Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Scumbag Airtel


“Hello good morning my name is Champu how may I help you today?
“Uh.. Hey hi... So ya my internet is not working...”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience can I have your full name, landline number, account number, passport number, your wife’s bra size and the size of your penis?”
“Uh yeah so my name’s blah blah number’s blah blah blah...”
“Okay sir what seems to be the problem?”
“My. Internet. Is. Not. Working!!!”
“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience... Can you check those lights...? Is your modem switched on...? Please restart it once... Open this webpage... Let me scratch my balls... Fart... Burp... Okay sir, did it work?”
“No man, still not working...”
“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience but I’ll connect your call to the technical department... Please stay on the line...”
4 long minutes later...
“Hi. This is Paplu. How may I help you...?”
“My internet is not working.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience and bullshit like that I am going to say and the whole process will be repeated till you get frustrated and hang up. So you better hang up right now.”

We’ve all been there and done that. We’ve all yelled at those Airtel customer care executives and tried talking in 18 different languages just to get our point across. If you haven’t, you probably have MTNL, BSNL, MantraOnline, Satyam, AOL or else you live in Meerut where there’s still no electricity, forget the Internet. And the situation is same for Airtel mobile subscribers as well. Guys end up spending more money on calls to the helpline than their girls. Even those naughty calls to Dubai late at night cost less than those.

You know if there was a Golden Kela Award for the worst, the most pathetic, the most mind numbingly idiotic customer care, it would go to Airtel, hands down. I’ve heard they’re trained in Afghanistan, only instead of guns, they are trained to attack people simply by opening their mouths. A few key words here and there could actually give a man a heart attack out of frustration. Apparently this guy in Gujarat who had to pay his wife’s phone bill of Rs. 89,745 shot himself after a 15 minute conversation with an Airtel customer care guy. But kudos to the executive who managed to get the payment in full before the poor Gujju could shoot himself in the balls.

Impeccable customer care, an understatement though, is not the only ace up Airtel’s sleeve. When it comes to ‘broadband speeds’ they are even faster than the fastest internet connection at Nasa. Faster at looting us, faster at spreading across India like a virus, faster at strengthening their monopoly even further, faster than nagging wives at frustrating people in India. When the whole wide world is driving a Porsche when it comes to internet speed, we’re still far back behind cruising in our Fiat Padmini Premier. The one with the gear knob at the side of the steering wheel.

But taking some blame away from Airtel is the Indian government, or whosoever is responsible for defining, or rather dictating, the broadband speed at an awesome 256 Kbps. Whoa. Stop right there citizen. You must not cross the speed limit of a blasting 256 Kbps lest you have an accident online. I’m sure these guys believe that if the Internet is fast, then porn sites would load faster and hence guys would ejaculate faster! My oh my why didn’t we think of this. We should actually be thankful to them for curbing the problem of premature ejaculation in India. Bravo, oh kind men.

Oh but wait. Wait wait wait right there. Who said Airtel does not provide ‘high speed’ internet. They’ve got ‘huge packages’ of 1 and 2 Mbps and even 4 Mbps for some lucky ones living in posh colonies. You know, because a good high speed Internet connection is something only the rich deserve. The poor are still not allowed to stream porn videos, they must keep watching thumbnail image porn till they become richer and move to a better place.

Now a 2 Mbps connection sounds really good. You go ahead and take it. But there’s a small catch, a tiny detail which isn’t all that important but, you know, maybe you should know that it comes with a 10 GB download limit to start with. After that you’re back in medieval times with a 256 Kbps speed where you can go and make coffee and have a toast and watch Airtel’s Har Ek Friend Zaroori Hota Hai crap on TV before Google displays its search result. Of course you can get a 100 GB limit, but then you can buy a bike by spending lesser money each month. And a 10 GB limit is like a dad saying to his kid “Look son, you’ve been a good child, you get good scores, you listen to your momma, you don’t fart in public and you don’t molest your little sister. So here’s the key to my Porsche, go out and take it for a spin, go for a long drive, take on the highway and show it to them who the boss is. But hey, after you’re done with the first 10 Kms, you can’t go above 40 Kmph. Now go my child, GODSPEED!”



I mean come on guys. Who the hell are you fooling? I know we’re a bunch of dumb people living in a country run by even dumber people, but hey, when it comes to Internet, we’re a little sensitive. A man must watch his porn at good speeds all month long and not just for the first 3 days. There’s only so much he can imagine about his maid, neighbour, teacher, cousin, dog, Shilpa Shetty, Richard Gere, a pregnant Aishwarya Rai, or whosoever lights his fire at night. Airtel’s ‘Fair Usage Policy’ (FUP) is more like a ‘Fuck User Policy’. Word.

Phew.

Oh wait, before I wrap up, I recently heard they’re increasing the prices by 100 bucks. Yay! That is exactly what we wanted. An increase in rental instead of speed. Great. That made my night.

Dear Airtel,
Up yours. You’re a scumbag company.
Sincerely,
A loyal customer. 

Sunday, 25 November 2012

The Night I Spent In Tihar


The image of her lying next to me kept flashing as I tried sleeping in that 6x6 cell. I still didn’t know where I was, I wasn’t fully asleep neither was I awake. I was somewhere in the middle, a trance, but a really disturbing one. I kept turning and twisting trying to figure out the mystery of how I’d landed on this cold rough floor in this tiny, stinky room. I tried to wake up, tried to get up, but fell on the floor with a bang and I blacked out. BOOM! BANG! I remembered how it all started.

Coming back from work with Rita, we were travelling in those shared autos which can seat up to 8 people but the guys manage to get in 15 just so that they could get in some more dough. She never really did like travelling those bloody things but we didn’t really have a choice.  Strapped of cash, struggling to make ends meet, this is what we had to go through every single day. I got a seat in the middle amongst the labourers, while she always preferred to sit at the door so that at least one of her sides wasn’t rubbing against a stinky, cement clad man smoking a bidi.

It was a Sunday, we had some students coming in for an extra class at the music school we used to teach at, and in return we were getting a day’s salary extra. Fair deal, I’d thought. We got free at noon, and were heading back home, hungry as always. It was a particularly special Sunday for us as today was the night of the Khyber Music Fest where we’d met for the first time a year back. Although it took me a while to actually ask her out, but I still remembered that magical night like it’s happen just last night. There was excitement on the road; people from all across the country had come to witness this grand event, today being the final day.

Amongst the merrymakers were these young kids in a car who I’d noticed drinking while we overtook them. We made slight eye contact and I noticed how they kept driving around our auto for no reason. I wasn’t too worried since they even had a girl amongst them, seemingly not forced, chilling with them and even enjoying a beer herself. Even I’d done all this crap back in the day. Life moved on.

As we were about to reach home, stuck at a red light, I was just staring into the oblivion wondering why life was so tough. I kept telling myself I’d be happy tonight and not let gloom take over, but frankly, it was difficult. Completely forgotten that there were people around me, lost in my own thoughts like I’d always be, I suddenly heard a loud cry and I snapped and looked on my left where Rita was sitting. It was all slow motion after that as I saw the same black Swift in which those kids were travelling parked right besides the auto on the other side. Before I could jump off from the opening on the right side, they’d forcibly taken Rite in the car with them and sped off. I tried to run behind them but all I could see and hear were cars from all sides honking at me as I stood there like a lost puppy in the middle of the intersection.

I rushed home and made some calls to a couple of friends who instantly came over for help. I was sweating although it was December, and fairly cold. I couldn’t stop shivering, or smoking. We were still trying to figure out who they were or why they’d kidnap Rita, if that’s what they did. The kids looked completely harmless when I’d seen them earlier. I was in shock and couldn’t think straight. It felt like someone was playing a game with me. A game I wasn’t enjoying much.

One of my friend suggested we should call the cops but I didn’t want to get into the hassle of dealing with the corrupt cops here and get Rita into more trouble. We were all divided by our opinions but in the end it’s me who had to decide since Rita was my girl. And we decided to deal with this ourselves and give it a shot before we called the cops. I knew where those kids were headed so we took off for the Khyber Music Fest.

Armed with leather belts around our waists and leather boots on our feet, we were on our way to the hippy fest to look for Rita amongst the 10000-odd strong crowd there. Rite loved dubstep so we headed directly to the dub arena on the terrace where there wasn’t much crowd as the genre still had to catch the fancy of the masses. All 4 of us, me and my friends, stood at the entrance and scanned through the crowd to see if she were to be found. I tried hard to remember those kids’ faces and started walking towards the DJ console. We all spread out and as I slowly neared the main stage, I saw her, I saw her giggling and laughing with the kids who’d apparently ‘kidnapped’ her. I stood there in astonishment and couldn’t move. Everything and everyone got blurred except her. She was laughing like a child, her hair bouncing as beautifully as ever. I hadn’t seen her this happy in quite some time. For a moment I thought I should let her be and just walk away. She seemed happy, after ages. But, alas, love wouldn’t let me do any such thing.

I marched right towards her, my belt in my hand, ready to hit the kid who was driving the car and who was now sitting next to Rita, his arm around her shoulders, both sipping beer, something me and Rita hadn’t done in so long. I got close, Rita still hadn’t noticed me and I wacked one at the guy. The music stopped, everyone gasped and I hit him again. On the floor, writhing in pain, he cried for mercy and I stopped and shifted my attention towards Rita. She was just standing there, beer bottle still in her hand, aghast. As I took a step towards her, a few hands grabbed me and pulled me back. Everything was a rush after that.

A huge ruckus followed with people from both sides trying to maintain the peace. We found out that those guys were her college friends from where she studied and had come to town for the fest. This was all just a prank for them and they’d though they’d have some fun with the boyfriend. I tried to comprehend how kidnapping someone I loved a prank!? Rita had taken their side which had completely destroyed me. She said I didn’t know how to have fun anymore. This whole thing was still beyond me as this was a grave crime and ideally I should’ve called the cops. They still didn’t want to understand what I had to go through and they maintained that I was a sour loser. I had agreed to let it all go and did what the authorities there had asked us to do, leave. They had instead threatened us that they’d call the cops if we didn’t leave that very instance. I’d reached the exit gate but I stopped and looked back at Rita once. She had gone back to being happy like this had never happened before. As I wiped a tear off my face, I turned around and saw a cop standing right in front of me. He hit me with a stick and slapped around a couple of times before handcuffing me. What had started off with Rita being the victim and me considering calling the cops, the tables had quite turned. They dragged me away and as I got a last look at her, I saw her smiling viciously towards me and showing her phone to denote that it was her who had made that call to the cops.

I had never been betrayed like this before. Even the cops wouldn’t listen to me. I begged my friends to get help. They dragged me inside the police van and beat me up again. Next thing I saw... was the dirty floor. I could taste the sweat and blood and the dirt on the floor. My head was hurting so bad, I kept coming in and out of consciousness. A blur, the day had been. Last thing I remember was the nasty smile she gave. I knew it would be etched in my mind forever. And I fainted... Again...

Lights, is what I saw next, and a comfortable bed is what I felt. My baby lying next to me, in my arms, it all looked unreal. A few seconds I took to see what was happening, and I saw my own room. Floyd was still playing on the system and candle was still lit. I got up a little, slid my arm away from under her head, and lit the cigarette. Resting my back up against the wall behind me, I took a long drag and looked at my baby. I felt a tear roll down my eye. But this tear was no tear of sadness or grief. I was happy because it was all a dream.

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

In The Name Of Religion, Culture, And Crap


I live in East Delhi, close to a naala, and there’s nothing to hide about that fact. That naala is apparently some tributary of a river, probably Yamuna. Which, in turn, is a site for some religious fanatics to celebrate the Chhath Puja around. By celebration I mean, them being a menace, blocking roads, playing music till late at night, night duty for policemen, riding around triples on motorcycles helmetless and generally thinking they own the world. All this while not giving a fuck about the world around them and ensuring the ones around them notice their so-called-merriment.

Why are we so afraid of such religious nuts? Why can’t the government, law, policemen, or the general public do something about it? Why do we let these fanatics do as they please, which involves troubling the whole world in the name of religion? How is this atrocity allowed? Why do these people go unpunished when they clearly break all laws known to man? It’s not just killing and raping and drunk driving that’s a crime. But no, we’re a tolerant society, more like a fattu society which dare not touch any ‘sensitive’ issue lest increase the chances of a riot. I only have one word: BANJO!

Take Shiv Sainiks for instance, their leader dies, they shut the whole city down. They own the cops, the politicians, the actors, the bigwigs, the industry, the commerce, you, me, and UP ke bhaiyya Amitabh Bachchan as well. Their spokesperson would come on TV, talk a load of crap on the news, assure that they’re a peaceful unit, and that the world is paying respect themselves. Haven’t we seen enough movies to know that it’s all crap? This sort of politics can’t be happening for real, but, sadly, it is. Meanwhile, us citizens just sit idle complaining or feeling helpless and eventually frustrated about the whole situation. Although a couple of us young unlucky girls get arrested for a wall post on Facebook and for ‘Liking’ it. For heaven’s sake, weren’t Hitler, Osama, Saddam enough?



In the name of democracy, secularism, tolerance, freedom, what we practice is utter crap. A farce, is what our country is becoming, in ways which are not good at all. In those certain respects, it’s getting worse by the day. Appalling are the things that are happening, and shockingly, it’s being carried out by the same people we vote for, same people who are there for our protection. If the system is screwed, who do we go to? Who do we protest against? The cops, who’re already a corrupt bunch of men in uniform who can’t really do much even if they wanted to? The law, where people spend half their lives fighting off a simple case of robbery? Or just sit around India Gate holding a candle light vigil? I say, what this country needs is, a bit of extremism, a bit of idealism, and fanaticism. Fight fire with fire. Go and do a Rang De Basanti and hope the world sees you and takes action.

Unfortunately, everything goes unheard. Even if they listen to you, action is seldom taken. In the rare event that some action is actually taken, nobody follows up. Our victory is celebrated at the first hint of some progress. This can be seen everywhere, in our lives, at our workplace, in schools and colleges and definitely around all the issues plaguing this country. We suffer from this mediocrity, being happy, or at least satisfied with what we have. We’ll dream of a better future but won’t do anything about it. Not saying that we don’t try, there are indeed a lot of screw ups about which we can’t do much. You think we can change the ‘system’? I don’t.

This country needs a radical change. Enough of being ruled by a bunch of dictators disguised as a part of a democratic government. If need be, this country needs a new war of freedom to rid us of these inefficient, dishonest, corrupt Indians who have the power to bring about a change. They need a mutiny? Give it to them. How better are we than how we were when being ruled by a ‘foreign’ country? Just because we can go to a pub with a girl, get a job where we want, wear the clothes our cousins are wearing in the US, does not mean we are truly free. Girls still get beaten up for wearing short clothes, the government offices are still full of people who take undue advantage of their job and harass the common man, and 21 year old girls still get locked up for expressing their opinions on Facebook. Fuck, this freedom. Sab naatak hai saala.

A rant, this is. Useless, I am. Crippled, we are. 

Thursday, 1 November 2012

Karva Chod


It’s that time of the year again when women across North India fast for their wife-beating, raping, molesting, disrespecting, ugly and fat husbands. In fact, a lot of these unmarried PYTs also fast to showcase their dedication towards their to-be wife-beating, raping, molesting, disrespecting, ugly and fat husbands. It’s time for Karva Chauth.

This is the day when women proudly don’t eat or drink for a day just to ensure their husbands have a long life. Yes, because exercise and a good diet are passé. It’s Karva Chauth that will keep them healthy, wealthy and wise. No wonder these moustache donning, paunch showcasing, burpers, farters, borderline-alcoholics continue with their lethargic lifestyles because they know that back home they have a wife who’s going to do all the hardwork, even if that means she dies of hunger, to make sure the husband gets his daily dose of Tandoori Chicken and Royal Stag.

Before you give me gyaan about symbolism and what not, I’d like to stop you, make you sit on a La-Z-Boy, hypnotize you, molest you first, wake you up and then put my point across. In this time and age of woman empowerment and science and shit, it just seems absurd for ANY woman to go fasting for the good health of a husband who’s totally not worth the effort. In fact, what should happen is that those very husbands should take a day off from work, do the household chores, please the wifey down there, cook and do the dishes WITHOUT EATING OR DRINKING A THING.

For long the Indian society has been following absurd customs which have always been pro male and completely anti female. Be it sati or women eating from the used plates of their almighty husbands, women have always been given the broom so they could move on and clean the house. Some lucky ones would get to sleep on their rightful place on the bed if the husband is not drunk enough and hence hasn’t puked on the wife’s side of the bed. In spite of all the crap that STILL happens in India, like new born girls being drowned in milk, or pubescent 16 year old women being wed off to violent and horny 26 year old males from a staunch lower middle class mentality, or chicks from even the top Indian families not being allowed to study further or work after getting married; somehow the women still feel they need to show their dedication for the Indian man.

Women, the Indian man is a pig. Period. Not your period, but the full stop kinda period.

Beware, they won’t do shit for you. They’ll continue treating you like shit. It’s in our blood to treat you like a woman and feel furious if you’re better than us in anything at all, except for giving blowjobs of course. Just be a piece of meat and you‘ll keep them happy and satisfied. Give it back to them I say. If not tie up their balls to a cactus, at least don’t lick them either. Stay brave, stay equal. We men are not the better species, in fact, in all probability, we’re worse.

Say no to Karva Chauth. This festive season, KARVA CHOD!