Rakhi Sawant and the Paki T80UD

I'll be honest.It wasn't easy growing up in a Bangla family.It wasn't easy growing up in a Bangla family,in New Delhi.

There I was, going about my business,being brainwashed and being made to believe that the old man in pictures,cartoons and sculptures I recognized as Zeus was in fact Tagore.., that eating fish was actually beneficial, and discovering reasons as to why Swami Vivekananda was such a perfect long distance boyfriend to all the grannies around....I read and heard the journalists and opinion leaders....cough cough english news channels and print media cough....when Bam, I was exposed to the world of  whiskey, superficiality, low IQ, HUGE egos, attractive women, big cars, laal battis, teen pattis, black money and networking.

So naturally I was hooked.

The language mind you, was a bonus.

It was all so easy all of a sudden. I didn't need to know about the politics of Azerbaijan,or Bengal, or Delhi. I didn't need to know how to play classical music on the guitar. I didn't need to try and understand communism or why Ganguly was the greatest captain of all time*blows a raspberry*...I didn't need to read Amartya Sen.... Hell, I didn't even need to know how to read!!

Oh yes all so easy.

Or so I thought.

See, you can't expect a kid who's gone out to play football to not come back home with a bucket's worth of dirt.

Or so I thought.

My bucket full of dirt was well, up there all in the head ( I never played football that much) And because my family likes to keep the house clean, the tiny bucket of my new found set of skills, ideologies,dreams and ambitions to them was probably as violent an outrage, like  someone driving a Pakistani T80UD with a dildo barrell cap covered in Rakhi Sawant posters into the living room and then got Sania Mirza in 'S' sized clothing to sing their anthem during a rehearsal for a Tagore tribute gig....for his uhm.. death anniversary...I wonder if they'd have similar objections to a Bangladeshi tank.....but then again, I'm not sure if they have any...nevermind....The point is it was tough.

The South Indian community was sympathetic...but nice people that they are, they never said much.Their kids  had access to something I didn't. A magical plant with the power to cure the entire world's manic depressives.No wonder they;d smile all the time. Bastards.

Aah, those were the good days, where the solution to all problems was found in hockey sticks,brass knuckles, beer strong enough to sedate an elephant, loud commercial music with obscene lyrics and chicken tikka masala.I shouldn't forget imported duty free little soldiers of death....and of course dumb chicks with no brains. Dumb HOT chicks with no brains. The brains didn't matter then. I was actually doing very well in athletics and sports during that time...and of course heavy maetaal.

But then again, I was only bengali. I could take only so much. So thankfully my prayers to God(the one and only...not one of the Nobel/Pulitzer/Booker prize winners for god's sake..) were answered and I found myself in a nice little city(by Delhi standards) called Pune, in a state that seems to think of it'self a separate country of sorts...which totally makes sense now.

We Indians believe we're immune to culture shock...but boy does it happen. All of a sudden, if you stepped on people's toes, they'd apologize to you....what's more they'd smile and wink. All of a sudden there was no risk of getting shot if you gave that guy who was tailgating you on ring road, a description of your late night activities with his sister. All of a sudden, cars came without cricket bats. Or baseball bats. Or hockey sticks.

And they had cheap amazing street food.

And then it all came flooding back...the photography,the art,the music,the hypocrisy,the laziness,the argumentativeness, the will to read.

Did I mention their cheap,amazing street food?

It was all going great until...well, I received a few calls from a bunch of wankers who it seemed couldn't score with a girl I may have slept with. It was their way of restoring their pride. It's all clear as to why north Indian guys like big fancy cars. They can't help but overcompensate for their lack of size of .. .uhm  the bundles of......certificates and degrees...which are essentially interesting bits of paper that bongs use to overcompensate for their lack of wealth and business sense.

But that was all it took, a tiny little spark, to bring out that loin of Punjab, the risky jaat after whiskey out of it's drunken slumber. If their language was colorful, my retorts were a fucking work of art. It all came back to me. Like this flash from nowhere. A divine intervention if you will. I feel new.And shiny.

I'm going back to Delhi soon, and I've realized, that you could take a boy out of Delhi, but you could never take that city of that boy...no matter where he traces his roots back to or what language he may have spoken at home. Its a jungle out there really.

A jungle with really cheap booze.

Scary thought.

The "KILLA" Need I say more...?