Desi Train

Panna-ben is leaving. Panna-ben will be away for three whole months. Panna-bens going away is making me sad. Very very sad. Because for the next three months I wont get good wholesome sometimes delicious many times crap but all the time completely eatable “ home made food.

Panna-ben is the lady who delivers dinner at my doorstep. Day after day. Everyday. It had been a wonderful life so far. No going to grocery shops to buy your monthly list of groceries, no rushing home to cook food, no having to cry over the crap you just cooked.

Panna-ben, my messiah for food will be gone. Shes actually going to India. Gujarat to be precise.

Yes, me a Punjabi, has been eating Gujarati food day in and day out courtesy Panna-ben. For the last two years. Coutesy Panna-ben. I now fart dhoklas instead of parathas. Courtesy Panna-ben.

But then there are people who look at my dinner provider from an absolutely different angle.

You eat Gujju food every day

Yes

WHAT THE FUCK MAN¦ EVERY FUCKING DAY?

Yes

THAT IS SO FUCKING GAY. A PUNJABI EATING GUJJU FOOD EVERYDAY

WHAT THE FUCK!!! YOU ARE NUTS! NO WAY IS IT GAY

Of course its a stupid angle of view. Its nuts. What if Im a Gujju and Panna-ben is now Panna-kaur who delivers Punjabi dinner to me every day.

What happens then punk?

Now according to you, would I become some kind of a weirdo, whos overdosed with testosterone¦ Testosterone shooting all out of my body?

You just farted?

No buddy. Thats testosterone shooting out of my ass. Im doing Punjabi dinners for the last 935 days.

But the mind is what the mind is. So the thing that Im going gay plays in your head in an infinite loop. FUCK FUCK FUCK. The problem with such situations is that there is no stop button.

So while having your dinner (brought to you by Panna-ben ) your hand starts trembling each time you pick up a dhokla.

And then theres Murphys law. The worst things happen at the worst possible time.

In that battle over the dining table, where theres this music in your head Im going gay, your trembling hands, the dhokla, the Gujju yellow dal, the rice, undhiyo et all¦ in all this tense-close-to-a-nervous-breakdown situation¦ you get a phone call.

Its the one person you dont want to talk to at this delicate moment.

Your Mom.

So as your sick minds going Im going gay Im going gay Im going gay Im going gay¦ with your mouth full of dhokla¦ the first thing that comes out is¦

Mom Immmmm going gay

YOU WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now with those four words youve given her sufficient material that she is going to use to chew you for the next four years.

Bullshit from friends can really land you in shit.

Of course theres nothing wrong with Gujju food. I love it. Nothing wrong in it. Nothing wrong with Panna-ben. And of course nothing wrong with Panna-bens second daughter. Who sometimes comes in to deliver the food.

Sometimes I have a hard time in concluding my observations. Is the daughter hotter than the food?

And shes the reason why my dear Panna-ben is leaving me without food for the next three months. You see Panna-ben and her hot cat eyed daughter are going to their village in Gujarat to search and select a “gUy” their daughter will get married to.

According to Panna-ben, they have been exchanging mails with many boys and their families back in Gujarat. So they have now made a final short list of those boys, from which Ms. Hot Cat Eyed Daughter will select her husband.

Kaun Banega Groompati?

Mail Order Grooms? It looks like that. I can visualize this group of people in Panna-bens village and the neighboring towns, running this Mail Order Groom Service. What would be their business tag line¦ ?

Aaj Applicason, Kal Migrason???

But Cat Eyed is Hot. I mean FUCK¦ SHE IS HOT¦ I MEAN FUCK¦ ILL DO HER.

Even though due to some strange weird forces of nature I havent slept with a woman of Indian origin. Ever. It beats me. I just never have. I research my brains and then about 2 “ 3 years ago concluded that perhaps there was this deep subconscious belief settled deep within me. The belief that - Vagina if not Pink is not a Vagina.

[Note to reader : I know this is very graphic. So if you are ready to get up and slam my head on your monitor, wait¦ its just going to get worse from the next line¦ Dont mind the oz Mind]

Now where did I get that belief? Why cant I love tush that is of any other color?

And that set me thinking. It was quite obvious that at some stage in my life something must have affected me so deeply that it set up this belief system that A tush is pink, rest all is jinx¦ So I went deeper into my life.

Deeper and deeper¦ and deeper¦ and deeper¦. Till I reach this night of March 1994. It is Mumbai. I am in my apartment with my buddies. Theres beer and snacks and stuff.

In those days I didnt have a video.

And we are having beer. Guys having beer. Bombay. Night “ time.

One room. Four Guys. Beer. Night. Bombay.

And if you are thinking something which is called¦ G A Y¦ you are so fucking wrong.

The word is P O R N.

But I dont have a video. Four guys. Beer. Night. Bombay. Equal to. Horny Bastards.

Solution? Dial Hitesh. No dammit. Hitesh isnt gay. He is the video store rental guy.

Hitesh comes bang on time with his video player and the latest collection of Porn cassettes.

The game is on. We all rush to get to our favorite spots in the room. And we start the video. The volume of course is on Minus 200.

So we are watching Porn. On rented Video Player¦

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On a Black and White 1974 Standard Engineering Company Television.

The TV has 3 knobs. Yes knobs. Knobs are metal objects that turn right and left. Three knobs. Contrast. Brightness and Volume.

The year is 1994. The TV was bought by Dad in 1974.

The knob of the Contrast is turned to the extreme right. And its stuck there. Try turning it to the left and the whole fucking TV will fall apart.

The knob of the Brightness is turned to the extreme left. And as usual, it is stuck there¦ for the last 16 years.

So in the Devils darkened screen of my Black & White TV¦ we are watching PORN.

Indian Porn.

MOTHERFUCKING HITESH IM GONNA KICK YOUR ASS FOR THIS. INDIAN FUCKING PORN?????????

But we are drunk. And we are horny.

We compromise.

So you have a hairy guy taking his hairy dick and approaching an Indian woman lying naked on bed with the song Women in Red playing in the background.

We compromise. No Hollywood porn. Fuck it. Vagina is Vagina. We focus deep on the Devils darkened Black and White screen, trying to figure out, where exactly does the vagina of the woman start and where actually does it end.

On serious introspection, we found that the man we thought is a man MAY be a woman and the girl lying on the bed actually MAY be a man.

So we spent 34.65 minutes searching for VAGINA on a mans body.

And the thing we are watching to get our mini-me in up position, that thing, actually wasnt a vagina but¦ a dick.

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!! CANT I EVEN WATCH PORN IN PEACE WHERE I DONT FUCKING END UP MAKING MISTAKES!!!!!!!!!

And that could have been the source of my now deeply rooted trauma.

Trauma that prevents me from dating beautiful hot Indian women, which by the way includes Panna-bens hot cat eyed daughter on her way to some remote place in Gujarat to meet her Mail Order Grooms.

So why the fuck am I talking about all this?

Well quite honestly Anurag Kashyaps recent outpour of the hell he went through, has completely inspired me. They say it takes a thorn to pluck out a thorn. So perhaps Im using a thorn to pluck out this traumatic thorn stuck deep within me.

Why a thorn? Why not use tweezers?

Well firstly, I dont trust tweezers. I just dont trust them. Not after the incident where, while plucking out a strand of a long twisted hair, you ended up ripping out your friends entire eyebrow.

That was six years ago.

He still moves on mother earth with one black sketch pen painted eyebrow. The right eyebrow is perfectly fine¦ hair and all that. The left one though ends up throwing me off my chair every time I look at it.

No tweezers please. We are Desis. Lets do things the traditional way.

Now I know that traditional doesnt gel well with some of the people out there.

But isnt it strange that these very people end up doing some stuff in their life in typical traditional manner?

Take marriage for instance.

Ok we know you abhor the traditional Indian customs, so why didnt you get married the non traditional way? Why go to a temple and do those pheras around the fire.

You are a software engineer. You can do better.

And I envision this happening in the near future.

No longer will the bride and the groom be in the same place to be married. Hell she can be in Texas, you in Timbuktu. You both log on to TraditionalOnlineShaadi.com and theres this JPEG picture of a fire burning. Both of you then take the traditional going round the fire procedure by doing that around your computer monitors. Yes. That day is soon going to come.

But what about Pundits? Who will recite the Mantras?

Call Centre Zindabad.

Yes dear reader there will come a time when there will be this huge call center building in India where there will be a thousand phone lines. And in front of each phone there will be a pundit¦ waiting for you to call. A thousand pundits, in a call center, sitting in India - will get you, whos in Timbuktu get married to her who is in Texas.

I just hope the software which does this is completely bug free.

After all you dont want to get married to someone else because of software errors. Worse what if the software errors get you, a guy, get married to another guy.

Alt Ctrl Delete ????

Theres more on my mind, but perhaps some other time. Wow! That rhymed - the mind and time thingy incase you missed it.

Sometimes rhyming words come so naturally to me. I guess its because I like poetry and at times write it too. I once wrote this post which had a few of my poems¦ but please dont search for it on DT to read it. Its quite embarrassing.

But when the moods just right, its poetry party time. Take for example this game which I play with friends during our poetry sessions over a few drinks. On your turn you are given four to five completely unrelated words and you have to weave a poem together out of those words.

I love the game. Just last week Im at this Mexican bar with friends and we end up playing the poetry game. Its about 1 am into the night. Everybody is swimming in alcohol. So you know in this state of mind it is just impossible to not think NONSENSE.

And you do. On your turn, words thrown at you, to weave them into a poem. Now from each word thrown at you, you can perfectly well find out how drunk or pissed off at you that person may be.

So what are the words you get?

1. Asshole
2. Moon
3. Pimple
4. Dog

But remember you are drunk too. Creative things come much faster too you in this state. Even if they are nonsensical things.

So what poem did I make out of those four words?

The Asshole of a Dog looks like the Pimple on the Moon

Dont ask. Dont Bother. Dont Mind The oz Mind.

You all be good, stay safe and have a rocking weekend!

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This entry was posted on Friday, October 6th, 2006 at 12:12 pm
Filed under Friday Masala, Superhit Posts
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