Monday, May 11, 2015

To All India Bakchods



AIB's (mis)take on arranged marriage

To AIB, With Love (or whatever is the next best emotion)


Okay so very nice video..

Very nice ghisey pittey cliched punches, very nice samosa and very nice dadi ma.

Quick question though...

What did it have to do with an arranged marriage?

This kind of ridiculous shit goes down in almost every second marriage (Arranged or otherwise).

And I say 'second' because be it an arranged or a love marriage there still are people who opt for sanity - and manage to form a bond, everlasting - without making a farce of an otherwise beautiful ceremony.

And trust me, their number is not so small that you can so easily choose to overlook them.

So why just make arranged marriage alone a target?
Oh! Wait. Let me guess. Because it's 'cooler' to ridicule the tradition.. Isn't it?
Because how else will you get those pre-teen nerds to hit like and make you popular, if not by making fun of something they don't anyway understand.

And the sorry little part of your video that actually does somewhat still strives to focus on the concept of an arranged marriage. Well it couldn't have been more exaggerated and fucked up?

You actually think every arranged marriage begins with a girl dressed up like a junior artist from the sets of Chameli walking in with a tray of samosas?
Or is it because (to quote from your own video) ''BOLLYWOOD SAYS SO"

And while we are at it - the sooner you get out of your Dil. Chahta Hai mode - the better off you are. Because the whole 'go show him your room' charade was so fucking passe and far from reality that you should be calling yourself All India Balaji from now on..

Ever heard of Bistros, Lounges or coffeehouses.. That's where some people are going these days, I hear. The girl's room is like so very seventy's.. Should have done some research you guys.

And sorry to burst your silly little bubble but no sane mother on the entire Indian subcontinent would  secretly wish to whore her daughters out, be it to the world's most eligible bachelor,  far less an 'MBA'. You have got her all wrong, the mother.

And what world are you living in if you think that girl's qualification doesn't matter? Have you people become so like-hungry that you have started cashing in on such stuff too. Today when the government and people are working side by side to promote girl child.. You should be ashamed of your selves making fun of sensitive issues such as her education and the fact that she is addressed as a 'liability'. Sorry guys not funny.. Just plain irresponsible of you.

Through the whole AIB roast controversy I stood by your side and the fact that no matter what every body had a right to freedom of expression.. But not anymore.. You just lost a fan..

Well I could have gone on but I. guess I have made my point.  And if you didn't get it by now - you probably won't.

So guys next time you set out to ridicule something you don't quite understand, DONT DO IT.
Because there's funny and there's trying very hard to be funny-- Big difference.
You people are affecting masses here.. Show some responsibility.

Because in this day and age it's very easy to fall in love over the internet and force your decision down your parents throats in the name of love marriage - what takes real mettle - is to make your parents a part of this important decision of your life... And it's not bad at all.

With love,
An erstwhile fan.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

The Reluctant 'feminist'

To bend the rules of feminism, as per my convenience - MY CHOICE

To have the audacity of hope to get out of a traffic challan with a lame smile and a corny 'sorry bhaiya' and then to wage a war against 'inequality' - MY CHOICE

To be stupid enough to take (or star in) a Kelloggs two week challange and then to voice 'concern' about women all size - MY CHOICE

To hop to the tunes of a woman practically begging her man to take her shopping cause she has white arms and then coming back home to rant about women rights - MY CHOICE

To post about a hundred selfies a day and to be dumb enough to think that I get feminism - MY CHOICE

To expect to be taken care of in every slightly hasseling situation by my boyfriend, brother or father and then to lull myself into believing that I have a semblance of a sense of equality in me - MY CHOICE

To bitch my mouth bloody about girls (most of them my friends) for being loose and immoral and then to blow the trumpet on my sexual freedom - MY CHOICE

To jump like a demented cow at the idea of a 'ladies night' and then to quote equality as my middle name - MY CHOICE

To expect a man to be courteous to me not by his own choice but by default because that suits me just fine and then to proudly hope that he sees me no different than a man- MY CHOICE

To take pride in my fucked up notions of feminism, liberty and equality and to actually mistake myself for a feminist - MY BLOODY CHOICE



                                   Fuck being the confused 'feminist'.
                                       BE AN EQUALIST

Monday, February 16, 2015

Salesgirl




Twinkle Khanna’s  recent blog on our double standards on tolerance actually got me thinking. She said what she said and while it was one of the most sensible things I have read in last couple of days but there remains a fact if not for her 10 X 10 picture accompanying the article, would the blog have been equally viral? How I wish the answer was Yes.
 
I liked her blog so much that I shared it instantly but as soon as I put the post on my timeline, I knew something  about it was irking me and it was that picture - over and above the post. And then I realized my mistake. I had shared it from the wrong place, where the editor (or whoever runs the show) had thought it necessary to put a picture that size to make readers want to read it, as if without a pretty picture suddenly her words would lose essence.
Needless to say I rectified my mistake and found the right link soon but this got me thinking.
You know I have been facing somewhat of a similar situation but on a very very teeeeeny tiny scale.
Ever since my book got out, I have been getting calls for interviews and online write ups on me. Yes, that’s right ‘on me’ and not so much on the book. Which, I’ll be honest, is really bugging.  Because whether or not you have my three pictures tagged along with that darned interview it will still be an interview but nope, nothing doing, nobody is interested in that.
‘Ya, ya, you have written a book, good for you. What else you got?’
Send us some six pictures to attach with your meaningless words and be done with it.
Which brings me to the bone of contention (you know I hardly would blog if there was no bone) which is – Jury is out whether I can even dare to call myself a writer but what I know for a fact is that I am most definitely not a salesgirl and I am not even gloating about it.
 Infact it’s a quality I wish I had but nada.
 And to be completely honest, it’s not that I did not try. But a week of promoting my own work and it was enough to jolt me back into the reality – LET THE READERS DECIDE.

My friend A, in a very matter of factly way foretold me this even before I was about to embark on my little sales adventure - that the moment you submitted your book for print – that was it- your job was done.
‘Give it a rest now,’ he had said.
But me being me, true to my character, did not grasp the hidden genius in his well meaning advice right away. I did my bit (which if you ask the people back at my publication house is just the tip of an iceberg) but still I did some promotion at least.
But it had not even been three days and there I was totally siding with A on this, against my own interest (if you want to look at it in a very day to day manner.)
What was I afraid of? If the book was good, it’d sell. If not what could I do anyway?
So much so that I wouldn’t even say that I was even torn between A’s wisdom and my ambitious sales record.
The Verdict was out – I CANT SELL.
I just can’t. I mean to silently dare to dream that your novel is well received is one thing but to go on with the self promotion and self praise, I think it’s downright demeaning.
Forget hardcore PR, I can’t even bring myself to do a facebook advertisement. And why should I? I know it’s out there, I know there are people who will somehow bump into my little baby and if they find it intriguing enough they’d probably say hi. Okay I think I went a bit overboard with the metaphor here but the point is why not trust the readers or to be more precise the netizens?
Every now and then we do tumble into stuff which we really like and share. And who knows one such day some of you find your way to my book and I go something like this...

 


So here’s hoping!

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Dude, I am not your bro!



I hate the fact that I am the girl who ‘understands’ him, while some other girl gets to marry him.

I hate being that cool friend, you know, who is one of the guys only – but maybe just not cool enough to be anything more than that. Sitting in my living room as I go through every little detail of his recent escapades and womanly endeavors over the phone, I secretly hope that he sees what he is missing –that how good we could have had it together. That he wasn’t so fucking blind.. or maybe, so fucking chicken ;-) That he realizes that time is running out. That I am not 21 anymore.

‘You know you are something else only,’ when he casually slips in a compliment, during one of our never ending conversations – I bloody gush like a teenager and mull over it for hours. What does it mean? Does he subconsciously love me? Maybe he does, he just needs to realize it. And then suddenly I have ‘yuck’ written all over me.  I am Kajol from Kuch kuch hota hai – who only gets a mercy wedding because Rani Mukherjee fucking dies. SERIOUSLY, YUCK YUCK YUCK. Have I sunk that low really?

And then I decide to end it once and for all, I go out, have fun and try not to think about it. But apparently, that also is not supposed to ease the pain. Because he still needs someone to listen to his endless tales, and in turn pander to the ‘ego’ he doesn’t know he has and who better than a girl, who he can talk about anything to. Because she doesn’t pretend – calls a spade a spade- and lives by her own rules. In short a girl who is one of the guys.



But how on earth am I to put it across the table that I want a romance not a fucking bromance. Cause dude, I am not your damn wingman. I am as much entitled to emotions and feeling as any one of your ‘trophy’ girl friends, or, the wife  dear mummy ji is going to approve of. And while that may not be your problem, but you sure can do one thing… CHOOSE A SIDE, and then stick to it.  Because I am sick and tired of being ‘something else’. For once in my life, I want to be a typical typical girl, who gets the best of both worlds.

‘I am going out tonight.’
 
‘With who?’ pat comes the reply.

‘This friend, you don’t really know him,’ I reply, playing it as casually as I possibly can (God knows I have a bloody predictable voice and a face).

‘Guy friend?’

‘Yes a guy friend. Why? Is that an issue,’ I ask, dearly hoping for a hint of jealousy somewhere.

‘No, no, are you mad? You have my blessings,’ the assole grins, ripping apart any possible hopes of a fairy tale ending between us ;-)

But, get this, you pig – I don’t need your blessings. All I need from you is for you to walk out of your stupid oblivion for once, where you stay so blissfully unaware of people around you and their feelings. And if that is too damned difficult for you to do, then just take a hike. So long. I have no time, emotions or fight left to invest in you. Because you know I am done secretly laughing at some girl you are with – because she reads classics like ‘how to sound cool n classy’. I am done being a confession box to you. I am done being your radio.  But most importantly, I am done pretending. Move on and leave me alone seriously! 
 
Because, all said and done, I am still only the girl who ‘gets’ you and yet doesn’t get to get you.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Hey Sista! Up taaap!



I am woman, hear me roar,
In numbers too big to ignore.
I maybe lost but I am alert
So better watch it you pervert.
I only choose to ignore
But I can pin you to the floor.
I am woman, hear me roar,
In numbers too big to ignore.

I go running and you stare,
Go eat shit for all I care.
Making passes at me, do you even have a pair?
Don't bother to answer, just get the fuck out of my hair
I am woman, hear me roar,
In numbers too big to ignore.

At work, I need my space,
Not you gawking at my face.
So better cut down on your chase,
Prepare to keep pace or else lose in this race.
Coz I am here and I am there,
And I know you are well aware.
I don’t fear the dark
And all you know is to bark
But I am woman, hear me roar,
In numbers too big to ignore.



Shampoo & Conditioner apply ***



I am probably the only person I know, who has fun through the week and sits home on the weekends.

Grumpy as hell, I reach my office almost on time (terms and conditions apply), bumping into some and closely escaping many many lawyers (trust me early morning we all look like penguins gone mad).

I am usually on an empty stomach because surprise surprise  I only woke up half an hour before ten (thanks to the unplanned karaoke the night before) and all I could squeeze in, in those thirty precious minutes is a quick shower and a ride to the Court. Just as I take my seat, my friend C states the much obvious fact – "YOU ARE LATE."


'Here's twenty five things you didn't know about costumes of Humpty Sharma ki Dulhaniya' she flashes the post under my nose.
'I will book you for contempt of Court, trust me, I am not joking.'
'Wow! You are really a morning person. Can't tell you what a treat it is to chat you up in the morning.'
‘I am hungry,’ I whine. 
'We’ll go eat during the tea break,' she gives me the much needed himmat.
This is my standard set routine, almost every day - except for that one odd day when I sleep on time. You know? The day I decide to be a game changer. The day which never lasts even a full blown twenty four hours. The day when no matter how much I hate doing it  - I miraculously convince myself that I am meant to sleep on time.

Anyway, back to my weekly schedule - so I have a sad and a very questionable sandwich at eleven - and a cappuccino with a  K ;-)  - which sums up my brunch and is not even strong enough to wake up Grumpy, the dwarf' let alone me.



Somehow I get through the day and by evening manage to drag my half dead posterior home.
Because I am highly sleep deprived not because I work so hard.
Only to have another evening of unplanned fun and repeat the same routine the next day.

And bam! Before I know, it’s the damned weekend again. And suddenly, through no conscious efforts, I am sleeping on time, waking up on time, cooking my own food, writing blogposts and also working out properly – and all this while I am as chirpy as a cheeky little bird. Which is all very very good – except that shouldn’t it be the other way round?
Shouldn’t I be up and about through the week and a little lazed out on the weekends?

But then irony is the flavor of my life...

I fall for the wrong guy AND friendzone the right one.


A strict vegetarian my whole life I end up eating chicken wai wai by accident on a Tuesday (that too during navratras).
I rarely ever get a crush but when I do I make sure that it's so very highly impractical that in front of him even prince Harry will look more attainable.
I crack the entrance with a promising rank and then manage myself a semester back.


I yearn good company and yet am mostly alone.
For all the big talk that I do - I believe an arranged marriage is the best thing that can happen to anyone.

You see my point.. right?
Well what would be my life, if not upside down, eh?