Main Hoon Dilli Wallah .... Van Chor!!!

Banwas is over; now for bholantary imphrisionbent. After 12 long years of wag-n-bonding across the south of vidhyachals I return to dilli. So finally the prodigal son returns.

Yes Yes!! I know its been oft commented I ain’t the typical punjabi munda. All polite and laid back types. So bloody apparent.
A disgrace to my gregarious community. They say a fish rots from the head down. So yes from head to toe not a single shred ostentatiousness. No matter there ain’t much to boast about. But hey India is a free country and the constitution even promises the empty ones to rumble.

Aryapurush in one of our mutual moments of yonderous pondering even commented once - you're not the typical cow belt types. Sometimes you're more polite than those damn “tam brhams”.

How dare he!! First of all I ain’t got their natural penchant for scheming. Secondly my brains all hay-wired.

"MOOOOOOW" I belched aloud. I'm bovine all through out!!! That'll show him. I'ave even pissed on the road in broad daylight you swine.

"Oh shut up", remarked Arya. "The subcontinent is one large lavatory so its in your karma to defecate whenever and wherever. No, after 12 long years you return to dilli. You need to get into the groove. Talk the talk. Else they'll soon discover the “sheep-ishness” about you."

So Aryapurush instantly tailored an adult education program, who's avowed purpose was to stitch my wolves clothing.

"Lesson one", Aryapurush said, "begins by chanting the mantra - Main Hoon dilli wallah, van chor!!!"

Whoa!!! Wha.. What, I sputtered.

"You heard right you northy pig. Go on. Just do it. Impossible is nothing," barked Aryapurush.

So tongue tied and very very feebly, such that even the walls would be strained to hear I attempted to chant the shloka - "Main Hoon dilli wallah, Va..Va..Van..errr... Do I really have to say that." I purred.
Aryapurush all stern eyed and all, bit his lip in his well practiced display of restrained disapproval.

Retreating into the natural steady state of a docile puppy I quickly muttered "Van Chor!!"

"You spectra-assed hole!! Even Seema Biswas kicked more ass with that statement...
Now with all the elephantine weight you can bear upon your self. Repeat..."

Me all petrified and all "ok ok ..Main Hoon dilli wallah, van chor!!!"

OK Good. Now to Lesson two. repeat after me "Main Hoon dilli wallah, van chor!!!"
I followed suit. "Lesson three. now repeat after me.....

And so it went on-’n-on inexorably until lesson seven hundred and thirty four by which time I was beginning to get quite agitated by my self appointed guru. Now before I go on further I must tell you I am supposed to be a kshatriya. So somewhere in those pacifist 23 chromosomes there exists a dormant RNA of those blood guzzling ancestors of mine. And rarely, like may be once, no twice before, that RNA did pay those gandhian genomic strands a visit.
I guess this occasion too warranted a third such appointment.
So yes the blood rose in those feeble veins, fist clenched, all red eyed, adrenalin pumping (yes yes the whole drama) I banged the fist on the table and with much fervor and force, in a roar, that would have pleased my ancestors, yelled "Abe sale...van chor ...bas bhi kar!!!"

Arya-purush, all 172 cm of his beaming self gazed proudly upon his pig-male-ion. In that rare moment of ecstasy I think I detected a tear in his eye.

"Yes yes," jumping funnily like a cross between a pregnant rabbit and a kangaroo, he began howling excitedly "You are now ready to pass of as pakka dilli wallah.....Yes Yes I am the nu age Higgins"

Oh you should have seen him there all happy and gay. Had it not been for the glass door of conference room where we had been animatedly discussing about my apparent transfer, while actually pretending to discuss some earth shattering developments that would alter the course of the organizational roadmap, I am sure he do have done one of those neanderthal victory dance around the oval conference room table.
So much for evolution!!!

Infected by his gayness I too rejoiced at my apparent regression into a Great Indian (Northy) Bustard. Sala, which van chor says that we are an endangered species.

"So What next le profesure" I inquired.
"My dear Pig-male-ion" answered Arya, "merely appropriating the lingua franca is not enough. When In dilli," he paused, "Do dil lagi". He smirked. The profoundness of the statement had me spell bound. Not since the time when geeta saar was revealed to “partha”, had a mere mortal been privy to such divine insights.

Continued aryapurush "To think like the average tom(ars) or hari(prasads) you need to act like them". "Dilli he said is full of those punju babes. You know the kind I am talking about."
"Yes Yes" I remarked as I began salivating , thinking of those gori gori kudis..Yas Yas..haat haat ..punjabi kudis. All those lassi and ,makhan and alloo da parantha eating women who aren’t all squishy and scrawny and brainy and bony like these South Indian types.
Pure Tangri Kabaab.....praaji!!!

Oh, the joy of seeing an endless stream of full buxomed woman again-'n-again day after day. If you're a propah Dilli Wallhah you wouldn’t know. After all ghar ki murgi dal barabar, sort of. If you haven’t seen darkness....aww, you get the point.

"When you see them", aryapurush broke my haseen(a) sapne, "you don’t just coyly gaze at them. You gawk!!. At the slightest hint of the smell of woman kind you strain your crane like neck in her direction making a full arc, following her projected trajectory. Wide eyed and open mouthed, you fix, nay hone and drill your kryptonic vision on to her booties, checking her out from top to bottom, making her so conscious that she'd be forced to button up her already buttoned top. And then if she dares to walk within a 25 sq ft covered area you pass a jack assed smirk to your friends, point them all to her direction and shout out loud ...." Oye saxy....will you make frandship with me!!!" And then do the "sat nagar" version of a high five with your fiends sorry friends."

Yes saar, he was ejaculating all pearls of wisdom that day. He even went into his oft repeated rants of how the brits had committed a blunder by abandoning them to deal with the Northy's by themselves which I have heard a gazillion times.
But I have forgiven him for that. He's a nice chap after all. If you are one of his kind, southies, part of a slowly, very very slowly but surely a dwindling population that would eventually be thumped and humped out existence by my kind, you do allow them a moment to ponder at their own eventual extinction. Like an executioner committing one final act of charity.

Yes saar. I am all excited and making my preparation about coming home to dilli. Slightly maniacal but a very nice place. Where the roads are broad, the women bootiful, where the seasons are four, the winter's chilly but the summer's uncool, where the taps run dry, and invertors galore, where my room's always clean and my bed neatly made, the refrigerator always full and the parking’s always a mess.

Yes sirr, Slightly apprehensive, yet modestly ecstatic I eagerly look forward to coming home.

"Times have changed and times are strange
Here I come, but I ain't the same
Mama, I'm coming home"

ISBN 0-316-76948-7

Ever been in between things. I am, sort of. Like all in-between things you know, all of 'eM (hehe) , all pouring down as hell, all at the same time. So there I am in between relationship, naah, more like kicked out of one, in between jobs naah more like out of one, in between cities naah more like out of one. You get the point. No!!
Its like before the storm you know, the lull, sort of.

Yes, Yes!! “eM Salinger” (due apologies Mr. JD Salinger) had bitten me, but the poisons spreading now, slowly, sort of.

I think I just over did the Salinger bit, “sort of”. hehe!!

This is fun n all. hehehe!!

So this is it. I am finally with the Rye. Had heard of it now and then, whispers you know. Slowly turning into a murmur, then chatter and now slowly yet surely soaring into a crescendo. Until the ears burst, proverbially, sort of.

They have all read it, Janta Janardhan of the blog word. All pseudo intellectuals types. Not all, maybe not Jabber. He's been like that since the beginning. I think.

But then she said she did too, eM did. So that’s why I put all of two hundred and fifty eight rupees into the cashier’s hand. Not for any love of Salinger, nor for any higher purpose. Its was purely out of sheer unadulterated Peer Pressure (PP).

Like all of us in those days were - “Peer Pressure Prone” (PPP).

We even had an index. “PPP – Index”. “P-pex”, if you will. (now a days they have even made it a virtue. It’s probably related to the alpha male personality syndrome. Sorry its an all male exclusive dominion only. All alpha types females are termed man-eaters, or more denigrating terms. Terms I, innocent ’n all, cant even being to bear to type )

You could be like 9.98(and that’s very high) on the P-pex, like KC or Poojari. Or You could be like robot, 1.5 and all. But each one of us had a P-pex. So do I. Sevenish types. No. You disagree. Ok Ok I'll increase it, by leaps and bounds. 7.3. happy!!!

The Catcher I guess is like some kind of an open secret, to an exclusive club, of intellectuals. Having read it is no guarantee of immediate acceptance. But you have to read it to avoid rejection. Its some kind of an elimination threshold. Not an acceptance criteria mind you. A rejection barrier of sorts, "the catcher" is, you know.

Had been obsessing about it, the whole day. So when I finally did escape, it was pouring, ok ok it was a little more than dripping, but it did seem to me like a conspiring universe
preventing me from committing the misdemeanor ("discerning" readers would almost immeditaely recognize the allusion to Paulo uncle ...which uncle of ours you ask? ... its me trying to be funny an all. You Disagree....Sod off!!! )

So there I was at Landmark, finally, looking at Salinger’s opus. The first thing that strikes you about the Catcher is that its cover is absolutely blank. Like you're mind is now, perhaps. Maybe!! No?

Not a shred of letter extolling how it changed the intellectual landscape of the world, being modest, very very modest in a very vain way, sort of. Like I saw this video of Jack Welch once, meeting every body in the room saying, "Hi! I am Jack!! " Was he crazy. Every Body knows Jack Welch. See totally vain. Me thinks.

And then with trepidation I read the first few pages. Oh boy. Boy oh boy oh BOY!! What a treat. Salinger wrote like eM did, at least in the opening lines of this confession. And I thought that was very, very funny. In a very cute sort of way. And I had this stupid grin all the while reading her first two lines.

Salinger’s opus in the first few pages has been like those opening lines, funny, like a tickle on the stomach, the kinds that doesn’t make you snort out loud, but the kinds that puts a grin on your face that you can’t let go.

Yes sirr this is going to be one hell of book. Me thinks!!
Some good might come out of reading the confessions after all. In a very, very ironical way, sort of ;-)

The Outlaws

The outlaws were here. Not one , Not two , but all 55 of 'em. And in droves they arrived, like some kind of mad mass migration nay ..a jail break of sorts.
It seemed like the entire continental shelf was empty. The "Raj" it seemed was back but hey I was lovin every moment of it.
It all began with a sibling and her infamous exploration into Getty but that’s not the story to tell.

Isnt it true that the indelible impression left behind on most souls, barring the immutable few insensitive inward looking egotistical egomaniacs (yes dear hobo this is in ref to you ) the lowest common denominator of impressions on almost every member of kith and kin on either side are the only true hallmark of the aliens that land on your turf.

Well the dust of the baratis hasn’t settled as yet, and the "barat-roos” (due apologies to socceroo’s) are still humping (perhaps) and jumping across much of northern plains of the "Wright" side of the hindu kush, but I can dare say that the out-laws from down under can drink mate!!

And by jove they did - Not one , two or three bottles but a whole crates full of it. Never have I seen so much drunk by so few. Loneliness poets aver spurs people into drinking and I can solemnly testify that if nothing else continental loneliness has exponentially increased the capacity of these blokes by the barrel. I suppose if the land is cursed to peace, prosperity, stability and a sound social security then you 'ave nothing to look forward to except the drink m'ate.

Maslow got it all wrong - at the top of the everstian pyramid of needs are not actualized souls but beer guzzling blokes. I have never personally graduated to the sloshness, the candor, the divinity, the nonchalance, the carefreeness (due apologies to Unilever Plc) induced by the nectar of the gods, but I suppose reading the confessions actualization as a stage is perhaps only a pint away.

If in a very warped sense of darwinianism survivability depended on the capacity to gulp down breweries of beer, I suppose the only ones left would be the aussies down under. And us Desi's, barring dearest eM, would be the first amongst the proverbial Dodo's.


So there they were, the Wright family for the Wright occasion with the Wright set of clothing, finally all, well almost all, on the Wright side of the equator.

Little did they know that the tamasaha about to be enacted had been 12 months in planning, 31 years in budgeting and about the 2000th year in re-production. The longest running play isn’t any broad way musical but the great Indian wedding tamasha.
And they do be party to it.

We do make all of them Jiju's, Sala's, Phopha's, Saandu's, Behnois', matas, pita, putra dance to our puranic finger tips. And we do record all their embarrassments - in Technicolor.

In hindsight I understand why most would have drank so much. No sane person, and that just about leaves out a billion or so of us out of reckoning, could in his Wright mind see so much spent, nay see so much cash burnt, in so less a time for chaining two to proverbial eternity of sexual depravity (7 janamas or so as the purana's have it…. Imagine having sex only with one person for next 500 years...well to be fair my last 29 years have been a "dry" run but hey I could still get lucky in the next 461 years.. If only I could get you to the closest thekha my dearest eM ).

The other observations when you meet with these angrezi speaking firangs once you get over with their accent, the pigments and their blondness is the ease with which the wit flowed. Blame it on our colonial hangover but I have to confess that Indian’s english is usually meant to impress, rarely if ever to convince but mostly to confuse. Humor if ever is rarely employed and when it is, can almost easily be misconstrued as a deliberate affront. The natural assertiveness of angrezi firangs lends them the ability to seize up any conversation and turn it into a witticism that is unparalleled.

Sample this
Me: G. Snr, I have a complaint regarding your speech.
G Snr: eh You have one my boy. (Pointing to dad and the half empty glass) Blame it all on them son, all on them.

Sample 2;
J: Is this where all the dreaded call centers are located.
Me: Yes mostly (apologetically pointing out all across gorgonian landscape) But if its any consolation they don’t spare us either.
J: Its not. But as you sow so shall ye reap.

Well not to be out done we Indians did have our paux's.
Sample the faux's...

Guide (as we were about to enter Jama Masjid) : Ladies (insolently pointing to their calves and some spaghetti tops) please cover your private parts before entering the shrine.

A eternally painful moment of embarrassment passed through every member in the bus. The Guide unawares carried on with the memorized banter that he had been fed.

Smaple 2:
Photographer (pestering the groom to sit still during the mandatory photography session): Please don’t shake during the marriage.
Mmu: Dont Shake now. Shake “after” the marriage.

If humor was a hallmark of the out-laws charm was another
As usual I had been the flag bearer of skepticism in our nuclear family (in more ways than one). All that however vanished in a moment.

Setting : "G Snr's" better half has just left the table for another round of the delectable gulab jamuns and "G Snr" is surrounded by swarm of us.

Me: G Snr, now that H has left the table, you are at our mercy sir.
G Snr: Mercy eh..A wonderful death it will be, a wonderful death.

I don’t know what happened, but there and then in a spur of a moment, as I soulfully gazed around, soaking in the moment as the soft mellifluous music filled the background, as the night grew bolder and the silhouette of people shadows danced around in the soft luminous light, people on round circular tables chatting and smiling at each other, wine glasses clanging to liberal doses of cheers being bandied about toasting the bride and the groom bringing people far and wide together, people literally and metaphorical bending backwards and forwards to pass on their felicitations. I soaked in the general feeling of bonhomie that pervaded the atmosphere. And there and then at that moment I realized was not one single out-law.

Only our in-laws.

The Second Cumming…

Ooooohh yeaaah….I am back. Its day two(metaphorically speaking) and surprise surprise (and an apt on my back) I am littering err…. lettering away at the key board.

At least some RoI on my education although, at least one, if not both of my parents unanimously, would vehemently disagree.(my calvinsh memories of childhood are littered with reminders of the faith my progenitors constantly reposed in me…..“tum to chole bhi nahi bech paaoge!!!”, and here I am at the cusp of my career about to sell analytic laden pipedreams to the converted…but I digress). At least today I hope to delude myself into thinking (aha…thinking??) that the money that went down the drainpipe of my education is being salvaged courtesy my second cumming err coming.

So what if my arithmetic committed hara-kiri some time late last century, the first of the R’s is being consigned to larry and sergeys silica laden massive (server farm) implants that would put “Pamela aunty’s” to shame.

Speaking of Larry & Sergey, my disappointment with their invention has grown during this period of anonymity. As of now yours truly is afflicted by the blog search disappointment syndrome angst. Ahem…. I suppose this is all part of the early stage-blogging phase that lasts until the next schedule run of google spiders crawling up this part of the blog space.

I guess the tonic to cure me of this depression would the insertion of a visitor counter. The proliferation of counters even at most heavyweights blog probably proves the existence of a singular virtue running through all blog-kind – the latent virtue of pride. Of the desire to have been seen ,read, probably discussed, and ahem even digested.

Early stage ramblings err.. confessions of the “compulsive one” regarding fear of being consigned to un-dom(unseen, unheard, unheard, undetected, unnoticed, unobserved etc etc ) has I BSing. (besides I bull sh**ing also irritably bowel syndrom-“ing”)

Another syndrome of early stage blogging besides the unceasing googling of endless permutation of phrases remotely connected with content on my blog is the obsession with ”inspiration” from other blogs. Whoever said that copying from a “single source is plagiarism, however from multiple sources is inspiration” had uncovered, and unearthed truths rivaling vedic proportions.

I guess the rest I can extrapolate from the compulsive one’s early reactions – to the first comments, to the “gayness” at being duly identified in googledom, the replacement of the almost puppyish servile need to be recognized versus the utter contempt for regular readership and the desire to whine.

Perhaps in days to come I might even re-produce with as much ease as the heavyweight bloggers do – alas asexually (a whole new definition to bio-mechanics of creation eh).

For all the laborious pains of re(peated) -productions, birth pangs of having created this blog(aha been there…done this!!! J), adolescence, growth (hopefully in readership) maturity(for all this maturity on display where’s the damned first comment…somebody …pul-lease… this silence is deafening, ) and withering once again into anonymity, I hereby announce my second cumming err coming onto the blog scene!!