It is indisputable. The life of a billion Indians is the slideshow — colourful, chaotic, cacophonous, and corrupt.
We fling muck on the road and blame the government for it. We produce children faster than Japan produces cars. Our railway tracks are the world’s largest public toilet. We, the people of India always give an advise to the begger, ‘Kuchh Kaam Kyon nahi karte’, but never bother to provide- the Kaam.
We equate our guests to Narayana, the God. That’s our motto. But we specialize in fleecing tourists, our autowalas are expert in covering entire city to drop a tourist to a nearby hotel, and tell him, ‘only 650 sir’. The only thing longer than the Indian traffic jam is the classic Indian power-cut, thats too, according to our need, the more you need the more it takes to resume. Elsewhere in the world they cast their vote. In India we vote our caste. And then, when we find netas suffering from verbal diahhria, throw shoes at them. Our lawyers have skill to throw black ink on some industrialist in custody. Our Babas are more Naga than real Naga.
Our diversity produces a category of people we call them- Chamcha, whose sole specialization is kissing the boss’s well-kissed butt, this yesman claps first when our Neta’s son distributes Laptops among students and never bother to think how these students will understand the difference between SHE and C, Java and Lava, Pagemaker and Pacemaker.
We have in our neighbourhood priest or maulvi firm in his belief that God is deaf, and only high-decibel devotion would shake him out of his stupor. From Johnny Bravo who’s convinced his dad has gifted him the road to the road-rager who wants people to use ‘Chhota Beam’ at night but will blind others with his headlights, deafen with the pressure horn.
Our colourful country produces enough masala for foreign media to use ‘phuck’ word. Our media believes in ‘repeatation until death’, they can telecast a particular stuff for a week. People spit on the streets but that doesn’t lead to a spat. When we answer a phone call it can be heard a mile away and when we answer nature’s call, it’s usually on a random public wall, even though the wall calls you as ass for doing so.
We jump signals and when the police catches us, we throw the “tu jaanta nahi main kaun hoon” line, hoping that the man in khaki will tremble in his boots. Usually, that doesn’t happen. The line is in tatters from overuse and the violator ends up greasing the cop’s palms. At the next crossing, Mr. Violator cribs: ‘Kya hoga is desh ka?’ Ofcourse the cop is just another Indian Hasseler. He comes armed with a lathi, a colourful vocabulary and a deeper than mariana trench pocket.
Kids find no park to play. Adults find no place to park. Teens find no bush to hide in for privacy. Saffron knows which place to do some ‘todfod’ in the name of culture on Valentine’s day but they love downloading ‘Desi Porn’ clips.
We love speeding but potholes don’t let us. We love reading but our billboards are a global joke, selling “Child Beer and Hot Snakes since the 1970s”, “Launch and Dinar”, “Do not pluck flowers and trees”, “Ladies Tolet and Jent Tolet for Peeing Only.” We always PULL the doors if it says PUSH, and PUSH if it reads PULL. We try to open a screw anti clockwise first, and if it doesn’t move instantly we try clockwise.
Our literate love birds Pappu etches his undying love for Pinky on the walls of a fort good old Shah Jahan built. We obsess over bargains. Girls at the panipuri vend invariably ask for one extra. Vegetables are not bought without a dash of free dhania-mirchi.The roadside T-shirt vendor is bound to give in when you tell him, “Na Tumhari, Na Meri”.
The owner of a new bike or car is always asked “kitna deti hai?”
We scream about privacy and then we give a decent TRP to BigBoss and Emotional Atyachar kind of Voyerism. We stand in long Qs at the petrol pump after a one-rupee drop in prices and then spend crores on loud, garish weddings where the line for free food is even longer.
We are Indians. We’re like this only. We scratch our heads and look askance when told to figure out the difference between entry “through the backside” and “entry through the rear end”. We read Chetan Bhagat and then wonder why did we read an Indian Author’s book. We worship our cricketers, and then we burn their posters if they, somehow, lose to Bangladesh, or worst Pakistan.
So yes, aside from our obsession with cricket, Bollywood and politics. The unapologetic Indian caricature is a reality. He lives life on his own terms, “Aakhir Dil Hai Hindustani.”
..shabab khan blog
©MAGNETIQUE TRUST 2010 – 2014. All Rights Reserved.