Mixed doubles

Two fascinations of rich elite class remained with me for long— playing golf, and having rejuvenation spa. The swinging shiny chiseled golf-stick, stroll through golf-courses donning a stylish golf-hat, and a ride on those golf carts with hot women. Ah heaven! For records, golf fascination remains. But, frequent body-aches pushed me to a rejuvenation spa situated bang opposite my hospital, which displayed a half-naked woman lying flat with some oil dripping on her nude back.
Well, I had some oil-massages from village barber, and at a local akhaada-style gym during early young days. The masochistic telmaalish (oil massage). While the barber would kick and thrash randomly on body, giving harsh spins to the neck and torso, generating cracking sounds through every joint of body, the akhaada one was soft oil massage rubbing chest and back like some gay-porn. 
My eyes searched for some pehelwaan (muscleman) figure in the spa, but all it had were the dark-haired north-eastern fair-skinned girls with accented crisp english. A shiver ran through spine as they seemed to scan my body, and guided me to a dark room. I wondered if some beastly muscle-man is lurking in dark. May be a revenge from the dark past.

Years back in med-school days, we witnessed some sadistic sessions of homosexual thrashings. A fair smooth-skinned fellow (colloquially called ‘chikna‘) would set the honeytrap in public toilet at a happening posh street in midnight. He would trap a gay with erudite suggestive gestures, bring him to hostel, and suddenly a group of sadistic fellows would thrash him brutally. The Gandhian in me would run to his rescue, only to be scorned and laughed at, as homosexual chikna. Soon I began growing my beard to never ever called chikna again.

Coming back to the spa session, there wasn’t any muscleman waiting, rather one of those chikni girls ordered me to be naked. What? A respected suave doctor and father of two daughters, stripping off in a dark room with a woman? What if a patient is lying next to me, and figures out Doctor-saab has a mole on his ass? Forget a patient, what if this girl visits my hospital next day and gives a naughty smirk in front of my colleagues? I just covered my face with palm, followed her orders, and my hindu self began muttering HanumanChalisa (a religious chant). She was indifferently massaging my body, while I was differently shrinking and giggling when she touched the sole of my feet. I don’t know if she sensed my discomfort or was surprised at my repulsive behaviour. She asked, “Are you a gay?” This was extreme insult to my sexuality, and I retorted, “Why? Are you a lesbian?” 

Woman casually said, “Yes, I am. My husband died of excessive drinking barely three years after marriage. I hate having relationship with men.” 

Her confession shed off my inhibitions, as if the woman was harmless and my humanly wiggling willy too shrunk back. So did the pride of false man-hood, the gay-beating, and the lesbian-hatred. 

The blue ice: a shit-com

For whatever reasons, birds always found my head as a coveted shitting destination. Even in a crowded environment, if a bird is flying around, I would gear up myself holding a file or book overhead. My transient breath of relief would be annuled as the raven comes back swifter dropping on me accurately like a targeted missile. I was brutally splattered with bird-droppings during my short stint in Indian Institute of Science, which boasted of highest density of nasty crows (kauwa). For the first time in my life, I wore a Govinda-style yellow shirt to camouflage the shitty polka-drops.

The fear of bird-droppings soon extended to any flying object as I would hide even at sight of aeroplane. I always wondered what happens to the shit in the air. Most convenient way would be to disperse it in vastness of atmosphere, and cruise away. The untimely rains and windy splatters. My curiousity ended recently when an elderly woman in Bhopal (city in central India) got hit by a huge chunk of ice fallen from sky. Early investigations suggested it could be ‘blue ice’, human excreta disposed from aeroplanes which gets frozen in stratosphere. My fear wasn’t completely ungrounded and some do throw the shit right up in the air, especially Indian planes devoid of sanitary space on ground.

While the aeroplane mystery took some time, Indian railways were pretty blatant and open-minded from its inception. A hole in the toilet peeps directly down on track. At a usual train velocity of 150 km/hr, a 15 minute shit of yours can make roughly 38 km trail of shit droppings. Considering ever-engaged toilets in trains, the multi-origin shitty trail would extend from origin to destination spanning some 1000 kms. One of the royal heir I heard of, always took a local 30 minute railway stretch every morning at 6 0’clock, only to shit in moving train! His habit seem to have ended at a serious note when he disregarded the statutatory warning displayed in Indian Railways – Please do not use toilets when the train stops at platform. People say, constipated Raja-Saa’b continued his rituals even when train stopped. Sanitation fellows with long brooms began cleaning the toilets, shoving through holes beneath the train, and gave a powerful thrust when they found anything obstructive. This time, it was Raja Saa’b’s ass!

I haven’t utilised public toilets much in life, since I considered them as some sacred love destination. Similar to temple walls, toilet walls too are studded with scribbled names of ‘love-couples’. I wonder how somebody can have an amorous feeling while shitting, and scribble his flame’s name. Extreme love! Isn’t it? As I recently travelled and about to position myself strategically on a shaking commode, I found it written on toilet wall – I love you Priya. I pity the love of poor girl Priya with the shitty boy.

There were days even in my life, when village toilets were reserved for women who seem to have incessant affair with bathrooms. I would be forced to stroll to bamboo-plantations and ease myself with bushy grasses rubbing my body. Umpeen times would I change my position as I would imagine somebody staring at me and breaching my privacy. At a distance, I saw a queue of villagers shitting calmly with one palm on their cheek as if in a great contemplation. Surely, those early days devoid of toilets, gave India great philosophers. Even today, at least my blogging ideas shoot off from long gruelling sessions in toilet. Doesn’t my blog stink?

[a satire on need of sanitation in developing nations; a sequel to earlier blog ‘Love is in the air’]


A fellow passenger once dissected my genealogy and told me I belong to an ultra-purified Brahmin community. Not sure, if the semens of forefathers have been rigorously pasteurized and purified by reverse osmosis, but whatever, the outcome is right here, scribbling an yet-again-nasty blog.

Time-and-again, the racial superiority was validated by hook or by crook. My priest in Bangalore was surprised when I finished a 6 hour-long Vaastu-puja in 2 hours as most of the complex Sanskrit Shlokas seem to emanate from me as vedic hymns. As he got up in praise, we figured out his guide-book was actually written by my long-dead grandpa who died 9 months before my birth. Many believe I am his incarnate. Re-birth, an incarnate of a Sanskrit scholar. Why me?? I feel like a walking ghost everytime I see a smiling ‘daadu’s portrait’ in my village courtyard.

My neck-to-neck competitor in school was a Muslim friend, who defeated me in ‘Battle of Social Studies’ to the ‘Gory battle of Mathematics’. I doubted if he was Aurangzeb incarnate, born to denigrate a Brahmin pride. 

With great power, some fool said, comes great responsibilities.

With the sacred thread running from shoulder-to-waist, I rechristened myself as ‘Janeu-man‘. (janeu is colloquial term for sacred brahmin thread). While my hindu friends cheered and sneered, I cozied up with my destined enemy. I would enjoy having ‘Iftaar-party’ with him and he would learn sanskrit shlokas to garnish his achilles-heel ‘hindi’ papersThe last decisive ‘Battle of matriculation’ turned indecisive. We both were declared joint-toppers. I had beaten him in his forte of ‘maths’ and he shattered me in my own backyard ‘hindi’. Recently, in an alumni meet, the school notice-board seemed over-crowded in year of 1995 with two names somehow accommodated together.

Event crucified the upholder of hinduism, and demon of Gandhi corrupted my mind. When a brawl happened in medical school over some isolated muslim fellows cheering for Pakistan team, I would chip-in as peace-proclaimant. The wobbling Inzemaam or the flairy Afridi, I loved the team, though could never cheer for them in Shiv-sena infested Pune hostel. 

Pak-loving Kashmiri medicos beaten and bruised by Shiv Sainiks. What are we building? Brand ambassadors for Lashkar-e-Taiba? 

I cozied up with them, cheered for Afridi, and soon came the Multan test! Viru and his flamboyance! We all cheered for only man that day, whether in Pune or in Multan. Viru shattered the borders.

Some years later, my dad, a devout Brahmin, navigated through the stinking streets of muslim ghetto, studded with all-species-butchering shops, and threw me into feet of Khan Saa’b, the best driving teacher in city. I somehow manoevred to grab his feet beneath his lungi. His shanty displayed a Pakistan flag and a large portrait of Ramallah in Palestine. I was surprised why my dad, who otherwise refuses to eat in same plate as muslim, did this to me. May be a revenge to his father who might have slapped him in his childhood. Afterall, I am ‘grandpa returns’.

Surprises galore! That pak-loving khan saab brings a packet of incenses, and asks me to take out a statue of goddess hidden behind a wrecked car engine. Before training, he insisted for a puja of that engine with goddess kept on top and I began reciting the durga-shlokas. This wasn’t all. He corrected me in one of them, and gave a lesson on hindu values which are being ignored by new kids on the block. My dad had shoved 101 rupees in my trouser-pocket beforehand, which I handed over to Pandit Khan, touched his feet and learnt to become best driver in city. He would tell stories of his long friendship of my dad and him, and I would be awed in my hard-core hindu dad’s real self.

Puzzled, I quizzed my dad. 

He said, “Why do you sport a US flag on your T-shirt? Probably, you like americans who live thousand miles away. Khan Saa’b loves our neighbour country. I don’t like either. My choice, your choice, his choice. Go! Get a glass of water now!”

Grandpa smiled at his avataar from heaven, and I smiled back to him. I doubt if he is gobbling on muttons and having ‘iftaar’ party up there. Hypocrite gandhians! Huh!

पापा कहते हैं

पहले ही बता दूँ, इस पोस्ट का आमिर जी से कोई लेना-देना नहीं है. पापा तो सब के कुछ न कुछ कहते हैं. बचपन में मेरी तरफ जब भी देखते, कम से कम पानी तो मंगवा ही लेते. तीन भाईयों में होड़ मच जाती. एक पानी भरता, दूजा उससे लेता, तीजा पिता को देता. पानी न हुआ, रिले रेस हो गया. ये सिलसिला सर्दियों में अक्सर टूट जाता. वो कंपकंपाती ठंड, और घर के बाहर का चापाकल. अजी कौन रजाई से निकलने की ज़हमत करे? पिता की तरफ देखना ही कम हो जाता. पास से गुजरते, तो सब बगले झाँकते.

मैं ये सिद्ध नहीं करना चाहता कि मनुष्य पैदायशी मतलबी होता है. वो तो खैर होता ही है. मनुष्य ही क्या? कैलाश की हिम-आच्छादित पर्वत और कठोर शीत में साक्षात् शिव के लिये पानी कौन लाता होगा? गणेश जी से तो मीलों दूर मानसरोवर तक चला न जाए. कार्तिक का मोर भी बरसात से पहले न नाचे. नंदी ने मानसरोवर ब्राँड के बोतल बना-बना देवताओं में खूब बाँचे और शिव माँगे तो जी! स्टॉक नहीं है. वो तो बस विष का घूँट पी के रह गये. जब नंदी की कालाबाजारी बढ़ी, खुद जटा में वो तकनीक लगायी, भागीरथी बहा दी. लो! पी लो जितना पीना है जगवासियों! मेक इन इंडिया.

पिता पिता होता है. या फिल्मी अंदाज़ में कहें तो ‘बाप से पंगा न लेना’. उसके लिये सब बेटे समान हैं. जब मरजी जिसे एक चाँटा लगा दिया. कान खींच दी. क्या पप्पू, क्या पिंटू? पप्पू-पिंटू की लड़ाई हुई, रोना-धोना, छीना-झपटी, तूतू-मैंमैं. पिता थके-हारे ऑफिस से आए, असहिष्णुता से दोनों को एक-एक थप्पड़ रसीद. दोनों पढ़ने बैठ गये. 

अब कयास मत लगाओ. अराजनैतिक आदमी हूँ. हिंदू-मुस्लिम की तो बात ही न की मैंनें. और पप्पू-पिंटू भी तो बड़े हो गये. लड़ना तो बचपना था. दोनों साथ-साथ लड़कियाँ घूरते, ठिठोली करते. दाँत-काटी दोस्ती भाईयों की. नुक्कड़ पे पड़ोस का लड़का भिड़ गया. दोनों ने क्या धोया? आज तक दाँत में खिड़की बनी हुई है.

कब तक लड़कियाँ घूरते? उमर होने को आई, मुहल्ले में एक-एक कर डोली उठती गयी. पहले मुहल्ला, फिर शहर, फिर जिला. न लड़की बची, न लड़की की जात. भागे-भागे पिता के पास आए. पिता विजयी मुस्कान देकर बोले, “आ गये न रस्ते पे? जब तेरे बाप से कुछ न हुआ, तुमसे क्या खाक होगा?” पंडित बुलवाया, लड़की ढूँढी. गाजे-बाजे के साथ दोनों की शादी हुई. पप्पू की भी ऐश, पिंटू की भी.

मौसम बदला. हर साल की तरह. बस ठंड ज्यादा थी. सालों बाद ऐसी कड़ाके की पड़ी है. पिछली ठंड में तो दादाजी ‘हे राम’ कर चल बसे. 

पिता को कभी जोड़ों का, कभी पीठ का दर्द. 

और पप्पू-पिंटू फिर लड़ने लग गये. अब डिजिटल लड़ाई लड़ते हैं-फेसबुक-वॉट्सऐप वाले. हद कमीने फेसबुक वाले. लाइक-कमेंट दिये. थप्पड़ का तो ऑप्शन ही नहीं. 

पापा ने पहले ही कहा था. बेटा नाम करेगा.

जय भोलेनाथ!

कबिरा खड़ा बाज़ार में

तोतली टूटी-फूटी बोली थी, नाक बहती, निकर खिसकती, फिर भी सवाल जरूर पूछा जाता- बड़े होकर क्या बनोगे? इस सवाल के ज़वाब से भी IQ का संबंध है. कोई डॉक्टर, कोई इंजीनियर, कोई पायलट, जो माँ-बाप सिखाते बोल देते. मैंने कहा, “साईंटिस्ट बनूँगा, नोबेल प्राइज जीतूँगा, और मरने से पहले राष्ट्रपति भी.” पूछनेवाले मुँह एँठते-कहते, “झा साब! और कुछ बने ना बने, आपका बेटा लम्बी लम्बी जरूर छोड़ेगा.”

अंकल की बात दिल पे लग गयी. मैंने कहा आविष्कार तो मैं कर के रहूँगा. लेकिन क्या? 

कबीर दास के दोहे से पहला आइडिया आया.

“बोए पेड़ बबूल का, आम कहाँ से होये”.

मैंने कहा अब तो बबूल के पेड़ पे आम लगा के रहूँगा. ऐसी खुराफातों के लिये भाई शुरूआत में जरूर साथ देते हैं ताकि प्लान फेल होने पर उछल उछल कर ठिठोली कर सकें. 

पड़ोसी गाँव के मामाजी ने ग्राफ्टिंग के गुर सिखाए, माँ से जिद कर केमिकल खरीदे, और बबूल के पेड़ पर एक-एक बड़े सलीके से सर्जिकल कटिंग कर जोड़ बनाता गया. एक टहनी भी न लगी, सामने के आम का लहलहाता पेड़ गंजा जरूर हो गया. पिताजी ने इन्क्वायरी बिठाई, भाईयों ने फुलझड़ी लगाई, और एक महान वैज्ञानिक पटाखों की तरह बजा दिया गया.

“निंदक नियरे राखिये, आँगन कुटी छवाय”

निंदा और ठिठोली करने वाले तो घर में ही था. कबीर दास के इसी फंडे पे हिम्मत दुगुनी हो गयी. 

इस बार बिजली बनाने की सोची. गाँव के लिये बिजली नयी चीज़ थी. वो तो बस उस बिज़ली से वाकिफ थे जो मवेशी मेले में नाचने आती. भाई-साब ने आईडिया दिया, गाँव के पचास लोग हर रात साईकिल चलायेंगे, डायनमो इफेक्ट से पचास घरों में बल्ब जलेंगे.

“धीरे धीरे रे मना, धीरे सब कुछ होय”

प्लान साइकल की स्पीड से फुस्स हो गया.

२००४ ईसवी में पहली बार रिसर्च करने इंडियन इंस्टिच्यूट अॉफ साइंस में किशोर वैज्ञानिक रूपेण चयनित हुआ. रिसर्च का तो पता नहीं, कैंटिन के डोसे लाज़वाब थे. और रात को लैब के बाहर चाय. वाह! मज़ेदार. बाकि रिसर्च तो क्या, इस टेस्ट्यूब से उस टेस्ट्यूब. चार घंटे बाद रीडिंग लो. फिर वही रीपीट करते रहो. इस से कहीं ज्यादा प्रयोग तो मेरी माँ मुरब्बे-अचार में कर ले.

“जिन खोजा तिन पाइयाँ, गहरे पानी पैठ”

आखिरकार मेडिकल की पढ़ाई खत्म होते ही पहली फुरसत में अमरीका निकल लिया. दो बड़े फैकल्टी के लैब पसंद आये. हमारे आधे फैसले तो हेड-टेल या अक्कर बक्कर बम्बे बो से होते हैं. डॉ लिगेट विजयी रहे, लातेरबूर हार गये. मैं भी जी-जान से रिसर्च में लग गया. डॉ. लातेरबूर को देखता तो मंद मुस्कान देता. बिना फंडिंग के गरीब दयनीय परिस्थिति थी उनके लैब की.

“जाति न पूछो साधू की, पूछ लिजिये ज्ञान”

२००५ दिसंबर: Paul laterbur wins Nobel Prize in medicine.

मतलब यूँ कहिये, सारे गणित धरे के धरे रह गये. थोड़े दिन टेस्ट-ट्यूब में चाय-साय बनाई, और वापस आ गया डाक-साब बनने.

मेक इन इंडिया कोई जुमला भले ही हो, बड़े जुगत का काम है. अजी मुरब्बे नहीं बनाने, रिसर्च और आविष्कार करने हैं.

“कबिरा खड़ा बाज़ार में, माँगे सबकी खैर”

बस यूँ ही, मेरे मन की.

यूँ तो मैं हिंदी में कुछ खास लिखता नहीं, बचपन से वही मिडिल क्लास वाली अंग्रेजी की कवायद. लेकिन आज़ ज़रा देशी मामला है, और ये ब्लोग-स्लोग में तो क्या गोरे और क्या पाकिस्तानी? कोई भी मुँह उठा के लाइक करने आ जाता है. धर्मपत्नी जी भी परेशान, कि ये किन लड़कियों के कमेंट्स पढ़ मुस्कुराते रहते हो? मैने कहा ऐसा नहीं है. आधा वामपंथी, आधा गाँधीवीदी है ये वामगाँधी. निर्मोही. निर्विकार.

तो प्वाइंट पे आता हूँ.

ये किसी छिटपुट बात के बतंगड़ पे किसी गाँव में कोई हादसा हो गया. कुछ खाने पीने का मामला था. छुटपन में हॉस्टल के मेस में मैनें भी काफी तोड़-फोड़ मचाई थी. खानसामें मेघलाल की लुंगी खींच चड्डी में दौड़ाया था. साले ने तूर दाल ऐसी बनाई की चार गोताखोर डाले फिर भी दाल का दाना नहीं. जीभ मत लपलपाओ अब तूर दाल के नाम पे. मेरा ब्लोग तो सस्ते में पढ़ रहे हो ना? और जकरबर्ग मियाँ अमरीका वाले ने चाहा तो बिल्कुल मुफ्त.

हाँ जी तो हम कहाँ थे? वो कुछ वही बजरंग बली के भक्तों ने मोहम्मद साब के चेले को…. फिर कान खड़े हो गये? अबे सिनेमाखोरों, ‘बजरंगी भाईजान’ की कहानी नहीं सुना रहा मैं! ये तो ग्लैमर-स्लैमर से कोसों दूर गाँव-साँव का मामला है.

खैर. तसल्ली है. भुखमरी से न मरा कोई. बढिया माँस-मुँस खा के डकार के मरा. मेरे अस्पताल में तो वो खडूँस डाइटिसीयन है. आधे तो वो गीली खिचड़ी और उबले कद्दू खा के सिधार गये.

सुनते हैं, बड़ी तादाद में लोग बाग आये. मरने से पहले भी. मरने के बाद भी. अजी गाँधीजी को एक गोडसे ने निपटा दिया था. पर ये लॉजिक बेकार है. वो ठहरे गोमूत्र पीने वाले शाकाहारी जब तब भूख हड़ताल वाले कंकालनुमा व्यकतित्व. और इधर तो गोमाँस वाला हट्टा कट्टा. खैर ये गाय वाय से दूर ही रहना ठीक. आदर करो या निरादर. मारे दोनों सूरतों में जाओगे. न गाँधी बचे न वो बचा.

अखबार में ये पुरष्कार वापसी का दौर आया तो मैंनें भी बचपन के क्विज डिबेट वाले अवार्ड ढूँढे. ये चिंदीचोर लेखक. अवार्ड वापस करने गये तब लोगों को पता लगा कि ये है कौन जनाब. इनसे ज्यादा तो मेरे ब्लोग के फौलोवर निकलें. मेरे क्या आपके भी. देशी कोई पढता कहाँ है? हाँ पीते बहोत है.

अब जो हुआ वो तो हो गया. मैं नहीं करता कुछ वापिस. मेरे जैसे बिरले ही मिलेंगे. आज भी स्याही वाली कलम से लिखता हूँ. अजी दवात से वो कलम में स्याही डालने का मज़ा ही कुछ और है. अब स्याही पोतने का तो तजुर्बा नहीं. हा हा हा हा.

When babies came from sky

[adult contents warning: user discretion advised]

One of the prominent politician thinks mobile phones are reason behind child abuse since people are getting easy access to child porn. Quite a funny thought. No smart phones. No child abuse. What an Idea sirjee? Though I laughed at thought, it took me back to the days when porn was limited to some smuggled Hustler magazine or a revolutionary writer called Mastram. Soft porn stuff could be found in some hindi mags like Manohar Kahaniyan or Saras Salil.

As I remember from medschool days, child becomes aware of its own sex by 3 years. In most part of rural India, naked children with the dangling male thingy could be seen running around. When asked, show your mama (maternal uncle), they will proudly point out and run away laughing. Similar innuendos existed for female organs like maternal grandmother or anyone from mother’s family. Unaware, uncorrupt kids would bask naked in mud, pond; chase hen or a spare bicycle tyre; boys and girls alike.

Not only kids, women of Dalit or down-trodden communities would be hardly caring of their attire when they bath in public ponds or would be performing their morning rituals in barren fields. A dalit women with a big ‘ghoonghat’ upto knees was easing herself in morning with her ass facing towards people when a feudally superior one shouted, “Hey you! Turn the ghoonghat towards us, and ass on other side.”

Ignorance of sex and stigmas wasn’t restricted to the lower social strata. In our med school ragging days, we were asked how many holes a female has? Most couldn’t answer. One to pee, and one to shit, was the commonest reply. And mind you, these were chosen geniuses in biology. 

From childhood, its taught that babies either come from sky or we borrow from hospital. This seemed to so deeply creep in, most adolescent males could never imagine a 3 kg baby coming out of a tiny hole. It was unheard, unseen. I have seen village kids playing with balloons made of condoms they pick from rich home’s garbage. They never learnt, since newspaper ads or the large government banners never explicitly mentioned, and TV channels are swiftly switched when a saucy condom ad begins.

For women, things probably happen a bit differently. From ages, they have been trained as a baby-making machines. In south India, arrival of menses is celebrated as a grand function while the poor girl in agonising pain wonders whats wrong with her body. In spite of feeders from elderly females, sex and childbirth remains confusing for many. They just couldn’t imagine how a tiny imperceptible hole would do everything from bleeding every month, to satisfy a man and give birth to a kid-who-looks-mammoth-now. Won’t it just rip the body apart?

Now, many kids have access to umpteen youtube videos and porn collections, even on the smartphones as netajee pointed. On whatsapp, some would send a hot video, other would bounce back, “its old dude.” They know that babies don’t come from sky and would give a naughty grin when parents would explain so. I believe they know sexuality so well, that they would not allow a stranger to grope or abuse them.

But, what about small 3-6 yrs kids who barely learnt to talk, and understand us? 

Author opines-the abuses may end only by two ways-

 1. The netajee way of going back to the days without phone and imposing a blanket porn ban.

2. Improve sexual education ( the good and bad touches) at earliest comprehensible age. 

Chose the 2nd option. They surely love to hear they came out of mummy’s tummy. 

Thank god you retired Sehwag!

Hey Viru!

So, you finally gave up, eh?  I knew god will punish you and send you in oblivion; your country-men would forget, and you will get balder day-by-day; Is there anybody reading your tweet? It was me who was waiting for this day like ‘Chatura Ramalingam‘ in the movie ‘three idiots’. I knew someday you would fail Seahhhhwaggggg. Huh!

Remember when I castled you the very first day. I bet you don’t, because you never chased dreams. Never looked back. What do you think? Are you Sachin Tendulkar? You only told he is the ‘baap’ and you can never match his…….I think you said ‘bank balance’…whatever. You can only be an imposter like Chaaanchaddd. You can never match him.

A ball is there to hit, eh? Uska ghar boundary hai. Who gave you reasons to say that? A ball is there to defend, to slowly nudge, to flick a bit, and rarely to pull or hook. When a pacer with bouncing hairs comes running to you with fiery eyes, just duck yourself or pray for safety. And that too the quickest on earth.  Learn to respect Viru!

I heard you only thought in 4s and 6s. Both you and Sachin were big-time duffers in school. Count 1, 2, 3…. Heard of these numbers? You Jat of Najafgadh! See, Sachin has learnt it so well. But you? So incorrigible you are!

And by the way, do you know the difference between test and one-day? Haven’t you learnt from your great ancestors? Oh! Whom am I talking to? This man gets close to Vinu Mankad-Pankaj Roy record and when asked about, he says “never heard of them”. Before even holding the bat, you should have known the history, and how to play test match. Its an upbringing problem that you played tests as ODI, and ODI as some gully-cricket. There was never a window to smash in Multan or Lords, and you kept hitting. Stupid!

Let me tell you one more thing. You are a bad singer, and on top of it, you do this cheap road-side romeo whistling in a tense situation. Why don’t you better play antakshari? I will beat you like anything. If you are Sultan of Multan, I am Begum Rawalpindy.

Will drop by in Najafgadh next time I am in Delhi. Yeah! I keep coming in shiv sena-free areas.

Some say Nehru feared Bose would return. I don’t know about that. But, I always feared you will return.

Thank god you retired Sehwag

Your favorite bowler. Hahahaha.

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