Party Animal

Someone asked him “What’re you drinking?” for the 5th time that evening. Every party was a reminder of how parties suck. In this one, like the last one, he had already agreed with three opinions he didn’t fully agree with, and stayed quiet at one he disagreed with. “What’s the point”, he thought.

He hadn’t been in a very good place lately. He had been worried, but about nothing in particular. His work had become this thing he just did, food was this thing he had to eat to live, his marriage was always this thing he just had to do. A waiter served him Chili Chicken, which reminded him he was gaining weight. He picked up a piece anyway.

Someone then slapped his back and he turned to see the usually buoyant-spirited Akshay buoyant-spirited as always. Nothing irritates unhappy people more than happy people. Akshay was the kinda guy who saw silver linings in dark clouds, and looked like he had exclamation marks around his face. He was an ex-colleague who had “BELIEVE.” plastered on his work-desk. When he asked Arijit why his glass was empty, Arijit almost thought he was talking about his spirit, not his drink.

“How’s work, Arijit? Good?”

“Usual. Getting by.”

“Sounds GREAT, man!”


“As long as you’re sleeping well at night, right?!”

No, I’m not sleeping well. I have dark circles. I keep scrolling up and down my facebook timeline wondering why other people look happier than me, and have you SEEN facebook’s design? It’s the most cluttered, jarring thing in the world. It’s the last thing I wanna to see minutes before I sleep, but I do, and keep at it till hours after I was supposed to sleep. I go to sleep ashamed of being a time-waster, and wake up a defeated man. All I want is to sleep well, dammit, one good night’s sleep. You know? I hit the bed, close my eyes, sleep within minutes and wake up with music in my head. Is that too much to ask for.

“Yeah. That’s true. All I want is to sleep well.”

“LOVE your attitude to life man! Have you had the Chili Chicken? It’s awesome”

He picked up another piece. It really was awesome, and he really was gaining weight. Those were the facts, the only ones at this party full of opinions derived by articles carefully served by Facebook’s algorithm.

“This government is the worst government ever”. He turned in the direction of the voice. Huge mistake. Because now they wanted his opinions. Before he could speak, a defender of the government arose.

“HOW much can one person do yaar? He can’t do everything!”

“That’s what I’m saying: he should stop doing only!”

Timely scattered laughter distracted them from him, which distracted him from thinking what he truly believed. Parties aren’t the place for introspection. They’re places to meet and make friends. He tried to see who his real friends in this party were. Which one of these wise men would be with him if his car had an accident, and which ones would just quip “Yaar why did you have to drive so late at night!”.

He decided he had only one friend at this party. And he was wearing a striped suit with a name-tag saying “Prakash”, walking towards him with a plate of Chili-Chicken.

Party Animal

You don’t HAVE to read this

Another morning when you wake up and ask yourself “Why am I not in the hills?”, before you quickly answer “Because real life isn’t Instagram”.

Mornings are different. Not like the evenings when dreams are dreamt and beer mugs clinked and promises made of a life by the sea. You probably know that because whoever you are, the least you’ve done in your life is live through mornings and evenings enough to know how different they are.

Mornings are about hope, evenings about celebrating or coping, forcefully called “Happy hours” for those who need an alcohol induced illusion to sleep.

Coffee is not like that. It is not for the dreamer. After 2 sips, you want a to-do list. It’s a doing drink, not a thinking drink. You need it when you think more and do less. Maybe it’s just the resultant acidity that drives you to action, but it does.

See, I don’t have a boss, so these thoughts enter my mind. I work very hard to not have a boss, so that I don’t have to work hard.

For me the first hour or two after waking up are like a long commute to work. There’s traffic, dust, a quick breakfast, the Uber driver hasn’t come on time, the metro is delayed, colleagues are calling frantically because the meeting is about to begin and you’re the only one missing.

I navigate all of it to first create my own job list, then assign jobs to different people and and ask them to report back within a couple of hours. All these people are me.

So they get a little confused and take the easy way out: of watching Bojack Horseman with a big cup of coffee and switching whatsapp off, because that gives a sense of productivity.

If you’re lazy enough, you can turn coffee into a daydreamer’s drink.


You don’t HAVE to read this

How to ruin good coffee

You know how people derive their pride from things they can control easily just to maintain the illusion that they’ve got their life under control?

For me, sometimes, it’s the coffee I drink. I’m not one of those people who say “I like MY coffee like…” because there’s no ONE way I like coffee. I like it to be perfect, but it can be perfect in a lot of ways. The “Expresso” with chocolate powder at Indian weddings, which gave such unrealistic expectations that when coffee shops served “Espresso” you felt THEY are wrong. But they’re both nice.beans-brown-coffee-34085.jpg

If you’re coffee and you want to be liked, you just have to be at the right place at the right time. It doesn’t matter if you’re a basic sachet of instant coffee. If you’re in a hotel room with a man desperate for coffee, surrounded by sachet of sugar and milk powder, you’ll be loved more than the coffee they buy from duty free shops. Although, the popular belief is that the best coffee you can buy from duty free shops is alcohol.

Then there’s South Indian filter coffee. I was addicted to it before I realized it took too much effort. I make it the traditional South Indian way- put coffee powder and hot water in a steel percolator and wait. WAIT. It’s the waiting that sucked. I belong to the test cricket generation that came of age in the T20 era, so obviously I have mixed feelings about waiting.

These days I get this instant coffee that’s way more expensive than your regular coffee. Worth it, because I’ve figured out the perfect proportions of coffee, water and milk so that its flavour and taste are exactly what I want, and anything else would just spoil it.

I’m telling you all that only so you know that I’m a man of fine taste. But sometimes men lose control. They question what is really sacred, and do bad things to it.

I ordered gulab-jamun for dessert after lunch yesterday. And put the leftover sugar syrup in my very expensive coffee.

How to ruin good coffee

Suicides That Surprise

I don’t wanna be disrespectful to anyone mourning Anthony Bourdain’s death, but I find it hard to trust the honesty of feeling anywhere in social media. I don’t think the couples who post their pictures love each other enough(I honestly think the guy is being a dick to her and sometimes it’s her fault too), and I don’t think travel bloggers who go to Santorini are very happy either. The sun is harsh and it makes you sweat.

But if you’re sad after Anthony Bourdain’s suicide, don’t let me interfere with your mourning. I realise it’s a personal thing, and you could’ve had your own personal connection with him in the way you have with artists (that’s probably a part of his legacy: he made chefs go “Oh, we can ACTUALLY be artists. Tamaatar aise kaato jaise Salvador Dali ki painting bann rahi ho”).


I’m not exactly unmoved myself. I’m sad too. Not in a “A part of me just died today” way but more in a “Dying sucks” way. I’m just saying if famous people who die are so important to someone, there’d be some evidence of it before they died. I have this person on my facebook who would regularly post Linkin Park videos and was devastated when Chester Bennington died. I knew he’d be sad before he wrote about it.

Maybe it’s like an old family member who’s been bedridden for years and hasn’t been a part of your everyday life all this while. When they finally die, it hits you at once and in the days that follow, wonderful things are said about their kindness, and their dick moves are rightly forgotten.

My own connection with Bourdain doesn’t go very deep: I once confused him with Antonio Banderas at a party. I’ve read Kitchen Confidential and loved it, and gifted his books to a friend for her birthday, but that’s it.

I was more occupied by what could’ve led to him killing himself. As soon as I found out, my first thought was “Does he have a stable family life?”, because I’ve been grappling with that whole excitement vs stability debate myself. I Wiki’d him and realized he’s been divorced twice. Other than a tiny sense of “Dekha? I KNEW it”, that doesn’t prove much.

So now that I’ve put one unsubstantiated theory out, allow me to make another: I think these people- Robin Williams, Bourdain, Avicii etc. are in a unique position to know that life is, eventually, hollow. They are better placed than most to know that. They’ve achieved whatever is said to be achievable, have more money than they thought they’d need, have been through marriages and divorces, have been on drugs and rehab, have had strangers fawning over them and hating them…that’s an enough number of ups and downs to go “there’s nothing left for me to feel”.

And the reason most of us don’t kill ourselves is that we still don’t have the things we always wanted. Acquiring a skill, getting a bigger house, loving the kinda person you dreamt of when you hit puberty(?) etc.

So the EMI that reminds you of the averageness of your life, could well be the reason you haven’t killed yourself yet.


Suicides That Surprise

The dream is over

Over the last 2 weeks, I’ve fought with Uber, Vodafone, HDFC and Paytm customer care executives.

That’s how I spend my free time. Call customer care executives whose jobs are a daily reminder of the death of their dreams, and fight with them. But hello, my dreams are dying too.

I dream of paying Uber only when I sit in their car, not when the driver starts the trip while still being 5 minutes away. I admire the driver for being a free spirit, but not at my expense.

I’ve had issues with almost every service provider whose app is on my phone. The internet of the 90s promised freedom and equality and a level playing field. But humans run the internet and they don’t stand for those ideals. My hope now is that the digital revolution undoes itself and we go back to the basics. You used to call me on my cellphone, now I can’t wait for you to call me on my landline.

One of those HDFC executives actually hung up on me. And that’s my problem: there seems to be this new environment where no one cares. Customer care people don’t care because their bosses don’t care, who probably don’t care because the boss of all bosses, the government doesn’t care. When the class monitor himself talks, how will he ask the naughty kids to keep quiet?

I really did go back to the 90s with that one.

But life’s not all bad. So here’s a picture of a jalebi.



I ordered some from my neighbourhood halwai yesterday after I saw Momina Mustehsan having doodh-jalebi on her Instagram post.

That’s how desire works no? You end up wanting the thing you didn’t know you wanted because you saw someone else enjoying it.

The dream is over

Do we know enough about Karan Johar?


For the last couple of months, Karan Johar has been everywhere. I would’ve called him “KJo”, but no man should be called that. He’s been the only person to not be fighting an election and still be in all kinds of media: print and digital, relevant and irrelevant, and whatever category “Pinkvilla” belongs to.

Here’s what a quick google search for Karan Johar threw up:

From Vogue’s website:“7 life confessions from Karan Johar you haven’t heard yet”.

Fine, I guess. When you have nothing to do, you’d probably glance over that.

But fancy this, from India Today’s website:“Karan Johar reveal he paid for sex: 5 explosive confessions from KJo’s biography”

 The “Indian Express” goes a step further:“Karan Johar opens up about his sexuality, virginity and SRK in his new book”

Behind this headline is one very happy SEO guy. “Sexuality” and “virginity” are enigmatic things on their own, but when you add Karan Johar and SRK to the mix, the results are toe-curlingly orgasmic. I’m guessing the only point of debate in this headline was: Should we go with SRK or Shah Rukh Khan? What if people don’t get SRK?

 Then there was this, from Storypick: “I Don’t Have A Relationship With Kajol Anymore,” writes Karan Johar In His Autobiography”

 To be fair, Storypick has even shared MY videos, and this is way more relevant.

But imagine, you’re a person who wants to stay informed about the economy so you can say something substantial the next time someone says “demonitisation” at a party. You subscribe to the Economic Times, and it would take a very open mind to not unsubscribe when you read this:

“I am done with Kangana playing the victim card and blaming Bollywood: Karan Johar”

Just wait a week or two, and he’ll be on the front page, talking about who Akhilesh Yadav should Fuck-Marry-Kill. Virat Kohli will take a backseat from the sports page because on it will be Karan Johar, talking about how he doesn’t follow cricket because that “jhintak blue of the Indian team is so Eww!”

You can tell a lot about a country by how it treats its heroes, and even more by how it treats its directors. We treated Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Gulzar differently: we just watched their movies, went “Waah kya sahi hai!”, and moved on.

We’re no longer that country. We’ve changed, the media has changed, and in the new scheme of things, Karan Johar is the most important voice in the country and soon, hopefully, on Indo-Pak issues.

(Exhibit A: “Make Fawad the PM of Pakistan. Nawaz Sharif is anyway so ugly if Benazir was alive she’d die again Oh MY GOD HUHUHUHUHUHLOL!)

The point, simply, is this: Ussko kuch kuch hota hai, tum nahi samjhoge.

We know from his interviews that he was a fat kid. That was revolutionary, for no one else has ever been fat. He’s the only person in the country to have had body issues and be bullied. He’s been in love and not had that love reciprocated, and felt vulnerable about his sexuality.

Which, again, nobody else has felt. Even if they have, it doesn’t count because they’re not from Bollywood. When we outsiders have issues with our sexuality, there’s just that one obvious solution: go fuck ourselves.

I’m afraid we as a society haven’t dived to the depths of our KaranJoharity. I won’t be convinced until we have a start-up dedicated to solve the problem of Karan Johar. How hard is it to create an app that transfers Karan Johar’s thoughts on to your facebook timeline in real time? Cut out these middlemen and journalists.

Because journalists, honestly, could’ve done better. We know he was fat, but no journalist has had the ingenuity to plunge the depths of his subcutaneous fat and tell us exactly how much he weighed in 1991. What is that one snack he binged on when he was upset because people called him fat?

No answers.

He wrote in an NDTV article about how he lost his virginity late in life. How is that information enough? We need to know who it was that finally entered the dragon.

And last week, we outdid ourselves: We took attention away from him, and gave it to Kangana Ranaut! So what if she’s smart and bold and disruptive. The show is not “Koffee with Kangana”. She’s not allowed to play her “Woman” and “badass” cards when Karan has his “social” and “vulnerable” cards ready. Why she would break the line instead of falling in it and making it convenient for everyone, is beyond me.

But it’s a tiny issue for Karan and I’m sure he’ll get over it. He’ll see a toot-ta taara and wish for his mojo back.

Let’s never make the mistake of keeping him relevant just to being a filmmaker. Let’s loosen up a little more. Just like Karan’s jeans in class 10th. See? I just normalized his obesity.

It’s our fault. For lapping up whatever we’ve been served and not demanding better.

Do we know enough about Karan Johar?

Underneath that burqa…

There are very few moments when you can claim to be truly “startled”.  It’s one of those things that happen to other people. In fiction. Like, “Ross said Rachel, and Emily was startled”.

I was at the Carter Road Promenade in Bombay recently. It’s that place where people look towards the sea and pretend the city behind them doesn’t exist. That equips them to face the city when they do, in fact, face the city. It was 9:30 a.m., so the only people there were assorted people who don’t have bosses. People who’ve made too much money to care, people who don’t care about money, and me: out on a morning run so I could justify my lust for carbs.

“Morning” tends to be a very subjective term when you’re a freelancer.

Benches line this 1 km stretch for old people to sit and wonder where their life has gone, and young people to think where their life is going. I saw something more rooted in the present.

There were 3 people on this bench, comfortable in their space while they jostled for more, in a fashion typical of Bombay. One guy and two girls, two of them were wearing a burqa. I won’t tell you who. The guy and one girl seemed to be a couple, in that pre-kiss zone, one skillful maneuver away from ripping each other’s’ clothes apart. The kind of simmer you achieve on delaying the inevitable.

I’m not generalizing, but two people kissing are usually a couple. So we’ll work with that assumption. The other girl was sitting calculated inches away from them to not interfere.

Even “privacy” tends to be a subjective term when you have little space.

Now those are just the facts. Like most facts, they’re true, but less interesting than what I did with them in my head.

The “startling” bit came to me a second later: THE BURQA IS FULL OF POSSIBILITIES! In the limited burqa interaction I’d had in my life, this had to fall under “Best use of burqa”.

I also learnt that when you get startled, you say “Ohhh!”. Like the “Ohhh!” you say when your friend tells you the “friend” he’s brought to your party has been his girlfriend for 3 months.

The burqa is beautiful, and the beauty of it lies in the eyes of the wearer. Here was a symbol of repression being turned into one of liberation, even rebellion. Presumably, this is what happened. Call it the Sharia version of Sex and the City:

Girl and boy want sexy time, but how to get sexy time when family be like “No sexy time. Marriage first. Dibs.”

But when girl want sexy time, girl get sexy time.

Girl see symbol of repressed sexuality, girl turn it into key to liberation.

Family say, “Where you go, Amina?”. Amina say, “Oh just close by. Sufi night is happening.”

“Don’t go alone, Amina!”

“Lol, not going alone! Sultana also coming”

“Oh then it’s fine.”

Because Sultana is a nice girl. I mean, you HAVE to be a nice girl when you calmly sit while your friend gets laid. That niceness must spill over to other spheres of her life too, enough for Amina’s parents to go “Oh don’t worry. If she’s going with Sultana, she’s not going to have sex. Trust me.” Poor Amina is probably allowed to go out only if when accompanied by Sultana, who won’t arouse suspicion. Even if some suspicion, in this aroused environment, is aroused, only Amina, Sultana and the guy know they are Amina and Sultana. Nobody else will ever find out. What a plan.

At this point, I’m only thinking of Sultana. The girl who’s bringing joy to two people who’ve found their sources of joy. Does SHE have joy? Does she have love? Will Amina come with her when SHE has to sit on a bench? Or will she be a total bitch and say “I already have plans yaar”

As she sat there, third-wheeling, she did what most people do when they have to feign business: look into her phone. I hope she gets the text she’s waiting for. So that she can rub it in Amina’s selfish face.

I’m team Sultana. I’m sure it’s not easy having a restricted view of romance in full bloom.

Especially through a burqa.

P.S.: I saw them for barely one second while I was in motion and they were stationary.

Underneath that burqa…

Strong Opinions on masala chai

You don’t know how important masala chai is, until you get bad masala chai. It’s like breathing: you don’t care, but when I smother you with a pillow…

I work out of this co-working space, surrounded by assorted people who “follow their dreams”: start-up founders, writers, designers, interior decorators, photographers etc. One of the things they don’t tell you about following your dreams is that you won’t have an office of your own. These people also don’t have “routines” imposed on them by others, which is a lot worse than it sounds. It’s like being given a 500 dish menu and being unable to decide what to order. So through a lot of hit and trial, they figure out what time of the day they’re most productive, what aids that productivity, what helps them relax, and just like that a routine sets in.

For me, when I begin my day’s work, it’s black coffee. It sits well with the general vibe: it’s a new day, the air is crisper, everyone has more energy, you haven’t opened facebook, no con-calls with stupid clients have happened yet.

By about 4 in the evening, a lot has changed. There’s some work done and more left, that back has become a little stiff. Some general wear-and-tear has set in, and you must decide whether to work more or make “plans”.

THAT is where masala chai comes in, with a burst of energy that’s also strangely soothing. Tea leaves, water, milk, adrak, elaichi brewed together to get whatever shade of brown tells you this is it. Nothing else will do. Especially “tea-bags”. I’m a snob to the extent of preferring roadside chai to the fucking “Tea(Masala/Assam/Earl grey” nonsense they give at coffee shops.

Now I’m not even sure if tea actually gives that burst of energy I’m looking for. I think it’s more an image from those “kamaal ki taazgi” ads from the 90s. If it makes Ustad Zakir Hussain’s dreary fingers work that tabla like they’re on cocaine, it can surely let me write 1 email and 2 bad jokes.

I don’t expect much: just my eyes to be held open with that first sip and that sweet burn as it washes down my throat. Simple.

With all that context, you’ll appreciate it when I tell you what I got at my “workspace” yesterday made me want to demonetize the chef’s assets.

It was 2 shades lighter than the brown I usually  get at the same place. If I wanted to have something that sweet I would’ve ordered kheer and if I wanted to have something that watery I would’ve ordered…water. And that would’ve at least tasted like nothing, and life would’ve been back to a clean slate.

If you’ve ever made tea, by the time you pour it you know how it ranks on the “Zero to Perfect” scale. And if it’s closer to zero, you throw it, with a silent prayer for the “lakhs of people who go hungry without milk but whatever”.

Why didn’t this guy throw it? That pissed me off more than how much the chai sucked. I shot off an angry email to the management about how something as simple as chai sucked, while their chefs were winning awards. I sympathise with them: imagine having your days full with meetings aimed at getting more funding for your company, and having to deal with one self-important prick who thinks your chai is not up to his gold standards.

They were nice. There was some assurance given and taken, but the damage would take some time to heal.

A couple of lessons were learnt though: if you know you’ve made bad chai, have the courtesy to throw it. And when you’re not in the mood for making masala chai, DON’T fucking make masala chai.



Strong Opinions on masala chai

“Excuse me, but aren’t you…?”

(This is the unedited version of the column that appeared in The Sunday Times,on 5th July 2015. The published version can be read here.)

New Yorkers often talk of how often they enter a coffee shop and spot people like Woody Allen working casually. Or an A-list Hollywood star joining a street performer. Things like these don’t happen in India. We hardly ever see celebrities in their natural habitat. We don’t go to Juhu beach and spot Amitabh Bachchan enjoying a gola. Which is great for Amitabh Bachchan, because otherwise, he’d have to answer a lot of questions.

“Sir, how to get so tall, sir? Bless my son, sir”

“Sir, do you and Abhishek Sir and Aishwarya mam sing Kajra Re everyday? Tell na, please”

You get the drift.

Even so, a great thing happened at a Delhi bar last Wednesday. Chris Martin, the lead vocalist of British band Coldplay, performed for about 50 unsuspecting listeners on a whim, making them the most hated people in the country. The crowd grooved to acoustic versions of Coldplay’s greatest hits, while the bar owner grooved to the sound of free publicity. Delhi people who weren’t there cried at the missed opportunity of a selfie and a facebook check-in. Bombay people who weren’t there cried at something cool happening in Delhi, “of all places”. Bangalore people who weren’t there were, umm, okay: they’ve never been anywhere post 11p.m.

City clichés apart, it surely was a sign of changing times that so much noise was made in India over international music. Because otherwise, our countrymen have the endearing quality of walking up to a dubstep DJ and going “BHAI BOLLYWOOD BAJA NA!” More importantly, the fact that there have been no reports yet of a Delhi guy going “Perform at my farmhouse, Chris, I pay double. Otherwise I shoot.”, tells us that we might finally be learning how to behave with famous people. Because traditionally, we never have. We could be anyone, but show us a celebrity and we go crazy.

I remember this time I was stuck at Hyderabad airport after a delayed flight and I heard some typically angry comments. “Airline sucks. Airport sucks. Government sucks. Country sucks. You suck.” Until someone saw a familiar face and shouted “OH MY GOD, LOOK! RAJPAL YADAV!!” and the delayed flight became the best thing to have happened to everyone there. No celebrity is ever too irrelevant to get excited about.

I’m no different. Except that what I do to the said celebrity in my head is way more interesting than what I actually do. I run regularly at Delhi’s Lodhi Gardens, and almost every time, I see Jairam Ramesh on his evening walk. In the lead up to last year’s elections, only I know how I resisted the temptation to shout, “Jeetega Bhai Jeetega, BJP Jeetega!” on his face every time I ran past him. Sigh, if only I hadn’t grown up after college.

But this whole Chris Martin episode sets such a good precedent. The bar has been raised. Now if I don’t see important people in unexpected places, I’ll be very disappointed. Like, politicians in the parliament throughout the entire session. Or, going to a dargah and finding Narendra Modi offering a chaadar. So cute! I dare you not to go ‘Aww’ in a squeaky voice, even if you’re the most macho bouncer in a Gurgaon pub.

And I hope this pleasure isn’t restricted to just a certain strata of the Twitter-ised, bar hopping, iPhone owning strata of the society. We’ve got to let the benefits seep down to the deepest levels. I look forward to the day autowallahs and migrant labourers call for a strike because they just found Altaf Raja singing at a chai stall. Never mind the awkwardness Bangladeshi workers would feel on hearing ‘Tum toh tthehre pardesi’. It’ll be a great vibe, and I hope we become the kind of country where people break into unexpected jigs and states of trance at will.

Into that heaven of freedom, my father, let my country awake.

The writer is a Stand Up Comedian.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you…?”

Why not a Kama Sutra Day instead?

(This is the unedited version of the published piece(Times of India, 21st June), which can be read here. The headline I suggested was “A sexy alternative to World Yoga Day”, but I’m not complaining that TOI edited it to this current, click-bait-y version. They also left out a few lines that could’ve turned controversial: I don’t blame them. They know how to run a newspaper, not me. And it’s good when no one goes to jail in the end.)

Today, June 21st, is the longest day of the year. Possibly even the hottest. Left to myself, I’d lie in an ice bath, and restrict my physical activity to pressing the AC remote with my toes.

And this government wants me to go out and celebrate World Yoga Day? It wants me to get out and do surya-namaskaar? Let me tell you, government, THAT surya will not be namaskaar-ed by me. Not in this weather. Plan the event in December and watch me namaaskar the hell out of your surya. In June, my namaskaar will be restricted to the rolling up of a certain finger towards anyone even asking me to lift a finger.

Let’s be clear: the only yoga that’s happening here is that of India stretching itself and taking that position where its all-talk lips meet the well-endowed rear of another country. It’s the “World” that is really important, the “yoga” and “day” part just fell in place. This government loves the sound of approval in a good foreign accent, except when it’s Shashi Tharoor’s accent. Christmas was rechristened “Good Governance Day”, and now it’s this. When they promised Acche Din, what they really meant was Ajeeb Se Din. It’s not their fault that we misunderstood.

It’s this love for the limelight (or sunlight, if you will) that makes it chase the Guinness World Record, an odd thing to do for a government with record majority in the first place. It’s a bit like an already successful actor taking up a trending ‘social cause’ immediately before his next big release. But let’s not forget, the trailer makes no sense if there isn’t a movie to follow it up. It’s hard to imagine just one dedicated day launching a regular yoga drive. Just like no Valentine’s Day makes couples ignore each other’s nose hair and fall deeper in love.

But I’m not the kind of guy who’ll sit at the sidelines and criticize the establishment. As a citizen of this country, it is my duty to find a solution, and arrive at an idea that plugs the holes of World Yoga Day. Something that makes people healthy and happy, something that makes the world like us, something that’s equally appealing to all Indian communities. What could it possibly be? Ah, I know. Friends, Indians, countrymen, lend me your bodies.

How about a World Kama Sutra Day?

No, hear me out! I’ll explain.

Think about it. Sex, Kama Sutra style, is everything that yoga is, and then some more. It requires your bodies to be in those same contorted positions (except that they’re now worth it), and it’s something that everybody from a malnourished African to an obese American will look forward to. And our population is proof, that even if we aren’t always good at it, we are at least enthusiastic about it.


But when you’re willing to take revolutionary ideas more seriously, I’ll be here, with my copy of the Kama Sutra, laughing my victorious laugh at you. You’ll see.

Why not a Kama Sutra Day instead?