The Cynic

Have you ever felt real reverence, true-mad-deep reverence that it almost reached a point of worship? Where the other person could never be wrong, simply because it was HIM? I, for one, have known this sheer devotion. And it happened to be for the man I’ve idolised since I don’t even remember when. I fell in love with Vir Sanghvi. For those of you who don’t know, Vir Sanghvi is an advisor with Hindustan Times, and used to write a weekend column in the paper by the name of Counterpoint. I don’t remember who made me read my first Counterpoint in Sunday’s Hindustan Times, but my Sundays were never the same again. At first glance, Sanghvi impressed. At a second look, he left me in awe. The man was a genius. I hadn’t known anyone like him before—I’d never read a newspaper so unfailingly before. Then came the Sunday Brunch, and Sanghvi shocked me yet again. What in the world did he NOT know about?! All this time I’d spent thinking of him as a purely political writer, and Rude Food gave me a...

( This is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.) As I walk past the security that thoroughly checked me all over, I try to pinch myself into believing that I really had clinched an interview with one of the most sought after politicians on the scene today. This particular person in reference was the leader of one of the largest parties that thrived on the support of ‘minority groups’, and was also one of the most major harassments that the government currently faced. Nervous and excited, I enter the large gates to her bungalow. The long, long passage is lined with enormous white statues of that enormous animal that’s her party’s symbol— arre that grey one with something sticking out of its nose? Rhino, yes! (Did you think an elephant? No no!)  There are also some bust-like statues of things that look strangely like...handbags. By the time I reach her office, I’m half panting, half scared, hal...

Every time I watch a cliché romantic Bollywood flick, I find myself wishing I could be one of those diligent, sound-sensitive, got-no-time-to-waste NRI people they always end up showing. The ones who wake up bang in sync with the alarm clock’s first bell, get right on their feet and robotically rush into the bathroom. Get dressed, do their morning pooja with long wet hair neatly pulled over one shoulder and eyes brimming with shraddha, and then slip into the busy streets on New York, striding happily, with a Starbucks Coffee to complete the look.   And even after all the morning propaganda manage to be one of the earliest people to reach the office and gain a promotion. I wish, I wish! However, over all these years of my being, I’ve only managed to figure out that I have some sort of an inbuilt anti-alarm mechanism in me—and as much as I may try, alarms are never very successful in shaking me out of my sleep. Consequently, I’m more of the ‘oh shit phir late!’ people than the ‘perfe...

Having spent all my living years here in Delhi, I’ve learnt to know a Punjabi when I see one. In fact, more often than not, it’s a case of know one, know all—all of them tend to have the same five members with all the same traits. So here today, meet the Khuranas (or the Khannas, the Kapoors, the Marwahs—whatever you please, they’re all essentially the same Punjabi blood anyway!) Mrs. Khurana a.k.a. Mummyji: This is the aunty you dread meeting at family weddings. The one who will pull your cheeks three inches away from where they belong and drool wildly, saying “ Kitna bada ho gaya hai! ” She’s short and stout, clad in a fitted salwar kameez (preferably with a deep, deep neck) that glitters from every imaginable angle. Mummyji steps out of the house early in the morning to greet the doodhwala , wearing a printed dupatta over her crinkled cotton nighty (the dupatta protects a woman’s modesty and hence must be religiously worn at all times). She fusses over Goldy losing too much weigh...

When you begin work on a painting, you set out on a long difficult journey to the end. Begin by thinking, sketching out on the canvas a rough figure of what you want. It’s an easy task, you've barely begun—you can always erase, redraw, alter, or even start over. Then comes the time for colours. And while there are hundreds and thousands of them to choose from, there are just a few, at times just one, that will be a perfect fit. Choices are tough to make—some may be right, others may go horribly wrong. Yet there’s no choice but to choose. After long toil and much sweat, you come up with the final piece. Some paintings will inspire. They’ll be so beautiful that they’ll leave a mark in your heart and mind for ages to come. Some will be soothing, others will make you smile. And then there will be those that will make you feel simply wasted. Pictures that will only speak to you of your incompetence and inability to make the right choices. Surprisingly, sometimes these may be the p...

It’s almost as if Navratras have arrived early. Coupled with a fresh new season of Roadies. Because look around, and all you see are men fasting, or men cursing (oh and short fat women dancing at Rajghat, but then that’s probably just the Navratra fever) There are frail white-dhoti clad men, and hairy half-naked saffron-clad men, and sly, crafty looking IAS officers on fasts—we’re really running for variety here. When these men aren’t fasting, they’re busy calling the high-ups cheats or liars and gathering public applause and adoration for their impeccable use of cuss words. We’re fasting, we’re swearing, we’re lathi charging, we’re holding press conferences every second hour and we’re hurling chappals in every second press conference. Oh and we’re a country of really, really mature people. No, seriously! Whatever has unfurled over the past few weeks since April 5 th is frankly no golden medal on our ‘2020 mein Superpower banenge ji ’ perception of ourselves. We’re currently at ...