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Showing posts from 2008

A Black Man, in the White House

Washington D.C., December 10, 2008. I’m the first black man, in this White house, I mean as master - not some slaving louse. A lot of white mugshots, line the walls. My favorite is Lincoln, for his humongous balls. There could have been, another first, of course. A chick running this place, and the US of Arse. I must let you in on why I won. The simplest three reasons under the sun. 1. English! and the need for gender based terms. No one wants opened a new can of worms. See, my wife will be called, you know, “First Lady". What would Bill have been called, First Daddy? 2. Interns! All male, and preferably black, For Hillary to “mount", as counter Lewinsky attack. Alas! not enough black degrees to fit the Bill. We get no education, yeah, despite Mamma’s will. 3. Dicks! And our love for the biggest ones. The Cheney George had, was bigger than a gun’s. And you know what they say, about size and blacks. Didn’t you notice mine, when i campaigned in slacks? So here

The Joke's on the Joker

Paris, January 24, 2008. And so, another 28 year old took his life this week. Heath Ledger, the Australian actor who dared to break his back on Ang Lee’s mole-hill, drugged himself away from Earth. Jake, you shedding a tear? Youth, are you sufficiently avenged? “One year too late!” Jested the 3 other J’s, Jim, Jimmy and Janice - who had delivered the same death unto themselves at age 27. Jokers, all of them. To reach 28 in this day and age, and still be alive, is no laughing matter. Dylan, are you shedding a tear? Another Joker Jack, is much relieved. The challenger to the part he played in Burton’s epic, has furnished a walkover before the jury could choose. Proudly, he side-skips, over another cuckoo’s nest, somewhere on the outskirts of a chinatown that is as good as it gets - and says, about this newly Departed - “Oh! We got a dead one here!!!! Ha1 Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Nolan, are you shedding a tear? Sweeney J. Todd, are you sufficiently revenged? The parent’s deny it, but here is a no

Bollywood - The Frankenstinian Monster

I have never been diplomatic or forgiving enough to conceal my impatience with Bollywood. The name in itself should beget a grimace from reasonable persons. A “B” grade imitation of something “gora", that begins with an H. If only, replacing a letter could truly create a “new", original idiom. Alas! it can never be. Did no one in this alleged “industry” read Mary Shelley as mandatory tuition while growing up? Evidently not, or else half a billion would have recognized and shunned this monster - patched together from the remains of other beautiful bodies. The result, as Victor realized to his despair, of cobbling eyes, ears and organs from buried resources, can never create a singular object beautiful enough to behold. Not even if one can muster up enough heart to truly love it. Or unless you are an old, blind flute player. I am often chastised for my utter disregard for this “genre” of “film-making".(yeah, right!). And sometimes subjected to it in various doses -

Narmada Bachao - drops of joy?

Being fiscal year ending, The Parliament was in session. Politicians, musing on if the growth would be at a perfect 10% and whether the yo-yoing Stock Index would yo-yo from unscaled heights to Abyssinian depths for much longer, crowded the Capital. “ A correction is inevitable!!” someone said. “Omkara!”, a Senator prayed, in Session. “Omkara!”, another agreed. I went there, for the other reasons. This Rat was not in the Stock Index Race. A bustling Capital held three attractions. Cheese. Sleaze. Grease. Economic soothsaying had never invoked me. Inevitably, as is the case with mismanaged secrets, the news had spread. And by the time I reached Session, all the three of my coveted lures had been devoured. “Rats!”, I sighed. And slunk away. Some introspection later, I decided to behold the India Gate – a place I had not been able to visit up to, until this unrewarding journey – and looked at the stone structure in wonder. Being a rodent, I was shortly distracted. A set of curv

A Real Ball, in an Imaginary Court

Ram – the Alcoholic The room was bursting at its seams. Being the first time that an Imaginary Court was put into session by a hapless judiciary, the media had hyped it widely enough to ensure that every eyeball worth its socket was glued in front of their plasmas or HHD’s. From those with sight permanently impaired by LCD adorned gizmos, to the fortunate ones with Twenty20 type of vision, all were jostling to get into the thick the proceedings that were about to begin. Violent supporters for the Defendant were chanting slogans at decibels that only religious zealots can muster. Some scampered away to try and arm-twist the judge from appearing, or sting with a covert operation that questioned credibility. They blended with the masses, to prevent the event, even before it could occur. The possibility of such a preposterous institution being embraced by the under-prepared world, would spell scripture-perfect doom. The nervous judge was ferried through a secret entrance, face mas