Hinglish Humour
Incredible India
An Indian parent…
“ Mummy, dekho kutta potty kar raha hai !”
“( Name – generally a syllable followed by AAN ) bete, ‘ kutta ’ nahi bolte – ‘ doggy ’ bolo. Say ‘ Doggy ’ !”
“ Mummy, dekho doggy potty kar raha hai !”
“ No darling, not ‘ potty ’! Say ‘ poo-poo ’! …”
“ OK Mummy, doggy poo-poo kar raha hai.”
“ Now say it English.”
“ Mom, doggy is doing poo-poo.”
“ Good Boy !” (Pun unintended)
After a few minutes…
“ Mummy, susu aa raha hai…”
A smouldering glare ensues…
“ Oh sorry. Mumma can I go pee-pee ?”
Meanwhile, an NRI parent abroad…
“ Bete, Mummy se bolna kude waala aaya hai ..”
“ Kude – what ?! Dad, say it in English.”
“ Can you tell Mom the garbage truck is here ? (Angez ki aulaad…) ”
Thirteen commuters mystify
I have been a Delhi Metro regular for three months now and the ladies compartment never ceases to amaze me. There are some very distinct types of women in this battle zone which any discerning eye is unlikely to miss. I have, bravely if I may add, attempted to categorize a few as under. Any resemblance to actual persons is coincidentally intentional.
Relentless Raiders : These women will attack the vacant compartment seats with full force and at breakneck speed the second the doors open, pushing and flattening the disembarking junta aside. It is not even important whether they really need a seat or not. The Padma Ati Vibhushan is at stake. And if they miss out, they will just instruct the sitting ducks to move apart with a wave of hand, and without uttering a monosyllable, wedge their butts at any acute or obtuse angle just for the thrill of managing to get a seat.
Cacophonies : The ladies in this category are brimming with superhuman zeal to let the Metro masses know who is having an affair with who, what happened in yesterday’s episode of ‘Tu Sooraj Main Saanjh Piyaji’, and why suddenly Mrs Vermaji from the neighbourhood has started wearing knee length skirts. And lest anyone miss a word they are saying whilst talking casually with their besties, they make sure they are audible even to those with sub-subnormal auditory range at the opposite end of the coach.
Sidelong glancers : These are the weaker cousins of Relentless Raiders. Having not managed a seat and being too cowardly to attempt a butt hold, they will keep staring at you accusingly for sitting on the trip while they are forced to travel standing, till the guilt makes you hang your head down in shame. Nothing escapes the corner of their eyes – no even the slightest hint of a movement. Adjust your bag this way or that or shuffle in your seat ever so slightly, and they come pouncing in your direction assuming you are signaling the relinquishment of your throne.
Mouth chatterers : Mouth chatterers are the womaniyas who the instant they walk inside the Metro compartment, open their pitaaras and potlis and take out a shop’s worth of gajjak / mathries / namkeens / moohfallies, paying no heed to the detail that eating food is not allowed therein. And chatter, chatter chatter their mouths go… while they open hotstar on their smartphones and tune into the perplexing ordeal of ‘Jeet Gayi Toh Piya Morey’. The crumbs of the said food items are philanthropically left behind for the chirping birds to feast upon.
Zen Masters : Cool dudenis who are unaffected by the raiders and the cacophonies and by the chaos and the conundrum. They can be seen standing remotely in a sweet corner looking bemusedly at the world across with disdain, listening to music on their headphones, oblivious to the strife of lesser mortals.
Chandni Chowkers : The commuters who board the Metro from Chandni Chowk station in the evening after having spent the entire day rummaging through every miniscule item being sold at cheap rates at every nondescript shop of the labyrinthine bazaar. They enter the compartment with boxes and sacks tucked under each arm and over the head, and then spread them all over the coach for everyone to see – spellbound and awestruck, while they dazzle with aplomb in the sweet bargain glory.
Yoginis : These damsels can balance and twist themselves into any shape and form in any free crevice of the compartment. They don’t need a bar or a pole to hold onto… they can support themselves on one foot if need be, and read Chetan Bhagat’s latest bestseller with one hand and take selfies with the other, if the situation calls for it.
Note Copiers : These are the busybees headed towards Vishwavidyalaya on a Monday morning with their heads anchored in each other’s notes / project reports, furiously copying them down. Because amidst the parties and the social and family obligations on the weekend, time defies all written laws of Physics and inexplicably runs out.
Floor Ranies: Patriotic women who are fans of everything Indian (including sitting cross legged on the floor) as well as The Swach Bharat Abhiyaan. So when duty calls and they chance upon the dusty floors in the Metro, they rush in to do their bidding and clean them up with their bottoms, immune to the irritating microphone banter “ Kripya metro ke farsh par na baithein…”
Curious peekers : Curiousity killed the cat. But not these oh-so-casual voyeurs who are sitting or standing next to you and nonchalantly peeking into your phone, wondering aloud who you are holding hands with on facebook and why, how tacky your selfie /dp looks, what were you thinking wearing that hideous dress…etc etc. And when you catch them staring, they smugly look away in a flash of a second, assuming reassuringly that they were not caught in the act.
Teletaskers : Ever the multitaskers, these stris are seen and heard passing loud and clear instructions on their phones on the Metro. “ Hello !! .. Haanji ! .. Sun rahe ho ? .. Main bol rahi hun .. Kyaa ?!!! ” which continues into “ Kaam waali se kehna 7 roti banayegi aaj. Aur sabji mein namak kaam daalegi. Aur haan, dahi jamane ko keh dena usko … Aur, Aur – are poori baat to suno – use kehna bartan saaf karke jayegi…” The khichhdi continues simmering.
Touch-me-nots and squealers : These women are the ones who want at least a meter long human-free perimeter around them. Even your bags should not enter these red zones. Their eyes will start rolling in their sockets if you dare to hold the bar close to their designated space. And if you’d somehow shove them accidentally or step on them by mistake in a crowded compartment, all hell would break lose as they’d turn into squealers crying a shrill “Ouch!!” even if your erring hand or foot had barely managed to touch them.
Refuse-to-budgers : Ladies who’d position themselves right at the door entrance whispering sweet nothings into the speakers of their mobiles ( “ Main aaj kaisi lag rahi thi ?”… “ Tumne to mujhe compliment bhi nahi diya.” …and some such nauseating nonsense), refusing to move inside the compartment. No dirty looks, no polite taps on the shoulders, and no nudges from the angry passengers getting in and out can unfaze them. They stand resolute and strong, very ‘pehredaar’ like.
The author of this piece, meanwhile, is trying ever so earnestly to transform herself from a dumbstruck and occasionally irritable commuter into a zen master. Her headphones, incidentally, broke on the Metro today, while she was attempting to get off at her destination station in one piece.
Driver seat
An apparent apparition of an appalling agglomeration of apparel.
Have you often wondered how the Indian parents unfailingly and unflinchingly, never miss a chance to embellish and adorn your wardrobe in front of others ? It is a known fact that larger the audience to listen to their tribulations, taller are the claims. And the more you deny those claims, the more ridiculous those exaggerations get. So beware and tread carefully and watch out for these weapons in their armoury.
Clothes, clothes everywhere, not a single one to wear
This is the time when you have just dropped a hint of an inclination to buy a nice outfit, for an upcoming wedding or a party, and pat comes the whacking wail , “ Har baar kehte ho ki kuch pehnne ko nahi hai. Phir almaariyon mein kya pada hai ? Har das din mein kuch naya kapda to khareedte rehte ho. Wo sab kab kaam aayega ?”
Shopper’s Paradise
Try leaving your clothes carelessly in the house. Go for it, give it a shot. Before the seconds hand strikes 12, you will hear a voice booming and echoing across the walls…“ Har kamre mein isi ke kapde hain. Sari almariyaan bhar rakhi hain. Hamare kapde to do khano mein aa jaate hain. Dukaan lagake rakhi hai, dukaan…Ek board laga dete hain ghar ke bahaar – ‘ Kapde hi Kapde : Verma ji and son’.”
The guilt
The Bhramastra in the armamentarium. A design to make you realize your sins. “ Jitne paison mein tere saal bhar ke kapde aaye hain na, utne mein to hamaari chhoti car aa jaati.”
The exponential factor
No matter how many clothes or shoes you have – few or many, this number is aggrandized by a variable factor ranging from 10 to infinity, by the Indian parents in front of your relatives or family friends. For instance, “ 200 T shirts hain iss ke paas.. 200. Kali T shirts hi 30-40 hongi. Ek hi rang (blue!) ki kam-se-kam 20-25 jeans..” While you are left mouth agape with incredulity, overwhelmed by this calculation, trying to wonder where those 200 T shirts are tucked away, your parents have already moved on to how many shades of purple they counted in your wardrobe yesterday.
The space constraint and the alternatives
If you have dared to buy new clothes from the mall, make sure you quietly sneak them into the house. Lest you want to hear this – “ Phir kapde khareed layi. Kahan hai jagah iss ghar mein, bataa. Kahan rakhegi inko… mere sur pe ?”
Comparative and Superlative
Whether in school or college or work, be it marks or awards or salary, comparing their kids to others is inherent to Indian parenthood. So your wardrobe too, is unlikely to escape the sharp, mindful eye. “ Behenji, itne jute hain hamare ghar mein, main kya bataun. Utne jute to Jayalalithaa ke paas bhi nahi the.”
Do Jodi Jute
“ Hamare zamaane mein…” is the song of every parent. And it is sung at home at least once a day. So if you have too much footwear ‘for your own good,’ you would know these lyrics by heart…“ Chhatisson prakaar ke jute. Har colour ki sandal. Inhe to jute bhi matching chaiyyein. Hamne to poore college do jodi juton mein hi kaam chalaa liya tha.”
The Queen’s obsession
The British left our shores many years ago but this doesn’t stop us from obsessing over their monarchy every now and then. So if your cupboard abounds with apparel, you have a fair chance of being equated to a king or a queen. “ Ek Queen of England hai. Ek hamaari Queen hai. Kapde bhi baraabar ki takkar ke hone chaiyyein.”
Calendrical guesstimates
This is borne out of gigantic amplifications matched by an astute knowledge of days and weeks and months. “ Itne kapde hai hamare suputra ke paas, ki har roz agar alag-alag kapde pehnega, to bhi 6 mahine mein koi repeat nahi hoga.”
Foreign returned
No one can escape their parents’ elaborate renditions of their foreign travels and the trips abroad. Those accounts can be applied everywhere in their lives, and used to tackle every situation by merely substituting a few words and phrases here and there. They only have to start off by interrupting any conversation saying, “ Jab main vilaayat gaya tha…” So in the notorious case of ‘your wardrobe situation,’ the blanks will be filled thus – “Jab main vilaayat gaya tha, to ek attaichee thi mere paas. Jitne kapde-jute leke gaya tha, unhi ko teen saal chalaya. Aaj ki generation ko dekho.”
Murphy’s law states that no matter what the size of your wardrobe, it will always be the subject of speculation, judgment, exclamation and comment amongst your parents and bagal waali auntyjis. Addition of any item before the stipulated ‘appropriate time’ would land you in the way of stormy questioning and saucy critique. And any attempt to convince the world of your dire need to buy a shirt for your office, or replace your shredded underwear, or purchase a pair of sneakers for the gym, will be pointless and unavailing. There is, lamentably, no escape button, mes amis.
Mumbai Diaries
My tryst with Mumbai began with a dislike for the city, admixed with frustration and confusion. The houses and the PGs were pigeonholes, on top of which, when I went around looking for a single room, the frequent question was, “ Share nahi karna hai ? Kyun ?” After much cajoling and convincing, that some human beings (read this Central Delhi brat) need their personal space and can’t always ‘ adjust ’, I got habituated to being shown tiniscule, windowless cubes that rented at 10K per month, until I found one I could fit into. The killer humidity could put Delhi’s 48 degrees of scorching heat to shame. I did not understand the city’s obsession with vada-paos (those sauceless, mayoless burgers) and naming every third park after ‘ Naana-Naani.’ There were no excuse-mees to ask for way, but a curt ‘ Baaju !’ And shockingly, people made kissing sounds in order to beckon someone. When the rains came, it was a four month long thunderous downpour, that clogged the drains while we took the ‘riks’ and swam in muck and sewage en route to work.
A year later, I found myself as an Mch resident at Tata Memorial Hospital (TMH), getting used to conquering the trials and tribulations. The green see-through scrubs with the pajamas inexplicably ripped at the bottom seams ( Was it our fatty posteriors ?… Or our gassy interiors ?) that we made a dash for in the morning, carrying a mental checklist – “ Check the naada, check for holes behind and below…” The Tuesday staple sabuddana khichhdi which the TMH cafeteria single handedly ruined for everybody. In all these years I always wondered who the 1% fasting staff was, for whom this evening naashta was intended. Not to mention, the upma and the poha, which everyone had more than a lifetime’s share of. Working for 16 hours as a first year and then getting calls in the dead of the night with a voice squeaking “ Doctor, Bed number 123 ka urine output only 800ml hai.” While some would reply politely and tell the sister not to worry, others would put in a tongue in cheek like “ Itna susu to maine bhi raat bhar nahi kiya.” Learning another language was always difficult but a few Marathi phrases got me through – “ Tikre zopa ”, “ Ghaabru naaka ”, “ Saieel soda ” ,“ Pot aatmade ghya ” and the requsite “ Thaamba!”, ” Laukar !” and ” Patkan !”
In all those five years, I never realized how Mumbai grew on me. Days were long and arduous at the hospital, but a hearty laugh expunged all the aches and pains. No matter what the patient load, no matter what the odds, things got done – biopsies, PCNs and CT scans, physician referrals, emergency explorations and OT lists. And even then, it was never too late for a sea side stroll or a movie in the city that never sleeps. When the TMH cafeteria botched up the dinner, Canara and Aditi fed the Tata inmates. Catching the sunrise at Marine Drive on a Sunday, or gorging on lunch at Pizza by the Bay, the joyride never stopped. And before you knew it, you were salivating at the sight of vada- paos and swaying to songs on your headphones, oblivious to the rain and the traffic. ‘ Chalega ’ had replaced ‘ Theek hai ’, ‘ Ek number !’ had kicked out ‘ Ye baat !’, ‘ Mast hai ’ had taken over ‘ Sahi hai ’, ‘ Baaju ’ had toppled ‘ Bagal mein ’ and ‘ Barabar ’ had usurped ‘ Bilkul.’ The years zipped by as we wrestled duties and night outs, busy weeks and Sunday breaks and exams and celebrations. But just like that, the time ran out too, jostling us out of the reverie, asking us to pack our bags and leave.
I never thought leaving Mumbai would be so hard and painful. I never thought I would end up romanticizing it to Delhiites. And missing it so. I left with a heavy heart but with memories to cherish for a lifetime. I have so many extraordinary people and so many remarkable things to thank for ! Here’s a big shout out and dhanyavaad to my family, friends, teachers and colleagues who helped and supported me, and made this a wonderful adventure.
A bloody business
Essentials of Obstetrics and Gynecology
The Obstetrics and Gynecology precinct in every general hospital of India, is a wonderland. Every nook, corner and crevice of that arena holds a sight to behold, and conversations that leave the residents and onlookers alike, astounded.
The welcoming note coming from the unit, as soon as you enter its hallowed walls, is that of the wails and the shrieks emanating from the labour room. And of the labour room song, that every fresher is taught on the first day.
“ Lagao, lagao, zor lagao,
Tatti ke raste zor lagao !
Saans mat roko, zor lagao,
Chalo bibi, himmat jagao !”
Step inside though, and every now and then, you’d find a woman in labour, shouting the most prolific Hindi profanities. BK, BC, MC and every possible permutation and combination of Ch***** in a sentence. You are left flabbergasted that a women could say, nay know, all those below the belt gaalis, that would put the nukkar- ke- lafangez to shame. It takes a while to realize, that those alarming atrocities are not directed at you, but at the woman’s husband. That narak-me- jale-jallad who put in the seed, and then put her there. And with every push, the outburst erupts to jolt the room out of the calm before the storm. Igniting a chain reaction, with the other hitherto quiet and patient labouring women, breaking into a crying crescendo cacophony.
Unpublished statistics report that every third lady visiting the department, is a Mrs Devi and no matter what her chronological age, her biological age, as reported by the relatives in the hospital records, is always 45.
“ Kitne saal ki hain ?”
“ Paitalis ki hongi .”
“ Hongi ka kya matlab ? Apko apni maa ki umar nahi pata ? Aap kitne saal ke ho ?”
“ Jee tees –paitees.”
“ Fir aapki maa paitalis ki kaise ho gaiyeen ? Unki das saal ki umar par shaadi ho gayi thi kya ?”
“ Chalo pachaas samjho.”
While you try to reason and bargain the age of the atleast-over-60 lady with her son, her daughter-in-law tries to explain their reason for coming to the outpatient department.
“ Chat gir gayi hai.”
“ Huh?”
“ Chat gir gayi hai. Isliye aaie hain.”
“ Arey, to hospital kyun aae ho? Main mistry thori na hun !”
Giggling under her pallu, the daughter-in-law retorts, “ Aap samjhe nahi. Maaji ki chat gir gayi hai !”
As you stare dumfounded at the relative you are sure has gone bonkers, other women in the OPD break into peals of laughter. And then one patient quietly comes up to you and whispers in a hushed voice, “ Madam, woh keh rahin hain ki unke patient ka shareer bahar nikal aaya hai.”
“Shareer bahar nikal aaya hai ?” you exclaim incredulously, imagining the out-of- body experiences this woman proclaims to be having, secretly trying to remember the extension to the Psychiatry OPD.
“ Bacche daani Madam. Bacche dani, bahar nikal aayi hai,” the peon finally tells you smugly, putting an end to your woes. And that is how you encounter your first prolapse patient, as a first year OBGYN resident.
The Gynecology OPD is full of such ordeals. If you are posted in the Infertility Clinic, you learn, often the hard way, that it is not appropriate to ask the patient how many times she has sex with her husband in a week, at least not in so many words. Asking the infertile couple about sex in open dialogue is tut-tuted upon by the junta.
So it is absolutely inappropriate to pose a question like “ Hafte mein kitne baar sambandh hota hai ?” As the patients and the peons and the security guards teach you, it is wise to be discreet and ask instead, “ Pati se baat hoti hai ? … Har roz ?… Nahi ? … Kyun ?”
Imagine the resident’s plight then, when forced to ask for superficial and deep dyspareunia in the negative history during exams ! And if the patient or her husband face any difficulties during the ‘baatcheet.’
Ask the patient whether her husband has any swellings, malformations or anatomical or physiological deviations in the ‘local parts’ and she breaks into suppressed chuckles, half amused and half horrified at your audacity. In fact, I dare you to try asking for erectile dysfunction in Hindi, with a straight face, like a gynae resident. Looking unflinchingly into the patient’s face, and saying, for example, “ Khade rehne mein koi problem hoti hai ?” And when the male partner’s semen analysis shows oligospermia, the deemed correct way of breaking the bad news, you are ‘taught,’ is “ Apke pati ke pani mein jantu / keetanu kam hain.” Because there is no better way to describe a sperm in an infertility clinic, than calling it an ‘animal’ or a ‘germ.’
Amidst the countless hours of duties, the OBGYN resident is trodden with such euphemisms which she or he is expected to know by heart, just as she or he should remember the FIGO staging of gynecological cancers. The commonest gynecological complaint – safed pani – should be probed into with detective details. What is the ‘maatra’ of pani – chhoti chamacch, badi chamacch, katori bhar, lota bhar or balti bhar ? Is it really safed or is it a mix of laal, hara, peela ? Is it khujli-ful or khujli-less ? Is it khushboodaar or badboodaar ? What type of undies does the woman wear – biodegradable or non-biodegradable ? Is her pati parmeshwar also suffering from safed pani ? And if you may be so bold as to ask about promiscuity, the gynae morse code for the same is “ Bahar jaate ho kya ? Pati bahar jaate hain ?”
The wonders and the stupefactions never cease in the Gynecology unit. Every OPD or ward encounter, chance or otherwise, is a learning lesson, leaving the resident enriched with unforgettable, enduring memories, giving her or him valuable schooling in the public affairs of Indian way of life. No wonder then, that these heroes emerge, not only as experts in their fields, but also as connoisseurs in the matters of female tribulations, truly making them the ‘Lady Doctors!’
All the Single Ladies
India is not used to its single ladies. They are a cause of pressing concern to the bade-buzurg of the family and the unclejis and auntyjis of the neighbourhood. Their dhalti umar often invokes distress pleas from these well-wishers… “ Kab shaadi kar rahi ho tum,” “ Ladke dekhna to shuru karo,” or “ Ek ladka hai meri nazar mein, baat chalaun kya?” adding unabashedly, “ Ladke hi pasand hain na tumhe?”… Even the caste crazed elders find it their moral duty to let go off their rigid conditions and preach, “ Caste ke peeche mat pado. Koi bhi acchha ladka mile to shaadi kar daalo.”
Rephrasing Miss Austen’s opening line in Pride and Prejudice, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Indian woman in possession of a good judgement and character, must be in want of a husband. Whether it’s an occupational pause or an emotional clause, poor health or dearth of wealth, the answer to all problems is marriage. Consequently, unlike married women, the single ones have a huge fan following – an army of chahne wale, whose anxiety for their ticking biological clocks burgeons in exponential proportion to their increasing age. The nanosecond they enter their thirties, it’s a torrential downpour of “ Tees ki ho gayi hai !” “ Kab vyaah hoga?” “ Kab ghar basega?” and “ Kaise vansh chalega?”
The Indian family starts saving up gold for a girl’s wedding the day she is born. An academic achievement here and a career boost there is definitely worth an inaam or two, but ask the parents for jewellery and the instant reaction is, “ Sone ka kadaa ? Uska kya karegi abhi ? Teri shaadi mein denge. Chal ice cream khaane chalte hain aaj India Gate par.” So time and again, they are told ; Betaji, No shaadi, No Gold.
All the Hindu rituals are reserved for married women, be it the haldi ceremony of your beloved sibling or welcoming the groom at the entrance with an aarti ki thaali. The local auntijis are usually the bouncers at these functions, carrying a metaphorical “ No entry for the non-suhaagans ” banner, tut-tuting in perpetuum and casting their glaring, disapproving glances. Everybody is scared of the deadly virus of singlehood the non-suhaagans seem to be carrying, pledging to destroy the world of suhaagans with it.
The rest of the world is also not too kind to the Bhartiya single naari. Try going to an embassy for a visa and answering the visa officer’s questions…
“ Single ? Oh, I see. Why do you want to travel to our country ?”
“ I have a conference to attend.”
“ Hmm.. So you are single…”
They are just as scared of the single ladies tribe. For burdened with the constant nagging to settle down, and the periodical beeps from their biological clocks they have to put on snooze, these women may just marry their men and never come back. Much to the anguish of the members of the resident welfare associations of several colonies, many of whom were trying to fix up those thirty something kanyaas with their forty something divorced nephews.
It will take some time for India, to give a pappi or a jaadu ki jhappi to its single women. A little while longer, for the matchmaking enthusiasts, to supress their itch, to eye-roll and bitch. And a leap in spacetime continuum, to realize that the older kuunwaaries, are surprisingly not bechaaries. That they are not yet eager to devour the shaadi ka laddu ; for though they love the company of men, they love their independence too. And although these lovely ladies, dote on children and babies ; they are not ready to raise them yet, for all that this country may frown and fret.
Red red, Susu ahead.
In a land, rich, vibrant and diverse,
Have you noticed an ammoniacal aroma perverse ?
And tried to trace it with your nose,
Whiffing and squinting, to see how far it goes,
Only to find a splattered parapet wall,
Or a soiled tree trunk enveloped in that misty aerosol.
The fragrant remains of the river that once ran,
Emanating from the insides of the proud Indian man,
For he, you see, couldn’t be gladder,
To let go of the reins, and relieve his bladder,
The mantra being, to hydrate, librate and liberate,
And never shy away, from an opportunity to publically urinate.
Is it the love for living au naturel, and pooh-poohing the lavatory ?
Taking a leak and thence marking his territory,
Or is it likely a Mard thing ?
And a display of manhood to the traffic, makes his heart sing.
Is the Indian man on a philanthropic mission ?
Cleaning the city, without inhibition,
Helping out, in the time of water scarcity,
With a jugaad to water the plants, witty,
And shoo away the notoriety under the flyover,
With the superpower of his pee pee spillover.
Perhaps it is a medical condition,
And a weak bladder is my suspicion,
So the sphincteric attrition,
Forces the open micturition,
Or it is an olfactory bulb dysfunction ?
And the mard can’t tinkle and smell in conjunction,
So he’s oblivious to its odour, is the claim,
And you can’t put him to blame and shame.
Should we put up a pee resistant wall ?
That would, the incoming jet, stall,
Deflect it into a urinary waterfall,
And douse its human into a squall.
Or in the potential susu targets, instill,
A freezing agent, to cool the stream into a chill,
Ice it all the way up, along its course,
And glaciate and benumb the source.
Maybe we should create a distraction,
Click snapshots of these men in action,
Paste them on the very walls they wet,
And exhibit their manhood, lest they forget.
Or aggarbatis with a urinary bouquet, make,
Stuff them under their noses, for them a whiff to take,
A remembrance of what they splash the city with,
And shock and awe the Bhartiya mard monolith.
All hail the peeing Indian man,
It takes spunk to do what he can,
No sidelong glance or a jeering jibe,
Could lessen the zeal of his tribe,
Neither an angry lady’s frown,
Nor an outcry for modesty, would put him down,
For the whole world is his toilet,
And no behest or a public convenience can spoil it.
* susu : Hindi slang for urine; * mard : man; * agarbattis : incense sticks
Neha Kumar 