A literary bird

Today my baby showed an inclination for the life literary.  I'm a proud papa - he seems to be following in my footsteps.

Here is kiddo consulting a dictionary.

Thoughts on the birth of a pigeon

Thoughts on the birth of a pigeon (two pigeons, actually)

There is this cute bird I have a thing going with. Actually, it’s more of a one-way relationship. I lay out a handful of wheat on the balcony for her every morning, while watering my plants. She gives me the beady eye and says ‘BUK’. On certain days, she says ‘BUK-BUK-BUK’ – that’s when I’m late.

Anyway, my babe made a nest a week back, under the palm pot, and laid an egg – literally, not figuratively. I’m the one who lays figurative eggs. 

A couple of eggs, actually.

Yesterday, the eggs hatched, and we had on our hands two bonnie babies.

Finally, after years of resisting parenthood, I’m DAD!!!

It’s stressful, being dad. I worry. Will they grow up fine, well-adjusted pigeons, or will they turn juvenile delinquent pigeons? Cost of education being what it is, should I start laying aside a bit every month for bird school? 

Worries, worries….

Sometimes I look back longingly on my carefree days….

At other times, I feel – perhaps it is all worth it.

*****

The story continues…

Tragedy: Brother dies, alone in the world.

Growing up alone…

The first hop on a pot

Baby showing every signs of growing into a juvenile delinquent – refuses to share seeds with mom – mom doesn’t protest.

My baby sees the big wide world – and takes a fright.

And then flies off to the neighbor’s roof

Back to base. Veteran aviator with mom.

And now I launch another baby: my first novel on the big wide web. Will this baby also fly? Let is see… 

Pensées à la naissance d’un pigeon

Pensées à la naissance d’un pigeon (deux pigeons, en fait)

Il y a cet oiseau mignon avec qui j’ai une histoire. En fait, c’est une relation un peu à sens unique. Moi, je débourse une poignée de blé sur mon balcon pour elle chaque matin en arrosant mes plantes. Elle, elle me donne des yeux perçants et dit « BUK ». Certains jours, elle dit « BUK-BUK-BUK » – ça c’est quand je suis en retard.

 Qu’import, ma chérie a fait un nid la semaine dernière, au dessous du pot du palmier, et elle a pondu un œuf. Pas une tartine. C’est moi, qui pond des tartines.

En fait, deux œufs.

Hier, les œufs ont éclos, et nous avons deux petits bellots sur les bras.

Enfin, après des années passées à résister la paternité, je suis PAPA !

C’est stressant, d’être papa. Je m’inquiète. Est qu’ils vont grandir comme des pigeons équilibrés et raffinés, ou deviendront-ils des pigeons délinquants juvéniles ? Puisque le prix d’éducation en est ainsi, dois-je mettre un peu de côté chaque mois pour l’école d’oiseaux ?

Des soucis, des soucis…

Parfois, je repense avec nostalgie à mon temps sans soucis…

D’autres fois, je pense – peut-être ça vaut la peine.

*****

L’histoire se déroule…

Tragédie : le frère meurt, seul dans le monde.

Grandir seul

Premier sautillement sur le pot

Le petit montre tous les signes de devenir délinquant juvénile – il refuse de partager des graines avec sa mère – la mère ne proteste pas.

Le petit regarde le grand monde – et se fait peur

Et puis il vole sur le toit du voisin.

Retour à sa base. L’aviateur vétéran avec sa mère.

Et maintenant je lance un autre petit : mon premier roman sur la grande toile. Est-ce que ce petit va voler aussi ? On verra…

Thoughts: Mobile Madness.

When I was a little kid, which was a long time ago, much longer than I care to recall, if we came across a man smiling and talking to himself, we’d think ‘MADMAN!’, and step smartly to the other side of the street.

And if the fellow happened to be wearing tattered clothes, we’d even take the liberty of ganging up and yelling ‘MADMAN!’, and maybe throw a stone or two.

Yes, we were horrible little kids.

Today, if we see someone smiling and talking to himself, we think ‘Mobile Handsfree’, give a little groan, and continue on our way. And if the stone-washed jeans are torn in strategic locations, we roll the eyeballs and say ‘If that is a fashion statement, it says ‘my mom won’t fix my jeans’’

Which is fine. Times change.

But yesterday, coming across just such a youth on the street, I had this disquieting thought:

All those fellows in my childhood I’d called madmen and thrown stones at….

Maybe they were just making fashion statements too.

And maybe, just maybe, they had mobile handsfree sets too.

Maybe they were just waaaaaaaaay ahead of their time…

Thoughts: Meeting- The Verb

Meeting is usually thought of as a noun – as in ‘to call a meeting.’

But really, it is a verb.

‘To meeting someone’ means to call someone for an absolutely gratuitous, mind-numbing, time-eviscerating meeting and proceed to suck their life-blood in the AC-chilled confines of a conference room using a powerpoint and a laser pointer.

As in…’I meetinged him to death’
Or…
‘I meetinged him into early retirement’

Bosses are usually the finest practitioners of this art. The best bosses are serial-meetingers, violently meetinging their subordinates and fellow managers without let or mercy.

Meetinging is a form of machismo. As in … ‘My meeting is longer than your meeting.’

Bosses gather around the bar after work hours and brag about the supreme irrelevance and vacuousness of their meetings, and how much blood was spilt.

Meetings are a weapon.

Bosses, faced with subordinates who show dangerous indications of having a mind of their own, meeting them into whimpering submission. Usually it only stops after the subordinate cries ‘Corporate Vision!’ After that they’re meetinged some more, just to rub it in.

It is also used between bosses. A manager who sees another one getting ahead in the rodent race launches a broadside of meetings at his rival, who responds in kind. Long volleys and counter-volleys of words like ‘Mission Statement’ and ‘Strategic Goalpost’ ensues. It stops only when one or the other decides enough is enough and enrolls himself in the local lunatic asylum in an attempt to unscramble the brain. Futile. Can scrambled eggs be unscrambled?

I should know. Although at the receiving end of meetings most of my career, I was a boss of some sort too, once, and did my share of gratuitous meetinging.

But I was too kind hearted. Like those anglers who throw fish back into the water after catching them, or hunters who shoot bison, but with tranquillizer darts, I meetinged gently, just enough to irritate, without actually drawing blood.

But that was foolish. As any hunter will tell you, if you must shoot, you must shoot to kill. There is nothing more dangerous in the jungle that a wounded tiger. Old jungle saying.

My subordinates, maddened with pain, lashed back violently, counter-meetinging me viciously. I still have the scars. Psychological scars. They still twinge when the weather turns cold. Or the AC is turned on too high.

Of course, I was meetinged left and right by fellow managers, without having the gumption to retaliate.

Yes, I was more or less a washout as a meetinger.

But my own boss…Ah, there was a man! He was in another league altogether.

A really serious, no-holds-barred, testosterone-fuelled pro-meetinger, his hands were calloused from holding the laser pointer, and he had Carpel-Tunnel-Syndrome in his right forefinger from pressing the Enter button on his powerpoint.

He cut a fearsome sight in the conference room. A look at his leathery throat, slowly champing jaws, yellowing teeth and the dull glow in his eyes as he limbered up with the laser pointer was enough to sent chilled water coursing down the spinal column of the most hard-bitten. It was clear to the dullest observer that here was a man, who was going to bore the pants off you, and he knew it, and he was looking forward to it, with a sadistic, gleeful pleasure. Then he would start off, in a low grating voice, dribbling out inane, completely irrelevant, mind-numbing statistics, larded liberally with soul-destroying management buzzwords, until the brain turned into thin gruel, the liver became a spongy mass, and the bladder collapsed under the strain of holding it in. It was terrifying. But it was also strangely fascinating.

Having left the corporate rodent-race over two years now, meetings are now a distant memory. They no longer hold the same fear. The thought of them no longer causes the quivering of the outer limbs and the palpitations in the chest that it used to. In fact, I now can’t imagine why they used to bother me so much.

In retrospect, there was something quaint- and even amusing- about them.

Like one of those charming tribal rituals. Like head-hunters gathering around the bonfire after a busy day’s head-hunting, slapping each other on the back and sharing bowls of fermented rice-liquor from the hollowed out skulls of the day’s head-huntees.

Thoughts on a Carburetor

What is a carburetor? It is that odd-shaped little thingy with tubes and stuff somewhere in the innards of your car engine. Go on… pull it out, and examine it. It is easy to put back. You just kind of shove it back in the general area you pulled it out of. After that you call the mechanic. Or you walk. Walking is GOOD for you. Saves greenhouse gases.

OK, now that you have pulled it out, let’s look at it. What ARE all those tubes and things? I dunno…stuff, I suppose. What’d ya expect? A lesson on automobile mechanics? Gimme a break… this is a humor blog. Anyway I checked up Carburetor in the Webster’s dictionary. It says “A device for mixing vaporized fuel with air to produce an explosive mixture” You don’t wanna know what Oxford dictionary says about it. Believe me, you don’t.

Anyway…explosive air-fuel mixture. That is what you girlfriend (or wife, you poor sap) is doing when you catch her dousing herself in Chanel No. 5. Fuel? That stuff is 99 % alcohol. They run cars on alcohol in Brazil. The other 1% is stuff you really don’t wanna know about. Explosive? Wrinkle your nose and ask (no one in particular) …”What on earth is that funny smell?” Go on… ask her.

In other words, your wife (or girlfriend) is actually a carburetor. At least, when she is dressing up to go out. Which means most of the time. The rest of the time she is trying to improve you.

So now that you have pulled out the carburetor and mechanics are on strike, can you just plug your girlfriend (or wife) into the car engine?

Well….you could try. On the other hand, as I said: Walking is GOOD for you.

Image Credits: lady with carb from Toolwench.com, scooter carb from Scooterparts4less.com. The cartoon is by yours truly.

Thoughts on North Indians

Everyone seems to have an opinion on North Indians nowadays. The Lt. Governor of Delhi (btw, what on earth does a Lt. Gov. do? What does any Gov. of Delhi do, for that matter- Lt. or otherwise) recently applied his impressive analytical skills and pronounced on TV his verdict on the North Indian. In measured, ponderous tones he intoned: “Indisciplined”. Not one for half-measures, he drove the point home further “Not law-abiding” he said, leaving no room for misunderstanding “In fact, they enjoy breaking the law.”

Not to be outdone, Raj Thakery, that radical New-Age philosopher from Mumbai has been saying it with sticks and stones in recent weeks, feeling- understandably of course, that words are after all mere words, and sometimes more concrete forms of self-expression are called for.

South Indians of all description have of course long regarded the Vindhyas as their comforting natural defense against the bad-lands of the North – A trip to Delhi or any place northerly often being regarded as a descent into purgatory. “They are sooooo uncultured” is a common refrain.

As a Northy who has migrated South, I tend to sympathize. The North is strong medicine. It is the home of the boor and the uncouth. Decent sorts do exist, of course- after all I lived there, once. But if you throw a brick in Delhi, for instance, four times out of five you are likely to hit someone you’d rather not invite home to dinner. Not that anyone is likely to accept an invite to cocktails followed by community singing after being hit by a brick. In fact, it is the Delhite’s propensity for throwing bricks at his fellow citizen that caused the hon. Lt. Gov. to get all worked up in the first place. Possibly other means of anthropological research can be pursued.

But what causes the North Indian to be so boorish, uncouth and uncultured? Is it something to do with the soil? The wind patterns? Is it the diet? Or are sociological factors to blame?

Tempting as it is to grab at society and upbringing as the root cause, I regard that as mere lazy reasoning. No, deeper thinking and hard research is required to come to a more balanced conclusion.

My own research has led me to suspect dietary factors: namely, the humble Winter Radish (Raphanus sativus longipinnatus), also known in Hindi as ‘Mooli’.

Reason for yourself: is Mooli an important part of the diet in those states that claim to be disciplined and culturally advanced? - think of Tamil Nadu, Bengal, Manipur…The answer is a distinct and firm NO. Is it consumed in gargantuan quantities in the so-called ‘lunatic-fringe’ states? – Delhi, UP, Bihar…The answer is an emphatic YES. Voila! The needle of suspicion firmly points towards this treacherous white tuber.


But how can a sub-species of radish cause lawlessness? The answer is gas. Eat Mooli, and you get flatulence. The bubbles permeate through the surface membrane of the large intestine and get into the blood vessels, and thence to the brain, where they cause an air-headed or giddy feeling (known scientifically as aerius capitulum), which manifests itself behaviorologically as a lack of respect for societal and legal norms.

I have experienced this personally: I love Mooli-da-Paratha as much as the next man, and after putting away four or five at Lalitha’s Paratha Point on Dickenson Road, I am rearing to conduct anthropological experiments with a brick. (Though of course, being a cultured Bong, I use a half-brick)

This, then, is the solution: Eliminate Mooli from the North Indian diet, and all will be well.

(Images from Wiki)

Thoughts on Chennai-4: The Sea

What distinguishes Chennai most from Bangalore is of course, The Sea. What is a sea? A sea is a big expanse of salt water, with waves and froth and suchlike, which fisherfolk wash their bums in. I kid you not.

My first day by the sea in Chennai, up at dawn for a jog along the beach, having just rented a dream house by the seashore. Ran over a weedy fisherman-type sitting in a scooped out hollow in the sand. Weedy fisherman-type crawls out of his sandy dugout, cussing freely. In the hole is a brown gooey mess I do not want to dwell on too much. I am still having nightmares about it. Walks into the surf, slaps his bums vigorously, lowers his pulled-up lungi and is done for the day.

Then I notice there is a long line other fisherfolk lined along the beach, one every five meters, in a neat serrated row stretching into the horizon, where the beach, sea and sky merge into a vanishing point.

Now I don’t know if defecating on the beach is a Chennai innovation or if it is done all along the Indian coastline. A child of the heartland, my only major experience of the sea until now had been the sanitized version shown on Baywatch. In fact, I’d always associated beaches with Pam Andersons boobs. No boobs here, only bowels.

Now, obviously we don’t have bum-washing by the beach in Bangalore, not having an ocean in our backyard. Of course, we do have our expanse of large water bodies- Ulsoor Lake comes to mind. But I doubt people wash their bums in Ulsoor Lake. You’d probably die of typhus, botts and the glanders if you tried. Of course, the newspapers have been carrying stories recently of people dying of cholera in ‘RT Nagar’ or somewhere. Maybe they have been washing their bums in Ulsoor Lake.

Thoughts on Chennai-3: Laidback

I used to think we Bangaloreans were pretty laid back. In fact, I would have thought that if one laid back any further, the spine would break- i.e. it does not get laider back than this. But I was wrong.
Three months into Chennai, I realized that it IS possible. Chennaites are even more laid back than Bangaloreans, and their spines are intact. Visually, at least. I can’t say for sure, as I never got around to getting a Chennaite to take of his sweaty vest and probing his vertebrae. Not the most pleasant of tasks, and understandably one procrastinates. Of course I could have taken the more pleasant option of asking a female Chennaite to undo her pallu and let me examine her backbone, but then her husband (or brother) would have fractured mine.

So without absolute scientific proof, based on just the observed visual evidence, I can state this: the Chennaite gets into office around the time we Bangaloreans have already finished half the days work, and his lumbar does not seem to fuse with his dorsal.

Thoughts on Chennai-2: Sambar

After 3 months in Chennai, I can say this: these chaps don’t know to make Sambar.

Despite being a hidebound ‘Northy’ in all matters culinary, over a decade in Bangalore has made me something of an expert on the Southy nosh of idly-dosa-sambar and suchlike gastronomical excesses.

OK, maybe ‘expert’ is too strong a word, but as any self-respecting Bangalorean, I DO know this one thing: Sambar is NOT something that you are actually supposed to eat.

Sambar is this thin lurid orangish fluid that accompanies the dosa. It has these little white flecks floating in it that are designed to instigate vigorous mental inquiry: one part of you wants to stir it in horrid fascination with a spoon and ask “what on Earth are these little white flecks?” Another part of you wants to screw the eyes shut and whisper inaudibly “You don’t wanna know. You don’t wanna know.” Mental Inquiry. The purpose of the sambar-bowl, of course, is to make you think about the sadder aspects of life, so that you grow spiritually. You just look at it tensely while you nibble a few pieces quickly torn off from the edge of your fat oily dosa, and send it back with the waiter who recycles it in a big vat kept at the back of the restaurant where they breed alligators.

Now, what does one get in Chennai? Thin, crisp and chewy dosas that burst with flavor. A bowl of fragrant sambar- a pleasing yellow with oodles of veggies, that you can gulp down by the bucketful. And- listen to this carefully, for you won’t believe your ears: These maniacal Chennaites actually EAT this stuff.

Sure, the sambar in Chennai is good, and is pleasing to the taste buds. But is tickling the saporine organs all that there is to life? Isn’t there more to this vale of tears than to fill your belly?

What of the spirit? When will these Chennaites get around to building their spiritual selves?

Thoughts on Chennai-1: Roads

A few months ago, I moved to Chennai from Bangalore. This month, I moved hurriedly back. But my short stay in that great city led to deep introspection about what can virtually be called a sister city of Bangalore – I mean, it’s just a short bike-ride away. But although so close physically, the cities are so different. In this series of posts I will examine the differences between these two great South Indian cities.

The first thing that hits a visitor from Bangalore to this city of sun, sea and sand is: ROADS.

These chaps don’t know to make roads. The Chennai concept of road is this flat smooth thing with tar on it. On both sides of it, they have this thing called ‘footpath’- a flat unbroken path with nice neat slabs of stone for people to walk on. Now get this, the weirdest part: they act as though roads are where the cars drive and footpaths are exclusively for people.

How can these people be so Naïve ?

Where are the potholes? Where are the half-meter-high speedbreakers with razor edges which scrape the underbelly of low-slung cars? Where is the mud? The cobbles? The gaping holes in the footpath for people to fall into and break their legs? Above all, where, oh where is the friendly intermingling of cars and pedestrians in the middle of the road, sprawling over on to the notational footpaths, where visible?

In short, where is the fun? Where are the possibilities of spiritual instruction?

These chaps seem to think a road is a soulless means of getting from point A to B. Don’t these Chennaites have a sense of adventure? They ought to visit us dudes in Bangalore. Fun and games night and day on the streets. Of course, people get killed and maimed. But what of it? It strengthens you spiritually.

We Bangloreans are a spiritual, fun-loving people.

Thoughts on Artificial Sweeteners

Do you put artificial sweeteners in your tea? Or coffee? You do?!? Shame on you!
Don’t you know artificial sweeteners are responsible for the hole in the ozone layer? The selfsame hole that is getting us all into a holy mess- what with Global Warming and all that muck. Not that that is such a bad thing. Think Free Sauna. Of course, here in India we have free sauna all the year around. But think of those chaps in the northern climes.

So what do they put in artificial sweeteners, and why does it cause a hole in the ionosphere?

This requires deep scientific analysis and knowledge of advanced chemistry and physics, which I know you don’t have. Otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting your time reading this blog. You would be out there saving the world from Global Warming. Or maybe you’re just a pathological procrastinator.

Anyway, I’ll put it in terms intelligible to the meanest pea-brain:

When you eat sugar, you fart Methane. Methane is a greenhouse gas. It heats the atmosphere. So those rich farts in the west don’t have to burn oil to heat their saunas. This reduces Global Warming.

When you eat artificial sweeteners, you fart…I dunno. Variegated, diverse stuff, but not Methane. So the atmosphere doesn’t get heated up and those rich dolts in the West have to burn oil for their saunas. This causes Global Warming.

When the air heats up, it rises. It spills out through this hole in the ozone layer. This cause friction. Hole gets bigger. The hot air falls back. This increases Global Warming.

I hope it is clearer now.

Thoughts on a Chair

Chairs. Chairs make me sick. Chairs are a conspiracy. A conspiracy by the bums of this world to elevate themselves. Now why would two hemispherical stubs of meat want to elevate themselves? Don’t they know their place in life? I call it the Deepak Chopra complex: Everyone wants to be thought of as a rare rarified soul. Do bums have soul? Possibly. Ms Ashwarya Rai’s certainly seem to.

Now I want to clarify that I’m not particularly prejudiced against bums. Especially the ones attached to Ms Rai. If they wish to get elevated, all strength to them, I say.

But we were talking about chairs, not bums. Where on earth did bums get into this discussion? So what are chairs? They can broadly be defined as a framework of some kind of rigid material like wood, steel or aluminum, specifically designed to elevate the human posterior. Oh yes…that is where we got distracted by the bum motif. Let us hurriedly push on.

OK, so what is rigid? Rigid is what happens to the male you-know-what when brought into contact with Viagra. What is a framework? We need to break this up. Frame is when you are accused of doing something you claim you did not. Work is …well, work. What else? Something we all do when we’d much rather be sleeping or playing the guitar. The human posterior, aka bum, we have already defined as a particularly attractive part of Ms Rai’s corpus, when viewed from behind.

So we can summarize the chair as follows:

It is when you are accused of doing something you’d much rather not be doing esp. just after you’ve popped a Viagra and had a good look at a photograph of Ms Rai taken from behind.

Thoughts on Monkeys

Today we turn our thoughts to another burning issue of the day: Monkeys.

India and Australia were recently convulsed to their respective foundations by the news that cricketer Harbajan Singh allegedly called Andrew Symond ‘Monkey’ at the Indo-Australia Cricket match in Sydney. Since one in every 6 human on this planet is an Indian, and one in every 200 is an Australian, we can safely say that the world was shaken to its foundation by this news.

Three questions: What is ‘News’? What is ‘Allegedly’? What is ‘Monkey’?

‘News’ is one plump fellow in thick, oily slicked-down hair gibbering unintelligibly on NDTV- usually joined by another thin bony fellow doing the same. But this is a topic we will examine in more detail another day.

‘Allegedly’ is one of those words used by journalists, lawyers and suchlike to call anyone anything they want and get away with it.

‘Monkey’ is general term applied to any simian primate, from whom we Homo sapiens have allegedly evolved. What is the implication of calling a member of the species Homo sapiens ‘Monkey’? Well, essentially you are alleging that the said member is unevolved.

Question: what is evolution? Evolution is the process of graduating from walking and eating fruit and nuts, to driving around in an internal combustion engine and eating burgers at MacDonald, both of which allegedly lead to coronary heart disease.

So essentially what we are saying is that the world was shaken to its foundation because one plump fellow on NDTV in thick black slicked-down hair gibbered excitedly using a word used by journalists to call anyone anything and get away with it that one Homo sapiens told another that he (the other Homo sapiens) was not leading a lifestyle conducive to coronary heart disease.

Question: If this is sufficient to rock the foundation of the world, does it lead to some nervous speculation about the solidity of the world’s foundation?

Yes it does. Please remember, the world does NOT, in fact, have a foundation. The world is actually a mud ball whizzing in tight circles around another ball made up of, as far as our best scientist can tell, gas.

Which is another worrying thought.

Thoughts on a Sausage

Dear world, apologies for the long break in blogging… I finally found a ‘normal’ job of some sort. Nothing great – but enough to move from the status of being a starving unemployed writer to an I’d-love-to-write-but-cant-find-the-time brand of dilettante pseudo-literati. My good friend Siva induced me to write again. Blame him.

Anyway, since it doesn’t seem practical any more to spend half a day polishing long posts, I have decided to reactivate my blog with a series of short and pithy ‘Thoughts’ posts. This is the first in the series- to be stopped only when a sufficient number of people protest. Loudly. Or the street dogs in my back alley start howling. Louder than they already do.

In these postings, I will present a few thoughts of a deep and philosophical nature on an important intellectual, socio-political or cultural issue of the day.

Today let us consider: Sausages.

What are, in fact, sausages? Sausages are the end result of subjecting sus domestica or the common pig (not to be confused with the male chauvinist pig, a species that, as any woman knows, is good for nothing- not even sausages) to a long and complex industrial process, the ghoulish details of which if I go into you’ll spoil your lunch.

But what are chicken sausages? Chicken sausages are a conspiracy. Try mentioning chicken sausages to a German. He will choke in his tankard of Helles (or if he happens to be drinking Dunkles or Lager at the time, he’ll choke on those). Chicken sausages are a conspiracy by the French to asphyxiate the German nation, a revenge for WWII.

Now, here in India, we don’t eat sausages much. Chicken sausages in Mac don’t count. That is why we aren’t big and strong, like the Germans. We don’t eat much Couscous either. That is why we aren’t big and strong like the Algerians and Moroccans. But we have started to eat a great deal of burgers and fries. Soon we will be big and fat, like the Americans.

Chicken sausages are not politically tenable in the long run. Knowledge of this innovation has not yet filtered down to the global poultry. When it does, what will be the harvest? Could we withstand all the chickens of this world standing up as a hen and squawking? Suppose that happens at your local tandoori joint? Of course, you could argue, that applies to normal sausages as well. Suppose all the pigs of the world gang up and grunt in unison? But that is not the same thing. Not the same thing at all…

There was a report in Nature last week…scientists are genetically modifying pigs to embody the sausage. Not, mind you, that their bodies will be used to make sausages. No, that happens even now. In future, their bodies will be the sausages.

Now there’s a nice thought….Can they genetically modify pigs like the ones who misbehaved with those girls in Mumbai on New Years Day? I’m sure a girl could easily handle a clutch of misbehaving alcohol-soaked sausages – although she can’t realistically be expected to fight back seventy drunken boors on the rampage.

This is a good idea, and must be pushed along with all due alacrity by the scientific community. But then there will be two more kinds of sausages: Konkanasta and Deshasta. And suppose they do it to those roadside Romeos in Delhi as well? What a fun!

Here is how a conversation between a Delhi cheappad and a Babe might go in the future:-

Cheappad: Oye Dolly! Kitthey? Saade naal rahoge to AISH karoge!

Babe: Oye Chavanne, saade naal rahoge to FRY ho jaoge.