Fifty Funniest Tweets
Here are 50 of my humour tweets that I posted on Twitter in recent days. Now in a blogpost.
- Married man’s idea of foreplay: half an hour of applying balm on wife’s forehead.
- Kid: Dad, explain hypotenuse. Dad: Umm….hypotenuse is that side of the sandwich from which the potato pops out.
- Two trains coming towards each other at different speeds have been running over maths students since time immemorial.
- Sadhu Yadav expelled from Congress for totally different reasons. You cannot stay in Congress and call yourself Sadhu.
- Hey guys, howsoever smart we men consider ourselves, we can never figure out if women laugh with us, or laugh at us.
- Not buying any onions. Me and wife are going to have a romantic ‘kanda-lite’ dinner tonite.
- With the advent of social media, it is now possible to send birthday wishes to someone without really meaning it.
- Ancient tribal dance forms aren’t entirely lost. They are still practiced by drunk relatives of the groom during marriages in & around Delhi
- Creativity is like making Sunday breakfast. The challenge is to make it awesome, yet keep it simple.
- “Twitter fight is like porn. Two make all the noise. Two million enjoy.” – Rumi
- The second button of someone’s shirt is a clue to whether the guy is a gentleman or a scoundrel.
- Among all Great Whites, sharks are the most harmless. The most menacing ones are those politicians in khadi.
- Not only it is inappropriate to sneeze while your relatives are visiting you, it is also a direct giveaway that you’re hiding in the fridge.
- We all people on Twitter look forward to Friday as if we actually have got jobs and all!
- Poverty related data is a stat of the mind.
- Raavan had ten Facebook accounts because he had 10 faces. Most of my friends have two.
- As a Dad, if you are discussing pregnancy with your kid, you should begin from the moment you and Mom liked each other’s Facebook posts.
- If you’re 40, and can’t read the disclaimers on booze labels, it’s astigmatism. If you pretend you can’t read, that’s pragmatism.
- What do you call random and disorderly combinations of alphabets that convey nothing? Medical degrees.
- I really appreciate that Bata keeps the cost for a pair of shoes Rs.999.95. Because Rs.1000 is outrageously expensive & totally unreasonable
- It is estimated that the amount of food stored in Instagram could feed a dozen hungry nations for a decade.
- Last night police brought a badly battered woman in emergency. Turned out she was only trying to apply lipstick while driving over potholes.
- KFC’s catchphrase ‘Finger Lickin’ Good’ makes immense sense. They give 20 sachets of ketchup and just 1 tissue with their meals.
- Sign at a urologist’s office: if you can’t P, please join the Q.
- It takes 42 muscles to frown, but it only takes 4 muscles to extend your arm out and slap the idiot.
- Newton discovered gravity when an apple fell on his head. He discovered action and reaction when he sat down on a pineapple.
- In olden days when there were no smartphones, men came to know about autocorrect only when they got married.
- “Men who refuse gulab jamun in Delhi eat jalebi in Bangkok” – Confucius
- Meanwhile, in heaven, Rabindranath Tagore is itching to rewrite the Jana Gana Mana song incorporating all 29 states.
- To err is human. To err on purpose is bureaucracy.
- Men who lap up the sugar syrup after having eaten the gulab jamun are the ones from whom their wives’ sisters must keep safe distance.
- An intern doc never allows his girlfriend to touch his car. That’s because 1) he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and 2) he doesn’t have a car.
- Astronauts aboard space station. “What’s that wall like thing?” “The Great Wall of China..” “And those two domes?” “That’s Kim Kardashian.”
- Sunday is when Arnab Goswami checks his doctor’s blood pressure.
- No no, Telenganite is not a mineral. It’s actually a person belonging to Telangana.
- In porn, you stop watching once the plumber has had a good time with the woman. No one cares to watch how he fixed the leaking pipe later.
- Kenny G has contributed greatly to humanity. A whole generation was conceived with him playing sax in the background.
- “A barrel and a tyre in the middle. A football on top. Four sticks and a tap sticking out.” – Aliens describing middle aged Indian
- Gym trainer says if you really want to lose weight, you must eat within a Rs 12 per day budget.
- I strongly support a two-party system. One party on Friday night and the other on Saturday.
- ‘Sir!’ is subordination. ‘Sir!Sir!’ is sycophancy.
- I remember the good old days when there was no Instagram and we used to eat food like normal persons.
- What do you call a woman who fights like a Punjabi, swears like a Dehlite, and wears clothes like a Bong? Mamata Banerjee.
- Two diseases that affect your bones: 1. Lust – weakens your knees 2. Greed – crushes your spine
- Platonic: the relationship that you’re supposed to have with 3 people in ur life: gf’s best friend, neighbors wife & your boss’s secretary.
- Sundays are when you experiment with all possible sleeping postures during the day.
- No matter how much you drink, there’s no way you can have more than 365 hangovers in a non leap year.
- Whenever Mamta Banerjee gets admitted in a hospital, all doctors check their blood pressures.
- You get 20% drunk just by looking at a bottle of whiskey.
- No one is perfect. Perfumes that smell the best taste the worst.
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Rare Newton Fact Unearthed.
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Panesar in news for controversial action.
Monty Panesar is in news for attempting a rather controversial variety of delivery. 
“Drunk England bowler Monty Panesar fined for public urinating”
When asked by journalists to describe Panesar’s latest action, Sivaramakrishnan briefly remarked “Left arm, over the thicket.”
Sunny Gavaskar, ever the purist that he has been all his life, appeared quite disappointed with the way Panesar handled things. “He should have moved his feet!” said Gavaskar, accentuating his sideways hunch as he walked away in a trot.
Ravi Shastri, visibly relieved, had a word of caution for the English spinner – “Though it went like a tracer bullet, thank God it didn’t go down to the wire. The fence was electric.”
Sachin Tendulkar, who was once famously dismissed by Monty, responded merely by adjusting his crotch-guard. Symbolic in a way, perhaps. Monty’s English teammates dismissed the whole episode as nonsense. It is reliably learnt that they also send him a DVD of ‘Bend It Like Beckham’ as a token of appreciation for his bravado. However, there are reports that the police officers who fined Monty were momentarily alarmed when Monty demanded a hand towel to wipe his hand among other things.
Perhaps the most remarkable comment came from Sidhu. “Guru!! Happines is like peeing in your pants. Everyone can see it, but only you can feel it.”
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Austerity Overdrive
I was quite perturbed to see a notice pinned on the hospital notice board early this morning which staidly announced –
All doctors and staff members are hereby instructed to observe strict austerity in their public conduct and refrain from wasteful expenditure wherever deemed applicable. Indulging in inappropriate acts of profligacy while on duty shall attract penal provisions and adverse comments in the annual report. Expression of public displeasure and/or mockery of the order (like calling the undersigned ‘holy cow’) will be treated with zero tolerance and may result in dismissal from service.
By Order
The Hospital Director
I winced. Austerity drives, like sex drives, were decidedly secretive issues and needed to be kept under wraps for best results. This hue and cry was entirely unnecessary and distracted us from the dignified cause of fostering doctor-doctor, doctor-patient and doctor-nurse relationships. Moreover, this sort of decorous prose was certainly not the handiwork of our HD. I suspected an element of foreign hand (Phadnis?).
Susie was the first to accost me as I settled in my chamber, and reflected dourly on the lump.
“Saar…!” she said, as usually adjusting her large and attractive pair of spectacular spectacles. (My older readers are quite familiar with, and largely appreciative of Susie’s assorted habits by now)
“What is it Susie?” I replied, with a tinge of irritation in my voice.
“The notice saar…”
“Yes, I saw it. So?”
“No saar….I mean….it is totally wrong saar!”
“What?” I sat up.
“Saar….wrong….the notice is wrong!”
Amazing! It implied that Susie had not only read the whole notice carefully, the promptness with which she had grasped the agenda and formed an educated opinion on the matter reflected her deep understanding of such abstract stuff as austerity, profligacy, tolerance and displeasure.
I felt terribly ashamed that I had doubted Susie’s aptitude all along. The girl, it seemed, was not so dumb after all. My chest promptly began swelling with pride for her. Soon I was so uncomfortably swollen (with pride of course) that I had to reach out and pat her arm tenderly to relieve myself.
“You are right Susie”, I observed with solemnity as things settled. “This notice is not only wrong, but wicked, prejudiced and sadistic. I know exactly why it is wrong, but I want to hear it from you. Give me your honest opinion Susie, as to why you think it is wrong.”
Susie bit her lower lip and twisted her hands in a sugary way that appeared quite engaging.
“Come on Susie, bite the bullet!” I exhorted her.
“No saar…”
“Soosie…!”
After another moment of silence, Susie lowered her eyes and said abruptly, “Saar….cow!”
This was so unexpected that I really thought Susie would thrust her hips forward and start crooning “Saar-cow lo khatiya jaada lage!“ But she did nothing of the sort. She just leaned closer towards me (ooh!), looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and whispered,
“How can we call the Director saab cow? Cow is always female saar! But he is not female cow….Director saab is definitely male cow saar!”
“Holy cow!” I gasped. This was indeed indisputable logic. “Okatto jukti”, as we often say in Bangla. Had this been some other occasion, I’d have assumed that Susie had gone through the elaborate exercise of lifting the bovine’s tail from behind and peering underneath to ascertain it’s gender in a methodical sort of way. But since this was a weird situation, I dismissed her forthwith, thinking hard how to wriggle out of the mess without being branded as a cow-ard. I picked up the intercom and dialed the HD’s number to fix up an appointment with him.
.
.
“Yes, Dr. Bonerji?” The old codger rumbled as I took a seat opposite him.
“Good morning sir” I said, lowering my bottoms.
“Good mourning. What is the matter?”
“Sir, I just saw the notice. Do we really need an austerity drive and all that?”
“Yes..yes…Dr. Bonerji! Don’t you see it is very important to give the impression that we are also caring for the poowar (poor)?”
HD was right in a way. He always struggled hard to give the impression that he was exceedingly concerned for the plight of the poor. As soon as a poor looking patient from the villages descended upon the hospital, he would summon the relatives, slap his forehead repeatedly and ask “Tell me quickly….how poowar you are? Have you got a couple of farmlands or not which you can sell to pay for the treatment.” He was so concerned, that he’d even go out of the way and offer a huge 1 percent discount on the bills after adding another 15 percent in the name of (dis)service tax!
“Yes…but…..”
“Dr. Bonerji….last month the electric bill only was 3 lakes! Three lakes! We must reduce hospital expenditure. How can we make profit if we do not reduce many missile anus (miscellaneous, that’s how he pronounces it) costs?”
“No…but…..” I tried to interject, but in vain.
“See Dr. Bonerji. I have noticed that your department is not careful about spending money at all. You peepal drink four five cups of coffee everyday. That is why you need the AC at full speed for whole day! That nurse in your department, what is her name…..yes….Sooji…..she pours so much cocknut oil on her head! Her apron becomes oil stained. Why sud the hospital pay for dry clean? And why you are using Lux soap in toilet? You sud use Lifebuoy! I still use Lifebuoy while bathing. We cannot afford this kind of lugjery in these times!”
I was getting hopping mad at these allegations. Had I really been a celebrity on Twitter like Mr Tharoor, I’d have declared “Susie and I would be ashamed if we were spending the hospital’s money to pay for the coffee and the coconut oil. But we are not, we are spending our own savings.” And it’s not my fault if the bill is 3 lakes or thirteen oceans! Who asked him to employ a bevy of simpering mermaids as receptionists who do nothing at all except cavorting around and playing with his fish the whole day.
I have not actually seen the mermaids tinker with his fish, I’m assuming that. What else do mermaids do except playing with fishes? This HD had to be taught a lesson or two in austerity.
.
.
“Sir…” I began.
“Hmm..”
“I think you are right.”
“Eggjactly! That is what I am saying.”
“Sir, I have a suggestion to make…” I said , clearing my throat “…that will reduce expenditure by at least 50 percent.”
“50 percent!” The Hospital Director’s countenance lit up with profuse expectation, just like a toad that had seen a fat fruitfly shaking it’s ass nearby.
“Yes sir….50 percent.”
“How….Dr. Bonerji?”
“Sir, I suggest we form an austerity committee that would look into various ways of cost cutting and enforce austerity in the hospital. Of course I will see to it that my department takes the lead in cost cutting. I shall only use the AC when patients are around. I will instruct Susie not to apply mustard oil on her head…”
“Cocknut oil…”
“Yes…coconut oil. I will instruct Susie not to apply coconut oil, and I shall limit the number of coffee to two cups per day per person.”
“Very good Dr. Bonerji…very good. And Lifebuoy…”
“Yes sir. That too.”
“Go ahead Dr. Bonerji. I authorije you to form that committee. Your ideas are very promising.” HD chuckled.
“Thank you Sir” I rose from my seat. “There is one more request….”
“Please…please….”
“Sir, I wish that the committee be headed by Madam…”
“Madam….?”
“Yes….Madam”
“Which madam…?” Thunderclouds of bewilderment were starting to build up on HD’s quaint expressions.
“Your wife …Sir. That way we shall have the opportunity to share her pearls of wisdom…..”
The HD gave me a look of utter disbelief, and let out a short, painful grunt. Exactly the kind of grunt that you get to hear from a large, well fed pig which has just swallowed a rotten bag of potatoes.Then he reached out for a glass of water.
I was out of HD’s chamber before the old coot could recover his senses.
.
.
The austerity notice was withdrawn a few hours later. I ordered coffee for everyone and gifted Susie a large bar of Lux soap from the hospital supplies. Readers are requested not to gratify themselves by imagining sizzling visuals of Susie unwrapping the soap in her bathroom.
Lugjery Zindabad!
PS: I recommend viewing the ‘Sarkailo Khatiya Jaada Lage’ video on You Tube [link] with the sound off. It’s an unforgettable experience.
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Blunder On The Riddle Express
This was first published on Tehelka.com
So the railway budget is back. Yet another opportunity for the political class to hide underneath the scholarly tomes of Tagore and Ghalib and unleash a barrage of utterly confounding arithmetic. I fondly remember the good old childhood days when the railway budget used to be a simple exercise in juggling a few fares here and there, with absolutely no interference in the way trains used to ferry man, cattle, cartons and cockroaches in the true national spirit. Train journeys were thrilling, and largely uncomplicated. Long travels usually involved buying a well thumbed novella or two at discounted prices from the ubiquitous Wheeler dealers. Patronizing ticket examiners gave berths to men, women and children in full public view, of course in exchange for a token ‘fee’. No one ever bothered to remember who the railway minister was, so long there was at least half a piece of potato meekly staring at you from the ‘thali’ served on long distance routes. In the potato’s absence, however, it was generally expected of the passengers to invoke polite references to the minister’s hidden anatomy and that of his immediate next of kin.
There I really admire Laloo Prasad Yadav. His legendary budget speeches, apart from being brilliant expositions in earthy financial rhetoric, were undoubtedly the true forefathers of the present day breed of self styled comedy circuses. From his very first day in office as the Railway Minister, Laloo Yadav regarded the Indian Railways as the nation’s biggest IIM, The Indian Institute of Mismanagement, and set about to transform the way the average passenger sipped tea like liquids while being shipped from Talcher to Thirunelveli. The Hero Potter of Railways, Laloo hurled the humble earthen kulhar to dizzying heights, and in the process, reintroduced the ‘can-you-throw-your-kulhar-accurately-at-the-opposite-track’ as India’s foremost ‘online’ recreation. Fodder for thought for gaming entrepreneurs, no?
If only Mamata Banerjee could rise up to the challenge! All she professed in her accented budget speeches was trifling narrow gauge agenda. With a slew of Kolkata specials, her the-bongg ways were nothing but a loco motive for winning the battle of the Writers’. Even this year, as she is happily ensconced in the Chief Minister’s chair in Kolkata, Mamatadi is busy scripting a derail budget for the poor beleaguered UPA.
Needless to say, this year the honourable minister of railways has his work cut out. Having just met with an ‘accident’ in the UP polls, the UPA is undoubtedly keen to introduce a slew of safety measures aimed at keeping the government firmly on track till the next general elections. Mamatadi, on the other hand, would want to learn a few ‘seat sharing’ tricks with a view to accommodate her in any future political rearrangement. A section of Karnataka Assembly MLAs might ask for 36-22-32 inch screens to be put up inside railway coaches. Ram Vilas Paswan might demand caste based reservations in Tatkal bookings. And Omar Abdullah, in agreement with Akhilesh Yadav, might want to move a resolution to equip train toilets with satellite linked touch screens having Twitter and Face book.
This brings us to the larger, and almost always ignored, question. What does the common man want from the railway budget? A careful review of popular sentiment reveals that people simply want more ‘Fast’ trains to be introduced to keep corruption at bay. An Anna Hazare Super Fast between Mumbai and Delhi, in which passengers can pre-select between nimbu-pani and chhaas as a symbol of solidarity with the spirit of Anna’s movement, would go a long way in restoring the faith of the masses in our rickety political system. But till that happens, bon voyage.
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Susie’s Follies.
By follies, I mean mistakes. Not the Foley’s Catheter which nurses secretly enjoy inserting in a man’s, well, manhood. Susie is too young and inexperienced for that.
Truth is, Susie is beginning to lose her grip. No no, not on things you people are imagining. And so what if it’s Valentine’s Day today? Duh. It’s all about duty and care and responsibility, that sort. Tell you what, all those pearls of nursing wisdom that Susie had allegedly picked up at the Holy Mercy School of Human Nursing, Tellichherry appear to be getting squandered in a sea of sloppy neglect. Sigh.
My apprehensions have been confirmed. One day when, upon being asked to administer a gentle dose of soap water enema to an elderly constipated patient, Susie proceeded to launder his unsuspecting intestines with a deadly mix of Surf Ultra and, hold your breaths, lime scented caustic soda! Needless to say, a perfect catastrophe ensued, with the stricken patient slipping into coma and, spectacularly enough, working up a huge ball of foam every time he passed a gust of rectal wind. Of course it generated a lot of interest among fellow patients and their relatives who had never seen such a miracle in their lives, and brought me laurels as a doctor who treats patients by revolutionary methods, I secretly felt let down by Susies’s abject carelessness. More disturbingly, a nosy TV reporter swooped on the patient and started asking very uncomfortable questions. To allay his suspicions of criminal misconduct, I had to submit myself for a long chat with him over lunch. Two whole butter chickens and three whole sundaes later I could barely manage to convince him that this was every bit a variant of the Schulbaster-von Memmering syndrome, quite harmless by any standards. Whew! But just because Susie’s intentions were noble, and her charms nubile, that the day was saved for her. As for the horror the poor old soul endured, the less said the better. The moment he reached home, he saw the washing machine and collapsed in a heap. His neighbours, I hear, noticed that his distraught posteriors continued to smell of lime for quite some time. Sublime, as they say.
In another recent instance, Susie almost had me sent to the gallows. It so happened that the wife of the superintendent of police was referred to me for treatment of a stomach illness arising out of indiscretions she had indulged in, in a titty (hark! These typos) kitty party the day before. Having tried my best to console her insulted entrails with a few friendly pats here and there, I directed Susie to respectfully administer an antibiotic shot, specifically instructing her to use a thin syringe, and as gently as possible. As I came out of the room to afford them some privacy, a piercing shriek rang out, followed by a string of, let’s say, quite colorful expletives. Before I could rush in , the SP’s wife ejected like a shotgun slug, menace writ large on her vicious countenance. The long and short of it is that before leaving, missus SP threatened me with getting my ass suspended from the ceiling at the nearest police station and a round of sound thrashing by eager specialists in the trade. Things became clear in no time. Susie, it appeared, had stabbed the wasp with a stout 18G needle, the kind you prefer to use in buffaloes to inject those milking hormones. There was hardly anything I could do except wait for the knock of a policeman at my door. Anyway, nothing much happened for a couple of days, and then one evening, I received a call from the Superintendent himself, who thanked me profusely for showing the conviction to tackle his wife’s troubles with a ruthless, almost hit-man like, resolve.
It was then when I decided to call a spade a spade, and summoned Susie for an interview this morning, specifically designed to grasp her booty. Her mental booty I mean.
“What saar?”
“Sit down Susie. We need to talk.”
“Having headache saar?”
“No no, nothing is aching Susie. Just sit down.”
“Okay saar”. Susie adjusted her big, round pair of spectacles as always and drew her chair close to me. She has this uncanny ability to throw my thought process off balance, you see. For a moment, I forgot why had I summoned her.
“Susie”, I began, as things settled down “I have noticed that you often forgetting things. What’s the matter?”
“No saar!” Susie promptly adopted a look that amply stated her disbelief at such an insinuation.
“Well Susie”, I said sternly “there have been many complaints against you.” When I am stern, I am an unyielding pillar of authority. Much like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. Even the hairstyle.
“O God saar! Totally forgot!” Susie stood up with a big, disarming smile on her face and rushed towards the door, seductively undulating her coconuts coconut oiled hair. “Wait saar. I have something for you…”
She appeared with a rose. Won’t tell you the colour. “Happy Valentine’s Day saar”. My heart briefly transformed into a fish and started thrashing about in a pond of love.
But then, I have a lingering suspicion that the rose arose out of Sebastian’s (the lab guy) undying love for Susie. Why, it even smelt of cigarette. Still, a rose is a rose, and Susie’s upbraiding shall have to wait.
Don’t you remember how she went about pinching pennies during the recession? READ HERE.
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Why Must Prime Ministers Dance?
The US First Lady has lately been electrocuting electrifying audiences all around the globe with her assuredly random dance moves.
It is widely believed that Michelle Obama’s laudable efforts have single-leggedly heralded peace in Afghanistan, eradicated insurgency in Iraq, promoted human rights in Pakistan, arrested fiscal collapse in Europe, popularized safe sex in Africa and checked mad-cow disease from spreading globally, not to speak of boosting President Obama’s chances of outstripping his rivals in this year’s US presidential elections.
US First Lady seen uplifting humanity
In such brilliant exposition of stately skills, Mrs. Obama is certainly not alone. Closer home, the Leader of Opposition Sushma Swaraj recently demonstrated her astute saltatory abilities, and by extension, her unquestionable supremacy over Nitin Gadkari in terms of physical portability, by twirling away at Rajghat to the tune of ‘Mere Desh Ki Dirty Politics….’ etc. etc. Which brings us to the all important question – should dancing be made a compulsory activity for Prime Ministers and Presidents in absolute national interest?
I attribute India’s dismal show at every conceivable front nowadays to the pathetic inability of successive Prime Ministers to perform. Perform with their feet, that is. When was the last time you saw an Indian PM trot with the tribals of Nagaland or jive with the Jarawas of Andamans? Such indifference towards the art is cultural insensitivity at the worst. The Jarawas would never have had to cavort before cunning western tourists had the government arranged for an exhaustive rendition of their art forms with the Prime Minister himself demonstrating the finer nuances of ancient Jarawa choreography.
Unfortunately, our Prime Ministers have lost the plot time and again and squandered golden opportunities to showcase India, if not as a gambling destination, then at least as a great gamboling destination. VP Singh, Indra Kumar Gujral, Chandrashekhar, HD Deve Gowda and PV Narsimha Rao, all erstwhile prime ministers, were never acknowledged as legitimate dancers. It’s entirely a different matter that we got to witness intensely emotional ‘dunce-dramas’ every now and then during their tenure. Poor Atal Bihari Vajpayee, the iconic leader of the masses, gave dancing a careful slip as he just could not lift his feet off the ground. His able successor, prime minister Manmohan Singh, was left dreadfully confused throughout his first tenure by two left feet, one his own, and the other being that of a wily Left prodigy called Prakash Karat. In his next tenure however, the respected statesman ominously developed what is widely perceived to be feet of clay, engineered by the artful compulsions of coalition politics. That, and the cardiac odd-job have effectively put paid to the chances of ever seeing Manmohan Singh shaking a leg or two in the days that remain of his present incumbency.
PM Dancing - From Manjul's Blog
Think of it, just a minute or two of lively feet tapping by an Indian PM with the happy and plump tribeswomen of Arunachal Pradesh would not only have demonstrated our steely resolve to make the Chinese pee in their pants, it would also have silenced those silly international watchdogs who constantly niggle about petty advocacy issues concerning the North-East. The black money riddle could have been solved in a jiffy if any Indian PM had the spunk to break out in a sudden flash dance in front of one of the shady Swiss banks. And what could have been a better way to settle Indi-Pak differences once and for all than by having the two PMs dance together to A R Rahman’s free music at the Wagha Border? Alas, Pakistani PMs dance only to their Army’s tunes.
But then, that’s life. And we, the people, are the Jarawas.
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Anna-lysis of a Ramlila
What is puny and small in the beginning, but swells enormously when appropriately tickled?
Crowds, of course. And an indomitably spirited Anna Hazare demonstrated exactly this to the world with his usual aplomb during the Herculean fast which he just concluded amidst the humongous applause of freshly stirred countrymen. As speaker after righteous speaker at the Ramlila grounds performed ritualistic ablutions of the annals of UPA’s history (pun intended), the Kejriwals, the Bhushans and the Bedis wasted no time in handing out (t)issues to those who volunteered to wipe out the stink in the name of the great crusader. Media houses went berserk with the live coverage. Correspondents frothed at the mouth. Children struggled in the hot sun to revisit the independence struggle. Students bunked classes on no pretext. And proud girls wearing the Anna cap rejected boyfriends who refused to wear the same, arguing that a reluctance to wear a simple cap today might portend a reluctance to wear the family planning gear tomorrow. In short, humanity could barely be saved from the clutches of democracy just in the nick of time.
Which brings us to the larger question. Who gained what. Undoubtedly, it was yet again the irresistible Arindam Choudhuri of IIPM who came up trumps in counting the number of chicks in the batch. Remember the seminal treatise he wrote on self help ‘Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch’? Buoyed by the events, the wily mentor might now seriously think of putting in place a comprehensive pedagogy on civil society campaigns, smartly calling it the PGPPMM – Post Graduate Program on People’s Movement Management, with the punchline ‘Dare To Think Beyond The Shy Dry PMs”. For budding PR strategists languishing in the shadows, as described by Surekha Pillai in her column in the DNA, he could offer a few exciting Management Development Programs like Lost-Cause Management, Charm-Campaign Management and Uncertain Venture Management, although he must steadfastly refuse to entertain any calls from across the border to initiate courses on Jihad Management at his Dubai campus. Helluva money there, but still. His detractors, a bunch of impetuous retards anyway, might provoke him by demanding a course on Unemployment Management, but Arindam, the eternally sedate and conscientious guy that he is, must brush aside such barbs with the contempt they deserve.
Om Puri, on his part, must be in a perpetual self congratulatory mode ever since he shook the nation with his hideous acts of non violence. Not his fault, though. He was asked to speak on the aspirations of the common man. But the single malts that he had so condescendingly agreed to imbibe for the larger cause tricked him into assuming that he was expected to speak on the common man’s ‘aspersions’. Let me tell you, the furore is needless. For his part, Om Puri attempted to give us an objective idea of how Bheja Fry 3 would eventually come out to be. So, the most appropriate recourse would be to continue to remember Mr. Puri for his stellar performance in Ardh Satya. Which brings us to the sacred memory of poor Smita Patil. Had she been alive today, she’d easily have ousted Medha Patkar and Kiran Bedi from all forms of civil unrest.
Words are woefully inadequate when it comes to praising the outstanding contribution of that holy shrine of healthcare, the Mecca of medicine, Medanta Medicity. But for the charitable cartel of cardiologists and physicians cordoning off the venue 24×7, Anna Hazare’s team wouldn’t have dared to push the old man right up to the brink. Okay, Medanta may have a few cruel taxes imposed by the government here and there and maybe a couple of sops would get suddenly withdrawn, but that’s a small price to pay for the ginormous free publicity that was garnered entirely at the expense of Times Now. Who knows, TOI might even come out with a spiritual CD on Effective Hunger Management with liberal scholarly inputs on urinary ketones by Dr. Naresh Trehan. That is, the higher the level of ketones in your urine, the closer you are to God. Here, it would be important to note that while setting up Medanta Medicity for a cost of a thousand crores, Dr. Trehan was entirely guided by a fierce set of philanthropic ideals.
That leaves us. You and me. With the hope that the next time a bribe is demanded, we will refuse to pay it for two days. Okay, three days. By then Anna will have shoved his cap up the rogue’s gaping conscience.
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Visitors
Strip/Tease
ROFL INDIAN 
Cesses in excess, mum on scams!
First published on Tehelka.com
Must say, the nation has been ambling along fairly well ever since the days of the Preamble. Over the years we have fought and won many a sly battle, shot satellites into space (maybe some went precariously inches over the heads of neighbours, but that’s okay), exploded a couple of real indigenous nukes (not the cheapo Chinese types that the guys next door pointlessly threaten us with), built up an awesome military with kickbacking howitzers, commissioned (pun intended) dams, bridges, eight lane highways and industries, pushed through reforms, stashed away sackfuls of black money….well, the long and short of it is that we have succeeded in doing ourselves proud and turned India into a truly sovereign, socialist, secular , democratic republic where everyone is free to have his way.
Admittedly, none of such outstanding developments may have taken place had the country not been blessed by a bunch of really heroic finance ministers. Year after year they come up with formidable treatises on the nation’s economic health, crunching numbers in excruciating detail, the mystery heightened by elaborate literary embellishments in each subsequent retelling of the union budget. Amidst the matrix of baffling financial jargon, the common man sits dumbfounded like the Tusshar Kapoor of Golmaal, holding his breath, fearing the worst, and worried to death as to how he would make ends meet without having to sacrifice his smoke.
Perhaps the single most important factor of the budget is the tax. Somewhere down the line, the wily bureaucrats must have figured out that there are far more innovative ways to levy a tax without having to call the goon by his name. So they named it ‘cess’. Though I am no expert in etymology, I have firm reasons to believe that the word ‘cess’ surely comes from excess, which, by all means, sufficiently describes what a budgetary exercise is all about. An alternative theory traces ‘cess’ to Bangla’s ‘shesh’, meaning ‘the end’, which is when the villain shoots the hero dead in real life. Either way, the common man loses and more black money makes it’s way to the Alpine climes.
This is why there is all the more need to simplify the budget. With scams and embezzlements becoming the order of the day, the entire union budget appears to be an exercise in futility. Much like Om Puri’s role as a crook in Victoria No. 203. Doesn’t matter if you have never heard of the movie? Even I hadn’t until today. The idea is, why burn midnight oil trying to figure out plan outlays and capital expenditure when you can’t stop billions leaking out surreptitiously.
Why can’t the government just admit that scams exist, and in acceptance of it’s legitimacy, charge a uniform 10% ‘disservice tax’ on the dough generated through this route? 10% of 10% amounts to 1% of the GDP, if you would get the drift. Simple calculation. Trust me, with this stunning masterstroke, the government will, in a single financial year, put together a revenue far in excess of whatever trickles in painstakingly through income tax, outcome tax, capital gains tax, service tax, business tax, wealth tax, health tax and sundry other complicated instruments in a whole decade. Consider the positive fallouts. All ambiguity in financial dealings will disappear. Business processes will be streamlined like never before, corporates will heave a sigh of relief and accountancy firms will breathe in a sunshine of transparency.
Most of all, the common taxpayer will be spared from taking his trousers to the tailor every now and then to get the burnt holes in his pockets patched up. Good riddance.
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