Sunday 21 January 2024

Monkey God and Divine Pregnancy


It is 2024, which means a whole year has gone by without me writing anything. I am not vain enough to think that anybody missed this. Anyway, before I invite the wrath of devotees of monkey gods around the world, I must explicitly state here that the monkey god mentioned in the title is not your god. I don’t want some peace-loving seer, who otherwise wishes happiness for everyone in the world, to put a price on my head. Also, serendipitously, I recently saw a video in a family WhatsApp group that conclusively proved (not that I wanted any proof) the existence of gods (monkey god included) travelling south to Serendip. Nonetheless, since I don’t want to create even the slightest misunderstanding among the numerous cult members, I am putting this disclaimer up front. In fact, the only monkey god I feel safe to refer to is the “mythological” Egyptian Babi, also known as Baba, fervently hoping that there are no Egyptian devotees of Baba.

Now, the topic at hand. Some time ago, a news headline about a mysterious pregnancy in a Japanese zoo caught my attention. A female gibbon, kept alone in a cage, had somehow gotten pregnant. There was no way by which the perverted gibbon dudes in nearby cages could’ve gotten to her. Ideally, in a normal country like India, this would’ve been a golden opportunity to bring in god and monetize the event. The media would get on board with theories and proofs of divine pregnancy, etc. A collection box would’ve mysteriously appeared and scores of devotees from far and wide would’ve flocked to catch a glimpse of the divine momma.

But this was Japan. The zookeepers, bird-brained as they are, decided to bring in this pesky thing called science, which essentially takes the romance and the mystery out of anything. They did DNA testing to identify the dad, who turned out to be this lecherous old fart in the adjoining cage. (Zookeepers Say They’ve Solved the Mystery of How a Gibbon Got Pregnant by Herself (

The theory of how he did it is also interesting. Apparently, Ito, the dad, poked his tool through a 9mm hole in a steel plate between the cages to get the job done with Momo, the momma! Hmmmmmmmmm… “Ito, my man,” I thought. Also, “Momo, girl, what the #$%&?” Then, being bird-brained like those zookeepers, I immediately googled gibbon “tool”*. Google, unfortunately, didn’t have a clear answer to gibbon tool dimensions. Anyway, I think there’s still scope for Ito, who is most probably an avatar of Baba, the Egyptian monkey god who is usually portrayed with an erection, as per Wikipedia. I have half a mind to get Lord Ito the divinity he deserves, though I suspect I may have to somehow become a supreme leader with a cult to get that done.

P.S. These are the kind of thoughts that keep me from getting depression from watching the cluster#$cks happening around the world. You should also try it out.


* You were thinking of googling gibbon tool, weren’t you? Naughty, naughty!

Friday 30 December 2022

To Good Old Days

Another year going down the tubes partially at least. The highlight of course was the World Cup. Qatar showed the world what all things money can buy — e.g., global sports bodies. Argentina showed what a reasonable team can achieve by rallying around one of the GOATs. Mbappe showed that he will add to the GOAT debate. Meanwhile, Pele, the real GOAT, passed away. The teams from Africa and Asia, led by Morocco and Japan, showed that they were not there just to make up the numbers. FIFA showed how a chip can be embedded in a football, unlike a certain 2,000-rupee note with chip that became famous a few years ago (see Fig. 1).


                                             Fig. 1

It was not a totally wasted year for me, considering that I was able to make a short visit to the Land of Beef and Parotta. However, I look forward to the day when I would be able to waste a whole year doing nothing. There are way too many people around who are serious about doing something with their lives. These are the people who poke their organs into other people’s affairs. They are worried about the colour of someone’s underwear. They want to decide what people, especially women, should wear or eat. They want to teach lessons to others. They want to maintain their (regressive) traditions and kill and die for those. And I, though I used the words "do nothing" earlier, would like to sit back and watch these people.


I have taken a liking to these religious traditions recently. Especially after that human sacrifice news from Kerala. A quick Google search revealed that it is not that uncommon.

Cult kills children for goddess 

Human sacrifice: Arrests over 10-year old's death

Maharashtra clocks one human sacrifice a month

Six-year-old killed for 'human sacrifice'

Man tries to use wife as human sacrifice

I have reached a stage where I stopped questioning people’s beliefs. I like my limbs intact, so that I can type inane stuff on my computer. I plan to stick to subjects I feel will ensure that my head stays on my neck. In this case also, I don’t want to judge the people involved or their beliefs. If the Church of Lukumi Babalu believes in sacrificing and eating chickens, turtles, etc., I’m OK with it. But one thing does bother me. What if gods liked eels and hated chickens? Maybe they liked horses, as we know from Ashvamedha in the Vedic period. Or virgins, for all we know? Across cultures, most gods liked virgins in the good old days. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that gods are pissed because modern humans stopped all these ancient practices. Could explain the numerous natural disasters around the world.


So, though I don’t have a specific god I pray to, I hope those concerned would take a regressive look into these matters and bring back those traditions to make the world great again. To good old days (like when certain people had to pay taxes for their moustaches and breasts).


P.S. I would also like the religious people to investigate the issue of Demodex folliculorum mites (see link below). Especially the part where “in the night, whilst we're in a deep sleep, they visit the pores to have sex and have babies”. This is sacrilege. How could someone ever visit a place of worship again when such activities are happening on their faces?

Sunday 20 November 2022

This Bud Ain't for You. Drown Your Sorrows in Chamomile Tea.

Circa 2002. Soccer stadium in Kobe. Pre-quarters of World Cup, Brazil playing valiant Belgium. I had a good seat just behind the goal post. First half had ended goal-less and at half-time, the skimpily clad girls I had seen earlier changing into their skimpy clothes at the entrance, were suddenly near me dancing to their samba beat. It seems they stick to the opposite team’s post so as to celebrate any goals their team score. All of us dudes there were definitely happy to hear that, switching our attention between the dancing ladies, the beer, and the action on the ground. Nobody had any smartphones with camera then, but guys wielding their Nikons and Canons did try to get some sneaky shots of the girls.


The Brazilian dancers who sat behind me. (No, I didn’t take the picture! This is a screen grab I got from that match.)

The Belgians went toe-to-toe with the Brazilians comprising the four Rs of Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Rivaldo, and Roberto Carlos, but eventually Rivaldo broke through with a magical left footer after about an hour, and the prolific Ronaldo finished it off towards the end with a goal of his own.

As I waited for the two reporters, representing the two top Malayalam newspapers, to finish filing their stories, so that we could go back together to our hotel room, I could see distraught Belgians walking by crying, drowning their sorrow in liquor. It’s not an easy sight watching macho men tearing up in public.

Now, we have Qatar, a regressive Middle Eastern country, holding the World Cup. There’ll always be theories on how it gained the rights to hold the tournament ($$$$;;;;), how numerous lives were lost building those grounds in brutal conditions, etc. But hey, this is FIFA. Does it really care about all these things? All FIFA (and everyone else) cares about is that Qatar is rolling in moolah. And, as the saying goes, “money talks”.

So, when Qatar says, “It is generally recommended for men and women to ensure their shoulders and knees are covered,” men and women will cover their heads, shoulders, knees, and toes. Would Qatar forgive a “wardrobe malfunction” like the one Janet Jackson had exposing a nipple? Probably not. It’d likely result in a public beheading or something like that. When Qatar says, a few days before the start of the tournament, that you can’t drink alcohol at the ground, everybody will say, “I’ll have a mint tea”. These were all quite probably agreed upon right from the beginning itself. Making such announcements this close to the tournament has been a masterstroke. All the ticket money is in the bank. People have booked their flights and stuff, and there’s no going back.

We all are hypocrites, as the FIFA chief Infantino infantilely said. The death of labourers, mainly from South Asian countries, has been in the news for quite some time, but no meaningful action has been or will ever be taken, because the World Cup-related construction bonanza had benefited a lot many corporations from around the world. Many South Asians also prospered, and all these people know about these but tend to turn a blind eye. Many of them probably hate the Qataris for purely racist (Arab) or religious (Muslim) reasons or even for their human rights violations, but they all put their heads down, suffer a bit of humiliation here and there, and get straight to work, because there is money to be made in one of the richest countries in the world as long as you stay subservient (and as long as they have gas). Heck, Qatar even got supreme leader Modijee to dismiss one of his poison spewers. Money talks!

So, set aside the sanctimonious attitude, follow the local rules, exploit some South Asian people, renege on your promises, cover up your women, drown your sorrows in chamomile tea, and go back. “This Bud Ain’t for You”. Meanwhile I’ll have my Asahi Super Dry and my ochako of sake and watch the matches on TV, i.e., if I can stay awake.

Friday 2 September 2022

The End of Exile

After three years of Covid-imposed exile, I finally made it to my momma-land GOC (God’s Own Country, or as in some interpretations, God’s Own Cakoos) in July for a short trip. More than the mind-numbing pre-trip bureaucratic procedures, what got my goat was the nail-biting wait for the RT-PCR test results.

You see, I had considered myself to be a cool cucumber throughout my life. Exams, exam results, job interviews, job, none of these things ever unnerved me much. I remember a Tamil friend from college days, who would visit my room on the eve of exams to relax. He will come in with his eyeballs popping out of their sockets, almost touching his soda glass specs, and veins on his forehead taut and about to burst. But then, he will see me dragging on a filter-less Panama cigarette and playing cards with another friend, an even cooler cucumber, and all his tensions vanish. Eyeballs pop right back in, bulging veins disappear, and the man is ready to take the exam next day.

That was me before I encountered RT-PCR test. The clinic was going to send the results to my e-mail the evening before the day we were flying. I was irritable all day long, barking at my kids, and generally being an a$$*ole. At around 6pm, the mails came. I don’t know if my eyeballs were touching my glasses, but it was one of those rare moments in my life I was totally tensed. Adding to that tension was the fact that all four of us had to clear this test. I clicked on the links one by one 陰性, 陰性, 陰性, 陰性…All negative! Collective relief all around.

The trip. Narita airport had the feel of a funeral parlour, but transit at bustling Singapore Changi was fun as usual. Thirontharam Hawai Adda looked and felt the same as I remembered it from 2019. The city streets also appeared to be more or less the same as before, and some places still had the bombed-out Fallujah feel with lots of rubble. Oh, it was good to be back. The first couple of days were spent meeting family and friends in the immediate neighbourhood and eating parotta, beef, appam, mutta curry, etc. Then it was time to attend to some unfinished business from three years ago involving government offices, banks, etc. Surprisingly, most of those worked out well. The government staff were mostly un-rude (if there is such a word) and reasonably helpful, which was unexpected, to be frank. I really wanted to get things done this time and was willing to pull some strings if needed, ditching my convictions. So, it was a pleasant surprise when everything went smoothly without me using my connections or greasing any palms.

The only weekend was spent in Kochi with my college mates. We drove to Kochi in a friend’s vehicle to avoid public transport and the risk of contracting some new pox. My friend, I believe, took his license from the KSRTC driving school. He drives his Innova car like the drivers of the killer express buses of the state transport service threateningly, recklessly, and with utter disregard to rules, road conditions, and passengers. The man looks like he is on a mission, though nobody knows what it is. 

Anyway, we reached Kochi safely and spent some quality time with friends and the brews brought from various parts of the world including the sake I took from Japan. One major disappointment, though, was the food: seafood to be exact. Kochi, the Queen of the Arabian Sea, is famed for seafood, but for some reason the place where we stayed served us something that felt like blubber dipped in batter and fried. I started cribbing about it, and seeing that, my influential local friends went out and found an exotic small shop selling matthi fry (sardines), prawns, idiyirachi (pounded dried beef), etc., which went a long way in assuaging my feelings and making me fall in love with Kochi again.

On the way back, my maniacal friend gave the wheels to me as he wanted to sleep. I was still in Japanese mode of driving, trying to stick to my lane wherever there was one, keeping distance with the vehicle in front, etc. This, obviously, was annoying to the local drivers, and probably even some pedestrians, who were wondering “ii ma#$an ethu konathinnada vandi odikkan padichathu?”, which could be loosely translated as “where the f*#k did this a$$*ole learn to drive?

Well, here I was, stopped at a red signal while heading out of Kochi, when a police vehicle came and stopped near me on my right. In most countries this would be against the law, because it was straightaway blocking the oncoming traffic by being in the opposite lane. Green light comes on and the police vehicle blares its siren and cuts across in front of me. I obediently drive myself into the ditch, which serves as the shoulder in most GOC roads, to let him pass. Behind him went a government car which had a board saying, “High Court Judge!”

Now, I know that we shouldn’t judge judges just because they break the law. He might have been rushing to deliver some late-night judgment of national importance. Maybe, it was related to that actor showing his butt on a nude photoshoot, which riled many people in the country. To be sure, that actor was cutting into the action of the Jain monk people, who probably have a monopoly on butt-show. The rule says that not every dumbo can show his or her butt. The judge hopefully will decide “independently” as to who can show their butt, upon giving due consideration to the ruling dispensation’s whims. Remember, judges are important people who can throw the book at you using words like infructuous, Suo motu and mutatis mutandis. So, I quietly drove out of the ditch to continue with my journey.

There are couple of things you learn early on in India. One is to not diss on gods, religions, or religious people. The retribution will be swift and harsh. If at all you want to say something, it should appear to the religious person as you’re dissing somebody else’s god. Religious people are OK with that. Another thing you learn is to keep quiet against the powers that be. The state can do whatever it pleases using all of the tools it has at its disposal including the army.

The Supreme Leader of the country, for example, is a man who boasts one of the biggest breast sizes in the world at 56 inches. This is probably second only to the 57 inches of Arnold Shivajinagar, popularly known in the West as Arnold Schwarzenegger. Interesting trivia Shivajinagar is also an actor like the Supreme Leader, though not as good. As a thespian, Shivajinagar is limited to action hero roles, whereas the Supreme Leader is famed for his ability to pull off any given role. Angry middle-aged man, tortured soul, grieving husband, mountain-dwelling ascetic, weatherman, military strategist, economist, mathematician, birdfeeder, you name it – he has done it, and done it with elan. To top it all, he is also a real-life crocodile Dundee-ji.

Sorry, I went off on a tangent to praise the Supreme Leader. I was discussing how you should not say anything against those who rule over us. This is true even for regional leaders in many states. Many of these leaders have special organs similar to the large breast of the Supreme Leader. Some have double or multiple organs. And they all have cult-like followers. For instance, the Supreme Leader only has to snap his fingers and the cult members will carve you up. Well, maybe not snap his fingers, because snapping might bring the cultists out of their trance. Could it be dog whistle? I don’t know. The opposition party representatives also have organs, but they mess up in putting the right organ in the right place and often end up, for example, with their heads in their posterior orifices. That is why people call them the dis‘organ’ized opposition.

Anyway, I fervently hope that our law-breaking judge was able to save the country and deliver a landmark infructuous decision as to who can show their posterior in public. My reverie, meanwhile, was broken by the maniac sleeping in the passenger seat, who was wide awake now and ready to drive. With him at the wheel, we had an uneventful journey back to Thirontharam with our hearts in our mouths, and the foul taste of an eminently forgettable dosa from a restaurant in Kottarakkara.

Despite the two food-related mishaps (blubber fry and dosa), on the whole it was a short and sweet trip to GOC with kappa, fish curry, idlis, dosas, vadas, bajis, appams, idiappams, puttu, patthiri and of course the national dish of parotta and beef fry. Moreover, thanks to the much-improved services at the village, taluk, and corporation offices, I was able to accomplish a lot on the personal front. Next time around, I hope to stay for a much longer period.


P.S. My maniacal friend is not exactly that bad. From a local perspective, he is a normal driver with the optimum amount of animal instinct necessary to survive on the roads there.


Friday 31 December 2021

Adios Annus Horribilis Deux, Willkommen Annus Horribilis Tria

Another year down the drain, while a new one is slithering up omi(cro)nously. “Twaaaaaang” goes scary music in the background.

As for the year that went by, it was one involving lots of driving for me, in particular, ferrying kids to school and other activities so as to avoid public transportation. When I’m in my car, sometimes I have four women in my life. It’s not that I converted to the religion that allows you to have up to four wives. Conversion, as we all recently found out, is not good. I’m even scared of converting rupees to dollar nowadays. Or to try and convert distance when talking to Amreekan friends.

Me: “I drove about 70kms today going to Chiba.”

Friend: “70kms? How much is that in miles?”

Me: “Hmm…err… Po mi###.”

And the conversation ends just like that.

Talking of conversion, I sometimes think of converting to the ancient religion of my mom, given the pressure to conform to society. However, with conversion getting banned here and there, I am having second thoughts. If at all I go down that path, (and this is something I have said before) I want to join the upper-est caste available. The crème de la crème of castes, whichever that is. I am not interested in joining some run-of-the-mill upper caste. I want to know who is at the apex of the pile and I want to join them. (Reminder to self: Google that.)

Getting back to the four women I sometimes find myself with in my car:

One is my legally wedded wife of 22 years (who has, in fact, been with me for a quarter of a century now, living in sin for three of those years). She is the quietest one in the car. Never says a word regarding my driving skills, or lack thereof.

The second one is the lady inside the car’s in-built navigation system, who spews inanities such as the date and what special day is that day when I start the car for the first time, as in “Today is December 31, 2021 – World No Conversion Day,” or something like that. She also tells me when I cross prefectural borders. “You have entered Kanagawa Prefecture.” I nod, knowing she’s harmless.

The third woman in my car is the Google Navigation lady. I use the Google app because the in-built navigation is not updated real time and you have to shell out quite a bit every few months to keep it up-to-date. So, I use Google maps, which has its drawbacks. There are times I suspect the Google map lady has homicidal tendencies and I fear that one day she is going to drive me into some lake, something my cousin recently experienced with his navi lady in Malaysia. (I did end up in a ditch once, due partly to the Google map lady.)

The fourth is the youngest and the one that is quite annoying. She is the lady in my drive recorder. Like the in-built navi lady, she also does small talk when I start up the car, but is quite condescending. “You’ve been driving quite skilfully of late. Let’s aim to become even better.” I keep quiet. Then she starts giving me driving tips – “Mind your driving lane,” or “Maintain distance with the car in front.” A few days ago, she said, “You’re speeding above 80”. I might have barely touched 120 km/hr. I thought I would fool her and did a mental conversion to miles and almost blurted out “it’s only about 75, milady” but then I remembered the anti-conversion rule in the nick of time and checked myself. Whew! Narrow escape.

Anyway, things are going smooth, or as smooth as they can be under the circumstances. The mallus in my neighbourhood had an Xmas/New Year party yesterday (Dec 30) after missing 2021. As usual, the menu included, among other items, the national dish of porotta/beef and sufficient fluids (also known as jeeva jalam) to wash the food down. Talk of beef may be crime for some, but we mallus, as a species, revere beef. So, this was prepared religiously by a group of volunteers overnight spending three to four hours. The volunteers were also provided with ample fluid support, which made the task easier. Would we be able to hold a similar get-together in the new year? That is the big question in front of us. The halls are open and available for parties as of now here in Japan, but the BGM is getting scarier with omicron slowly sneaking in. Let’s hope the music turns upbeat soon. 

Wishing y’all a happy 2022.


Thursday 9 September 2021

The P--p Chronicles

My toilet 

Everybody has something or the other that they associate with a childhood experience or event. It could be a happy or a traumatic experience, and I’m no different. A few days ago, I was driving home with my elder kid, when he changed the music in the car to an old Malayalam song collection. It’s been a while since I had listened to Malayalam songs in the car, as the music system has been in the control of my kids. There are days I go around listening to gangsta rap (collection of my younger one), and to be honest, I kinda like it. You can’t really argue with profound lyrics like “She just bought a new ass but got the same boobs (same boobs!). Other words that repeat often in many of those songs include the common verb for the act of fornication and its variations, the term for female dogs, etc. - terms which are not generally approved by Arsha Bharatha or other cultures.

The fact is, kids don’t discriminate in terms of what they listen, and that, I have to say, has helped me to broaden the horizons of my musical interests too. My boy listens to all kinds of genres including old Malayalam and Hindi songs. By old I mean really old, for him. I can’t understand how a 16-year-old can feel nostalgic about the 1960s, but he does. He introduced me to Dean Martin’s “That's Amore” and “Buona Sera,” as well as many Japanese enka songs of yore. He also listens to opera and was obsessively listening to the Three Tenors for a while. It is a cyclical thing for him, and when he switched the music from Andrea Bocelli crooning “Con te partiro” to Janaki pining “Anjana kannezhuthi” for the lover who fails to turn up, I was not surprised.

So, there I was driving and listening to some melodious mallu songs from the 1960s and 70s, when the song “Ashada masam athmavil moham” came on. Now, this is a collection I had copied from a friend a few years ago on a visit to Trivandrum, but hadn’t yet listened to fully. I didn’t know this song was in there. This was a song that brought back a traumatic childhood memory. When it came on, I was instantly transported back to the mid-1970s, to a flower show at the Women’s College in Trivandrum. I was with my mom and her friends, who all came there with their kids in tow to see flowers! From what I remember, I was not interested in the flowers, and was too young to be interested in women, though it was a women’s college and all.

Anyway, I went walkabout and while goofing around got separated from the group and got lost in the milling crowd. Discombobulated, I walked up a grassy mound and was anxiously looking around when I felt some tribulations in my tummy. “You have to poop… here and now,” said my brain. I started bawling, trying not to let that thing out, but there’s only so much you can do and eventually it happened. So, there I was, on top of a grassy knoll, “Ashada masam, athmavil moham” blaring from the speakers at the venue, tears streaming down my cheeks, saliva drooling from my mouth, snot from my nose billowing in the wind, and a warm cylinder of poop slithering down the back of my thigh. And, anal sphincters walking by laughing at me!

I’m sure that this was the highlight of the flower show for them. Let’s admit it. Nobody likes or remembers flower shows. It’s something that happens in non-happening places, which was what most places in India were at that time. Nobody goes around saying, “hey, do you remember that red rose we saw at that flower show?” But I’m sure a whole bunch of dumbos who saw me that day still remembers that flower show and reminisce once in a while when they get together saying, “Do you remember that flower show in the 70s where that miserable kid was pooping on a hill. Was hilarious, wasn’t it?”

Anyway, my mom showed up in the nick of time before I went batshit crazy and took me to a toilet, cleaned me, washed my soiled shorts and put them back on, ditched the rest of the flowers, and took a taxi home immediately.

Looking back, I think my mom, in spite of having a master’s degree in economics, lost a golden opportunity to “monetize” her son. I was practically a vision on a hill. With a little effort, she could’ve promoted me as some kind of incarnation or saint. People do fall for that kind of $hit, y’know. If she had done that, I might have been an Our Patron Saint of the Holy Poop or a Swamy DoodooAnanda Thiruvadikal now, raking in the moolah by dishing out $hit advices to anal sphincters around the world. Didn’t happen. But, as they say in the ancient scriptures, “no point in crying over spilt gaumutr”. Which is even better in the original in Sanskrit – “गतस्य गोमूत्र पे शोचना नास्ति”!

Incidentally, near the place where I exit the expressway, there is a company called Unco Inc. (U is pronounced as in the Indian name Uma). Unco means poop in Japanese. Japan is famously non-anal-retentive about poop. It gave the poop emoji to the world. There are even text books that use unco to teach kanji characters to kids. So, it’s not surprising that such a company exists in Japan. The company apparently sells stuff like t-shirts, shoes, etc. with the poop character on it. And, they do have a lofty goal. World Peace! with poop! Go figure.

In these troubling times, when the whole world seems to be going up shit creek without a paddle, let’s hope they succeed in bringing peace to at least some parts of the world. Their car does bring a smile to my face whenever I see it.


PS: A few days ago, a post on a futuristic public toilet in Tokyo popped up on my timeline. I have been in love with the toilets in Japan for a long time now (a post from 2014). The one I have now lights up with a soothing blue glow inside the toilet bowl when I open the door, and does a cleanup of the washlet nozzle and bowl. I like it here. I think a civilization should be judged by how it poops, because that is the only function a human being enjoys from birth to death. In that regard, I think Japan is at the pinnacle. I know some of my friends in India like to say how everything was there in our land thousands of years ago, but this is one thing where I'm willing to put my neck on the line. There were no such toilets in Arsha Bharata or Arsha Greece or Arsha Mesopotamia or elsewhere. You could say our gurus used to sit in the Himalayan rivulets where the gushing water automatically cleansed their bums, and it could technically pass off as a natural washlet. But then, there was no blue light. When you think of it, I wouldn’t mind trying that out on a Himalayan stream. Whitewater pooping instead of whitewater rafting. I’m sure many would pay top dollar for that.

Thursday 6 May 2021

The Image Problem

The Government of India recently held a workshop for top officials aimed at helping them “create a positive image of the government,” manage “perception through effectively highlighting positive stories and achievements,” and making the government “be seen to be sensitive, bold, quick, responsive, hard-working etc.” This is a highly laudable, and much-needed move, and is of utmost priority, given the negative press the country has been getting around the world for its handling of the COVID-19 pandemic.

In pursuing that story, we chanced upon a secret draft that calls upon patriots around the world also to help in the endeavour to change the narrative. The draft describes the following scenarios that proud patriots could encounter overseas.

You’re in a foreign country whose media is trying to tarnish our supreme leader’s image. A foreigner friend comes to you and says something negative.

Foreigner: “It’s a shame what’s happening in India. Horrible scenes from hospitals and crematoria”.

In such cases, your job is to delicately direct that person to the positive things happening around the country right now. But, before that, try to play down the issue with the usual fake news narrative.

You: “It’s not that bad. The government has said there’re enough hospital beds and oxygen. There's no reason to disbelieve the government. Some anti-nationals are making up such negative news of people dying without oxygen and funeral pyres burning non-stop. Also, why are these foreign fake media snooping around and asking questions? Our leader doesn’t like chitchatting with the press. He’s a doer. Our local media people know that and don’t bother asking questions. If you foreigners keep on doing this, we’ll make a rule that all questions should be in Sanskrit language.”

Now, show the person news clips of Yogi-ji’s assurances of enough oxygen, beds and medicines, and also cow help desks, which ought to surely impress him. Next, gently guide the person to the positive news.

You: “By the way, did you hear about the grand central vista we are building in New Delhi? It’s going to be the grandest central vista ever. It’s going to be iconic and better than Washington D.C.!! It’s like a triangle with a hole in the middle….”

Don’t go overboard with the explanation. Triangle with a hole in the middle could conjure up some unwanted imageries. Anyway, if the foreigner is still unimpressed, talk about the Prime Minister’s new residence.

You: “We’re also building a new residence for our PM. It’ll be more phamous than the White House. The house will have nano-chips embedded in it.”

Foreigner: “Why are there nanochips in it?”

You: “That is because even if the PM is 120 metres deep below the earth, we can track him down. Wait, sorry, that was from another story.”

Again, don’t mix up unnecessary things. Also, it’s not phamous, it’s famous.

Foreigner: “But, our government is sending oxygen concentrators and other aid to India. Why is that?”

Now, this anal sphincter of a foreigner is persisting with the negative storyline. Don’t go ballistic and say “abey chu#$ya, that is because our supreme leader called and ordered your dumb leader to send stuff”. Be tactical. So…

You: “That is part of our supreme leader’s diplomatic ingenuity. You see, in helping us, your country will also have a sense of happiness and satisfaction. That is our custom. Make others feel happy. Haven’t you heard “Samastha vasudeva bhavanthu loka kudumbo or something like that?”

Foreigner: “No.”

You: “Well, now you heard it!”

Foreigner: “Hmm, still, the government seems to have mismanaged the whole issue and is not taking responsibility of the mess. Didn’t you hold a big festival by the Ganges and some elections recently?”

Don’t lose your temper. Stay calm.

You: “Our supreme leader was chosen as the world’s best PM by the UN, and he still is. He is so wise he even advises our scientists on how to launch rockets. He has hands-on experience as he’s been a ba…..wait. Forget it. As for people dipping in the Ganges, they get immunity because it is one of the top five polluted rivers in the world. So, once you’re used to that, nothing can harm you. This was proven by NASA….wait.”

Sorry, we’ve to rewrite that. All that crap we had input over the years is creating confusion in the system. Well, we have to calm the #$”& down. We have to check if this foreigner is not the same fictitious foreigner Jay who had crisscrossed India and praised our supreme leader in our 2015 WhatsApp posts. Maybe he has double-crossed us now!

Let’s not get distracted. You could next give subtle hints about our airstrike capabilities. (Skip this if the person is French.)

You: “You know, we have the great Rafale jets now and can hit wherever we want, especially on cloudy days. In fact, we paid $9.4 billion for 36 jets, or almost double the $4.5 billion that Egypt paid for 30 jets, just because we could afford to do so. The jets have side mirrors and all, and Swiss Army knives hidden under the ailerons.”

And the final nail on the head of this nosey foreigner.

You: “Also, we have let the vaccine guys do surge pricing depending on the demand, which will trigger a healthy competition and ensure that only the healthiest people with money will survive. Survival of the fittest, as our ancient sages used to say. No, capitalist, communist, or socialist country has done so. Nor has any monarchy. Shows our trust in the free-market capitalist system. As our supreme leader says, ‘The world should learn from us’.”

Follow this template to deal with all the usual suspects engaging in negative news. i.e. news.

Tuesday 23 February 2021

A Cock and Bull Story


Holy cow! It seems the Rashtriya Kamdhenu Aayog cancelled the Gau Vigyan exam! To say that I’m disappointed would be an understatement. I was looking forward to check out the questions and see how I would’ve fared in such a new and difficult, but noble Nobel-worthy field.

Well, as usual, some morons from that “Gau”-lish (Gau, Gaul, ghoul, whicheva suits you) outpost in the south, have apparently played the spoilsport (Cow exam postponed). They like being bulls in a china shop, especially in this age when China is bullying us.

Don’t they know that an UGC exam is a sacred cow? Did I get it wrong? A god is a sacred cow. A sacred cow is a god. It’s all confusing. In this age, when governments and people can have a cow if someone even thinks of thinking to make a god or politician joke, it’s better to leave sacred gods and political leaders alone, at least, the ones still in circulation. You are allowed to take digs, at the most, on extinct gods like e.g., Goddess Phaethusa, and Nehru. There are, of course, some countries where comedians call their president as Putin’s c#*k su*ker (No apology from Colbert) or orangutan (Trump withdraws lawsuit against Maher) and get away with it. But, don’t try calling your president or PM any of that.

Leave those sacred cows alone. Remember Mr. Tharoor who famously miscowculated mallu literacy and said “cattle class,” which turned out to be an udder failure, and he ended up listening to pontificating mallus till the cows came home.

It’s all a load of bull. The government shouldn’t be cowed down by this mallu “moo”vement, but should take the bull by the horns and conduct that exam. It'd behoove them to remember that the sacred cow has been their perpetual cash cow for decades now. A cow-ordinated response is the need of the hour, or else, we’ll forever be behind Western bull-poop science, like a cow’s tail.

Gau, gobarment, gau.