Monthly Archives: October 2016

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Why do we allow Shiv Sena – MNS to bully us?

When Bal Thackeray passed away, I remember being thoroughly amused by the huge amounts of sympathy being poured out on social media. Not by Maharashtrians, or those who enjoyed any real benefits from living under his regime. But by people who grew up elsewhere, and were in no way affected by his policies, principles, or tenures.

I still don’t understand the Shiv Sena’s contribution to nation-building. I remember being enraged that a teenage girl was arrested on the basis of a Facebook post condemning the blocking of roads. I mean, if your greatness is shaken by a teenager’s Facebook post…

But one of the points raised by the fanboys was that Bal Thackeray was a strong leader who ‘stood up to Pakistan’. An interesting choice of words, because in India, when people say Pakistan, they surreptitiously mean ‘Muslims’. But even ignoring that, how really did Bal Thackeray stand up to Pakistan?

Did he personally pick, train, and send a specialist team of commandos to Pakistan? Did he bring into place groundbreaking policy and advocacy that changed people’s lives? Did he alter the fabric of the nation through his thoughts, ideas and laws?

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What the Shiv Sena did essentially, was throw a fit of tantrum. Remember that fat kid in school who would throw his geometry box around? Shiv Sena was that kid. Throughout their inception, they have run hate campaigns against communities, ethnicities, regions and languages. They have instituted a culture of beating people up, threatening them with dire consequences, and holding up law and order because Democracy is merely a cow from their father’s village.

Shiv Sena celebrates 50 years in 2016, and their history is studded with a range of ‘outsider villains’ – Communists in the 60s, ‘Madrasis’ in the 70s, UP-Biharis in this decade, and Pakistanis since their inception. Bal Thackeray has been indicted in criminal activities, provoking violence and riots, and yet, the man went to jail just once. A party that was created to uphold the interests of the local Marathis of Bombay, has become a backstreet bully without a sense of humour. How ironic that their founder started his career as a political cartoonist!

And when their voice isn’t heard, they go about behaving like a 4 year old girl on cocaine – break shops, smash hotels, vandalise media outlets – just do whatever the fuck they want till people listen to you. And if they don’t give in to your tantrums, just dig up the cricket pitch where the Test match is to be played. I mean, who benefited from that act?

Rashid Latif.

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This went on for decades, and has slowly seeped into other states and organisations too. The idea of violent protests has become a part of our mainstream. Take for instance the recent protests by Gujjars for reservations, or Kannadigas for Cauvery water. Or the true heir of Bal Thackeray – the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena – the only political party in the world with its foundations built on the principles of Sunny Deol in Ghayal. The modus operandi is one that is patented by the Shiv Sena – smash public property like it is your own advance dowry supply.

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These dudes have spent their entire political journey smashing things up. When was the last time you heard an MNS politician make a sensible statement? Or bring about any change in any real way? All these guys do is fret and burn, fuss and smash – just a bunch of pusillanimous dickheads.

It is shocking that no party ever takes any action against them. The Congress party didn’t do it because their entire bunch of leaders were doing Lingaabhishekam to Rahul Gandhi. And the ruling BJP won’t do it because it won’t get them 1700 gazillion dollars investment from Germany.

Why do we tolerate political parties like the Shiv Sena and MNS? Why do we give them the freedom to do what they please with the country? May be because we as a race are passive, we let things be. Which is why they know they can get away with it. What else could be the reason?

We have a fully functional police force, judiciary, law and order system, and yet nobody stands up to these bullies. It’s a democracy, motherfuckers! Not Raj Thackeray’s Bachelor Party. Who is he to decide that every film producer should pay 5 crores to the Army fund? I mean, what the fuck is going on?

MNS is a fringe party in Maharashtra, has no fucking role in our nation as such – why do we accord them so much importance? The Shiv Sena has 18 MPs in the Lok Sabha and 3 in the Rajya Sabha. Guess how many seats the MNS won in the 2014 Assembly Elections?

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Bobby Deol has double the number of hits in his career. Why are these parties taken so seriously? In spite of laws against vandalism, against disrupting the peace of the land, no party ever takes any action against them. Arnab Goswami never calls an MNS leader to his show because that would require actual balls – living, pumping sockets of scrotum that are not needed when you bring people to your show and shout at them.

The legacy of Bal Thackeray, for all his achievements, will essentially remain the firm entrenchment of chaos politics in India. Of letting loose goons on the road to silence and scare people – the lowliest form of realpolitik that one can adopt in the 21st century.

For all their hatred of Pakistan and Muslim countries, the Shiv Sena and MNS are the closest resemblance to Islamic fundamentalism in India. Their ideology is driven from the same racial superiority that makes Pakistan the failed state that it is today. It’s high time someone spoke up against these bullies. Showed them their negligible position in the nation’s scheme of things.

You might sit silent today. You might be too far removed from their politics in everyday life. But the poison of mob frenzy spreads quickly. And before you know it, a dumbass is smashing your car because Bipasha Basu’s cat ate fish on Karva Chauth.

You can choose to remain silent. But I’m going to say it.

Dear Shiv Sena and MNS,

You guys are high school bullies who refuse to grow up. You pick on the weakest, the outsiders, the fragile, simply because nobody wants to bother commenting on your brainless antics. You guys are fucking pussies. 

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The Slow Metamorphosis of my bike into a horse

As a heterosexual male, there have been a number of fascinations in my life. Minor and major desires that drove me towards actions that I’m either proud or ashamed of.

Among these fascinations are cricket trump cards, scandalous books, cricket bats, female company, marijuana, gaajar halwa, calligraphy pens, and cheap whiskey. However, not once in my life was I fascinated by vehicles and automobiles. The closest I came to was Abhay from the Agniputra Abhay comics, who had a motorcycle called Princess, whom he talked to, flirted with, and went out on adventures with. But even as a seven year old, I remember thinking ‘That’s fucking weird’.

When my school friends were gossipping about the latest bicycles as part of the school annual function, I was sashaying around in a drill called Stars and Horses. The first bicycle I rode was my sister’s BSA SLR Ladybird – a sleek, dainty bicycle in a shiny, shocking maroon colour. If you looked at it under the afternoon sun, the handlebar would gleam off light like a Samurai’s sword. When I first learnt to ride it, I felt on top of the world, only to have the colony guys say ‘Hahahaha Ladies Cycle hahahahaha’ to my face a few weeks later. The stint with the BSA SLR Ladybird ended the following year.

I was returning from a household chore, and in my head an exciting India vs Pakistan encounter was taking place. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I raced forward…and banged into not one, but two vehicles at the same. The front and back wheels experienced sufficient damage and my cycling days were all but over.

*

The next few years weren’t great by any margin. The vehicles I had the displeasure of riding were an old TVS Max 100, that cheeky bike that caused sufficient damage to the Ozone layer. And a friend’s LML Freedom which I was embarrassed to ride, having seen Zayed Khan ride it in Main Hoon Na.

And yet, ride I did, to disastrous results. At times, I would slip and fall on gravel. On other times, the bike would stutter and shudder to a stop right in front of the girl I was trying to impress. I have banged into trees, people, cows, vehicles parked by the road, and old pedestrians crossing the road. I have banged into women plucking flowers in the early hours of the morning, and minutely escaped children learning to ride a cycle.

And then, years later, I bought my first ever ride. A snazzy geared bicycle that cut a considerable hole in already shallow pockets, the bike stayed with me for a few weeks, and got stolen. And then, it was back to Bus No.11 – I would hitch rides, offer cigarettes to people who had bikes, ask for lift from everybody – even specially customised scooters for handicapped people.

When I finally landed myself a slightly cushy job, I decided it was time to get my own thing. Bahut ho gaya.

Some savings were tapped into, and I walked into the many noble companies that offer two-wheelers in our country. There were the Hondas and the Suzukis – efficient, hard-working engines that ran for years and decades, serving their masters loyally. But I opted out.

I struck out the Yamahas since they were out of my budget, and gave the TVS showroom a miss. Finally, I settled on the Bajaj showroom. Perhaps it was my background in advertising, the Humara Bajaj campaign having left an inedible mark on my being. Or perhaps, like most Indians, I wanted to spend less money and get a lot in return. For, Bajaj might not make the best bikes, but they make the best ads.

Like Abhimanyu, I waked into the showroom. With the knowledge that things were never going to be the same for me again. This was it. Fuck you, BSA SLR and LML Freedom. Fuck you, Ajay Devgan in Agneepath, and fuck all those people who denied me a lift on dark, lonely nights.

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I am going to get my own bike.

*

I walked out of the showroom with a Bajaj Discover.

The first day was spent in looking at it from a distance, trying it out, getting advice from friends – ‘Before the first servicing, don’t go above 60’, ‘Always switch off the petrol’ . Words of advice that would fall on deaf ears and stoned eyes.

On the second day, I went out for beer with a beautiful woman. The beer was flat, but the conversation sparkled. She had hair that was slightly curly, and eyes that looked into my soul. And when she laughed, it turned me on. With all the confidence of a two-day old bike owner, I offered to drop her back to my home. Everything went smoothly – no banging, screeching, scraping – and I rode back home a contented man.

‘This is nice’, I thought, as the wind hit my face in all its glory. ‘Let me listen to some music’, I thought, and connected my earphones and rode on. I felt light and buzzed, like a hallucinating bumble bee. Then I crashed into a divider.

The bike went skidding from left to right, oscillating dangerously, like Moto GP riders just before they hit the ground. A man screeched to a halt next to me and said, ‘Kya mast sambhaaley, bhai. Main toh socha aap mar gaye’. I thanked him for his concern and gathered my phone and wits.

The screen had shattered. My bike’s rim was bent, the handle bent to an absurd angle, and the visor cracked. But this was just the beginning. In the next two years, I’d find out why the bike is called Bajaj Discover!

*

In a few weeks, I hated my bike.

It is called Bajaj Discover because you discover a new problem every month. Bajaj bikes will run smoothly for two years (in my case, 6 months), and then reveal their true colours.

You can identify an old Bajaj bike just from its sound. Along with the humming of the running engine, there’ll be a ‘clink’ and a ‘clong’, a ‘ting’ and a ‘tong’ – shaky, broken parts rattling along with the bike.

A year on, riding the bike began to become a chore. As a pot smoker, I am lost in my thoughts, or humming a song, or thinking of a new stand up set. Amidst such lofty thoughts, to be brought back to reality to change the gear is cruelty. At times, I felt like Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill. At other times, I felt like a slave tied to an oil mill.

My indifference and apathy took a toll on my bike, and it began to suffer from the Benjamin Button syndrome. People were shocked when I told them it was only two years old.

‘What? It looks at least 8 years old’.

‘Yes. Meet my bike, the Bajaj Benjamin’.

It is said that punishing circumstances change who we are deep within. That difficult times mould us into different people.

And right before my own eyes, my bike metamorphosed into a horse.

*

An old, haggard horse that had enlisted in the army in spite of weak knees and worn out joints – kyunki us mein passion hai.

Like a horse, it had its own moods, mood swings and tantrums. On a day of its choice, it would refuse to start, stubbornly coughing out smoke. On other days, it would start, but stop halfway through the journey. On some days, it would decide to guzzle down double the fuel needed for its nourishment.

On some days, it would barely take anything – leaking out a deadly mixture of oil and petrol from the sides. If the winter was harsh, it would sit snug in the parking lot, refusing to even entertain the thought of stepping out. If the sun was too harsh, it would go into a shell, refusing to budge till it was taken for a check up.

There have been days when I would stop by the road and silently mutter prayers and pleadings to it. There have been days when I refused to touch it for weeks at stretch. I began to ignore it for cabs and friends, relegating it to mundane tasks like buying cigarettes and Reynolds Racer Gel pens.

A few weeks back, I decided I’d had enough. It was time to get rid of my old horse. Our journey together was short, albeit tumultuous. The two of us have met some wonderful people, and some not so wonderful people. All good things, they say, come to an end. And all bad things, need to be brought to an end.

I have found a person to sell my horse to. The man is a friend, a fellow stoner and co-adventurer into the unchartered territories of existential quagmires. I have explained to him that he must not expect a nayi naveli dulhan, for these are only societal benchmarks, and no real barometers of inner beauty. He tells me that his needs are frugal, and when I close my eyes, I can see him and my horse, trotting towards a cigarette shop.

Goodbye, Bajaj Discover! Hope you serve your new master well. Be nice to him, and he will take care of you. Be nasty, and he could be quite the taskmaster. Unlike me, he believes in living the fast life. He might take you out on treacherous journeys across hills, or into week-long adventures into marshy lands.

I tried looking out for you, Bajaj Discover. I guess it’s just you from now on.

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Odiya guys, you need to calm the fuck down!!

If you haven’t been following Markandeya Katju on social media, you aren’t missing much.

The former Chief Justice of India is a man with lively ideas, and doesn’t believe in mincing words. He strikes me as a 70 year old man who loves to talk, and has finally discovered a platform to communicate. Some of his opinions are progressive, some loony, and some amusing.

As part of Mr. Katju’s social media discourses, somebody nudged him for an opinion on Odiya people, and the man had this to say:

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What followed was…

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Well, surprise surprise, assholes!! If there’s one thing we love as Indians, it is taking offence. There is something about offence that draws us all towards it, like bees to a flower, like ants to sugar, like Fardeen Khan to a line of coke. 

Indian man taking offence. Www.heartranjan.com

When a journalist asked for my opinion, I was actually taken aback. Are you kidding me? An old man ranting on Facebook is now to be discussed and debated over? Some people burnt his effigy, slapped his photograph with many pairs of Khadim chappals and sandals, and dared him to enter the state.

I didn’t know if I should laugh, or bury my sorrows in a quarter of Director’s Special Premium XXX Whiskey. IT WAS A JOKE, GUYS. It clearly says so in the post. The man was having some fun – just let him be!

Which brings me to my second point. We attach too much importance to Facebook. Facebook has been fairly popular in India for about 8 years now, and one’d expect we’d take it for what it is – a glorified Orkut. But – nope! We take Facebook too fucking seriously.

In case you got outraged, here’s a subtle hint.

A Facebook post doesn’t mean jack shit. Stop taking it seriously.

A Facebook post means nothing. It has no constitutional weight, nor is it valid in a court of law. It isn’t even an informed opinion – it’s just a rant. Like your grandpa’s opinion on the deteriorating standards of cinema, or your uncle’s unhealthy fascination for Falguni Pathak. It’s the same thing. Earlier, your family members would merely shake their heads and walk away. Today, a million guys receive a notification on their smartphones during their lunch break. But it’s still just a rant.

You’d burn someone’s effigies, and threaten to beat up an old man on the basis of that? Really? Come on, man. I thought we were cool. I thought we might not have a thriving stock exchange, or SpaceX’s next capsule, but we always had a sense of humour.  

I tried reasoning with some people on Facebook about this, when I was met with a very learned question.

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Arey, what did he even say, man? That the poor chaps got dejected after getting a thrashing from Ashoka. And then proceeded to perform a rather lame wordplay pun on the words Patra and Mahapatra. Who gives a shit? Did that offend you guys?? Seriously? In Twenty Fucking Sixteen??

Have you looked around you? We live in troubled times. There are children beheading people in front of a camera in the name of God. Planes are being burst, crowds being run over. People are being called infidels, faithless bastards, traitors and animals. People wake up to suffering and beheadings and explosions, nations are exploding on the basis of tweets. And this Facebook post enraged you? Are you fucking kidding me??

Haven’t we all cracked Sardar jokes? Imagine if every time a Sardar joke was cracked, they took up arms and burnt effigies. That’s never going to happen because…1984. Or how about the whole ‘Marwari kanjoos hai’ jokes? Or the vast repository of ‘Madrasi sambhar peeyega’ jokes? Or those splendid ‘Bihari ganwaar’ range?

We have grown up making fun of people, being made fun of. As someone who has been performing stand up, and writing humour for about ten years now, I always took great pride in my sense of humour. That I belong to a community of people that can take a joke with grace. And then slam you down with a joke so vitriolic, you’d want to run back into your mother’s womb, asshole!

One of the first times my mind was blown was when I heard an explicit version of Ramayan in a hamlet near Berhampore. It wasn’t a YouTube video, or an MP3 track. Just oral renditions of the entire gist of Ramayana, involving foul language, delicious sarcasm, and unholy punchlines. I remember gaping in wonder, that such a healthy practice was still alive, and practiced by ‘palla’ dancers – traditional travelling stand up comedians (who didn’t get paid too much).

We were a cool state. Let’s worry about the real issues, my friend. Of which we know there are many. Let the old man rant. We need to calm the fuck down.

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I’m proud of you, Pan Bahar

I wasn’t terribly shocked to see Pierce Brosnan endorsing Pan Bahar on my newspaper.

If you’ve been following the Indian Premier League, you’d find a number of international cricketers selling local products like Lux Cozi, Paragon Chappal, and Karbonn Mobile. The idea isn’t completely new.

Look at most of our fashion brands, and you’ll find anglicised names and models selling products that are designed, produced and sold in India. Even established organisations like Madurai Garments and Aditya Birla Group have had to buy foreign brands like Allen Solly, Peter England, Van Huesen and Reid & Taylor to position themselves as up-market brands.

What surprised me however, was the trolling that the campaign was subjected to. Jokes on the same lines, memes with the same image, all mocking the fact that Pierce Brosnan was peddling Pan Bahar. But does the campaign deserve so much criticism?

If Pierce Brosnan was signed on to sell a product that was more in tune with rich Indians, the campaign would have been hailed. If he was selling ‘Only Vimal’, it would have been a matter of pride.

But alas, Pierce Brosnan was selling paan masala. A product that is relegated to the middle and poor class in India. A product that has been facing the wrath of state governments and administrations across the country. With the ban on gutkha, paan masala and supari, it makes sense that a paan masala brand would focus on the lack of unhealthy particles in the product.

But Pan Bahaar thought big. They positioned their product not on taste, but class. Something that was never associated with a pan masala brand.

I choose to look at the campaign through two prisms – a smoker, and an advertising professional.

As a smoker, I am on top of the food chain. I find it amusing how the government is constantly trying to put barriers for smokers. There are the silly disclaimers on television and film screens. Then there are the pretentious friends and relatives who’d rather stuff themselves with ghee and butter, but preach on about the harm caused by cigarettes. Then there are the cigarette packets, with pictures of a throat so badly affected by carcinogenic substances, that it looks shiny blue. Like Neelkanth gone through a mutant experiment.

And yet, ask smokers if it has deterred them from smoking, and the answer will be a resounding NO. That is because every smoker knows that they’re not the worst off. Below them, there are the dudes with the unfiltered cigarettes, followed by beedi, gutkha, supari and khaini. Pan masala doesn’t even figure in my spectrum of options, it isn’t even considered.

From the prism of an advertising professional, the campaign gets a few things right, and a few things wrong.  

Signing Pierce Brosnan was a masterstroke. Brosnan enjoys a huge following in India, probably because he was 007 when our economy opened up to the world. Also, he is not a beefy Bond like Daniel Craig or Sean Connery. Pierce Brosnan is more like Rajesh Khanna – a suave, dialogue-spewing man who is better at charming the women that stabbing the men.

But how far the campaign will go in establishing the brand among its competitors is another matter. Gutkha brands have run a number of campaigns for years to establish brand recall. Manikchand hosted the Filmfare awards for the longest time. Baba Gutkha had Ajay Devgan winking into the screen, now having shifted to Vimal Paan Masala. Rajnigandha has positioned themselves as the secret behind Silicon Valley giants. Pan Parag has immortalised itself with lines such as ‘Baraatiyon ka swagat Pan Parag se kiya jaata hai’.

The positioning is dicey too, because the target audience might not really know Pierce Brosnan, or understand his suaveness. And it is highly unlikely that an urban, yuppie youth would buy Pan Bahar after seeing Brosnan on a hoarding.

In such circumstances, it was important for the brand to establish that they were Pan Bahaar and not Pan Parag. This was even more pertinent as the two brands have the same brand colours, and similar sounding names. You can see it in the memes too. Most people are referring to it as Pan Parag.

Having said that, it is a big gigantic deal for India Inc. To get a British icon to endorse an indigenous brand is reverse colonisation made possible by a resurgent economy that is on a juggernaut.

The fact that it is pan masala, considered cheap and tacky by urban, upper class India doesn’t change the fact that it is a huge endorsement deal by an Indian brand. If we can celebrate Irrfan Khan and Priyanka Chopra when they put on hoaxy accents to act in Hollywood projects, what is wrong with Pierce Brosnan in a Sooryavamsham beard endorsing paan masala?

So, good job Pan Parag Bahaar. I might not pick up your product any time soon, but I appreciate the balls.

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The mediocrity of ‘Pink’

I watched Pink a few weeks after its release.

The dark, deep pink had faded to a weak, thin pink. A night show with families who brought their 2 year old kids along.

I usually stay away from films that are highly praised. For example, critics went raving mad about the film Fan, but it made me look for a rope. I don’t mean to sound like an elitist, pipe-smoking intellectual, but when the biggest films are shitfests, the bar is very low. It is so low that it is an underground bar with only Haywards 5000 and Knock Out available.

But I did go to watch Pink.

I dislike late night shows as I tend to fall asleep. The silence, darkness and joints earlier mix together in a heady, drowsy concoction. Thankfully, Pink is short, so 10 points to Gryffindor there!

If you compare the reviews of Pink, I find that most of them harp on the message of the movie. On how important the message is, and why it is absolutely relevant to the times we live in. None of them linger too much on the actual film.

Probably because Pink takes its message seriously. So seriously in fact, that it doesn’t bother with basics like fleshing out characters. We know nothing about the protagonists – the three girls are Hindu, Muslim and Christian, and we are supposed to go along with the Amira Akbari Antoinette palette. Nothing is known of the antagonist, except that he’s a rich spoilt brat. There’s no explanation for Amitabh Bachchan taking up the girls’ case. Pink is so hell-bent on hammering home the point that it the message seemed to loom over the film like a gigantic Dementor.

The second aspect where it fails is in the genre of courtroom drama.

At the very outset, it is important to mention that courtroom dramas are not really Hindi cinema’s strong suit. We have been churning out hammy, illogical courtroom drama for decades now. Our courtroom dramas are deeply emotional, loud, and dramatic – every court scene is elevated to the heightened drama of a Draupadi Vastraharan scene.

From the dramatic Damini to the snoozefest Veer Zara. I’ve even watched a film where Anil Kapoor drinks poison to win the case, only to vomit and take antidotes when the case is adjourned. The only exceptions I can think of are Court and Shahid.

Which is why I wasn’t biting my nails waiting for the courtroom scene. And the film proved me right. The court scenes pack neither tension nor provoke thought. Amitabh Bachchan’s points don’t really make any sense, except to highlight drama. Showing the accused a Facebook picture of his sister in a bar to prove that girls from ‘good’ families also drink, sounds laughably lame. The wonderful Piyush Mishra’s character is only a caricature, and the villains are constantly glaring, threatening and intimidating.

As I expected, the courtroom scene ended with Mr. Bachchan delivering a speech. The only difference here was that it wasn’t loud and punctuated with words like M’Lord, Kanoon, and andhaa.

Pink did nothing for me.

It didn’t seem inspirational, because I had no personal connection with any character, they’re not living, fleshed out characters but names with faces. Pink ends up as a two hour Public Service Announcement.

It delivers a very important message, yes. But does little else in the process.

***

Like these brothers who couldn't spell 'Israel' because their struggle is rael. They're also not particularly fond of the card game Uno. 

Pic: Dawn.com

The origins of ‘Fuck off to Pakistan!’

‘Fuck off’ has been the nation’s war cry for a long time now.

It is not due to the Surgical Strike in Kashmir or the ‘Sir jee, kal strike’ in Kolkata. For a while now, we have been obsessed with kicking people out. 

The sentiment is not restricted to nationality and jingoism. We do it among ourselves too. Pioneers of this school of thought are the two Senas in Maharashtra – Shiv Sena and Maharashtra Navnirman Sena. Right from the attacks against ‘Madrasis’ 30 years ago, to the present day, they have been playing the ‘Fuck off’ game to stellar effect.

Those who cannot speak Marathi fuck off to your own states. Biharis fuck off from Mumbai. Pakistani cricketers fuck off to your country, or we’ll dig up the pitch – which if you think about it, doesn’t do much good for anybody. If the Shiv Sena really wanted to win the nation’s approval, they should have dug up the pitch just a little. Just enough for Anil Kumble to razzmatazz the fuck out of Pakistani batsmen, dismissing them for 73 runs. That would have been smart, but alas! – Shiv Sena.

But it is not just them. Other ‘Fuck off’ situations are those between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. Two seemingly developed, mature states that produced stately statesmen like Javagal Srinath and S. Venkataraghavan. The two states have been asking people to fuck off to their own states with the recent Cauvery imbroglio. Telangana people wanted Andhra people to fuck off, Kannada people wanted North-easterns to fuck off. Kashmiri separatists committed an entire genocide to ask Pundits to fuck off. Our primeval response to conflict is ‘Bhai, bahut ho gaya. Ab tum nikal lo’.

Then there is the case of social media and popular opinion. A comment that doesn’t fit the mould of a patriotism is met with – Fuck off to Pakistan. Criticism of The Leader elicits the cry to fuck off. An alternate opinion, and you’re asked to fuck off. Criticise a God, and you’re asked to fuck off.

I do not insinuate that we are the only country with such reactions. Our neighbours across the border have fancy protest too.

Like these brothers who couldn't spell 'Israel' because their struggle is rael. They're also not particularly fond of the card game Uno. Pic: Dawn.com

Like these brothers who couldn’t spell ‘Israel’ because their struggle is rael. They’re also not particularly fond of the card game Uno.
Pic: Dawn.com

Or these dudes, whose slogan 'Go India, Go back' makes you wonder if they're egging us on, or egging us out. Pic: www.latimes.com

Or these dudes, whose slogan ‘Go India, Go back’ makes you wonder if they’re egging us on, or egging us out.
Pic: www.latimes.com

But what really is this obsession with ‘Leave our land’?

Is this an inherently Indian phenomenon? Has it somehow been ingrained into our consciousness?

I think it has to do with the way our families and societies are constructed. We as a culture live with our parents and the cruelest punishment is to banish the child from the house.

Our greatest stories, our oldest epics – from Ramayan to Devdas, involve a son being asked to leave the house. Our films and our novels further propagate this idea.

And perhaps that has seeped into the way we think. Perhaps that is why we as a nation are obsessed with kicking people out of our country, our states, and our screens. The reasons may vary, the conflicts may be diverse, but the response is standard – Nikal lo.

But when there’s a war, or a question raised on our nation, we all stand together. The Bihari banished from Mumbai and the Kannada banished from Chennai. We get together and ask the new enemy to leave the nation. May be ‘ghar se nikal jao’ is a big deal for us. Perhaps it has become our first response.

As the K3G soundtrack plays in the distance, I notice that we had a traitor living amongst us all these days. Time for me to do what I must. 

Tanushree Dutta endorsing Multani mitti. Fuck off to Pakistan, Tanushree Dutta! #PeopleWhoShouldFuckOffToPakistan

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