining. I started questioning my mother’s insistence that we do the annual ritual for my father in Tirchendor.

My mother looked at me in disbelief. Then her expression changed to that of love.

She said: “Remember, when you were in college and with your sisters you went on a hunger strike?”

“Ohh yes.”

“You wanted us to visit Saravana Bhavan for lunch?”

“Ohh yes. Those were good times.”

‘For you…yes. They were good times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father had just retired and we had also built our house, which had cost a lot more than estimated.”

“Ohh…is that so? I didn’t know.”

“That was our intension. We were really cash strapped back then but your father didn’t want you to know.”

“Ohhh….”

“I wanted him to share the family’s financial situation with you. But he didn’t. He said it might affect your studies.”

“Ohhh…”

“Yes. And did you know? After taking you guys out for lunch he didn’t ride his scooter for a month so that he could save on the fuel cost?”

“Ohhh…..”

“Yes…he walked 3 kilometers up and down every day for a month. Sometimes twice a day.”

“Shit!”

“Yes. But he loved you a lot. You can walk this distance for him, can’t you?”

“Yes, ma. I can.”

After walking the 50 meters or so, as I sat down facing the sun for the prayers….my mother took the corner of her saree to wipe the tears in my eyes. “Ahhh…just some sand in my eyes,” I tried to fake it. But my mother would know.

As the Brahman chanted the mantras…..I tried to recollect that month. Yes indeed….it had stuck me as odd. For almost a month my father didn’t take out his scooter and instead walked 3 kilometers up and down whenever my mother asked him to fetch something from the market.

I remember, once I had muttered under my breath: “What a miser!”

Related posts:

1. Doing for my daughter what my father did for me
2. A tribute to my father in law
3. My father once owned a bank

When miracles happen too often, they cease to be miracles. The opposite is also true. When you start traveling less and less, every travel starts seeming like a miracle. That is why when I kept aside work and decided to make a 3-day trip to Madurai it seemed nothing short of a miracle.

The main objective of the trip was to pay homage to my father on the shores of Trichendur temple, on his fifth death anniversary. There were side plots – meeting school friends in Chennai and also seeing progress of the house we had bought on the IT highway in Chennai.

So, on 31 Sept I was on a Jet Airways flight to Chennai. It was quite uneventful, except for the moment when the younger Air Hostess walked up to me and said: “What would you have for breakfast, sir?”

I loved the way, “Sir” rolled off her tongue. There are only a few things that could have rolled off her tongue better. “Please call me Jammy,” I told her.

“What would you have for breakfast, Jammy?”

“I will have whatever you give me, even if it is poison.” I replied with my trademark smile writ large on my face.

“Sir, the rules that apply to you also apply to us….we can’t carry poison on the flight. The closest I have is this crimson colored lipstick, which is only for external use.”

At this point I noticed a tinge of disappointment in her voice maybe because she couldn’t test my love for her by offering me the poison.

To lift her spirits, I agreed to have the chicken sandwich she had & the chocolate brownie that came with it. It was not poison but came close to it. It sure helped, because once she had served me she got on with her job as if nothing had happened. If at all she was disappointed (of which I was sure) she didn’t show it.

While parting ways, I just got unlucky. My favorite air hostess’ supervisor was standing right next to her and saying “Thank you!”…which meant even now my girl couldn’t express her love for me. She gave me a curt: “Thanks…”

Once at the Chennai Airport, I bought a magazine and sat under a television to wile away two hours of waiting time. The beauty of waiting with a magazine in hand is that people mistake you for an educated gentleman and thus stop by to ask all sorts of questions:

- Sir, where are the washrooms?
- Sir, could you direct me to Gate No 6 please?
- Sir, I am to meet my girl friend and in movies I have seen that when boyfriend-girlfriend meet at the airport, flowers are exchanged. Please advice me ….who gives the flowers to whom?
- Sir, where did you buy this magazine? There are some pretty girls around…and I also want to look educated.
- Sir, Mahindra Holidays gifted me a 2-nights vacation for filling up a form in a shopping mall. They said I had to buy my own Air Tickets to reach there, which I did….now I am wondering if I got cheated.

Anyway, it was time to board the flight to Madurai. Once in the van which was to take me to the airplane parked deep inside, on the tarmac, I noticed a 90+ years old, loud lady. Like me she was also headed to Madurai. But unlike me, she was accompanied by her teenager grand-grand son who was too embarrassed to even stand next to her. Looking at the speed at which this van was getting filled, I knew it was going to be a long embarrassing phase in the teenager’s life.

I moved towards the old lady and commented: “”First time on flight, is it?”

“Yes indeed,” she replied. Her smile was evident, so were the presence of out-of-work gums. With no teeth what were her gums supposed to work with?

“You excited?” I tried to humor her. Besides, I had also decided to teach the teenager a lesson – that traveling with an elderly person isn’t a source of embarrassment.

We indulged in small talk, and in a while the van started moving. After a five minute journey (maybe our driver was pissed with his wife….for he drove very slow) the van came to a stop in front of the airplane we were to board to reach Madurai.

The moment the van stopped, the old lady exclaimed: “This was so fast! Who would have thought air travel would be so quick!”

At that moment, everybody looked at the lady. And gave me a dry smile suggesting they understood my pain. I so much wanted to shout out “No no….I am not with her.” But held back.

At this the teenager neared the old lady and on his way whispered into my ears “Now you know what I mean…don’t you?” Then he turned towards the lady and said: “No grandma, we haven’t reached Madurai yet – we have only reached the air plane which will take us to Madurai.”

At this the old lady got very miffed. The teenager then helped the old lady get up and walk to the airplane….but the old lady’s displeasure was evident for all to see.

It is always nice to be inside flights travelling to small towns. You have all the wannabe alpha-males who have broken their bonds with small towns but haven’t yet arrived in the big towns. This is what I would call the transition phase. I myself was in this phase sometime back.

Once inside the airplane, I SMSed my wife & my mother that I was on my way and put my iPhone in Airplane mode. The guy next to me SMSed Dawood. Yes, you read it right….he sent this SMS to Dawood: “In the flight. Hope the car is waiting. All excited to see the small bomb. When is it due?”

I didn’t know what to do. Not just India, but the whole Interpol was looking for Dawood and here I was sitting next to the man who knew his mobile number and was also going to meet him. I had to do something. But had to be careful – what if this man was armed?

Mafia Don Dawood Ibrahim

I couldn’t call 100. The moment I switched on my mobile, he would know that I knew more than I should and kill me. I couldn’t borrow somebody else’s number and call 100 – what if the mobile lender asked me (that too loudly) why I called the police when I was inside an airplane? It was a moment that we Rajans are made for – a moment that required fortitude and resilience (if you also want to use such high-sounding words Thesaurus is a good book to start with).

My high IQ paid off. I took out the banana inside my pocket and covered it with my kerchief and stuck it into the sides of Dawood-aide’s stomach.

Before he could react, I asked him in a stern voice…the sternness that you generally see teachers use in the classrooms of the World: “How are you connected to Dawood?

He was completely taken by surprise for he asked me: “What is that you are sticking to my sides?”

“That’s a loaded gun you dumbf*&ck!” I shouted at the top of my voice.

Being an Army man’s son….from the very beginning I had been taught that the louder you yell, the scarier you will seem. It is another thing that when Jawahar Lal Nehru & Krishna Menon’s Indian Army fought the Chinese in 1962, loud cries of ‘Bharat Mata Ki Jai’ or ‘Har Har Mahadev’ didn’t spell fear in the Chinese hearts. I will attribute it to lack of Hindi speaking & listening skills of the Chinese.

Anyway, my tone & tenor seemed to have the desired effect for the man bundled up and surrendered. “What do you want?” He asked.

I repeated. “How are you related to Dawood?”

The man was surprised at my question. By now a few scared co-passengers had already got up and were staring at us.

In order to not anger me further, the man lied to me: “He is my brother in law. He has married my sister.”

“Yeah right!”

“No, seriously. My sister is pregnant and due to deliver any moment. I am travelling to Madurai to meet her. My brother-in-law Dawood will be picking me up at the airport.”

“What is his second name?” I enquired.

“Ibrahim.”

That sealed it. So, Dawood Ibrahim was hiding in Madurai. How intelligent. When the whole world was looking for him in major cities like Mumbai, Lahore and Dubai….the man had been hiding in a small city like Madurai.

I started thinking. What would my father do in such a situation, I asked myself. Within seconds I got the answer – assist the country in arresting Dawood even if it meant dying in the process.

“We reach Madurai in 45 minutes and I don’t want you to move an inch. You move & I shoot.”

The man nodded. But continued: “But he is not the Dawood you are thinking he is.”

“Yeah right!”

I had to be careful. I didn’t have to succumb to his emotional drama that his sister was pregnant. Being somebody who cried in all Karan Johar movies this was going to be difficult but I held the banana stiff and continued to stare at him.

He, on his part didn’t move.

With one hand, I took out my iPhone and SMSed Rekha that I was into something really big. The SMS read: “On the verge of arresting Dawood. Pls inform Madurai Airport that Dawood will be coming to pick up his guest. His guest is sitting in seat 23A of the Jet.”

He tried to argue with me for 15 minutes and then went silent. His last words to me were: “What an ass.”

After a tense 45 minutes we landed in Madurai. I made him walk in the front and at all times my banana was sticking him in the back.

I was amazed at the callous attitude of the Police. There was nobody at the Airport to welcome me & also to arrest Dawood. No extra security.

I decided to do it on my own. We both took our baggage and ventured out of the airport. That’s when I saw him. Dawood sure was a clever man – he had dieted and cut down his weight. He had also undergone plastic surgery and now looked like a typical south Indian – dark in complexion.

The moment I neared him, he wished me good morning and asked his wife’s brother: “You never told me that you are coming with a friend.”

The man at the end of the banana didn’t utter a word.

At this Dawood turned towards me and said: “You should come home. We will treat you well.”

Not to be held back by emotions, I just said: “Dawood, you are under arrest.”

A commotion followed. There were at least 12 people surrounding us now and not one of them believed that this man was Dawood. I tried to explain that he had undergone plastic surgeries and complexion changing surgeries but nobody would listen to me. After an hour, in which even my mother who had come to pick me up turned impatient, I gave up.

If the Government wasn’t willing to catch him, why should I be bothered. A very disappointed Rajan got into his white Ambassador and sped towards his home.

On the way home, I called Rekha: “Rekha, can you believe it….the Madurai Airport folks didn’t organize for the extra security at all. Such callous attitude.”

“Extra security for what?” Rekha asked, which surprised me.

“You saw my SMS, didn’t you? The one about Dawood?”

“Which SMS? I was cooking dinner and the mobile was in the TV room.”

I banged the phone. What is the use in blaming the Government, when your own aren’t inclined towards making the World a better place to live in.

Related posts:

1. Flirting with an air hostess with a baby in hand
2. My adventures – Chennai to Gurgaon
3. When my mom boards the airplane

Fifteen years back, I was in London for a few days. We were on our way to Canada as part of the Indo-Canada Youth Exchange Program and en route our Air India flight developed a technical snag. Till another flight could be arranged, we were put up at Excelsior Hotel in Heathrow. This was almost 15 years back.

Today when I see the riots in England, my heart goes out to the Englishmen….due to the small connection I have with them. I mean, what wrong did they do besides marrying Indian women and creating a bunch of hard-partying Anglo-Indians? They don’t deserve this.

In order to try and stop the riots, I immediately booked my flight to London. Once in London, I realized it was crazy. My immediate reaction was ‘why would anybody do this to their own country?’ And then I answered my own question with another question – ‘who in London is from England? None!’

As I was waiting for my baggage to arrive, I saw on BBC channel that scared by the extensive London riots…the French had surrendered.

BBC also had a ticker running which said British Telecom’s stocks had gone up due to the high number of internet connection requests it had received in the last two days. Experts believe it might be from the looters, who ran away with the Laptops. At the same time, Dell’s call center has been inundated with calls asking how to switch on the laptops.

My baggage took a good 30 minutes to arrive. My immediate reaction was to blame the blacks in London, who were most likely to be the baggage handlers…and most likely to be on leave to make sure they don’t miss the rioting opportunity. But another Englishman who was returning from a business trip to Singapore corrected me. He said: “Placing a vacancy available board was a surefire way of scaring the black population away.”

I would have had a biased opinion, if I hadn’t watched the Live BBC Telecast of the riots that followed the news. It wasn’t just the blacks who were rioting….there were whites as well. I was most pissed about this white guy who also stolen BBC’s broadcast mike and was looking into the camera and saying stuff about the riots. What balls he had – he didn’t even wear a mask!

Finally, I got my baggage and exited the airport. Took a cab to my friend’s place in Tottenham. Scared of the riots, the Pakistani cab driver refused to drive me to my friend’s house….he asked me to walk the last one kilometer.

As I was nearing my friend’s house I saw two men wearing black uniforms carrying a television and moving towards a house. I couldn’t allow this to happen in a country I loved – it was looting in broad day light and I had to stop it at any cost. I immediately took a shovel which was lying nearby and hit both the men on their head and
knocked them unconscious. Surprises me to what extent these men go to loot white goods – they were wearing FedEx’s black uniform and had even arranged for the popular FedEx van. I then handed over the television to a black man in a neighboring house and asked him to call the cops and surrender the television.

Satisfied that I had at least saved one television from being looted, I finally reached my friend’s house. Satbir Singh had stayed in Southall for ten years and only recently moved to Tottenham.

“Welcome, my friend!” he said the moment he saw me. “Bad time to be in England,” he added.

I explained to him that I didn’t have any time for formalities and had to get down to stopping the riots immediately. He agreed. He was also very pissed with the way the riots had happen. He was even more pissed that they had to happen during his birthday week.

“Imagine my plight….celebrating my birthday inside the house….watching riots on TV,” he said.

“I can understand friend. That’s why we need to bring back England to its past glory. We need to stop these riots.” I am a determined guy when I am on a mission.

Satbir went on; “Had it not been for my uncle’s gift of a 54 inch Plasma TV, a pair of Reebok shoes and a toaster as gift…I would have really been devastated this birthday.”

“Wow. Your uncle must be rich?” I am always in awe of people who leave their country and end up becoming rich in their adopted country.

“No no…he isn’t rich. He lives on benefits but he really works hard and he said he saved on his benefits for the last three years to gift me the Plasma TV.”

I didn’t have the heart to break Satbir’s bubble, so didn’t tell him that his uncle was a rioter.

Not wanting to waste any time, I asked Satbir for the address of the nearest police station. I wanted to visit them and offer my services to help stop the riots. Satbir accompanied me.

I told the Policeman at the station: “Sir, I have come from India to help you stop the riots. We have riots almost everyday so I bring with me a lot of experience.”

“That’s great…Mr….”

“Please call me Jammy.”

“Mr Jammy…that’s nice of you to volunteer. Why don’t you choose a Police uniform that fits you from the cupboard over there and join us….we are short on hands.”

“Short on hands? Why?”

“Well, 40% of our force is black …and they didn’t want to lose the opportunity. If I were them…I also wouldn’t want to be the only black man in the locality without a 50 plus inch Plasma TV and a laptop at home.”

“I can understand, Police Officer. So do I get a gun and some bullets before I face the rioters?”

“Yes. We will give you five plastic bullets which you can fire on the crowd in emergencies.” I could see that the police officer himself wasn’t too happy with the plastic bullets.

As I accepted the plastic bullets, I couldn’t help but utter: “Wow, Europe is really in recession, huh?”

To which the police officer nodded and said: “Well, this is the increased quota due to the riots. Earlier, it used to be three plastic bullets.”

I had to find out the extent to which the riots had spread, so asked the Police Officer: “John, so have the riots spread to other places? What about Ireland?”

“Well…we have had some white riots in Manchester and Birmingham. You already know about the black riots in London.”

“What about Ireland? Has it spread there?” I insisted.

“Well, there have been two cases of attempted riot on ebay.com & amazon.com….but the police intervened before the rioters could save pictures of Plasma TVs on their desktops. Besides these two incidents, Ireland has been calm.”

After the discussions we headed for the streets. There were rioters all around….some hooded some not. Some strong, some weak. Some armed some unarmed. In short, it was a motley crowed and there was never going to be one single way of handling these rioters.

Looking at so many able-bodied men approaching me, I panicked and shot all my five plastic bullets into the crowd. None hit.

I turned towards my policeman friend John and confessed: “John, all my shots missed the mark.”

He quipped “Don’t worry. We are used to David Beckham doing that. Do what Beckham would have done – carry on as if nothing happened.”

With no bullets….I decided to leave the other policemen behind and advance into the rioting crowd. Outside an Apple store, I caught a teenager running away with a Macbook Air under his armpits.

“Rioting? Should I tell your parents that you stole from Steve Job’s Apple store?”

The teenager was really sacred. But I let him go after he volunteered to become the iWitness to Apple store thefts.

With nothing going our way….the policemen and I withdrew from the riot scene.

Not all is lost in England, though. Due all the shattering of glasses during the riots there is at least one beneficiary – the AutoGlass company. Their sales has increased & stock prices have gone up thro’ the sky.

When I came to know that the Prime Minister of England is still on vacation…I was hurt. This would never happen in India. When did you last hear PM Manmohan Singh go on a vacation? If the English aren’t worried about their riots why should I be? I am back on the next flight. To hell with England.

Note: Hard not to be inspired by all the jokes going around.

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Apparently Standard & Poor’s has downgraded United States top-tier credit rating from AAA to AA-Plus. I agree that does sound like a battery size….but let me assure you that it isn’t battery sizes that we talking about.

Before we get into the whys and hows let me tell you that I am very upset with Standard & Poor’s. I mean, what kind of a name is this? Don’t people think before naming their companies? Thank God, they didn’t name it ‘Poor Standards’ or ‘Standard’s Poor’.

Personally, I feel a tad upset that United States has had to see this day. When I was growing up, US was the place everyone wanted to go and work in. Now, Tihar Jail is a much-preferred option…but back in those days it was the great big land of dreams & opportunities – United States.

Whenever relatives came home my parents would ask me to perform. And in between Sholay’s Gabbar Singh enactment & Shivaji Ganeshan’s walk they always asked me this question as a filler “So, what will you become when you grow up?”.

My parents had already tutored me. I had been told that becoming a Doctor or an Engineer was passé…to hold a green card in one’s hand was the in-thing.

I would swell up my chest, raise my chin high, spread my arms and rest them on my hips and proudly announce to the World, as if I were Alexander The Great standing on a hilltop and surveying his Army….I would say: “I will become a green card holder.”

My this announcement would be followed by claps and shouts of “Bravo.” This would swell my chest further only to end in bouts of coughing and heavy breathing.

It has been 25+ years now, and since this happened for the first time I have been trying to become a green card holder. With this dip in rating all my dreams have gone wasted. My guess is that I will never be able to hold a green card now.

I am shocked. Devastated. Not because I missed the green card, but I just can’t digest the fact that United States just kept on borrowing for the last 50 years? And never bothered to repay? And they thought they could get away with it? Living in Gurgaon, this sounds very familiar to me. If India is the Global equivalent of a South Indian (more specifically a Madrasi, a little shy of debts)….I would say United States is the Punjabi equivalent. Live for today even if it means accumulating debt.

But Punjabis have a way of maintaining their lifestyle however tough it may seem inside of the house (with the loan-givers banging on the doors). I don’t think that is possible with the US Citizens. Their lifestyles will get affected, the benefits that they so took for granted will taper down and debt will be available at higher interest – if a country can lose its good credit rating, how long will it take for an individual to lose it?

But before all of this will happen, the Blamocracy will kick in first. I wouldn’t be surprised if the United States Government gives Standard & Poor’s an ‘FO’ Rating. Where ‘FO’ stands for Fuck Off.

I have to give a good pat on the hairless Chinese back….after all, they were waiting for this moment – heaping loan upon loan to the US and waiting for it to buckle one day. In hind sight, I wonder….whenever United States would censure China by saying:

“China, you are NOT sticking to the human rights rule book in Tibet. You are torturing the people there. Be careful…we are the World Police.”

Did China reply with a: “Yeah Right! First payback all the loan and then we talk of human rights!”

You can’t be in the Police department & take loans from the Mafia. Can you? (Note: Reference to China as Mafia is only to prove a point. I have started having high regards for them after their this coup)

At this rate, I think soon the Chinese red flag might be flying on the White House. Good color combination for sure. You know what surprises me… How did those Mayans get it down to the year? Were the Mayans Americans? They correctly predicted the World ending for the Americans! (Don’t know the Mayan prediction, read about it here)

Besides the people of America & the politicians of America, I would also credit Osama Bin Laden for bringing about the doom of US. Which brings us to why US triggered all the wars and that too on loan? I mean, if I had to furnish my mistress’s house I wouldn’t loan the money from my wife. (Note: Reference to China as Wife is not a derogatory attempt. Chinese intelligence, if you are reading this please note that you have a huge fan in me).

America didn’t seem to have learnt from the country it took over from – The British Empire – as the most powerful country in the World. The British Empire collapsed because it was engrossed in too many wars. Same has happened to the great United States of America – the Vietnam War, Iraq War, the Afghanistan War – not to mention Star Trek Wars. In case you didn’t know the Star Trek Wars were fought way up in the sky and lead by General James T Kirk. Just so you are aware how pompous the Americans are….this war was telecast live on television in six parts.

Sometime back ex-President of United States Bill Clinton, who left the White House with a bit of a stain on his character and a bigger stain on an intern’s skirt had said: “There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America.” Considering the current circumstances, I would like to change that a bit. I would say: “There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is left with America.”

What will happen to United States now, you ask. Well…I don’t have an answer. John Updike said 40 years back itself that “America was a huge conspiracy to keep the Americans happy” Well…not for long, John. Over the next 20-30 years we will see Indians taking Malaria shots before entering United States. Amen, to that!

PS: I wonder if Columbus should have just kept quite after discovering America. We wouldn’t have had to see this day.

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