The Vacation that wasn't

It all started with an inception.

The idea was simple. A vacation, My mother and me. Seemed uncomplicated, didn't overplan, went to the same place we always go. My aunt's house, in Hassan, the great Devegowda's home turf.

Everything seemed simple, we packed our bags, hurtled into a Volvo, just in the nick of time. It all seemed so perfect. Even the three hours of watching an intolerable Puneet Rajkumar movie, didn't spoil my spirit. I was looking out of the window, with a smile on my face thinking of the my relaxed days in the huge expanse of their garden,

"Too much dust not there, I hope, construction and all happening know", my mom remarked. "Aiyo, Garden only not there now. So sad!" (Transliterating)

Oh shit, they tore down their garden! One down! hmm.. but still, I could lay down in one of their rooms and write away the story that's been haunting me for one whole week, I thought. Ahh! Peace, here I come.

We reached Hassan in three hours straight. I started recollecting the shady past when we used to travel for more than four and a half hours in the damn jatka gaadi type buses.  An auto dropped us to the place that'd be my getaway this quarter. I put down my bags and ran into the loo. When I was doing my business, I heard the sound of approaching anklets. I remembered the scene from the movie Chandramukhi when the ghost/heroine walks wearing anklets and scares the shit out of people. (Oh you didn't get scared? Don't overact now.) I laughed at my stupidity as I lifted the mug and poured the water, when I heard ambiguous noises, like gagagoogoo and other unmentionables. Oh! It must be Chintu, I thought. My eighteen month nephew, who I had gloriously forgotten in all my excitement. I hadn't seen him in six months. I jumped up and opened the door.

Too bad I didn't know, when I opened that door, I closed one more. The door to my peace.

Gagagoogoo continued the whole next day, coupled with, "thop thop thop thop thop", which literally means soap. The kid plays with thop the whole day, and expects you to play thop-thop with him. To put it lightly, I went mad. I told my mom that we were leaving the next day. And here I am, typing away on my laptop, at HOME, when I was supposed to be relaxing in my aunt's lawn!

Kids! I hate them.

I always thought I could tolerate kids, atleast others' kids, since they'd leave eventually. But I was the guest here, so I did the right thing. You know there's a saying, "Fish and guests stink in three days", but here it was the opposite, one of our hosts, my nephew started stinking in one hour, soosoosoosoo, he shouted, as he poured away on the carpet. That was the breaking point. I made it clear to my mom, I couldn't tolerate it a minute longer and dragged her off to a movie.

I came back to my cousin proudly narrating a story of how Chintu bit the dog's ear. I needed a good night's sleep to get over it.

I woke up the next day, today, that is, to Chintu's bangs on my loo door. I was sleepwalking till then. I avoided thinking of the next five hours we were going to spend there. My mom and I decided to go for a walk, and obviously Chintu had to join,to prevent him from creating a mini ruckus. He went inside the room, and came back looking like Junior Rajinikanth. He wore his yellow tweety cap, and multicolored sunglasses, and I couldn't help but laugh. I imagined the walk to be another looming catastrophe what with Rowdy Rathore-in-the-making accompanying us, but he just baffled me. He walked without making one small sound. Poor thing, I thought I was too hard on him. I bought him a "thop" to make up for all my nastiness. He was happier than, I think, even Aishwarya Rai was when she won that Miss World title of hers. All for a small Vim Bar.

But that didn't change anything on the peace front. It was too little, too late. I couldn't read anything, leave alone write. Chintu won in the end. He had his vacation in his own home, at my cost. He even used me as a bed to have his afternoon nap. I have tears in my eyes as I write this. God knows when I'll take my next vacation..Orei Chintu, enduku!

Lesson to be learnt: Approaching anklets always mean impending horror. How many B-grade horror movies have you watched! Still, you don't seem to understand. I guess my story will teach you a lesson.

So the next time, you hear the chiming chal chal chal of anklets, run far far away. It may be a Mohini Bhootha, Worse! It may be your eighteen month old nephew!

PS: If my cousin reads this, I will be dead. Please pray for my safety

Bol Bachchan - A horrifically tragic movie

Do not watch this movie. Period.

I implore you, I plead you, I warn you. Hell, I beg you in the name of humanity.

Okay, if you say your brain is slowly degenerating due to which you'll ignore my warning and still you want to watch it, Please read this tragic story before you go ahead.


If you are planning to laugh your guts out while watching Bol Bachchan, please carry a good joke book, or download a jokes app into your phone and keep reading it without paying heed to the horror unfolding on screen. No, you wont?  I'm telling you the movie will only make you cringe, make you wanna tighten your fists so hard that a clot will form in your nerve which will travel to your temples and explode there, your ears will resound and cause a shrieking headache. It took  twelve hours and a nutritious meal to rid myself of this ordeal. I do not want anyone else to undergo the same. Survivor's guilt, I'm helping you.

And so here I am, I will revisit the horror only to help someone in need. I know there are many hopeful victims, with stars in their eyes, and a smile on their innocent faces as they turn the newspaper and think, "3 and a half stars?..Hmmm, let me book tickets". This is for all of you.

The farce* starts with Asin delivering a dialogue, and the in the next minute you get to know that she is an art director for some benaami movie, upon which you start thinking, "Why the fuck was an art director delivering a dialogue??" Let me tell you, please stop thinking at this moment. I didn't do it, and look where I am! Anyway, the farce* continues, it takes more than fifteen minutes to actually make a layman and an einstein both wonder if its going to be a tragedy or an emotional drama or an action farce, but not even in the dark corners of your mind does the word comedy loom, and lo!

So coming back to the point, Muslim brother-sister duo, Abhishek and Asin end up in Ranakpur, and due to some unfathomably ridiculous circumstances have to pretend that they are Hindu, and in a stroke of genius, TV actor Krishna who should take my sincere advice should give up (over) acting altogether, tells squirrel brained Ajay Devgan that Abhishek's name is Abhishek Bachchan, and hence, the title. By the way, the farce unfolds with a farcical title track which seems like all three actors are having seizures in sherwanis and are stuck at "Bol Bachchan bol bachchan bol bachchan...".

It continues, you lose track of the number of Judwaa bhais and moms and doodhwalas, that you almost miss the entry of Prachi Desai in some weird pajamas, but five minutes later, you realise that the only reason she is in the movie is to promote the same weird pajamas, and try to make it a fashion statement, as your next seat waali says, "Wow! Don't her pajamas look good". I don't think she has as much screen time, as much blog-time I have given her. So, lets keep her aside.

The villain is a bloody fool, trying to kidnap Devgan's sis Prachi for no apparent reason. He can kill her at any goddamn time, for all we care. But no, he has to call up Ajay and inform him like a good bollywood villain always does and speed off in a new volvo bus. But behold, Ajay and Abhishek overtake him in a jiffy, take a U-turn and miraculously an engineering marvel in the form of a triangular nameplate appears, which is angled exactly to cause the jeep to slide in a trajectory that hits the glass of the bus, not high so that the jeep flies off never to be seen, not too low that it crunches below the bus wheels, but exactly at the centre of the glass. My god! If only the engineer had studied his heights and dimensions chapter properly, he wouldn't have to be assisting such shit movies.

All I can say is, Poor movie hall. I mean to play this movie, over and over again. Its just not fair, which in Ajay's world mean "Kaala". The movie hall would, if the movie hall could, shrink itself into oblivion like a black hole, and spew out this movie instead of absorbing it, with such force that it would travel miles and miles faster than the speed of light in the underground web of gutters and bathroom pipes and flush out with the greatest speed ever from the smelly confines of Rohit Shetty's potty, at the exact moment during which he crouches on it. And using the same physics of the jeep-bus collision, he is also propelled into Mars or any other speck on the universe that supports absolutely NO movie making infrastructure. Dude Rohit, just get lost. First Golmaal 1,2, 3 and now this? Die, Man, DIE!!

I have left out major horrendous details like the way Ajay Devgan says, "A brother in need is a sister indeed" and a gay Abhishek saying "Nadhindhinna". That Nadhindina, it still makes me shudder. Its for your own good, trust me. You want the details??!! You can't handle the details!

Mere Pitaji kaha kehte hai, "Don't desire something you haven't earned". I didn't listen to him and jumped like a jackass when I got free tickets to watch this movie. Now, I can't go back and erase the past, can I?

But as Abhishek Bachchan puts it, which may have been added as an afterthought for making this lame excuse of a movie, "Galti ki nahi jaati hai, but ho jaati hai!"

PS: It seems like Rohit wants the phrase "Bol Bachchan" to become a hot phrase. He keeps shoving it in our faces. Rohit, do you say "Inki Pinky Ponky, father had a donkey??" No?? Then even we won't say Bol Bachchan kardiya, its more embarrassing.

*FARCE= MOVIE

To Holly Wood, With Love

Recently I made a new penpal in America. I know some of you don't even know what penpals mean, but I guess you have google to explain. Here's a copy of the first letter I posted.

Dear Holly Wood,

I hope you are doing well. I know you have been awfully busy trying to come up with all sorts of movies, and I understood from your last letter that you are feeling extraordinarily stressed out with superhuman expectations. Hmm, I don't know how that feels. Why don't you shut down for sometime?

Anyway, I was flicking channels two days ago, and the movie "Signs" was playing. The scene had a TV showing news and a shot saying "Bangalore" cropped up. I can't congratulate you enough on the spot on realistic portrayal of my city you have given. Bravo!

Since you are so interested in my life. I thought I'll explain to you a few nuances of Indian life. So grab yourself a beer, lie down on your sofa and place this on your potbelly. Its a looong letter.

I wake up everyday, wear my Kachche saree, fight with my Dad who is an orthodox villian, and go to office on a Bullock cart in a filthy road, on which there are atleast ten cows, fifteen hawkers, twenty pigeons, rainbow colored hoardings, enough sunlight to make a thousand papads in two hours.

I come from a long line of snake charmer male ancestors and tightrope walking female ancestors, and a monkey eating, skeleton garland flaunting Great grandfather, you know the same guy Indiana Jones was ranting about, but sadly these days my family is increasingly orienting itself towards selling your friends toilet paper and helping your illiterate aunts and uncles how to restart computers. My cousins Guttu, Pintu, Chotu and Ritu work in a call centre, because their families are so big that cannot fit into their thatched roofed homes, and they are the only earning members.

Speaking of family, I also have an uncle who wears a turban, and an aunt who covers her head with a saree. I have relatives in the US who have grocery stores in Springfield, and are called "Apu" for convenience. And I have to stress on the fact that they have a dozen kids, because you know that's what we do, that's why our land is so over populated and these kids also have to spell very well, because you see the next spelling bee is just around the corner, and of course, that's the only sport we are encouraged to participate in.

My relatives indulge in garish weddings which are definitely not tastefully done, and most often, I wear a loose uncoordinated Salwar Kameez, and dress up my face like some idiot. We also break into impromptu jigs at any time of the day, owing to our overt inspiration by "Baallywood" movies.


We are all decently brown, not so fair that someone mistakes us for Americans and so dark that people think we are African. I know how you play your foolish tricks and try to replace us with Brazilians, but except Bipasha Basu and Mallika Sherawat, none of us are quite okay with that. Try Chinese next time.

I also most certainly have a 'Guru' as apparently you think every Indian has a Guru. This Guru wears orange clothes, and keeps saying "Aum" very often and is acrobatically creative, so as to call all his monkey stunts various "Asanas". This Guru has a huge Ashram on the outskirts of the city, but going by the looks of "Bangalore", he has enough unploughed land in the heart of the city itself. Anyway, the point is this Ashram, where we all gather with our fellow westerners and pray in a cornucopia of ways hoping for world peace, whilst we throw in our money into one of the volunteers's gunny bags, is my second home.

We also read a lot. Ah Yes, you guessed it right! Kamasutra. It is the only book that we all read, write, practice and use as makeshift pillows. What the hell are Mahabharata, and Ramayana, they are just ripped off from the Game of thrones! But Kamasutra, its definitely a book found on every Indian bookshelf.

I also have a weird accent, that sometimes compete with the Amazonian tribal accent for the funniest accent in the planet, that somewhat sounds like what comes out of Ajit's mouth when he suffers from loose motions. He won't be able to say Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabert then, he'd just say Raabert, you know more "fluidly".That's exactly how I speak


Now I'm a little thirsty. You know, I drink water from filthy wells of the neighbourhood, due to which I get cholera, and the best location to suffer from diseases is either Mumbai or Calcutta, because of Dharavi and Mother Teresa precisely in that order. If I go there I'd be treated by one of your amazing "Hulk"y doctors, but I should do it soon, before the Black widow takes him back.

Better make sure you write to me by next week, because you know, its time for my yearly vacation to Taj Mahal, and I try to spend most of the year there, so that it is convenient for you to know which country on Planet Earth you are talking about.

Now I'm going mad trying to grasp my own ridiculous personality. You see, its tiring living in a country where temperature is always hovering above 45 degrees.

I have to go now, Holly. You know I use open toilets, and I need to outrun all the other kids with the pumped up shits, so I'd better run, better run!

Heeheeheehee (No, I don't giggle like the lame girl that appeared on David Letterman, You do!)

B'bye!

PS:  Anyway, Holly Wood just give it up. You cannot capture the essence of an Indian in your atrocious typecasts. No not because we are so exotically different, its just because you are too lazy to care and a few among us, like Anil Kapoor and Mallika, are too pumped up to notice.

So just give up. We already have Bollywood, and TV soaps who clearly paint out our lives in the most insane ways possible, we don't need you.

The family that calls together, stays together

Needless to say, I come from a crazy family. An ultra-paranoid Dad, a comically funny mom, and an eternally disinterested brother. I'm sure most families are crazy, even though we are taught from time immemorial to look at and love our families more seriously and solemnly than Manmohan singh's unchanging expression. But lets face it, everyone is crazy in his or her own way, and hence a family, whichever it is, is collectively bonkers.

Along with my own nuclear nincompoops, my extended family is made of specimens who can put the family in Arrested Development to shame. I have a 55 year old uncle who thinks he is a dude and every girl is giving him come-hither looks, I have an aunt who has rediscovered haircuts at 60, I have cousins who have tried to sell their bikes to mango vendors in the pursuit of god-knows-what, cousins who have got married at 17 and are right now, one step away from being grandmoms at 40, cousins who have flunked 10th grade and say they are doing M.Com to whichever lucky soul that pops the inevitable question, a grandmom who is on the eternal train from one place to another and gives us an STD call once a month. So basically, everyone is a nut case.

This family of mine also has an obsession. Marriage. No one, and I mean not even a louse on my nephew's head, cares if you are an IITian, Salman Khan or even if you are Atal Bihari Vajpayee himself, unless you are married. And they are not even sexist. Men and women are treated alike if they are not married by the "old" age of 23.

Their single handed, doubtless trust in the occasion of a marriage is astounding. Whether they care about the institution is another question. I mean, who cares whether the bride and groom like each other or not, In my family, we all just want to wear our Kanjeevaram sarees, and diamond necklaces and strut around in the reception.

We also have one more hobby. A pretty jobless one.

My mom's siblings have a habit of calling each other up atleast five times a day. Every single time, they talk for atleast a half hour. I don't know what they talk, as soon as the phone sings or rings or whatever, I'm away from there faster than roadrunner, their talks are intolerable. You see, my four uncles have their shops on the same road, and everyday is like a TV serial for them. But because, thankfully, TV9 is not in the business of relaying family affairs, its left to the humble abode of Idea. And since, they haven't yet woken up to the advanced concept of conference calls, they need to call up everyone and repeat it.

So this is the essential formula,

Let us consider there is one fresh gossip that sibling one has got to know.

Total no. of siblings =7

Let us assume one sibling has to tell this to atleast three siblings.

Also assuming, my mom is one of the first ones to know. So, call no.1
Now, she has to call another one and relay it. Call no.2
Then, in between she gets a call from another one who presumes she doesn't know about it. Call no.3
Now, she has to discuss about it with both her sisters. Call no.4 and 5
Then, one sibling offers an entire different story. Everyone go into a frenzy and the circle repeats, and the rest of us who are with the fateful sibling at home or park or movie theatre, wherever the hell this drama is going on, are eating/pulling their hair out in frustration.

Whenever Abhishek Bachchan says, "What an Idea, sirji", All I want to do is kick his nuts so hard that he skyrockets all Idea call rates to finance his nut-reconstruction surgery. I mean, what is the point of weird happy family offers, that's driving individual families insane.

Yes, I have a mental family, but as my mom puts it, "Poor K uncle, you know what happened Kee, it seems blah blah blah blah blah blah". All I can say is she articulated it well, but unfortunately Seinfeld was articulating things better and I got carried away.

Wait! I have another one. As those kids from the psycho Khichdi family say, "Bade log, Bade log!"

An average Bangalorean

An average Bangalorean is a photographer, a writer, a filmmaker, a UPSC aspirant, a guitarist, a marathon runner, a chef extraordinaire. An average Bangalorean is also a software engineer.

An average Bangalorean is a Tamilian, a Telguite, a Bengali, a Bihari, or Assamese. Hell, he may actually be from Bangalore. He is not a stickler for his culture. He doesn't know his culture. He isn't hung up on his leaders or his heroes. His heroes are spread all over. He can accept either Rajinikant or Amitabh Bachchan as his hero, and has no qualms with replacing Rajkumar with them. An average Bangalorean is an amphibian. 

He sits at a table filled with people from different states fighting over a cup of tea or the effectiveness of this year's union budget. He knows nothing about it. That doesn't stop him from pitching in. An average Bangalorean thinks he is a smart ass. 

He slogs everyday for something he doesn't give a shit about, while passionately dreaming in the night about all the things he had to do, he should've done, he could do, he would do, he wouldnt do and he will definitely do in the near future.

He is a thinker, a believer, an analyser, he has the whole world in front of him, he is spoilt for choice, and yet paralysed by fear of the unknown. He is scared of something he cannot name, scared of losing unnecassary things that he has in abundance now.

He passed out of one of the thousand engineering colleges in Bangalore and ended up in one of the ten thousand IT companies that claim to be in Bangalore. He stays in Bangalore, and is immune to motion sickness. It is the law of the land.

An average Bangalorean cannot tell you the current season. He knows that the weather is as unpredictable as his life is predictable. He calls it irony.

An average Bangalorean has fallen in love once, and failed. Failed miserably. Once bitten, twice tried, thrice given up and finally, resigned to the parental choice. He meets prospective life partners every weekend, has coffee with them, mumbles incoherent things and runs away from there like his pants are on fire. He isn't ready. Or Is he? Or is he just waiting for someone's approval? Is he waiting for the push that has always been there?

An Average Bangalorean is always on the edge of a cliff. He has made a house there and refuses to leave. He always greets his friends with the same question, "When are you escaping from this dreaded hellhole?" and the average Bangalorean always retorts with the same answer, "Very soon, my friend, very soon". How can he leave the house that he took so much pains to build? He'd rather stay.

An average Bangalorean is a software engineer. 

Thank god I'm above average. I'm a senior software engineer.



PS: This is fictitious post. Both the Average Bangalorean and the above average one are imaginary, and so is the implied promotion. :) Enjoy!

The Generation Gap

Every time an old song plays on TV, my Dad will be ready with the same monologue that has been echoing in my house since time immemorial. He starts off with, "What a great song! Those days..." and he closes his eyes as though he's going into a state of semi-enlightenment and continues,"Those were the days, golden days..I watched this movie in Shivaji theatre. It was so moving, so good. See Sharmila Tagore, She looks so beautiful". My eyes were transfixed on the beehive. Did you just ask "What Beehive?" then, you must be from my father's generation. Please ignore my comment.

Then he gives a break till the song is over and now comes the much awaited salvo, "These days, I don't know what songs they come up with. They are absolutely meaningless". He changes the channel and he stops at MTV, scrutinises the songs, looks sadly at us like we are some unfortunate urchins starved of the wonderful culture that his generation had.

Every generation is the same I guess. I'm sure when the TV made its first appearance on the hall table, my grandmother would have looked at it, fretted and disgustingly told my dad that listening to the the radio was a lost art. It was something his generation would never understand, even though reception in the radio was a result of a thousand agile karate chops sensible enough not to break it, but make it play. It was a skill, something that my father's generation would never understand.

This tradition can be traced back to early men, I guess. The earlier men would have sulked at the sight of a wheel. They would have gasped, "gujumb gujumb gujumba" which roughly translates into, "Oh my god! Do we now have to rely on this nonsensical shapeless things for god knows what! By the way, why was this invented in the first place? Shoes ought to have come before this. These bare feet, killing me, I tell you!"

Who knows apes would have frowned at the "missing link character" who was suddenly developing something that centuries later was called a backbone. "Tch tch, see how these youngsters act, trying to stand up with their front limbs, no respect at all!". Imagine if that hadn't happened, I would have been on some tree plucking berries and my ears alternatively. Thank god for the missing link! I can't imagine how the granny apes would have reacted to the opposable thumb. Lets not go there.

I don't think any generation will be free of this curse. Every day I get a mail saying you are a 90's kid if you watched Shaktimaan, if you read Chacha chowdary, if you played lagori, if you pooped on the road, and other convoluted cornucopia of things. What if you haven't? I know many people who have the gall to ask if Chacha chowdary is my actual chacha! But they are 90's kids! I know their birthdays.

So today I want to make a resolution to never comment on my next generation, no matter how much they rot in facebook, live their lives out of potato chip packets, the amount of pocket money they get that equals my monthly salary, the way they strut in front of cafes in skimpy clothes, the unfortunate souls who'll never know what a single screen theatre would look like, who may think that Shaktimaan is a character from Ramayan which is a bloody gaming extravaganza like counter-strike, I mean if they know counterstrike that is.

Wait! Did I just break my resolution?

Ah well!

Mamata's marriage bureau and its consequences

Along with your mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother, brother's friend, neighbour, neighbour's dog, and the nightwatchman, guess who else has joined the menacing matrimonial advice bandwagon (MMAB, pronounciation: Imagine how Laloo Prasad says mob, Maaaaaaab), it is your chief minister.

Are you asking "Whaaaat the f"? Rolling your eyes while yawning?

If so, go and read today's newspaper. Oh you don't get it at home? Not even the newspaper that makes you smart?? No wonder, you are reading my blog

Anyway, here is the link: Mamata's marriage bureau

Okay you are not a Bengali, so you think you are spared? You are so wrong. Apparently, according to my un-unreliable sources two negatives make a positive, the move has inspired people across the country. So in a few days now, you'll have to take the lawful permission from the lawless topboss of the state before you even plan to get hitched. The horoscope, along with gotra, rashi, pashi, and other fishy things also will have the CM permission, as a requirement.

So in future, this is how a pre-meet-up matrimonial talk will happen:

Moms will call up each other.

"Our children's horoscopes matched..But I have one more doubt, before we formally meet"

"Yes, please don't hesitate"

"Are you? Are you?...."

"Yes, please go on"

"Are you leftist?"

"Ya..why?"

"Nahiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii..yeh shaaaaaaaaadi nahi hosakti hai!!"

Why do we need this advice, pray tell me? Already it is so difficult to find decent guys with decent quantity of hair-on-the-head in this world. Ask my parents, if you want proof. And now, we have to go behind people's political affiliations!

Wait a minute. Maybe this will replace the old caste system, since they are going so out of style, now politics may become the new caste. That Mamtadi, she is a pioneer, I tell you. What brahmin, gowda, baniya! So ancient. From now on, it'll be BJP, Congress, JDS, BSP, AIADMK etc etc.

Sometime in the near future, you will see two aunties wearing saffron salwar kameezs, parking their cars in middle of a crowded street. That's where they park their cars usually, the intention is to block the road, sometimes leisurely throw a carpet on it, get a mike and make senseless talk. That's one of the commandments of this wonderful caste.

They catch hold of a lone young loser passing by, and interrogate him,

"Are you BJP?"

Before he can rip off his orange shirt and show his cool lotus tatoo on the chest, they go on,

"Even I'm BJP, we are so sacred. I love my country, I wear khakhi shorts and do unwanted exercises, I usually crave older men, men at the brink of death, and befriend women on the brink of insanity. I cannot stand congressors Yes, its a lame name, just like the congressors. They think they are too sophisticated with all their faux foreign people and their dramas, So not hindu!..Hindutva ki Jai!"

Then in another corner one sardar uncle and a suspicious looking man-child sipping tea from a road side stall and trying to make a life event out of it,

"Beta, Let us share tea with me"

"No mom told me not to give you anything"

"No Beta, You have to share it with me, I have to share the tea with the tea stall owner, the cleaner, the faggot at the end of this road, and the maggots on this table. You see Beta, we include anyone and everyone in our caste. That is our Dharam. We include them, we discuss with them, we let them sit on our heads and we let them dance away to glory. Arey Beta, don't you remember Mamtadi, she was the first nincompoop who celebrated a tenure long Durga puja on our heads, got away with it, and thats how our caste Congress came into existance?"

"No Mommy told me not to give you anything. Get away from you, you old man......Goooooooooooo, or else I'll tell on you"

"Noooo Please don't do that!!"

I don't even want to get down to the nuances of the hundred thousand other parties and what about independents. My god! This may increase the number of castes that are actually present now! As if that were possible!

And reservations! Oh my god! I never thought of that one!

And caste certificates!

What about caste based discriminations?! Who should we discriminate now, since everyone of us is more criminal than the other!

Mamata! What the hell are trying to get us all into!

PS: Though the comments on CPM and trinamool unholy marriages didn't come directly from the Mamata mouth, I'm taking creative liberty here. I hope I don't get thrown into prison like the sad professor.