The Him in Me

“Dey, your Kuru has fled the country”. I woke up to umpteen such messages on my WhatsAppi screen a few days ago, but being my Kuru’s shishya I was the least bit concerned, because the Him in Me was cocksure that He was not one to flee. It was pretty much evident to any thinking person that He had transmogrified into another dimension, which proved to be true in a few days’ time. He appeared and delivered His message to His bhakths, of whom I consider myself to be the biggest one.

Now, some people think I’m putting up a show about Him being my Kuru. They’re wrong. I genuinely admire and am in awe of his godliness. There are some pretenders out there, the “sad” kurus and “sree to the power of n” kurus who command widespread following among the middle and upper middle-class. These people look down upon my Kuru for His funny, accented English, whereas their suave, flamboyant, smooth-talking, dancing, motorcycle-riding, artfully living kurus speak immaculate Macaulay’s English (which incidentally they despise).

The fact is that He has now cocked a snook at them and their kurus as well as the Exalted One (LAPH) and his hatchet man, who are setting up this Hindu Rashtra, by setting up the first-ever Hindu Rashtra just like that with a snap of His fingers. In retaliation, they tried to accuse that He snuck His cock at nubile actresses and some girls. Accusations which could get any normal anal sphincter killed in a shootout, but not my Kuru. He is in fact influencing a whole lot of influential people from His celestial abode. Want proof.

Here it is. Watch from 2:00.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-eN3O9RCYU

Another one

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ltY9SZ9W34

I bow before His untrammeled power. The nation, after promising riches to incredible spiritual leaders, ditched Him. Let’s all pray to Him for mercy, lest He opens His third eye and convert us all into anti-matter, which is like poop, but worse.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJwmvX7dKPU

Talking of poop, a few days ago, there was a news about the Exalted One (LAPH) taking baths at airports, which the world came to know after it was strategically released to the modia by his hatchet man. It immediately set off a train of thoughts in my mind; specifically related to a train called Island Express and a railway station potty. But, before we go into the Island Express story, I must tell you how amazed I was at the Exalted One’s sacrifices to save mankind. Taking bath at airports, but somehow still managing to be elegantly coiffured with not a hair out of place, and then changing into impeccable sartorial creations, as if He was going to meet the press at the airport. But that – meeting the press - is not his schtick. He’s probably getting back on board to go to his next destination and send zillions there into rapture (WAG, HLAWTHH). Word on the street is that he often sneaks out from his luxury hotels and goes to airports to take bath. It’s addictive.

Let’s get back to Island Express and Cakkoos. The Island Express of yore was such an exquisite piece of craftsmanship that, on one of my trips to Kolhapur from Trivandrum, I didn’t want to defile its waterless toilet, instead deciding to do doodoo at Bangalore's Majestic railway station, where I had a stopover. The Cakkoos at the station was another work of art. I went in to find a squat toilet filled with poop, like in an art installation at Tate Museum. On seeing that, I did what any normal person would do in such a situation, which turned out to be a ginormous mistake. I poured some water down the toilet. Loo and behold, the thing came to life. Gurgling sounds, sucking sounds and a small explosion later it began frothing like shaken beer. It reminded me of the place I was supposed to spend the major part of the rest of the day till my evening train – The Pub down at Brigade Road. Anyway, after some major acrobatic maneuvers, half standing, half sitting, I achieved my goal and got out, taking care not to splash water or flush.

Imagine that. As a country we were already teaching avvar young (I was young) to save water sooo many years ago, which the West is learning vonly now. Sorry, that was my Kuru manifesting Himself in me as only He can do. Good day and Happy New Year to y’all.

P.S.

Recently, I am seeing many well-meaning people worrying about too many things. They’re worried about democracy, worried about human rights, worried about onion prices, worried about the economy, etc. There is a phrase “The economy, stupid” which Clinton used in his campaign to win an election, but that, I’d like to remind them, doesn’t work in the South Asian context. Remember Pak Prez Z A Bhutto who said “We’ll eat grass…but we’ll get our own bomb” after India tested its nuke. Well, they are still eating grass, more or less, even after having their bomb. That’s how things work in this part of the world. For a brief period of time, there was a misguided belief that these crazy Western concepts like human rights and democracy, imposed on India by debauched Westernized leaders, will get established there. Well, luckily it didn’t. It had to come unstuck at some point of time. Evidently, majority of the people cannot accept human rights, etc. in its entirety, which  doesn’t work well with the caste system. The beauty of the caste system is that you always have someone below you in the pecking order to peck (pick) on. Except, of the course, the bottom-most layer, but they’re usually too oppressed to do anything about it. So, across the spectrum people enjoy pooping on the layer below them. Human rights and stuff would deprive them of this very basic happiness. Ergo, it has to go. Now, we have openly designated certain human beings as termites. This is applauded by a vast majority of the population who are elated that a section of the people is finally, finally, living in fear. You’re trying to douse that happiness. You’ve no chance, because, as a friend who told me the reason why he believed the fake feel-good stories of UNESCO and NASA awards, it makes them happy.

Note: LAPH- Let's All Praise Him

         WAG - What A Guy

         HLAWTHH- How Lucky Are We To Have Him

Whats Appi Syndrome

It’s almost a month now since I resurrected my life in Japan on Easter Sunday. On April 1, I moved into this small apartment, a few minutes from the school where my kids are enrolled. Japan is one place which teaches you that you don’t need humongous space or thingies to be happy. All you need is … an electronic potty. So, first things first, I went and got myself the cheapest electronic potty available and installed it. Heated seat and warm water butt wash for the winter months.  With that done, we moved on to other essential items - a table and few chairs, some home electronics items, a gas table, a few futons, etc. – and we were all set to start our “minimalist” life.

There were, however, couple of major items left. Mobile phones and Wi-Fi. In fact, I was on the verge of experiencing withdrawal symptoms without access to the virtual frikkin’ world 24/7. I missed the daily dose of inspirational doo-doo from bad gurus. I wanted to read fairy tales that start with I’m not a bhakth, but*. My body yearned for fake news and memes. To put it in a nutshell, I missed my Wi-Fi, something I never expected to happen to me. You see, I have this habit of taking the phone to the potty in the morning to catch up on the WhatsApp messages from the previous night. There are usually a few of the aforesaid inspirational and other such posts in the list. These messages, believe it or not, have a laxative effect because of the convulsions you undergo while reading some of the gems, all the while trying hard not to fall off the commode. It could be convulsive laughter or just plain epileptic ones, but whatever it is, it smoothens the passage of doo-doo from your body. Plop!  Things, obviously, were getting difficult. The appi, as turd is called in some parts of Kerala, was creating problems without WhatsApp. Dang! I had the dreaded WhatsAppi syndrome.

So, my wifey and I went shopping for Wi-Fi and mobiles. Now, in most countries, I’m guessing, this should be a breeze. Not in Japan. We first went to one of the top two companies, where a smartly dressed young man with a tablet (computer, not pill) sat with us and explained, with the help of various charts and diagrams, the stuff they have. Then he listened to what we wanted – two phones. Well, with Google and WhatsApp, if possible. Here, in Japan, you can’t just buy a sim card and insert it in your handset. You have to buy the phone/sim as a bundle. Anyway, the guy gave us a few printouts of the quotes for the different plans he had, and then escorted us courteously to the door.  

Outside, we walked straight to the competitor’s shop. Another well-dressed young man -could have been the first guy’s twin brother or even the same guy- appeared and the same routine was repeated. Deja-vu. We finally decided on this guy after he kinda impressed upon us, with some convoluted logic, that we’re getting the handset free if we use it for two years. He then passed the baton to another dude who sat behind a counter. We were expecting him to produce a paper and show us the dotted line to sign. Totally wrong. He started off by asking our address, and was almost professorial in the way he went about explaining things. He printed out certain papers, brought them to us, and explained the contents. In between he was marking some crucial places with a yellow marker, perhaps for us to study for the test he’ll conduct at the end of all this. Then he printed out some more papers. The process continued. Did he just say “the Company reserves the right to cleave off the left kidney of the user if he/she exceeds 2 gb data”? Nah. Maybe I dozed off.  When I looked up, he was again printing out stuff. I was feeling guilty and personally responsible for destroying a few hundred acres of Amazonian rainforest. Anyway, after a few hours, my wife signed the various papers including the kidney one, I think, and we were owners of smartphones. But…the Wi-Fi won’t come for two more weeks. What?!   After all the bureaucracy and signing and stuff!  

Contrast this with India, where you can go into a mobile shopeee (the more ‘e’ s, the better), flash your Maine Pyar Kiya underwear tag (which, of course, is linked to your Aadhaar) as identification, throw 500 rupees on the counter, get a SIM card, and before you can say “I’m-not-a-bhakth-but,” you’re  a man with a plan.

All thanks to the ****nis and ****jis who rule the country.

* - ”I’m not a bhakth, but” is a new genre of fairy tale similar to the “Once upon a time” stories. These tales have gained in popularity in the past three or four years, and is especially popular during election seasons. Here’s a sample.

I’m not a bhakth, but the other day I was talking to this dude who is the illegitimate son of my grandfather’s brother’s, now-deceased wife. This guy - I can’t reveal his name - so, let’s call him Jai, was employed as a senior janitor with executive powers at the Exalted One’s abode. Another thing is that, he and all his family members, legitimate as well as illegitimate, were Biju Janata Dal voters for hundreds of years, even before Biju was born. So, you can guess their dedication. That night Jai had woken up to go to the loo to pee out the gaumutra he had consumed before sleeping. It was about 3 in the morning. He saw a light coming from one of the rooms. Out of curiosity he went and peeped in, and to his surprise he saw that the light was not coming from any electrical light source, but the Exalted One was emitting an aura so powerful, the entire room was lit up. Then, the Exalted One picked up the phone and called this scavenger in Kendrapara and instructed him to clean up the sewage in two hours. Great or what?

If you agree, forward this to all the people, in particular to those with WhatsAppi syndrome.