Monday, 27 October 2014

The Doosra Diwali Gift Survey

Social scientists fear it would be incredibly difficult to survive without Google but agree it would be absolutely impossible to survive without domestic helps.

Let’s face it. It’s not the politicians, scientists, IT guys or Rajinikanth but the domestic helps who keep the world going.

The theory may not apply to the West but it has not yet been established beyond satisfaction that West is part of the world. Many Indian tourists in fact exclaim it’s out-of-the-world.

And nothing influences the decision of a domestic help whether to continue her current job or look for a greener pasture than the Diwali gift from her employer, often the female family head, with whom she shares a relation involving diplomatic skullduggery of the highest order.

Indian male family members – universally recognised as easily the selfish, incorrigibly the lazy and absolutely the redundant unit of any household – have no clue about the existential significance of the day after Diwali when the crackers have fizzled out like a Ram Gopal Verma movie at the Box Office and the earthen Diyas resemble one of those once oil-rich nations sucked, democratically, bone-dry by the US.

Doosra conducted a nationwide family survey and came up with some startling facts:

1. 67% male family members said they were not consulted while determining the Diwali gift for the domestic help;

2. 20% male family members said they may have been consulted but don’t exactly recall as the discussion coincided with some football/cricket/tennis/sepak takraw/ muay thai/kalaripayattu thing on TV;;

3. 7% male family members said they were consulted but their Diwali gift suggestion was summarily rejected;

4. 6% male family members refused to comment;

5. Of the domestic helps who reported for duty the day after, 89% sported a sullen look on their face and steadfastly refused to share any neighborhood gossip;

6. Of the domestic helps who did not report for duty, 76% confirmed they were one round of cajoling away from joining back;

7. 76% of the domestic helps who did not join duty, did not take call from their employees, spreading widespread panic and consternation at their workplace;

8. 23% female family heads successfully got rid of old cutlery sets gathering dust in an obscure corner of their cupboard;

9. 79% male members of families hit by domestic help’s absence called their bosom friends to cancel evening gathering citing hostile atmosphere at home;

10. 86% of kids in family’s hit by domestic help’s absence reported above-average scolding and significant rise in slapping, pinching and other popular forms of disciplining a child;

11. 97% apartments witnessed gathering of domestic helps, featuring comparative study of each other’s gifts and assessment of their employer’s character with generous sprinkling of unparliamentary words and phrases.

Monday, 13 October 2014

Why This Year’s Nobel Peace Prize Sucks


First a confession. Still in the clutch of a post-lunch siesta, initially I read this year’s Nobel Peace prize has gone to Kailash Kher and Malaika Arora which seemed to me a fair even if somewhat a left-field choice.

After all, Kher, even at the height of his fame, looks a perfectly humble and peaceful guy even though history tells us most of civilisation’s worst tyrants, such as Attila the Hun, Hitler and Don Bradman, have been people who traded vertical growth for career growth leaving (runs and) ruins in their wake.

Malaika was not an unnatural choice either, having done her bit in maintaining peace in
a Mumbai household which tops the muscle-per-family-member table but is not exactly known for emotional stability.

Furious rubbing of eyes revealed the jury has, not for the first time or last, made a complete ass of itself and has gone ahead and gifted it to some Kailash Satyarthi and Malala Yousafzai instead.

If you ask me, this year’s Nobel Peace prize should be called LoC, something India and Pakistan share and neither looks completely happy with the arrangement.

If you’ve seen his photos that have started littering the front pages of the newspapers, you’d agree with me what Satyarthi actually needed is not a Nobel prize but a stout razor and a tube of shaving cream. With the money he now has, he can obviously secure a lifetime supply of shaving kit but that’s a roundabout way of doing things.

What is more baffling is they made him share it with Malala Yousafzai. It’s not a paani-puri that you serve to a teenage girl and ask her to share it with her neighbourhood chacha.

Spare a thought for the girl! The poor girl is still recovering from the trauma of being shot by the Talibans and instead of helping her recuperate, you give her a nasty shock. Have a heart!

One completely understands the jury’s compulsion. Under a secret agreement, they have to announce a winner every year for the award that Alfred Nobel had started, for reasons best known to him, or be blown up by the good Swede’s most famous invention – dynamite.

What one doesn’t is their queer choice even when you had at least another dozen candidates who deserved it more.

Baba Siddique for instance. The Bandra MLA did the Bollywood equivalent of making Sourav Ganguly feed Greg Chappell with his right hand while fanning the feisty Aussie with his left. Siddique facilitated the epoch-making hug between Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan, whose followers, historians and Bollywood analysts predict, would fight World War III. If that doesn’t qualify for a Nobel then I don’t know what does.

One would go to the extent of saying that it could have been given to any Newshour panelist, for showing exemplary restraint and resisting the temptation to throttle Arnab Goswami.

And if the jury was keen on springing an obscure Indian in an unsuspecting world, Adi Pocha should have received it even if belatedly. Nobody spread peace more than Pocha has. He spread “Shanti” over 807 episodes and Mandira Bedi has not looked back since.

(Pix: DNA)
(P.S. Hope all realise it’s a humour piece and means no disrespect to anyone, however worthy)

Sunday, 28 September 2014

Afridi's Secret Diary: Salary Cut

I'm going threw bad faze like nobody's business. I not knowing if you readed the news. The crickit board cut my salary because they think I'm unfit. They cut my salary as if it being salad! You not seeing how anger I am. I am more anger than Dhoni when he was refuged Biryani in a hotel.

They cut my salary, on a time when shampoo and hair conditioner price is increasing like Inzybhai's westline. I don't know how lengthy I can take care of my beautiful hair.

Idiots not knowing I take my fitness like nobody's business. Every day I excise with my chacha's son.He is my favourite cuisine in the middle of all cuisines. While other cousins come only to vacant my freeze, this cuisine comes to excise. Like me, he is also a racist. So we race every morning. Then in the afternoon, we go to the Jim and lift wait. And when there is no wait, we lift Nasir Jamshed. I used to lift Inzy bhai in the earlier past days but he did not liking it and growed beard so that I cannot identify him.

Board's logistic is if they cut my salary, I can by less food from shop. I by less food means I eat less food. And I eat less means I more fit.

Cowdung!

Truth is when I excise, I get tyred and sweets come all over my body. I am not like that dirty Munaf Patel. I have to bath again after that. And to bath two times, I need double amount soaps and double amount shampoo and hair conditioners. How I by them if you cut my salary? If you cut my salary, I stop excise because I can't bath behind that. And I stop excise means I become fat. Someone understand those idiots.

Five months in front of the World Cup, there doing whatever there wanting. This going to back on fire for us and we will have to import Burnols from India, I telling you. By for now.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Afridi’s Secret Diary: Ajmal Band for World Cup

I sewer touching my shampoo and hair conditioner that I'm anger like nobody's business.

If you steel not getting it, I'm mad for ICC who band our Saeed Ajmal for illegal action. And this six months in front of the World Cup. What massage ICC giving here?

I having no doubt this is a conspiracy and they not wanting us to victory. Ajmal is our best chucker spinner. If Pakistan cricket team is a army, he is a loyal shoulder. You band him, you handicraft us. In our country, first ballers are borning every day but chucker spinners we get rearly.

I don't know why they telling Ajmal having illegal action. When Asif played, he had illegal action. After match, he wented to shops to by nasha products. I except that us illegal action. Poor Ajmal has not even money to buy a packet of bidi.

Just I hearing ICC things he throws. It's uncorrect. Ajmal is a good boy. I know some boys once wanted to throw a match. It was just for fun, not money, I telling you. Butt Ajmal refuged. No, only Ajmal refuged. Butt did not. Also because Ajmal was not playing then.

This Ajmal band has effected our World Cup plan. We now needing a institute...or is it substitute? Otherwise, pressure mound on my soldier I loose my beautiful hairs.

Friends, time to shampoo my hair and conditioner then. I'll return back quickly. Also, I see Ajmal is 37 years old. I being so little, I take back all the "boys" in this diary and wish good luck to Ajmal chacha.

Thursday, 4 September 2014

7 types of people who should be phased out

I hereby recommend the gradual phasing out of people who don’t look before...

1. Jerking hand after washing it, relying more on centrifugal forces than paper towels to dry the said body part.

2. Flicking boogers.

3. Spitting betel juice out of the window of moving/stationary vehicles.

4. Opening, without notice, the door of a moving car to drop diaper.

5. Swapping legs, without notice, from a cross-legged position at a dentist’s chamber.

6. Getting off bikes with a flourish, sweeping air with the rear leg in lame Bruce Lee imitation.

7. Trying to walk through pedestrians while gazing at the mobile screen.

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

When in Rome do as the Romans...and confirm you’re a priceless chump

This has the potentials to top the list of dumbest advice mouthed by a homo sapience since God created the World or AK Hangal made his Bollywood debut, whichever the earliest.

I suspect it was a wicked Roman who, seeking to inject some fun in an otherwise dull life, coined the adage despite knowing that you, a tourist, would make a colossal asino –- that’s ass in Italy –- of yourself if you land on Rome and try to ape them.

Allow me to elaborate and take the case of Casu Marzu, a Sardinian sheep milk cheese that contains live insect larvae.

You have to culture them like a microbiologist cultures bacteria in a lab with avuncular affection. You got to make sure the emotionally fragile larvae enjoy the hospitality of their new home and break down the fats to give it a sublime, gooey texture. The translucent white worms should be wriggling in joy when you are about to consume it.

Now, the Romans have been doing it since ages. This is probably the first thing they teach in kindergartens and by the time a kid is seven, he/she probably can make it blindfolded with one hand tied behind the back.

Now if you try your hand at it, even if none of them tied behind your back, you are bound to cut a sorry figure. It's a highly complicated method –- humouring a bunch of uprooted larvae in their adopted home –- that requires a sound knowledge of larvae psychology, which, I’m told, is significantly distinct from grown-up insect psychology.

While centuries of practice has reduced it to a kid’s play for an average Roman – they apparently do it in school in between classes -- a tourist can’t hope to land in Rome and dish out something that requires the combined skills of a Louis Pasteur, a Sigmund Freud and a Jamie Oliver.

Forget Casu Marzu. The sooner you realise you can’t even out-pasta an Italian the better. You just can’t upstage them in their own games. As simple as that.

When in Rome do as the Romans! It’s like saying when in Glasgow, do as the Scots, which means wearing a kilt and instantly becoming either 1) a family disgrace; or 2) the butt of dirty office jokes; or 3) an international laughingstock. Or all three.

Truth is, if you ever travel to Rome, the smartest thing would be to avoid doing whatever the Romans do. You’re welcome.

(P.S. You can safely say Doosra has declared war against the autocratic idiosyncrasies of the English language. The truth is, most of the English proverbs have aged/stagnated/simply ceased to make sense and need swift phasing out. Doosra will hunt them down, one by one, in this new series the frequency of which would be directly proportional to the availability of brainwaves)

Saturday, 26 July 2014

Maria Sharapova’s Apology to India


I admit it should not have taken this long but as we say in Russian: Лу́чше по́здно, чем никогда́. Or better late than never.

My friends in India, here I, Maria Sharapova, daughter of Yuri and Elena Sharapova, tender an unconditional apology to 1.2 billion of you (I suspect million but my manager insists it’s billion) for previously not knowing who the Great Sachin Tendulkar is.

While I admit that you’ve shown great restraint in confining your just anger to innocuous photoshopping and innocent defacing of my Facebook wall using words that have greatly enriched my vocabulary, I beg your sympathy and draw your attention to my inglorious upbringing where cricket meant a buzzing insect and nothing else.

As some of you probably know, I was born in Russia, the country languishing in obscurity until your Mithun Chakraborty arrived there to shoot a couple of films that thrust my shy nation firmly under the spotlight.

Soon after my birth, my parents moved to the United States, a country history will eventually remember for organising random spelling bee contests monopolized by kids from your great country.

Despite the strong India links, in the country of my origin as well as the country I’ve adopted, cricket is as popular as Mike Tyson was with Evander Holyfield’s family immediately after that 1997 bout in Las Vegas.

While it’s a lame excuse for my mind-numbing ignorance, I beg you kindly consider the circumstances in which I confessed not knowing who the cricketing God was.

I completely agree when many of you question if tennis can be considered a sport, let alone a global sport, and wonder what’s the big deal about this Micky Mouse tournament. Looking back, I realise I got carried away after winning a match at Wimbledon and was not in full control of my faculties when I was asked the question about Tendulkar.

Otherwise, I could have mumbled out something vague yet face-saving. Like “That’s a ridiculous question. Of course I know him! Who doesn’t? He is a living legend, a giant beyond his physical stature and an inspiration not only to our generation but to the entire world. It’s people like him who restores our faith in humanity. In fact when I was trailing in the match, his presence inspired my comeback.”

I am ashamed of the way I have conducted myself and to prove that I’m genuinely sorry, I have been reading everything I could about Tendulkar, even if meant skipping training and fighting with the coach.

Now I know his cricket stats by heart; I know the punch lines of the each of his 2086 TV commercials including “Visa power, go get it”; and I know the breed of each of his pet dogs.

Naturally my preparation for US Open next month is the best I ever had. I may not cross the first round hurdle at Flushing Meadows but if media ask me about Tendulkar, I bet I will surprise you all.

Kind regards












Maria Sharapova

(A work of fiction, if you still don't get it)