No Country For Petrol, Men

“Tum mujhe petrol do; main tumhe aazaadi doonga.” This is what Subhash Chandra Bose would’ve said had the Britishers been ruling us today. Heck, they would’ve run back to their land of football, WAGs, idiotic accents, and underperforming cricketers; looking at the petrol prices here. No war. No drama. Gandhi would’ve lived. Nehru would’ve ruled. Bhagat Singh would’ve been chilling at a pub with Milkha Singh. No ifs. No butts. Sirf Jatts. Sunny paaji would’ve been so happy.

I was having a talk with my girlfriend about the increasing prices of petrol in our country. Sadly I was wearing the ‘No girlfriend. Save petrol.’ T-shirt that very day as I didn’t know I was going to meet her. Thankfully, she called me before coming to my office, so I quickly smeared my t-shirt with some dog poop to hide the idiotic text. Otherwise it would’ve been goodbye sex and hello YouPorn. Although I never really said goodbye to YouPorn. But that’s a different story, a different time, a different blog.

It would be idiotic to complain about increasing prices. It’s the natural world order. Like Asians taking over the world, gays getting married and having legal anal sex on the streets or dogs finally evolving to be able to talk to humans and tell us that their way of wanking off is actually wagging their tails. So I’m all cool with paying 400 bucks for a movie ticket, 3000 bucks for a meal for two, 8000 bucks for a semi deluxe room in Patna and 30000 bucks for a gram of gold. Only thing that has remained constant is the price of potato per kg. Buggers don’t go higher than 10 bucks a kilo.

What I’m not cool with is the mercurial and exponential increase in the price of petrol. I pay 70 bucks a litre and that’s apparently the cheapest in India. That means 70 bucks to travel 8 kms. That means 140 bucks to the nearest mall where I can go eat expensive dahi in the form of Cocoberry Yogurt. But that’s cool, the yogurt, it’s healthy and all, and you can’t make it at home, no? But paying 18000 bucks for fuel every month is not. I already have just one kidney, one testicle, one nostril, one moob, and one butt cheek. I’ve donated the rest for fuel money. How will I pee if I sell my penis too? The government does not understand the need of a man’s penis in this country. The roadside walls will go dry if they don’t get irrigation.

This petrol price rise coupled with the constant ‘recession’ that’s been happening in India since 2006, which, for some reason, does not seem to end, EVER, has really taken a toll on my monthly budgets. I can no more subscribe to Bang Bros or GrehShobha or get fish pedicures or attend Shiv Khera’s inspirational speeches or save up for my future kid’s tuition fee at a premium computer institute in India like Maya Academy or Arena or Aptech or NIIT or Faridabad Technical Computer Language Model College. I have no future. Thank you petrol. I can’t even burn and kill myself for I can’t afford to do that. What, men!

I think I will give up soon. Last I heard that even Saif Ali Khan couldn’t afford to buy petrol so he somehow managed to get a job at a petrol pump and siphon off little little amounts of petrol for Kareena so that she could drive to Priyadarshini Park to run for 8 hours till she loses all her fat, skin and only her skeleton is left for us to see. Just imagine the tits and it might work.

There is no hope left, my comrades. Give up now and buy a donkey. At least you’ll get some ass this way. Spank and ride all day long. No Petrol No Tainsan.

Delhi – The Mini Punjab

I have always wondered why everyone outside Delhi thinks that everyone inside Delhi is a Punjabi. I used to ridicule at that thought and curse those people for their ignorance but then it dawned upon me that they’re right in thinking so. We all may not be Punjabi but we sure are fascinated by them. Like crazy. Sach bol riya si main.

A ‘Madrasi’ from down South can be found singing Punjabi songs in the Metro and a Bengali will be singing Punjabi songs as if his mother taught him that. We all try and speak Punjabi whenever wherever we can even if we don’t understand the difference between kiddan and kitthe! Each Sardar we encounter on the road becomes our paaji and any girl in a Patiala Salwar becomes a kudiye.

We can do Bhangra on Megadeth and eat chhole bhathure at a 5-star. We’ve all been to Amritsar and know at least one person living in Chandigarh or Panchkula. And who hasn’t had the langar at Bangla Sahib Gurudwara and he oil laden Halwa served in fistful portions? We blend with the Punjus in Karol Bagh like rum with Coke. We’ve all embraced their loudness, their music, their dance, their food, their appetite for alcohol, their willingness to get into a raada and their sex drive.

Mind you, we’re not Punjabis but we still are.

Now if we continue like this how the hell can we expect people outside of Delhi to think otherwise? But I’m glad we’re like this. At least it makes us a little jolly if nothing else. The Punjabi ways are usually happy but alas there’s a backside to it as well, their temper. But I guess that’s something we’ll have to live with and Delhi’s extreme weather doesn’t help us at all.

Thanks to the Punjabis we at least have an identity. We ‘Delhiites’ can be referred to as something. Our characteristics can be defined. Otherwise, what is a Delhiite? Other than being a rapist or a dumb beautiful girl? What qualities define a Delhiite? I have been trying to answer this question for ages but I am still struggling with the answer. There is no Delhiite. Everyone in Delhi is an outsider. Delhi is a city, a state full of outsiders. And that’s the best part. We’ve embraced each and every one of them. Be it the Biharis, the Gujaratis, the Marathis, the Assamese (maybe not so much) or the Kashmiris. Sorry Parsis you’re outnumbered here but you’re most welcome to live here. We’ve a lot of crows in Delhi. And together we all become Punjabi at one point or the other and that’s what unites us.

So the next time a Keralite (I know the difference between the different states in South India) asks me if I’m Punjabi I won’t say no. I’ll proudly say “Whore paji whore dass ski haal chaal hai?”