Wednesday, July 21, 2010

My colored chuddies

Holi. The festival of colors. The festival of happiness. The festival where high society everyday parlor visiting aunties don’t worry about their skin being ravaged with the most dangerous chemicals known to mankind. The festival where the health ministry doesn’t mind kids getting loaded on the many different compounds derived from a plant called Cannabis Sativa The festival where lonely insecure males suffering from serious inaction get to watch women have their clothes sticking to them, and take full opportunity in drenching other women, while threatening to shoot other males from doing the same to their sisters.The festival where you can’t make out whether your stepping on cow piss, someone else’s piss or your piss.The festival where you can beat the crap out of someone ,drench him in gasoline and cow dung, and not feel bad about it. Bura na mano, Holi Hai.

Kiss my colored Chuddies.

I take offence every time some lame ass guy tries to throw a water balloon on me. I feel like taking his pitchkari and shoving it up his posterior. Every time someone targets me with a water filled rubber balloon, I make a mental note to come back and give that person hell and I normally succeed. There’s something very satisfying about tormenting young people and turning their joy into horror. It’s all well and done on that day, but seriously a week before? Hey tell you what, I’m going to shoot you today, because you’d have died on holi choking on ladoos anyway.

I was never a very Holi person. The only thing I really looked forward to was getting loaded on bhang. But then again, I didn’t really need an excuse to get loaded on that stuff. To me it was holier (take it whichever way you want to) than liquor. The very prospect of being covered with everything from harmless organics to chemicals to grease to eggs to motor oil to mud to the water that’s supplied by the government in the city of Delhi is unappealing.(Unless of course I’m playing with a really attractive girl who I’m sure to score with and end up taking a shower with later, in which case permanent colors are my best friends, the more stubborn the better.)

Come to think of it, all Indian festivals pretty much seem pointless these days. They all have the same purpose anyway. Bring people together, and watch them get stoned. No one really asks themselves why they’re aggressively rubbing color on to each other. Or why the fuck they’re bursting crackers. “That’s what you’re supposed to do” is probably what they’d say if asked. With every new generation, the Indian race seems to be getting more distant from why they’re doing it, to just doing it for the heck of it.

I don’t blame them. If you want to place the blame on something, I could blame the parents for not bringing them up right, or the RSS for not putting any of that stuff into NCERT textbooks, the education system in this country for filling the memories with bullshit , so there’s very little space for the stories and reasons grandmother’s feed in to the brilliant minds of the next generation of egg pelting wannabe Engineers, Rahul Mahajan, I could go on.

I’m frustrated. I haven't been with a girl for months, I might have to repeat a year, I can’t smoke cause I quit.And to top it of, Holi is a fucking dry day. I can't write anymore. Bura na mano Holi hai. dshsadhfasodhfhdf.


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