Archive for the 'Mangled In The Meatgrinder' Category



By Devdutt Nawalkar
They say the newly rich have dough but lack the class that comes with ancient breeding. Something similar applies to the state of things in India today. I think our chequered past as a nation – centuries of subordination, first to the Mughals, then to the British, and eventually to red taped baburaj – has lent a peculiarly feeble character to our collective psyche (I use “our” only to sound modest. I am not prone to any of your delusions). Inspite of the educated strata in the country doing reasonably well over the past two decades, we are still innately insecure of our self worth. Maybe we’ve gotten too big for our shoes too soon, and in the process have lost all context and balance. Constantly craving recognition before the world, keen to latch onto the achievements of others while somehow psychotically and vicariously willing it to be an affirmation of our shaky, uncertain egoes, embracing some incident happening halfway across the world as a personal affront to our mothers while losing all sense of perspective; we have got to be some of the most annoying cunts on the planet today. And the sad bit is that we’re just like the Bubonic plague –  everywhere.
Sachin Tendulkar became the first man to hit 200 in an ODI a couple of days ago, sending the cricket crazy nation into rapture. Instantly, there were calls for The Don to move over and make room for our GOD, conveniently forgetting that the little champ would be privately cringeing against the blasphemous sycophancy of his adorers. All appeals to logic have been discarded outright. Different eras, vast disparities in averages, fitness, pitches, opposition, the long line of great batsmen since Bradman, equipment and protective gear, and just the general futility of trying to ascertain the “greatest” – nothing seems to hold much weight in the eyes of the frenzied masses. It’s as if they’ve been waiting like malnourishedzombies for this moment to pounce on, to raise their darling son to apotheosis. The delicious and somewhat tragicomic irony, which I’m sure is lost on Sachin’s braindead, potbellied, pencil-legged and lily-wristed legions, is that the subject of their adulation is probably one of the humblest sportsmen to have walked the planet. Much the pity that his followers are such utter dicks.
Then there is the medu-vada from Madras, that conman extraordinaire – A R Rahman. Before I go any further, have a looksie at the following link if you have the time, the inclination, or if you’re just out of a job:
Unless you haven’t used an earbud in ages, there is absolutely no doubt that this dork has been lifting off motifs and entire themes for some of his biggest Tamil hits. As I’m writing this, there are fresh allegations over his shitty music for Slumdog Millionaire. I haven’t explored it nor have I the heart or ears for it. Anyway, I strongly disagree with my good friend Count Varathora over the veracity of his supposed genius. Sure, art is subjective and all that pious cluttertrap, but I seem to feel that I have a good sense for aesthetics, and Rahman’s music does nothing to evoke the higher emotions inside my ample skull. Peppy, good for a lark, but cathartic? I beg to differ. Anyway, I’ll jot that down to personal opinion – people seem to like him, and that’s cool. But then he went on to win the Oscar for his score, and the country went batshit crazy again. “He’s done India proud”, “the world’s greatest composer and he comes from India”, “Madras Maestro, Madras Mozart” – I’m sorry, but did I miss out on the ten orphanages he’s opened since? Why has he made India proud? Because he has perpetrated the consistent Western notion that Bollywood music is total gutter? Not just him, even the cinematographer or whoever that won an Oscar for his camerawork; this dude goes up on stage, and proudly proclaims that India gave the world the beautiful word ‘Om’ and the number zero. WTF? I’m sure ‘Om’ and ‘Zero’ weren’t exactly things at the forefront of Angelina Jolie’s mind that night. As tedious as award recipients thanking their dogs and cats is, I can tolerate it. But please, for the love of my sanity and your missing sense of shame, keep your dumb jingoistic garbage and misplaced cultural pride out of what is a completely individual endeavour and accomplishment.
Finally, desis getting walloped Down Under. A peek at any of the message boards (we’ll ignore the TV channels for now), and all you’d see was Indians casting the foulest aspersions imaginable on Australian lineage and heritage. These fools seem to have read somewhere that all Australians can trace their ancestry back to the convict ships that sailed in the eighteenth century, and they use that inaccurate tidbit at every given chance to heap ridicule on the natives and bolster their uncertain complexes. While I certainly don’t condone Indian students getting slammed abroad (partly because I was one myself not too long ago), and do acknowledge that Australia has had a shady past with regard to human rights (Aborigines were considered fauna till the 1960s), could there be a more classic case of glass houses and stones than this? We are some of the most bigoted people on the planet. What right do we have of sounding so self-righteous and butthurt? If you’re so offended, get up and LEAVE! Nobody’s holding a gun to your head (Besides, from what I heard from two close and reliable sources, the whole thing was blown way out of proportion..but that’s not really surprising). As anyone of decent upbringing who’s studied outside the country would attest to, a vast majority of desis abroad tend to get extremely loud, obnoxious, and lack in general etiquette (and hygiene). They’re meek n gentle as sheep when by themselves, but get them in a group, and their pack mentality asserts itself. Barging into queues, leaving microwaves stained with rice and sambhar, having zero consideration for people around them, ogling at women; the list is endless. And don’t even get me started on unlawful activities like creating fake resumes and experience, staying illegally in the country after visa expiry, the whole consultancy racket, so on and so forth. They might get away with it in more politically correct places, but Australia, from what I gather, is a pretty brusque land. Not unwelcoming, but not too tolerant of loutish behaviour either. My mean self chuckled.
Some jerk once accused me of self-hate. You were way off base, dude… wrong diagnosis. The doctor says I’m allergic to dickheads.



-by Devdutt Nawalkar
Day come day go. Strut, preen, put on act. Different face for different day, new garb for new occasion. You’re acting up, putting airs. Need this, need that. Fill me emotionally, be more attuned to my inner woman. No, no, no. I don’t care about your inner anything. You shit, you piss, just like I and your mother. Jumble of inchoate stuff, not above shit. I can’t wrap my head around your bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Call me, be more considerate, don’t be so coarse. Horn OK Please, Fuck Off. I’m tired like a dog, my nerves can’t take more of this garbage. “Hey, how’s it going? Oh really, that’s great, so interesting”. It’s never interesting. You’re boring, you put me to sleep at 11 in the morning. Your stupid face feigning indignation barely manages to suppress your general incomprehension of everything that transpires around you. Like lead you weigh me down . Your chatter leaves me physically exhausted. Sparrows fall out of skies after one of your airwave clusterfucks. “Hey, why don’t you talk more? Why so quiet?” I’m quiet, but I’m marvelling on the inside – always on the inside – at the colossal waste of space and flesh and grey stuff that you are.
Speaking of colossal, you’re fat. I say you’re curvy but what I really mean to say is that a couple of cheeseburgers on the side will put you on the fasttrack to becoming a bonafide beached whale. No centerfold bimbo you, babe. Your affectations cut through my skin, scrape against my bone like the little prick back in school who dragged his nails against the blackboard. I wish I could strangle you but they’d put me away certified.
I have in my head though. Every day of the last three years. I even made a little ditty in your memory, one I sang every morning on the john. You kept me going in a way, helped me through some hard times. I’m grateful for that.
Today I found out that you got married. Popped out a kid too. I think I’m finally over you.

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