How quitting your job will get you an Audi(not click-bait I swear)

Let me begin by saying that our education system is just slightly better than the one in South Sudan. If the guidance we get was analogous to the guidance an intercontinental missile gets, the missile if fired from Dadar would detonate in, well, Dadar East.  It is appalling to know that in India, 60% employees are dissatisfied with their jobs and 80% of them want to switch careers. This insinuates that our guidance systems are very weak, and the youth is entering professions they don’t know a thing about.
I want to give an example of the same by presenting exactly how I went through indecision, and quit my job after working for 2 months.

I remember, before I did Hotel Management, ordering in restaurants would be a very intriguing task because I would be absolutely amazed at how a pizza, which would take me 2 hours, 3 limbs and the fire brigade to make at home, came onto my table in under 20 minutes, crisp and much better than the Domino’s vegetables on naan that I was used to. I imagined the chefs, smoking cigars, with abs showing through chef coats as white as flour, cooking with their bare hands and working with sparkling ingredients picked by women in lingerie (??). Having pictured myself as the Dan Bilzerian of kitchens, I firmly went up to my family and informed them that I would be pursuing Hotel Management from the best college in the world, to which they promptly replied, “O Bhai paani ubaal ley pehley dhang sey. Gas on karney mein naani marti hai.” So I decided to pursue architecture and started dreaming about me smoking a cigar, with a yellow construction cap on my head (apparently architects and dehaadi are the same thing), with my abs showing through my whatever-architects-wear, and strippers helping me put cement on walls(???). It was only when I spoke with a leading architect in Singapore that I realized that it takes a lot of mathematics dedication to become an architect, the kind I knew I wouldn’t be able to conjure. This made me revert back to the original idea of becoming a chef. I had already seen a lot of episodes of Master Chef and I had perfected me Oh-Straiee-Lee-Uhn accent m8, so I thought, “ah well let me decide my career BASED JUST ON HOW A TV SHOW APPEALED TO ME”. (I thanked the stars I wasn’t into Yeh Rishta Kya Kehlata hai). And so I went for it. I gave my JEE, made a chutiya out of everyone by telling them I got AIR 269 in JEE, casually forgetting to mention that I was referring to the Hotel Management exam. Anyway ,so they thought I was totally getting into IIT. I did actually get perhaps the best college for hotel management in India and the dream was coming true. I expected to be given a chef coat by the guard at the gate, a red carpet ceremony with the air smelling of cinnamon and caramel, and an array of knives sharp enough to cut a diamond. What actually happened was, that I was late to my first ever college lecture and was asked to “Fuck off saaley” by the Chef. I was left astounded because I expected the professor to reprimand me in a cultured fashion and profanity was the least expected thing in my head. I took some time to process this and waited for my next lecture.
The first year went by, and I had slowly begun to realize what a carrot looks like.  My maid had better knife skills, and I was now getting excited every time the Chef would abuse me because the sheer thrill of voluntarily accepting abuse was insane.
Our second year of college consisted of training in a hotel for 6 months, just to give us an idea of what to expect from our future jobs as hoteliers. Sitting for training interviews was quite scary because this was my first interaction with anyone from an actual Hotel. They seemed so polished, wearing crisp suits, the lady with her make up on point and her hair cut by Javed Habib himself. The interview lasted for a few minutes and I realized that apparently my hobbies were “f-f-f-o-otball”, “the playing the games on the computer” and “Dets it medum”. I was very nervous, but most of us were selected. I was selected for a very prestigious hotel located in the more posh part of Mumbai. I will not name the hotel because I do not want the administration of The Taj Mahal Palace, Apollo Bunder, Mumbai to get after my life.
We began with the induction process for a week, where I made quite a few friends and drank atleast 2-3 cups of tea every 3 seconds. Life seemed wonderful. “Really? This was what it felt like to be a hotelier? This is the most relaxing job and I am exceedingly happy with my career decision.” What seemed to make me so happy was actually Life pulling its shorts down to take a shit on the center of my forehead.
My first department was in the service part of hotels, and I was assigned to a restaurant.  As I walked to the employee entrance, I remember thinking to myself, “oh so much to learn. If I make mistakes I will be forgiven because I am a newbie”. So yeah that didn’t happen. My very first day, I put a piece of bacon in my mouth and entered the guest area, chewing like a dog on the piece of meat, when the restaurant manager saw me and blasted me to Timbuktu. It was extremely tough, the work was arduous and the timings were odd but doable. As I went through my training, having spent a month in each of the four core departments, it was time to choose one, and I chose strippers picking vegetables for me(????????). I would only realize later that I was, in fact, the Stripper.
Our third and final year of college began, and I had already improved my knife skills ten folds during my training. I had failed an exam in my second year, which happened to be the kitchen practical exam. I remember feeling constant doubt in my head if I would actually be able to go through with my decision of being a chef. My friends would call me “vazakhai thoran”, a certain dish I was not able to prepare during the exam in which I failed :)))))). So much so, that when they didn’t call me VT, I’d be a little taken aback and teary eyed. So yeah my friends loved me a lot. Anyway, time flew by and it was time for campus recruitment processes to begin. I had just one goal in my head, which was the Oberoi Centre of Learning and Development. Regarded as the MBA of Hospitality, it was something I was sure I could crack. I began learning technical terms, improved my knowledge, and reached the final round where, due to my own mistakes, I was eliminated. I was heartbroken. Although it took one peck on the cheek from my girlfriend and a mouthful of a burger, I knew I had to work somewhere before re-applying for next year’s selection process.
I began working for what is regarded as the best hotel in the world, in a small town in Rajasthan. It was an opportunity of a life time for me, and a direct route to OCLD. The plan was set, and I had put it in motion. The city itself was a lot slower than Mumbai, and it took some time to adjust to haggling for the auto fares in the city. The first week alone was miserable, with the auto guys looking at my SoBo Aao-Sab-Mera-Chutiya-Banao face, and quoting 100 bucks for a 3 minute distance. I obliged. The following weeks were better as I learnt routes and approximate costs. My mother had settled me in a fantastic PG, with a second hand washing machine, cooler and fridge and life seemed fantastic.
Narrator: But it was all about to change.
A day in my week began at 4:30 AM, and by 5:00 AM, when even the birds on trees were like “Bhai jhanna gaya hai kya. BC hum bhi so rahey hain abhi takk aur tu already chal diya?”, I was out of the house and on my way. I was responsible for the morning set-up of the kitchen and the mis-en-place( French term which basically translates to placement and organization of ingredients prior to service. This is also why food in restaurants takes 15 minutes and not an hour to prepare.)
During work, my rapport with the Chefs began to improve as we got to know each other better and I began to learn more and more. Over the weeks, I developed cute nicknames such as “Chodu Ram Mumbai Waley”, “Chutiyo key raja”, “OCLD Final round” and my personal favorite “Townie Fucker”. I remember preparing close to 8 orders in 20 minutes, as order slips kept piling up on the pass. Days used to be so busy, that chefs from other sections would come to assist us with orders. As I learnt more, my responsibilities grew, and so did my confidence. For those not from a hotel background, it is understood that F&B and Kitchen work on less than cordial terms. The occasional, “oye service key bhosdi wale” and “oye chodu IRD order uthayega ya firr scooter pey guest key ghar ley jau” were a comic relief. A particular incident still fills me up with pride wherein a Service employee accused me by saying “Abey Chutiye fries soggy kyu diya hai”, to which I responded “abbey haan woh gaand mein daala thaa na toh soggy hogaya”. The sheer frustration and the exhilaration that comes with the job makes Chefs some of the most hilarious people to work with. As rude as they may have been, there was not one chef in the kitchen who didn’t go out of their way to teach me. They had all started to become like my family.

But all was not going well on my end. I was hardly getting ample sleep, the working hours were too long, and my body was resisting such a grueling regime. It was then that I realized that I am not cut out for a profession as physically demanding as this. Executives persuaded me to stay, but it just didn’t happen for me. So I quit.

What I want to get across to whoever is reading is this:

  1. If you’re considering doing Hotel Management or a future in kitchens, know this:
    I have worked for 9 hours, and I have also worked for 18 hours. There have been times where I have considered placing a mattress under the kitchen sink and sleeping in the hotel. I have worked for a week on 4 hours of sleep, almost slept off while frying kebabs at work. There is no social life, there are no weekends, no holidays. The work is physically very demanding, and the environment involves very high pressure. If you’re in it for the money, there is hardly any (not in the first 3-4 years anyway).
  2. It is NEVER too late to get out of what you feel you’re not cut out for. The faster you get out, the faster you can explore options more suitable. It’s not like if you quit your job, people will question. Let me put it this way
    Myth: “Oho yeh toh wahi hai na jisney apni job chodd dee.”, “yahee hai na woh kapoot jisney job chodkey muh kaala kiya?Maaro bhenchod ko”, “arre iska toh fuck hogaya na? ghar pey baithega ab chudiya pehen key ahahaha so funny”.
    Reality: “oh you quit your job because of xyz reason? must be tough.”
    Remember, people may not support you and may advise you against it. But if you go to work every day dreading every single minute you’ll have to spend there, as my mother says every time I ask her for pocket money, “get the fuck out”.
  3. If you’re a parent reading this (I doubt it because with stuff like “Chodu Ram” after every two sentences, my target audience automatically becomes teenagers and new adults), please do not live through your kids. I know officially anyone above 18 is an adult, but the truth is that your child needs your guidance his/her entire life. I know you’re ambitious, I know you want your kid to buy you an Audi in the next 5 years, but he/she won’t be able to afford a Hot Wheels Audi also if they get fired from a job they didn’t even like. Please don’t call them names and imply they do not have the caliber to be extraordinary at what they do because even though half the kids these days are dumb and extremely ordinary, the other half continually dreams of that Audi for you. Your child is more ambitious than you think. It’s high time we realize that.

WHAT THE #$#%@ IS GOING ON?

Let’s start out with this: I wish 85% of you somehow shift to Germany. I really do. As Jews though. In 1935.

Now that I have set the tone for a rant, I must also clarify that what follows is not hatred directed towards anyone. No I do want you to suffer, don’t get me wrong. But this is just temporary anger towards certain things that the world has become which does not sit well with me. You must understand that these are the views that I have and at no point am I attempting to impose my opinions on you. You opened the link. You’re reading this. If you disagree with what I have to say, fantastic. Question it in a cultured fashion. If you are offended by what I have to say, then just scream into a pillow like your mom did last night.  Anyway let’s just get to it.

The idea for this write-up actually came from a meme on this malignant Facebook page known as Rajnikant vs CID Jokes. The meme was “I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I don’t do drugs. Yes guys like us exist” with a picture of Heath Ledger as the background. First of all, how did the irony of this not scream into the faces of the admins? This is literally like making a meme which says “I hate travelling, I hate instigating riots, I hate making a complete ass of the citizens of a nation” with a photo of Narendra Modi as the background.
But regardless of how idiotic the meme was, it resonated with me on some level. I will point out here that I am not being sanctimonious with an agenda to feel falsely unique or special. But the meme highlighted something that I have felt for the longest time: We are all trying too hard to fit in.

Ever since I was a teenager, I have been averse to the concept of drinking and getting drunk. This was mainly because of my parents who conditioned me to believe that drinking was something that adults were supposed to do while not specifying exactly when it is that I become adult enough to drink. While my school friends’ eyes were widening with excitement with every mention of alcohol, mine were widening with fear. When it was time to join college, I prepared myself to let go of this fear and do some shots like everyone else because in my mind college was this one huge swimming pool filled with Old Monk, naked women, with a brothel attached to a McDonald’s. That’s what happens when you try and apply American Pie to India. I discovered in college that there were a lot of people like me who were the “Ram Siya Ram Madira Ko Haanth Takk Nahi Lagaunga Hey Prabhu” types. I took some solace in this and assumed that things would not ever change.
*In TV announcer’s voice* But they did.
 I watched friend’s talking about alcohol more freely, discussing prices, ID cards. Drinking stories also began to feature in conversations. It was then that my brain began to tell me in the most schizophrenic way, “Heck the sanskaars and the fear, vodka and whiskey are here”. Turns out I am as good at making drinks as I am at short rhyming poems. My first drink was a teaspoon of Old Monk mixed with the entire global supply of Frooti. But even through all that sugar, the lingering taste of rum made me rinse my mouth. After that, I tasted all mainstream varieties of alcohol and reached the conclusion that I did not like the taste of any alcoholic beverage. You could serve it neat or you could name it a Cosmopolitan, Mojito, Cuba Libre, Sex on the Beach, Intercourse on the golf course etc. but I would not like that bitter after-taste. But that still isn’t my problem with people and alcohol. My problem is when people try and equate fun with alcohol. Drinking because everyone else is perhaps the saddest decision one can take in their lives. The sentence “Let’s get drunk” is the most irritating thing I have heard after “Oh. You don’t drink? You look like someone who drinks” (Oh I’m sorry I forgot to cover up this Jack Daniel’s tattoo I got on my forehead. Shut your mouth you filthy crab). Honestly, nothing good has ever come out of getting sloshed. Ever heard of “Man in relationship gets drunk and maintains distance from attractive women within a 200m radius.” Or “Intoxicated lady regurgitates on floor and cleans up after herself instead of sleeping in a pond of her own puke”? Yep. Me neither. It frustrates me that a good time is no longer a get together with some Chicken Tikka, a coke and a second plate of Chicken Tikka simply because people want to lose control of their bodies and have a story to tell the next day.

With alcohol comes this beautiful concept called smoking, which is basically a commercial version of trying to suck out the fumes from a car exhaust. Now, most smokers know it’s a health hazard and admit that if it weren’t for the Nicotine addiction, they would quit immediately. This doesn’t justify anything. But it makes them way better than the “Itna jee key kya karengey” clan.
I am YouTubing meditation videos as I type this section of the article. Itna jeekey kya karogey right?
Aajao firr natkhat hum dono chaltey hain ek trip pey to Aleppo jahaa pey aap recruit ho jayo ISIS mein aur 2-3 hafto mein khwaish poori ho jayegi. Kya hua ghabra kyu rahey ho? Itna jeekey kya karogey? Lagao do Marlboro or karo Syria key darshan. Nahi? Chutiye. (Idk why autocorrect keeps changing this to “Cutie”)

If there are two things that I have completely failed to understand about this world, they are:
1)Why is it that we can take a shit and look at it while going to flush but we can’t look at someone else’s pre-existing shit that is already in the pot?
2) Hook-ups.
We’ll be talking about the latter of course. The former will be discussed in the next article along with important questions such as “Would you rather have your penis on your chest?”

Let me make this very clear. I have never hooked up and so I have no idea what I am talking about. Till about three years back, when I joined college and became familiar with the culture, in my mind, to hook up, you would wait in a shady place where women would wait and you would take one of those women home. I had also assumed that clubbing was basically entering a dark room, some people dancing, and women hooking up with you by dry humping from the moment you step-in. It is only later when I saw people Tindering their way through life did I understand the concept well. So at this point my brain is going “stop typing. You’re talking cock, mate. ”
No, Brain. Just like one doesn’t have to be a murderer to know what murder is, I make myself believe, before sleeping at night with my cute little know-it-all attitude clutched tightly around my arm, that I have a right to talk about hook-ups even though I’ve never done it. So based on this, what is beyond me is that how can you just grab that titty without feeling any affection towards the owner? If I wanted to grab mammary glands without feeling any bond with the owner, I’d start milking cows. For me, physical intimacy and sex are enjoyable not because of the mere act but because of the various emotions that flow through a person’s body. When you eliminate the emotion factor, all you’re left with is pointless groaning and commitment phobia. So you’re essentially a Gorilla who knows how to put a condom on.

I understand if some of you may feel that my thought process is orthodox and that I am perhaps trying to question your lifestyle, but the truth is that I don’t really care if the people around me have a cigarette in their mouth, I.V.s of whiskey in both their arms while simultaneously having sex with a girl they met while UberPooling. But to me, its pretentious and a façade to hide our inability to cope with surviving in this world.

The point of this article is not to highlight that I don’t have fun or that I feel left out or that YOU are an arsehole, but to try and put forth the thought process of a person who doesn’t agree with the current definition of “fun”. As a keen observer, I have realized that as people we have a perpetual identity crisis and an incorrigible behavior of attention seeking. A friend once said, “People these days would love it if we could just stuff packets with attention and distribute it at Dadar Station for free”, and I’d have to agree with him.
The lifestyle that the youth of this nation follow is one that scares me simply because I feel myself losing the ability to connect with people engrossed in and consumed by their life goals of being a part of the crowd. I am not implying that I stand out in a crowd (except if I’m wearing my Neon Green sneakers which I thought would be a hit with the girls but instead made me feel like a fluorescent sign post), but I will also acknowledge that I don’t try too hard. All I’m saying is, if you’re reading this and you know you’re being someone you’re not, get a grip.

Haan khatam rant. So jao ab jaakey.

LATIN WORDS CAN SCREW YOU UP

Its funny how little things which bother people, which make them sit on their bed and stress about all day, which make them cry etc., aren’t even noticed by other people. For example, my small penis. The women I’ve been with have told me they feel like Halwais when they handle it because it resembles a small Kaaju with two Pistas. Haha okay fine ill stop with the lies. I’ve never been with a woman. However, other things have in fact bothered me my entire life which includes something which affects people my age AND older. Its called ACNE.*audiences gasps*

So those of you who have had an issue with this can continue reading, and those who cant relate at all, I pray that on your wedding day you get zits all over your ugly face give it a read so you can understand the psychological effect acne has on people(by people i mean me because i am narrow minded and hardly care for any opinion other than mine).
Acne vulgaris. Latin for “Ghar mein baith harami“.
I have had acne since I was in school. To be just a little more specific,since 2200 hours, 9th August 2008,Standard 7,Navy Children School, Mumbai-400005. The reason i remember it is because it was my birthday the next day and I was to wear the most modern and chic attire, i.e., shorts with suspenders and a yellow T-shirt with Powerpuff girls on it. Pair that with a Katora cut i’d recently got, this zit,bang in the middle of my nose,was surely Satan at work. So what did i do with this pimple? That’s right. I burst it open, almost in anger. I took out all of my life’s frustration, which back then was maybe because i lost in pen-fight against someone with a Highlighter(I remember all of you fuckers and the shock on your dumb faces when i brought TWO HIGHLIGHTERS JOINED TOGETHER to class. Didn’t think of that did you? No because you’re dumb as shit.) I burst it and it was one less problem in life. So the next day I partied hard with dem gurls and took some Fanta shots and smoked Phantom cigarettes, carefree, until i came back home. I found that there was a pimple on my leg. YES I KNOW HOW THE FRICKITY FRACK TICKITY TACK KLICK KLACK PATTY WHACK DID IT REACH THERE? At that point I wanted to saw my leg off with my Mom’s nail-filer. But i have the Administration of NCS to thank,for saving my leg by introducing the concept of trousers for boys from standard 7. However, it got only worse.

So the thing with acne is, much like cancer and having to choose between your favorite F.R.I.E.N.D.S. characters, you can never understand the stress that comes with it unless you experience it. And practically none of my friends had acne as severe as mine. Their skins shone like a spoon, without even a hint of rash or a bump. As i grew up, these pimples went out of control. Now as a boy of that age group, this was like being a Muslim or Latino in America right now: There was no way I was going to fit in(very ironic in a manner if you refer to the 3rd and 4th line of the beginning of this write up). So i took some drastic measures.
The fear of being ostracized can make you do things which you’d probably never even thought of doing. For example i began treating my face like bubble wrap. I’d pop a pimple every chance i got. I even remember buying syringes and needles because in my mind i thought i could do a surgical strike on my acne without really ruining my face. The guy i bought it from gave me equivocal looks because i’d just gotten up and immediately gone to the pharmacy so my eyes were red, my hair were a mess and i looked exactly like a Heroin addict(In hindsight, if he’d asked me, i would rather tell him a story of my Heroin addiction than admit my real plans). This continued for a year and a half. So as you probably know, popping pimples causes pitting, a.k.a. rolling scars. A month of it can be cured by topical creams. A year and a half of it gives you Om Puri. My face looked like the roads of Mumbai in monsoons. I needed my own private B.M.C so urgently. Neil Armstrong would feel nostalgic if he ever saw my face.
I was afraid to help blind men and women reach their destination because i feared they’d touch my face and it would be like Braille to them.(Imagine a blind man’s hand on your face and he suddenly says, “Beta terey chehrey pey Madarchod kyu likkha hua hai?”.)
So very clearly, popping pimples wasn’t helping. So i went to the worst doctor on the planet: The Internet.
So what you should and probably already know about the internet is that it will only give you answers to what you specifically ask for and want to read. As the famous quote goes, “Half knowledge is more dangerous than no knowledge”. In my case i had 1/18th of knowledge that i really needed to fix my face. E.g., the internet made me believe that a combination of Honey and lemon juice could dry out my pimples overnight. I was absolutely ecstatic. Life was giving me lemons, and i was going to use those to cure my acne! In your face, Life.
To which Life responded quite literally by saying, “No. In YOUR face”. The next day i had a garland of small pimples all over my face. I could make constellations with those pimples simply by changing my expressions. I then tried putting all kinds of things on my face. Cucumber juice, Tomato juice, Orange juice, Papaya juice, mixture of all four, egg whites. I was literally following a diet prescribed by Mickey Mehta not for my belly but for my face(I had even read that putting semen on your face can make acne go away. Logically it made sense because how else would you explain Porn stars’ clear complexions. But hey,i was desperate, but I wasn’t Samantha Saint desperate.)
When my last resort became a self-cumshot, it hit me(no pun intended) that nothing was working. Then began the depression.

Depression is a serious condition which makes you a living corpse. So i am only using the word to express intense sadness. I was never truly depressed.
I used to walk looking down(Its how I’ve developed a bit of a Scrooge-y hunch when i walk), never made direct eye contact with anyone, class participation went down greatly. I chose to not go for birthday parties or general outings with friends, i started stocking band-aid and putting it on my pimples. I remember getting a big fuck off pimple during a trip to another city for a football competition, where i got into a physical altercation with a friend and i almost thanked him because he punched me right on this pimple that i had and it burst and he did for me what i was afraid to do for 3 whole days. My self confidence in general was majorly hit. I was losing out on life, watching everyone else have fun. For some reason i managed to get a girlfriend during this period and sometimes I’d skip meeting even her if my face decided to build its own Aravalli range on that particular day.
Now as I’ve said before, you can never understand the stress that comes with acne unless you experience it. And when you don’t, your pea sized brain tells you that its okay to be inquisitive about someone else’s issues. It may also advise you to do so in a small public gathering of friends. I have literally interacted with friends who would give Derek O’ Brien a run for his money with the number of questions they’ve asked me. In fact,(and it still happens), people skip the questions and come directly to making statements and final intelligent conclusions such as “You have a lot of acne”. Wait i have a lot of acne?What an astute observation! Tell me more about my two eyes and hair, you wizard.
I have begun to carry bills of the mirror purchases I’ve made just so people know that i too can see my own reflection when i am in my own house. WOW such technology. Much amaze.
There is also friendly advice that you get, which more often than not makes you wish the other person somehow loses their larynx in a car accident. I have literally gotten advice such as “Have water”. Well golly fuck pumpkin, why didn’t i think of that. The solution to an issue that plagues 53% teenagers worldwide is in this Tupperware bottle. Perhaps i should also try a combination of eating food and breathing air while I’m at it. God and nature work in mysterious ways.Who knows what’ll help.
It took a lot of willpower, but i began to step out of this phase of self-loathing and seclusion and sought professional help which is also a funny story because every visit to the doctor was like a revision test for me based on what I’d already read on the web. So if she’d say “there are chemicals responsible for acne”, i’d give her a look of interest while simultaneously thinking “yeah well an imbalance of insulin and Vitamin D3 working together leading to excessive sebum production is what you mean, amateur”. Medication came into play. Medication i take till date. And it works!

So here’s what i want to say to anyone who is bothered by their severe, or even mild form of acne.
1. You are the only one who cares about your acne and what it makes your face look like. People have zero shits to give about the spots on your face. Those who point it out need to be cut-up cut off.
2. Acne is not dangerous for your social life, but more for your facial features.Skip the makeup, address the issue and don’t wait for it to sort itself out. Acne is like that aunty who will just refuse to leave unless you threaten to slit her 3 year old son’s throat if she doesn’t go. Okay maybe only i do that but you get the analogy.
3. Your face in general is not even 1% of what people are truly looking for. If you’re good-looking, it definitely is a bonus. Like it is for me. *pouts in a very Gucci way*. But if you’re average, the way you look, the way you dress up, these superficial things must never get in the way of your personal growth. I am a simpleton but i know of intelligent taxi drivers dressed in Khakis and i also know of beautiful women with the intelligence of a GI Joe.
4. Invite jokes on yourself about your acne. You can only take offense to a joke when you know you yourself are flawed. Pimples are not a flaw. Arrogance and reading Chetan Bhagat books are flaws. Laugh it off.
5. Stress is the MAIN reason for pimples and so many other diseases. Stress about pimples gives you more pimples. Ask yourself this, “Am i a dumb cunt?”. If the answer is no, then don’t get into this vicious cycle. If the answer is yes, please start reading this all over again.
6. Why should you believe me? I am studying Hotel Management. Having acne in this industry is equivalent to being blind in the Aviation Industry. And i’m doing quite well for myself because i stopped giving even half a lendi about it. You can too.
This is not normal for me, to let the general public in on things i don’t generally talk about. But i reckoned if it doesn’t bother me and if i can help someone in the bargain, why the frickity shick not.

BWOIS WILL BE BWOIS

Before I begin, let me soothe the egos of any pseudo-feminists out there with a few attributes of the feminine gender:
· All women are made of Iron which is why the term is Fe-Male.
· All women have hearts of Gold which is why the term is Au-rat.
· All women incite a greater “Whoa” quotient than men which is why the term is Woman (Whoa-man).
· All women are greater than men which is why Powerpuff Girls always defeated Mojo Jojo.
Okay? Okay.
From economic inequality to political disenfranchisement (jaldi sey Google kar lo meaning), sexism, patriarchy and rigid gender roles have affected women for centuries. But we somehow trivialize similar social constructs set for men because Marad Ko Darad Nahi Hota *lifts up a building with one hand and throws it in the ocean*.
Let me highlight for you how we as men have come to terms with these expectations and why it’s a load of kabootar ki tatti:
1. Ladkey Rotey Nahi: Now, barring Mihir Virani and his counterparts on daily soap channels, Men are often expected to have a rock solid Undertaker face in all situations. Romantic desire is a strict no no, so much so that admission to watching Romedy Now equals trying to saw your penis off with a packet of Little Hearts(Note: It is pronounced as Pen-hiss).And of course, crying is for women, because apparently tear glands are anatomically connected to the Vagina (pronounced as WagonR). The only time you’re allowed to cry is while chopping onions and that had better not be in the kitchen because that’s a woman’s domain. *Chops onions with a chainsaw while fighting a Grizzly in Costa Rica*

Somehow, society has us convinced that performing simple tasks for women is a way of showing that you are the perfect suitor for them. How does that even make sense? It’s like cheating on your wife with her best friend, losing your kid in the park, being a psychopath who murders kittens with copper wires and when your wife files for divorce, you say “What?!You’re leaving me? But what about the time when I opened that door for you in that restaurant?” This ridiculous logic is known as:
2. Chivalry, (pronounced as Women Are Crippled When It Comes to Opening Doors) a concept which came into existence around the 14th century, roughly around the time the latest episode of Sherlock came out. Back then, the concept dictated ethics to be followed by Knights during war, and gave various liberties to these warriors, including a phenomenon where it was totes cool for a knight to engage in a relationship with any woman regardless of his/her marital status. This was called Courtly Love, and makes me wonder why Tiger Woods was never knighted. In more Desi terms, back then, even if you started a conversation with “Chalo Disco Mein Jayein Jayein” but were a legit Knight, there’d still be 250 different women inviting you to their Axe Boat Party.However in the modern day, this term has evolved from being a general code of conduct to an absolutely imperative set of qualities that all men must possess if they want to have a remotely romantic life outside of Tinder, or so they’re made to believe by BuzzFeed and their 27 angles from which you can pull a chair for your girlfriend to make her feel special.
3. YOU ARE A GAY: In India, LGBT rights are a shushed topic of discussion because Maa Ambey Gauri may get extremely cheesed off and make Karan Johar bleed on your front porch if one man even touches another man’s hand while handing over a remote. Because of this developed mind-set that most Indians share, being or claiming to be gay is now viewed as a severe decline in masculinity, and is almost a form of an abuse which severely restricts men from being open about their emotions. You will find people, who have not been educated even for an hour in their entire lives, tell their male friends, “Bhai tu gay hai kya?” for simply opening up about their love for Tupperware or for calling one or two men good-looking. Offending people often garners responses such as, “You are a gay go to Pakistan”. Yes, because I will be received by Bilawal Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif holding hands and making out to Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ and petals coming out of AK-47s, because you know,Pakistan is quite liberal like that.
4. Mubarak ho, Na-mard hua hai: Our society is such that a woman is viewed as a weak and timid mouse continually oppressed by the demonic cat, a Man. Our society has obviously never watched Tom and Jerry.
Having said that, I must say, our progressive minds are the reason India has no poverty, no corruption and no religious conflicts. Another example of how our society is our open-mindedness to sex change. For example, a man, if he raises his hand on a woman, is justifiably called “Na-Mard”, which is basically a chemistry pun which says “You are Sodium evil”. But the same man, upon receiving a thrashing from his wife (I’ve learnt to never mess with my maid) is labelled as “Na-Mard” all over again. Make up your mind society, are you oppressing women or uplifting them?
5. Will you marry me? : Because of certain rules set by Bollywood, it is a common perception that when asking a girl for her hand in marriage (After you have made sure that her Hi-Man is intact and that she hasn’t even looked at a GI Joe in an awkward way), a guy is supposed to first chase her, court her and then finally eat the samosas Jo Usney Apney Haatho Sey Banaye Hai, while the lady, in her pink frock from the 80s, jumps around with a badminton racket in her hand. Gone are the days when Men used to just go up to a woman and tell her that his heart is the shape of her initials. Does anyone have any idea how many little 1×1 millimetre pieces our underwear gets torn into before even approaching a woman? And to add to that, Indian men have the genetics of a commode, so we literally have nothing to impress women with.

Patriarchy has often been construed as a phenomenon affecting only women, but many fail to realize that men have always had a set of rules, a code of conduct to be followed SET BY other men AND re-iterated by women without even allowing the poor chap to offer his thoughts. What all of us fail to understand is that the more rigid Men become, the harder it becomes for women to get through their already thick skulls and gender inequality will persevere and ultimately win.
I am not asking men to do breast-strokes in glycerine and to weep at the sight of two flowers touching, but perhaps it is time we do away with this stone-faced, stone-hearted approach towards life only to regret not having done things which really make us happy.Join the army, or be a part of a professional kitchen, watch Ryan Gosling make out with Rachel McAdams or watch Arnab make out with himself. Just do what you like!

To end, I would like to say: Fuck off Scooty Pep.                                                 Bwois will have all the fun.
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Unki Pasand Ka Article

Entertainment in India is unique and exclusive to this heavily woman respecting, misogynist hating, allowing-women-to-visit-the-temple-even-if-they-are-menstruating-ing sub-continent. As a nation, we are firmly against the objectification of women. In fact, we promote the talents of Ex-Ex-Ex-adult actresses who want to get over their previous careers by acting in hilarious non-explicit comedies, such as Mastizadey , who’s poster has Sunny Leone holding three balloons in each hand which resemble the crotch of a Labrador( in this case, a Labrador by the name of Tushaar. I am sorry for the comparison, Labrador Community). Apart from soft-core, Indian entertainment personalities also specialise in Daily Soaps, where the universally accepted (Universe=Every country minus India) rule of Office Work: Men::Women: Maid/Baby Dispenser helps women relate to the fact of life that Aloo ko teen seeti key baad pressure cooker sey nikalna hai.

Quite recently my Mom called me to her room to scold me for my existence, and I found some very two-maids-fighting sounds coming from her room. Intrigued, or rather because my dim future prospects make breathing the most exciting task in my regular day, I went in to investigate and saw her watching TV. On it were a man and a woman fighting over burnt Dal in a kitchen (It was only when the woman called the man Saasu-Maa did I realize my mistake in ascertaining her gender.)I sat down to watch the show because my Dad was busy wiping blood from his burst ear drums while watching Times Now on the other TV, and instantaneously began to observe a string of absolutely bizarre events which took place on the show. If you’ve ever seen or like watching daily soaps, you cannot be my friend anymore, you will have observed the following things:
· It is painfully obvious that the head of the family and her husband skipped that very important class where your teacher talks to you about “birth control and Condo-STOP GIGGLING YOU PERVERTED 15 YEAR OLD!”, considering the number of children boys she’s given birth to. You, the unfortunate viewer, can establish the hierarchy in this sweet brotherhood by how much gel each brother applies on his hair and also how much muscle you can see through his suit, which as fashion trends from 2001 demand, must be at least three sizes smaller. You are also likely to find, depending how mind-blending the plot is, a very masculine yet feminine but mostly masculine sister because suddenly God decided Fuck yeh zyada ladka log ho gaya yeh lo random extra Y-chromosome so that Women’s Rights don’t mess with Ekta Kapoor.
Okay pop-fill-in-the-blanks-test for you guys:
1. The first one to get married in this series of siblings is__________.
2. The one who gets as much education as any MLA is_________.  
3. The one who beats up boys but becomes a wet cuddly cat when a Bollywood reject turned low budget Producer’s hero of choice walks past her is________.
· If there is any commotion which has to take place amongst the team players of FC Khaandaan, it always occurs in the middle of the circular pattern of the centremost carpet in the absolute centre of the drawing room. Now, cat-fight is a spectator sport and in this case the spectators are the supremely unemployed(Although the male members do often throw around the statement “Main daftar jaa rahaa hu. Mera tiffin pack kar do Chef Bonded Labour/Wife I once married because of peer pressure and my constant desire to subdue someone” now and then) members of the family. Now this is key: These guys are faster than the Fire Department, reaching the site of the quarrel with a dabba of ghee and LPG to put out the fire. Usually, the fight occurs between the Husband and Wife who feature on the promo page of the serial. The fight will be about how the Wife’s hair is tied in a bun and the Husband assumes the Wife has cheated on him, stolen his money, poisoned his chawal, kicked his mother in her anus and has single handedly led to the downfall of the economy. The fight is very equally matched with the Husband accusing his wife and she in turn apologizing profusely by touching his feet in full chakra-asana. *Members pour ghee like gangajal*.
· If Marriage was a career option, women in Serials would be the Steve Jobs of it. Normal babies are draped in a blanket upon birth, Daily Soap women are draped in a Saree accessorized with Sindoor and the recipe for the mysterious gothic buffet known only as “Unki Pasand Ka Khaana”. Mothers are the Taliban of households, brainwashing their child and making her practice Rotis till it goes from being the outline of the Tanzanian border to a perfect circle which will,rest assured, be checked with a protractor by her future “Pati-Dev”, when he’s back from the Land of Daftar. It is etched into their brains that the only degree they will ever see is the temperature knob on the Induction-Chula, and that any attempts to develop a hobby will be killed faster than my brain cells while watching Taarak Mehta.
· “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” is a very inaccurate expression in the world of Serials. The man’s heart IS his stomach and professional Bahus have understood this from their wide ranging culinary expertise taught at the Insitute of Mayeka and Female Foeticide.Instead of 3 Michelin star restaurants, the rating system in Serials is 3 Compliments from different male members of the house. Newlywed brides have to go through a Masterchef Intra-Parivaar where the competitors are Ramu Kaka(duh!), Elder Bahu and the Fresh Meat herself. And agar khaana ganda hua, the Bahu is automatically designated to Baby Making and Satisfying Sex Deprived Husband sector of the household, which has automatically been certified by said Husband on the “Suhaag Raat”, which basically translates to “Hey gurl I know we just met but now we’re married so I’m going to have sex with you whether you like it or not….whoa whoa whoa this isn’t rape! We’re married, remember?!??”

I can never do complete justice to describing all the events in this massive Circus we call the entertainment business. On one hand, on this land of a million Gods, there exist female deities we bow down to, and on the other we have such ridiculous shows where women aren’t financially independent and headstrong characters, but are nothing more than labourers and sex machines.I understand the constant need to make profits, but how about as responsible content producers, these Entertainment Honchos start coming up with not characters we empathize with, but characters which encourage women to break the shackles of patriarchy.
(Trust me on my take of the suffering of Bahus. I’m a Hotel Management student.)

By Chirag Shukla

HAPPY UN-BREATHABLE AIR TO YOU!

If there are two things Indians love to boast about to the world, it’s, “HEY LISTEN GORI CHAMDI WE IS MADE THE ZERO OKAY YOU ARE SHUNYA IN FRONT OF US”, and of course, our rich culture (Aurat kee jagah kitchen mein hotee hai, one bite of Beef Chilli Fry= 1000 automatic shraap, Every Levi’s outlet is a brothel etc.) and the festivals which come from it.
The thing with Indians and festivals is that we like to instantly cover up the stupidity of the festival by calling it something spiritual and making it sound like all of it originated in the monasteries of Tibet. And today happens to be “The Festival of Lights”.*Fire-flies floating in air, Monks praying, Dalai Lama watching in background*

Typically, the festival of Diwali begins on Facebook, weeks prior to the main event. This particular phase really wants me to throw my laptop like a boomerang across the faces of people updating statuses like, “Diwali should not be celebrated because it is bad for environment and if you have any shame, you will not light a single fire cracker otherwise go to Pakistan”. Such people land up with one Fuljhadi and a match-box and feel like they’ve just opened an NGO to save the Sunder bans. Then there are those shit nuggets who post things like,” Every single fire-cracker you burn kills >Insert totally made up death statistic here<. Save animals.” with a picture of a dead Pikachu in the background. These are the same people who believe that PETA is bread that goes really well with Hummus. Finally, there are the “This year date a Pataka, don’t burn one” people who think that their joke is absolutely original and must feature on OnAIRWithAIB.

Then, as the date comes closer, the Diwali shopping phase begins. This involves buying sweets which when consumed, have enough oil to provoke the USA to invade your arteries (Let me clarify that I am not complaining here. If I had to choose between my family and Gulab Jamun, I wouldn’t think twice before putting myself up for adoption). Jazzy clothes that can only be viewed through Ray Bans are a must as well. And then comes the main ingredient for a safe and prosperous Diwali: PATAKEY. Explosives in India are bought with dedication enough to put ISIS to shame. These crackers are named in a fashion to make one believe that each ‘Rassi Bomb’ has a blast radius of 4Kms and contains sub-critical spheres of Plutonium-239. These are then bought by the kilo along with small armaments like Fuljhadi and Anaars. (Can someone explain to me the physics behind the Chakkar-ginni? HOW DOES THAT THING BEYBLADE?)
Finally, the date arrives and most people get excited as if Scarlett Johansson has agreed to be the mother of their children.
So in India Diwali is celebrated by 3 kinds of people:

  • The “OMG OMG ITS DIWALI I WILL GET UP AND SNORT GUNPOWDER AND LIGHT 50,000 ANAARS AND BURN SOMEONES HOUSE LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!!” type.
  • The “Diwali is like so ugh like so much pollution and like such downmarket people celebrating and like let’s celebrate Halloween like I’m going with my friends to Staah-Bucks like…” type.
  • My type. I.e., staring outside the window looking at Homo sapiens lighting crackers and imagining what having friends must feel like and wondering why I’m fat while simultaneously stuffing myself with Kaala Jaam and Moti Choor.

The first kind are more relevant to this bullshit that I’m typing because I feel I am funny article.
These people will go out on the streets and convert every single tree around them into passive smokers. And of course, one visit to Marine Drive on Diwali is enough to feature your tar-filled Fenfdey before every movie in cinema halls. Post-Diwali Marine Drive looks like my room.
And that concludes Diwa-NO!
Like good Samaritans of society, everyone decides to get completely rid of all firecrackers BY BLOWING THEM UP DAYS AFTER DIWALI IS OVER. And then truly, the festival concludes.

Indians have been celebrating Diwali since the invention of the most important component of Fire-crackers: Child labour. And for all these years, much like Hash Tags, the concept has eluded them. Our mythological books (Wikipedia) suggest that the festival is a celebration welcoming Lord Ram, whose wife had been kidnapped by Raavan. Lord Ram then went to Sri Lanka by Air India (the air hostesses still tell tales to passengers of when they first saw him), where he found his wife and killed Raavan. So basically Lord Ram was the Liam Neeson of mythology. The festival therefore denotes the victory of good over evil. The people of Ayodhya then welcomed Lord Ram by lighting up the city with earthen lamps which they’d ordered from Amazon.com, who had already begun their Diwali sales. What is amusing is that nowhere in mythology does it suggest that Lord Ram entered the city with IEDs and other explosives going off all around him. Ayodhya was in India, not Afghanistan.

The whole concept of fire-crackers for celebration has been construed by modern society, without realizing the environmental repercussions of it. I mean fuck, as if the billions of other sources of pollution weren’t enough. Admit it: We as Indians are extremely stupid to be indulging in such ridiculous activities. No one’s asking you to celebrate Diwali sitting with a matchstick for crackers and bread-butter-jam for sweets. Just always know that there is a limit to everything before Nature detonates a Rassi Bomb in the anus of Mankind. Because the truth is that every year that we celebrate such festivals, we move towards the script of Interstellar becoming a reality and there may or may not be any Matthew McConaughey or Alfred to save us. (Haan bas theek hai I know his name is Michael Caine and not Alfred. Hum bhi Hoollywood dekhta hoon).

I will end this blog with a quote from the Ramayan. This is the monologue which took place between Lord Ram and Raavan, after the latter had kidnapped Sita and retreated to Unawatuna Beach:
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are
looking for a ransom I can tell you I don’t have money, but what I do
have are a particular set of skilled monkeys. Monkeys I have acquired
over a very long banishment. Monkeys that make me a nightmare for
people like you. If you let my wife go now that’ll be the end of it.
I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look
for you, I will find you, and I will kill you
.”
Thenks 4 redin.

PEOPLE BEGAN READING THIS WRITE-UP. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WILL SHOCK YOU…

If you’ve ever read a newspaper, you know, that bundle of paper which your mom lays on the shelves of your cupboard, you’ll find that it consists of only 20% content which actually matters to you. The rest is just vague information that’s as irrelevant as my affection for Maggie Top Ramen.Facebook Newsfeeds are something along those lines.
When I joined Facebook way back in 201JustHitPuberty, it was all about messaging each other and creating Facebook Pages like “Friends 4EVA n evaaa….”, and forcefully adding your friends to it. It was a simple means of communication and stalking profiles of people who ordinarily wouldn’t touch you with a 10m pole. Nd if I typd a sntnce lik dis 1, nobody would actually crawl into my arse and make it their life’s goal to ensure I use all the required letters. (Admit it, your face twitches when you c a sntnce wich has a rong grammer.)
Facebook has now transformed from being a social networking site to being a public forum which promotes “Please bhai, main bhi hu” syndrome. It is beyond me as to why people want to share with everyone what they ate for dinner, what movie they’re watching, what time they shat, what they had to drink, how many breaths they took and various inane things of that sort. And since Facebook SOP dictates, “You didn’t do it if you didn’t click a picture of it”, an attached photograph is a must. Of course, since everyone is so insecure they’ll look like obscene images of KRK skinny dipping, photographs are filtered. And while everyone’s using their phones like virtual Aquaguards, what they don’t realize is that it really makes no difference. To me, if you look fit only to act in A-Rated Bhojpuri movies, no amount of filtration can change that. Get over it.
(Top ObtuseFactor tip: Uploading Instagram photos on Facebook  #makes#people#want#to#kill#you#in##violent #manner #InstaMoron#InstaGetALife)

Another thing which annoys me the most(Just after Arnab’s larynx)is the content of links put up by various pages and people tagging their friends in it. Clicking on links such as “http/:/22-images-that-will-shock-you.bullshit.com” is like going for a Rohit Shetty movie. You know it’s going to be crap, but you’ll go anyway because everyone is going for it and you have ample time on your hands. On Scoop Whoop, for example,  there are“35 Photos of Arjun Rampal That Prove He Is Fine Wine”. I don’t need 35 photos of Arjun Rampal to know that I actually look like Mika Singh. That’s like giving 35 reasons why Indians hate Parval and Tinda. Information that useless belongs on Aaj Tak, not my Facebook Timeline.
But most importantly, there is a phenomenon on Facebook which has surfaced over the past few years which is: Doing anything and everything to become a socially acceptable. I’ve taken to calling it, Sherlyn Chopra-ism.For example, a news article under the headline “Rahul Gandhi Calls Champak Stupid and Favours Chacha Chowdhry” will attract statuses such as “Champak is the best set of books I have ever read and Rahul Gandhi, if you’re reading this, shame on you and your entire family Teri maa ki-“ just because everyone’s talking about it.(I mean seriously, half of you thought Mayweather was a prediction made by the Meteorological Department.) Stop trying so hard. After all, nobody really cared for Sherlyn’s nudes.(Mostly because everyone was scared she might have three nipples.)
I think everyone needs to pause for a moment and understand that the purpose of Social Networking is not to satiate our continuous desire to ‘Belong’, but to extend our social agendas and interactions beyond physical realms.  It is a platform for you to be yourself, and when you do that, society will adapt to you. Here’s 27 Reasons Why.