B-School Experience

The 80-90 born generation in India likes doing two things. The first is socializing on online platforms, and second is pursuing an MBA.

Everyone likes ‘doing’ an MBA. As a matter of fact, for most Indian males, on the list of things we like doing by preference, MBA will be a close second.

Now, for 40 percent of the population MBA is simply a very expensive Rapidex English Speaking course. 20 percent do it since they just want to postpone the act of actually working. For 10 percent, getting married was proving to be difficult without that MBA degree. The rest 30 percent do it, since the other 70 is doing it, and it seemed like a smart thing to do.

But a B-school experience ain’t really a B-school experience, unless it has the following:

The ‘I’m not here for placements’ guy
Every b-school has at least one of these ‘I’m not here for placements’ guy. He generally follows it up with a ‘I’m here for the learning’ and what not bull-crap. The ironical and equally irritating deal is when you see the ‘I’m not here for placements’ guys salivating as soon as the first company comes to campus and applying for every profile at every damn company. The kind of feelings most harbour for these irritating fagots range from strangling to a more pleasant poisoning.
The only true ‘I’m not here for placements’ people in B-schools are the former engineering students, who are genuinely not here for placements, but for girls. Since post seeing the b-school brochure, they felt confident that the sex-ratio here will be at-least better than their engineering colleges.

The B-school Girl
There are essentially two kinds of B-school girls, the good ones and the bad ones. The bad girl b-school girls drinks beer and will start dating the baddest guy within a month. The good and innocent b-school girl however does not drink beer, talks over phone with one guy, lunches with the second guy, forms team for stupid projects with the third guy, goes to gym with the fourth and cries about her erstwhile heartbreak with the fifth. Take your pick.

The philanthropist Teacher
Every b-school will have one philanthropist teacher who wants you to leave it all and instead do something for the society. She’s one person who just refuses to accept that you are simply a materialistic as***e who’d readily sell his soul for money and instead wants you to focus on weird things like making the world a better place and helping poor people. Most students love her to death except a few who actually pretend to love her even more. Such are the ways of the world.

The ish-tud
The ish-tud is quite simply one person who’s just too cool for everything. He’s too cool to study, too cool to date a girl, too cool to care for frivolous things such as money since his dad had plenty of it, too cool to prepare for campus placements, too cool to care for frivolous thinks like laws and everything. He’s almost like a mini-version of Salman Khan right in your class, except that he’s not really well-ripped and has not really ever dated Katrina Kaif.

The Real-Head
Every b-school has a head, who’s generally titled dean or director or Head of Department. But his real power in the institute is equivalent to Manmohan Singh’s in our sweet country. So who’s the real boss then? Well, every b-school also always has one guy, who in an unassuming position, basically runs the institute. He’s the one to take all the decisions, decide if you’ll get expelled for getting caught drunk on campus, save your gullible a** if you get in any trouble and essentially decide how smooth your MBA will be. He is more essential to the institute than well the students and the professors, and just below the all-important companies campus visiting companies.

*P.S: I might act all out against an MBA, but being quite a materialistic assole myself I’m happily pursuing the same. And it’s been a fascinating experience to say the least. For starters, for a guy who’s suffered all his life from a premature greying of hair problem, a b-school is simply a brilliant place, since the balding problems of so many of your other classmates make your hair problems look less striking, which is quite simply a very new and fantastic experience.

The Birth of Jugaad-Man

Superheros have always caught my fancy and I have forever had tremendous amount of admiration for them. Completely platonic form of admiration that is. I mean nothing weird or anything you know.

One thing that really amuses me about superheros is the disguise these guys have. I mean when Superman has to turn from his geeky alias of Clark Kent to well, Superman, all he really does is basically take of his glasses and do his hair a little. And every body around goes like, ‘Wow, who are you? That’s such a new face. We’ve never seen you before.’ Which is really a little strange u know, considering when I took off my glasses, did my hair differently, and then tried acting fresh with a girl she really did recognize me and even slapped me the next day and the day after that.

But what makes you think is that what would have Superman’s disguise been had he been in India. I mean maybe he would have had to just put on some deodorant and people would have gone like, ‘Wow, who are you? You don’t even have body odour. Are you even Indian?
Or maybe he would’ve just had a complete body wax. Then people would’ve gone like, ‘Wow, you’re not hairy. You really cannot be Indian. Are you Chinese? Will you stop working after few days? Are you here to take Arunachal Pradesh?’

But there’s really no way we can have an Indian well-respected Superhero. I mean think about it, what really is Superman’s biggest achievement?

(Now some of you might be tempted to answer that his greatest achievement he wears his underwear over his pyjamas, but on a serious note, that’s less of an achievement and more of a dressing style. I mean poor guy goes about saving the whole world and all, and the moment someone is asked about his greatest achievement, all we hear are stupid underwear on top jokes. Wearing underwear on top is not really an achievement, and I’m pretty sure even I could do it. I’d probably look very silly and people might stop talking to me, but that’s another story)

Coming back to the point, Superman’s greatest achievement was the fact that he managed to push the whole of earth and change planetary positions to save it from a speeding android. Which really is hardly a big deal here in India, because we all know if we pay Rs. 1100 to any goddam pandit he’ll not only change planetary positions, but even reverse the solar system, juggle a little with the planets, play football with them and god knows manage to do what all.

So for India, what we need is somebody customized for India. Somebody made for India. No superman n all that jazz, but somebody like Jugaad-man. Yes, a Jugaad-man, who would have Jugaadu solutions to every Indian problem.

For example, if Jugaad-man were to see a frustrated writer committing suicide out of depression, he’ll give him a Chetan Bhagat book to read. And soon the guy’ll realize how much of gift he has or how much better he is than some of the modern day literary geniuses. You see, a Jugadu and permanent solution custom-made for India.

To deal with the problem of eve-teasers and molesters, Jugaad-man’ll go and give them naked posters of Mayawati, which’ll just end their sex drive forever. You see, another jugaadu and permanent solution.

If someone’s making hate speeches on communal lines, our dear Jugaad-man’ll go and lock him up in a room with Navjot Sing Sidhu and Arnab Goswami for a whole day. After spending 24 long hours in a single room with these guys, the most verbose of the hate-speech givers would have lost their will to talk for good and will be pretty much zombies. Next day headlines, Jugaad-man saves the day.

For villager dying out of hunger because of a bad crop, jugaad-man will go and suggest them the unique solution of unlimited loan for which you don’t need to pay back. In form of Dowry. Displays complete out-of-the-box thinking you know.

Pretty soon we’ll start having slogans like ‘In Jugaad-man we trust’ or ‘It’s a cycle, it’s a rickshaw, no, it’s Jugaad-man on his Jugaad vehicle’.

More to follow on the amazing tales of Jugaad-man…watch this space…

The ‘Corporate’ Life

Now Madhur Bhandarkar would like us to believe that the corporate world is one big bad world where you have to sell your soul, send escorts to rival company workers to get trade secrets, kill colleagues, finish off their families and what not, but end of the day, and quite disappointingly so, it is simply a bunch of people working together. Simple routine boring work and nothing else.

But that said, it doesn’t mean it does not have its share of spices, ironies, absurdities and outright irrationalities. Here’s a brief view on all that’s stupid and silly in those superb coveted organizations mostly based in glorious glass buildings in Gurgaon.

For starters, I would want to throw some light on this beautiful job title called the ‘Analyst’. It’s rather ironic that how twenty years before there was indeed no such job title whatsoever, none of us ever grew up thinking we would grow up to be a world-renowned ANALYST, and now every second guy is working as one. Who exactly is this analyst, what the hell does he analyse and how come there is suddenly a need of so much analysis, are questions that a curious mind is bound to have.
Well, in crude terms an analyst is to a service organization what a base level factory labourer is to a manufacturing organization. He (and forgive me for being a sexist here, but it’s just too much pain writing ‘he/she’ everywhere just to be socially correct) is the one actually making those colourful ppts, excessively large excel sheets, incomprehensible PDFs or whatever it is that analysts make.

Just as a factory labourer is for a manufacturing unit, he is the one actually involved in making the product that generates revenue. Likewise to a labourer, he is subject to insanely long working hours, is sometimes working on weekends, is putting his body on line for the manufacturing process *and has to listen to ten different morons on how he could do his job better. Again, just as is the case with factory labourers of manufacturing units, the higher one is from the analyst role and farther away he is from doing actual revenue generating work, the more money he will be making in his monthly pay-cheque.
Then why do organizations need B Tech/ MBA degrees and all that jazz for this labourer role? Well cuz this is Services baby, and that’s how they roll.

Having that cleared up, let’s look at the other amusing things of this ‘corporatelife’.

The ‘one’
Now every organization has a ‘one’. This one is quite simply a person who pretty much has ‘management’ tattooed on his forehead (not literally, but if suggested he would readily do that as well). He is somebody who would have an extremely complicated way of saying the same things you would do. For ex, in a great strategic highly important team meeting focussing on finding solutions to do more work, you would say ‘I guess all of us should just work more’ and he would say ‘Every associate needs to synchronize his individualistic competencies with organizational objectives and push the achievable milestones so as to increase the returns our corporation(mild applause). He is someone who would spend one hour every morning on each of the higher-up on discussing matter like career path and streamlining goals, while you would be working your bu** off on those darned reports that never seem to get over.
The ‘one’ is usually as uptight as Mayawati herself and makes a curious horse like sound even when he walks. He prefers to wear RayBan all the time, which really is a rather curious sight particularly in the loo, and chews gum so vigorously while working that it reminds you of a cow. The one is loved by everyone in the office except you and your lousy mediocre un-studlike group, who are the only people to see what a douchebag that person is. The one is the only person who is able to maintain the coveted ‘work-life’ balance, which brings me to the next point.

Work-life balance
It’s a bullshit meaningless laughable term invented by management to fool you. Period. Let’s move on.

Buddy Concept aka Forced Friend
Your HR-assigned buddy is one who’s supposed to like you and help you settle in office, but in reality looks at you with as much disdain and contempt as you look at a Vivek Oberoi movie. Curiously, it seems an HR policy to make buddies of opposite gender, which seems a bit like how in class II your teacher made you sit in boy-girl boy-girl pattern. Of course if you are an engineering student, then you simply take it as good fortune or in rather crude terms office ki setting.

For the buddy, it’s pretty much like how your parents forced an adolescent you to share your room with your cousin when he was coming to your city for few days. The happy cousin arrives thinking he’s welcome and has no idea how you’ve been pleading for last two weeks to not have to play this stupid and irritating role. So it’s not really her fault that she hates you. And god save you if you’ve been in an organization for too long and are yourself made someone’s buddy. For starters, a new-joinee exposes the fact that the buddy indeed doesn’t know anything about the organization or doesn’t have a jack of a clue on how to setup the system, use the office tools, etc. Secondly, during lunch-time the buddy and the new-joinee enter into a sweet little hide-and-seek game, where the new-joinee is intently looking for the buddy for a nice cosy lunch, and the buddy is doing everything short of hiding under the table to dodge the joinee so that she could go out lunching with her group. Enough on the subject, let’s move on.


STILL TO COVER in Next write-up….team lunches, engagement activities, performance review, office lifts, HR=the art of using 5000 words where 5 would do



*body parts put on line=read ‘eyes’ for staring at computer for 14 hrs a day, and ‘lungs’ from smoking, which is a habit eventually all analysts take up, and ‘liver’ from drinking incessantly, which is a habit an analyst takes up on Fridays to make his life feel less miserable.

Being Somewhat Fat

I wish I was a really fat guy. I mean really fat. Like some 120 kilos or something. Unfortunately I am not. Unfortunately, I am somewhat fat, hovering around 80 kilos, which for my 5’8’’ frame, is fat enough for thin idiots to make fun of me, but is not fat enough to generate some much appreciated sympathy, concern or even, and I am being a tad bit optimistic on this one, nice old-fashioned love.

Being somewhat fat is the worst kind of fat to be. For starters, you just don’t get to understand which side are you on. If you call yourself fat, then the really fat guys start looking at you accusatively and let you know in not so subtle ways of what it means to be actually fat and how tough life is for them, as if it’s all your fault. And if you deny the fatness, then god be with you, for every single thin idiot around you will snicker and crack jokes at you till the end of humanity, and if they are the really sadistic kinds they might even poke you at all the not-to-be poked places, and this ain’t the facebook poke I am talking about.

The process of choosing a t-shirt too gets absolutely redefined if you are somewhat fat. The criterion becomes essentially a simple one too. Any t-shirt in which your man-boobs don’t show is a good t-shirt. If it can actually cover your ever-expanding belly and make you look somewhat fit, it’s really an additional bonus. But here’s the tricky part. There’s an oh so thin line of difference between a t-shirt that fits you perfectly, and one that’ll eventually accentuate your man-boobs if you gain as much as a gram. Seriously, why couldn’t god just give boobs to men? Look at the advantages. First, we would have our own ones to look at and play and hence, won’t be wasting so much time just gaping at the ones owned by the opposite gender. Imagine the amount of constructive activities mankind would’ve managed to perform in such a utopian society. We would have really been milestones ahead in technology, art, science and every such field we should be ahead in. Second, the poor, good-hearted, well-meaning and love-deserving somewhat fat people like yours truly would never really have to worry about them. In such an ideal scenario, the world will look at them and theirs’ from the same viewpoint as it looks at the female ones today, ie the more, the merrier. Now there could be a third, fourth and so on, but the writer has just realized this point is getting pointless and the readers should realize that a raw nerve of the writer just got touched, and thence, the mini-rant.

Worse still, all somewhat fat guys almost always have an extremely fit guy in their close friend circle, unfortunately so. And when I say fit, I mean FIT. Like different people have different ambitions in life, say to be rich, famous, respected, etc. This idiot’s core ambition of life would be to stay fit. He would be the kind of fitoholic who actually gets up early in the morning for his morning run, which extends some thirty-five miles. This, when the unwritten laws of humanity clearly state that the only time normal humans should contemplate getting up early in the morning, it should be for awesome sex, exams, not-so-awesome sex, urgent flights, moderate sex, trains and bad sex, in that exact order. Coming back to the point, not only would this guy go for his early morning run, but he would do so in the tiniest of shorts, barely covering his body-parts that really should be covered. And yes, these people don’t breath heavy when they run. Oh no, they don’t. They just run, and run, and run, and run, look around a little bit, and then run a little more. (The writer was contemplating writing ‘and run’ few more times, but better sense eventually prevailed). And when they are not running, they make their somewhat fat friends feel like a hopeless ball of misery, literally as well as figuratively. They would actually look down upon you with the greatest contempt, and again this is literally plus figuratively since most of these idiots are quite tall, and say very slowly, in an almost Vito Corleone-like tone, ‘Dude, you need to get in shape’.

The first couple of times, you’ll just ignore these idiots, because you’re just a cheerful person. But eventually, their raw sadistic coarse tone would get to you, and you’ll agree to go for some sports session with thy fitness himself. In my case, this sport was badminton. Now, don’t take me wrong, I like badminton. It seems a nice sport. My earliest memories of childhood include watching Jeetender playing the same sport in his brilliant detergent-proud-making white attire and simultaneously singing, courting with females and what not (Yes, I didn’t have cable TV till I was 13). So, in all earnestness, I really was looking forward to it. But somehow this fit idiotic friend of yours, who by now starts seeming like a steroids addict to you, will convert the nice and sweet sport of Badminton into Spartans Vs Persians, with war-cry effects and all.

For starters, they won’t even start playing once you are at the court. Oh no, not all. They would first perform the blessed art of stretching for ten minutes, and then warm-up for the next twenty. Now first of all, an average middle class guy who grew up in a crowded society is just worried shit that if you don’t start playing immediately, some other wicked soul would come and usurp the damn court. With these tense thoughts in your mind, it’s tough to even look in another direction once you’re at the court, let alone just waste time stretching and warming up for half an hour. Second, who in the crazy world invented this whole process of stretching? Honestly, a guy getting in such obnoxious positions anywhere else would be just considered plain and simple lewd. What if some girl watches, and concludes we are being just typical Delhi men. I mean, as it is most women are convinced that all us Delhi men are rapists, women-beaters, professional eve-teasers or at least chauvinists. So we really need to avoid such controversial practices to protect our already damaged reputation. And then for a somewhat fat guy, there’s always that risk of just getting stuck or something.

My final query to the fit guy, what in the world does warming-up your muscles mean? Isn’t the whole point of playing just that? Why would one want to warm-up the muscles and then re-warm them while playing. Won’t the muscles just get too darn warm or something? Till date, I genuinely believe that I might have actually given my evil friend a fight in the match if he hadn’t completely mind-ninja’ed me and just exhausted me before we even started. Hell, at least I would have managed to win at least one point in all of the three sets that we played. Negative tactics, I tell you.

I would end with saying to all you fitness obsessed freaks, I am somewhat fat, and I am proud of it.
(No I’m not, pls suggest me easy ways to lose weight. And pls hurry, my girlfriend’s losing interest in me)

Buying the C-word

Times are truly changing. Ask any group of around 10-20 people on how many of them have got laid in the last one month and you’ll see at least a dozen hand shooting up. Even if one takes into consideration that the thought process of nearly 50% of them went like ‘Get Laid? Oh shit, I have to show I’m cool. Lemme raise my hand and make a confident face. (Hand shoots up) There, now I am cool’, the fact remains that getting laid has really lost its elusive charm. The problem is that in the present times all that the non-committed guys have to do is look for a hopelessly drunk chick to get laid, and the committed guys of course are committed in order to have easy, free and unlimited access to sex.

So you see, the sex part is hardly the problem anymore. But know what is still tough as hell. BUYING the FRIGGIN CONDOM. Because make no mistake about it, buying the condom is still tough as hell. Now, here’s the deal with buying condoms. Fact No 1, guys never buy the condom from their regular chemist. Nope, that does not happen. In order to buy a condom, we go at least two to three kms away from our place to a remote and shady looking chemist. Fact No 2, now this might be the most deserted looking chemist in the world with a foot fall of 2 per week, but if we are going to get a condom from there, it’ll be full of people. All kinds of people.

In fact, there’ll always be these certain characters who would be present at the chemist-shop if you are going to buy a condom there. First, there always will be this angry looking fat aunty who’s buying medicines for her diabetic husband. Second, there will be this giggly teenage girl who’ll be there to buy here whispers and what not. And lastly, there’ll definitely be a couple of 6 year olds who for some reason that very day decided that the Chemist, instead of a frigging General store, is a better place to buy their candies and what not. And there you are, out there battling against odds, trying to buy that one wretched packet of condom, without which you certainly would not have that escapade you are so desperately looking forward to. So, what do you do? You do what any sane man would have done. You wait. You hang around for couple of minutes hoping for this group of people (which is almost looking like a mob to you) to leave. But it doesn’t. Instead, as you hang about looking at cupboards full of weir medicines, you just realize more and more people are turning up. And certainly none of the present lot is leaving.

So you think, what the hell, it’s a progressive society, and it’s not like I am committing a crime, so you decide to head right over to the chemist and ask him for it. But as soon as you start heading to that sly looking chemist, your confidence starts vanishing into that pure sweet air at the rate of 100 litres a second. So, by the time you are there, all you manage to do is whisper in the lightest voice possible, ‘bhaiya condom hai kya?’ To which the sadistic chemist shouts out his reply ‘KYA CHAHIYE BHAIYA?’

Now make no mistake about it, the chemist is one of the most sadistic motherf***er in the world, for he knows as well as God does, what you want. He knew it the moment you got your happy ass inside the Chemist shop. And more so when you whispered. Because no one really whispers when they’re asking for Complan or shit. Show me one guy whispering to a chemist asking for Complans, horlicks, boost or whatever shit health drink possible and I’ll be willing to change my sexuality for good.

By this time, courtesy to the chemist’s over-enthusiastic response, everybody is intrigued in what do you want. The aunty, the girl, the two kids, all are wondering ‘what does he want, what does he want’, as if the answer to that very question would solve life’s all problems for the. Anyway, being in the helpless situation you are in, you can do little but whisper again, ‘bhaiya condom chahiye?’ To which that bastard of a chemist shouts out in the loudest voice possible, ‘ACHA, CONDOM CHAIHIYE’. By this time everybody’s staring at you with the most killer looks possible. The fat aunty is looking at you as if you are f***ing her daughter. The teenage girl looks scared sh*t like you’re about to rape her. And the two little kids are really intrigued by this new word they have learnt and are talking amongst themselves, ‘Aye, what is this condom yaar? What is this condom?’ And there you are, embarrassed as hell, wishing the earth would swallow you up.

But the chemist isn’t done with his fun yet. So, withholding his sadistic smile, he shouts out again, ‘ACHA, KAUNSA WALA CONDOM CHAHIYE?’. To which you meekly manage a response, ‘durex bhaiya’, hoping against hope that this pain and embarrassment would get over soon. But that bastard chemist isn’t done yet. So he shouts out ‘DUREX MEI KAUNSA? DOTTED, ULTRATHIN, ya yeh naya FRUIT FLAVORED’. By this time you are so gutted, so embarrassed, feeling so fu**ed, that you’re thinking, ‘Boss, give whatever you want. Chahe to sirf POLYTHENE BAG hee de de, usi se kaam chala dunga. Bas, mujhe yaha se jaane de’.

And there, the ordeal is over. As soon as you get that packet, you hand him over whatever big note you have, not caring less about the change to be got back, and rush like there’s no tomorrow. (Reports indicate that half of chemist’s revenue is from these unreturned change obtained when people purchase condoms, making the job of a counter chemist a lucrative and deceivingly well paying one). It’s almost like god’s way of ensuring a balance between pleasure and pain in the world. If you want to go through the pleasure of sex, you better be fu**ing willing to walk through this acid test of buying the frigging CONDOM.

New Years in Delhi

Unfortunately it’s that time of the year again. The time when all conversation starters are going to be, “So what’s your plan for 31st?” And mind you, it is irritating as hell to repeatedly answer this question. The point to be kept in mind is the fact that the response to this seemingly innocuous but immensely pressurizing question is going to decide the most important thing for any Delhi’ite. WHETHER YOU DO HAVE A LIFE OR NOT. And with so much of pressure, it becomes but impossible for you to not loose your sanity.
You see new years celebrations is the time for everyone to party again, for virgins to get hopeful again, for alcohol quitters to booze again, for teenage school (mostly modernites*) girls to show their growing sluttines again, for the rich to stamp their richness again and for most importantly, for whole of Delhi Police to make some quick money again.
But there are more important things that needed to be pointed out here. The most apparent and unique one being the difference in the ways the different sections of the society celebrate their new year’s parties. Here’s a look.
THE Rich + Social
The rich and social ones undoubtedly take the crown for having the best new year celebrations. These kinds can mostly be identified by certain un-ignorable traits; parents have a facebook account and are quite active on it, kids have about two thousand friends (which are mostly studs and hotties, who all lost their virginity at the age of fourteen), parties are thrown with gay abandon in farmhouses which look more exotic than Taj Mehal and would in some years be tourist spots, booze and beauty flow like there is no tomorrow (which incidentally is the case since post these so called ‘wild’ and truly ‘animalistic’ parties everybody wakes up on 2nd Jan).
Rich + Not Social = Gujjars, Jats, Haryanvis
These are the rich people who are rich courtesy the fact that they have some thousand acres of land somewhere in Mathura. Most of them have someone in their family from political background and also someone in their family from criminal background (mostly the two someone’s are the same). New Year Party is the time for them to wear their favourite jazzy shirts, sword-like pointed shoes, huge-buckled belts and go to their favourite clubs, such as Elevates, RPM, etc, hoping to land a girl either sloshed enough to get handy with anyone remotely masculine, or a desperate enough for few drinks to get into a rough and life-ruining orgy. The biggest concerns in the minds of these people on 31st is the difference in rates in stag entry and ‘cupple’ entry, but they mostly get through inside all clubs since the bouncers are mostly their own brothers or at max distant cousins.
UPPER MIDDLE CLASS KIDS
Well, even the not-so-rich people need to have their fun. Mostly their new-year parties are house parties or terrace parties, where the acronym B-Y-O-B (bring your own booze) is put to full use. Along with it BYOB, we also sometimes see variants, such as BYOF (Bring Your Own Food), BYOG (Bring your own girl), BYOGNHF (Bring your own girl n her friends). The practice of new year kisses is put to full use in these parties by all the hopeful single guys who have been trying everything else the whole night on those elusive group of drunk giggly girls. The most significant thing in these parties is that towards the end of every such party, one fucker always says that cursed sentence, “Yaar, let’s all go to fucking INDIA GATE, it’ll be awesome…wuuuugh (vomiting sound)”. Ya, obviously the trivial little fact that there’ll be around twenty police check-posts on way hardly seems an issue to these worthy minds. Something about being excessively drunk to this kind (upper middle class youngsters) always evokes this unparalleled sense of patriotism and the need to have one sight of our dear INDIA GATE.
THE POOR LONESOME CHAPPIES
Unfortunately not all in our society get to have parties. There are always these poor lonesome chaps for whom new years is a healthy reminder that they truly do not have any life. These kinds spend their 31st night along with their parents watching 5 year old recorded re-runs of bollywood stars dancing to ancient music (Sharukh dancing to ‘dil se re’, Hrithik dancing to ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’, etc). The brightest point of their 31st eve is when the countdown to new year starts, because it is at this point that the whole family huddle starts, 10-9-8- papa come here, countdown’s started-6-5-mummy come fast-3-bhaiyaaaa-1-GO!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!



*Don’t get me wrong. I seriously have nothing against the modernites. In fact I really love them a lot, because they were the ones who pretty much started the whole teenage sex thing in Delhi. I mean the guys everywhere were ready for it but we surely owe it to the modernite girls to be the first in the female kind to be cool about teenage sex. Again, I don’t really mean to say that all modernite girls are sluts or anything. Wait a minute. Actually, I do mean to say exactly that. That really would be the conclusion to all I’m blabbering about. So there.