A Filmmaker's Dilemma

A fictitious dialogue between Mahesh Bhatt and Pooja Bhatt (with apologies to both of them):

Opening scene: Mahesh Bhatt, sitting in his office. In front of him are two photographs, one of Sunny Leone in a bikini and another of Priya Rai in a bikini. Bhatt looks from one photograph to another, shakes his head and continues staring. Though the air conditioner is running, Bhatt's forehead is beaded with perspiration.

Enter Pooja Bhatt.

Pooja Bhatt: Hi daddy.
Mahesh Bhatt: Hello, beta.
PB: Why is it to cold in here, daddy? And why are you sweating like this? Your shirt is drenched.
MB: I have a major decision to take and I don't know what to do.
PB: What happened, daddy? Tell me.
MB: Well, you know that girl, Sunny...
PB: Yes, yes, I know her pretty well. She acted in our movie Jism 2, she's an adult star and you gave her a chance to get out of adult movies and into something more respectable--mainstream Bollywood.
MB: Yes, you remember how I had gone into the Bigg Boss house and promised to make her the leading lady of my movie and I kept my word.
PB: Yes, daddy, I remember. What about it?
MB: What do you think of this girl? (He holds up the photograph of Priya Rai and shows it to Pooja.)
PB: Whoa... she's got... are those real?
MB (looking quite puzzled): What? Is there something wrong with her?
PB (still staring at the photograph): Are her breasts real? She's got a huge pair!
MB: Now, how would I know that? Maybe they are, maybe they aren't.
PB: Ok. So what about her?
MB: Her name is Priya Rai, she also goes by Priya Anjali Rai. She's another Indian adult star in the US. She's coming to the Bigg Boss house soon.
PB: Oh... so?
MB: I am wondering, should I give her a role in a Bollywood movie?
PB: What are you getting at, daddy?
MB: You know how I gave Sunny a break? I am thinking I should give Priya also a break if she comes to the Bigg Boss house.
PB: And why would you want to do that? Haven't you had enough fun staring at Sunny's boobs?
MB: How do you know I was staring?
PB: Daddy, I've worked with you and I've seen you working with her. So, don't give me all of that. All you men are alike.
MB: No, we aren't. Randeep got to hold her, I didn't. He even got to touch her body while she was wearing a bikini.
PB: Oh please, daddy. Don't be so childish. Start acting your age. What are you going to say next, "Jao main nahi khelta?"
MB: Oh, I won't do that. I won't give up a chance to play with Priya.
PB: Uff, daddy, get a grip on yourself.
MB: Anyway, I am seriously thinking of casting Priya in my next movie.
PB: And what is the movie going to be about?
MB: I don't know. I'll figure out something.
PB: Come up with something that will sell and give you some good reviews and coax people to go see the movie.
MB: How does it matter. It's Priya Rai. Once people see her on Bigg Boss, they will come to the theatre to see her assets, which I shall make sure are put on display nicely. Not fully, but nicely. I will have to make something that those idiots at the useless censor board of ours will pass.
PB: Daddy, I think you are taking on more than you can handle.
MB: Oh, don't be silly. I can handle more than one girl at a time. See how I managed you and Alia?
PB: Daddy, don't be ridiculous. We are your daughters. Those two are porn stars.
MB: Trust your old man, child. I can handle more than it seems. I haven't lost the hair from the top of my head just like that.
PB: Yeah, I know. While you are at it, why don't you cast the two of them together? More assets to display and earn from.
MB: Fantastic idea. You truly are my daughter.
PB: You had doubts? Are you suspecting my mother of being untrue to you?
MB: No, no, I was just saying, baba. You take things too seriously.
PB: Well, of course, I have to. God knows what you might end up doing next. Who are you going to cast opposite Priya? Randeep again?
MB: Umm... no... I was thinking... I'll cast myself.
PB: Daddy, you've lost it. You can direct, but not act. You can't act. You don't have a single bone in your body that can act. Heck, you can't even act as if you are sick, talk about acting in a movie.
MB: Well, it was just an idea.
PB: Very bad idea.
MB: Ok, ok. You decide then.
PB: Ok. What are you going to call the movie?
MB: I have a fantastic name for her movie. One that will rock. It's out of this world, really.
PB: What is it? Surely, not Jism 3?
MB: Not at all. That's too mundane and I think Sunny owns that now. She bought the name out recently and I think her Sunlust productions is planning a series of movies based on name and the story.
PB: Really? How much did you sell the name for?
MB: Wel...
PB: What?
MB: I gave it to her free considering she was apt for the title... "Jism".
PB: At this rate you are going to drive us bankrupt.
MB: No, that was just a one-off.
PB: Ok. So what name have you thought for Priya's movie?
MB: Shareer.

Titoo, Pinky and the chowmein

This is a piece of fiction. Don't take it personally.

I was speaking to a friend of mine the other day. He is a conscientious man. The problem with him is that he thinks too hard... sometimes so hard that he forgets what he was thinking about in the first place. It's quite complicated with him. He begins thinking and then somewhere down the thought process, he loses the thread and goes off on a tangent only to realise that he's lost the end of the original thread and has forgotten what it was all about and then continues to wander aimlessly in the complicated, twisted maze of his erratic, deep thoughts.
So, like I was saying, he and I were having a conversation. We were at his place. He'd just returned after buying his week's quota of groceries. Now, this friend of mine, let's call him Titoo (I am sure he doesn't want to be named, and sorry, dude, I couldn't come up with a better name!), is an exceptional man and an out and out foodie who loves his chicken tikkas and Chinese. But sometimes he takes his exceptions way too far. Till that day, he had never bought groceries, much less got down to cooking it at home. His philosophy in life till then had been, "let someone else cook it, I'll eat it and pay for it".
So, I was understandably quite shocked and surprised when I saw all the groceries at his home. When I reached his place, he was busy trying to cut a lettuce leaf into a perfect circle to sit atop the cheese slice and onion rings that he had meticulously planted on one half of a bun. In one hand he held a pair of scissors and in the other the lettuce leaf. A scale and a pencil lay beside the chopping board. Beads of perspiration shined on his forehead and dripped down into his eyes.
With slow, painstaking meticulousness he managed to cut a perfect circle, or something resembling a perfect circle to place in his bun. Pleased with himself, he looked up at me and smiled like a delinquent juvenile who's managed to do something heroic.
Still quite shocked, I asked him, "What, exacly, are you doing?"
"I am making lunch," came his reply.
"For who? You don't have a dog or cat or any pet who would like to eat that."
"No, no, it's for me."
Now that was a vexing statement coming from him. This man who had in his past 33 years only entered the kitchen twice by count--both times ending barely short of a disaster--was making lunch for himself.
"But you can't cook. You can't even boil water. You turn on the geyser when you want to make yourself some black coffee."
Grinning like a mad scientist with drool running down one side of his lips and hair growing out of his ears, he looked at me, placed the other half of the bun atop the lettuce leaf and in excruciating slow motion lifted it to his mouth and took a dinosaur-sized bite of it.
As he moved his jaws up and down in that masticating motion, he said, "Lackf a bit of falt, pepper and oregano, otherwife itf ofay."
"Well, have you considered sprinkling some salt on it or in it before eating half the bun in one go?"
Stunned that such a simple idea didn't strike him, he stopped chewing and looking quite sheepishly at me, he reached out and picked up the salt shaker and added some salt to the bun sandwich.
I stood there looking at him as he relished each bite of the sandwich with muffled mouthful mutterings of how fantastic the sandwich was etc.
I was getting curiouser and curiouser as to the reason why he was making his own lunch. Had he fallen on bad times? No, he couldn't have. The bugger comes from a family that is rich enough for him to live comfortably without having to move a toenail to earn it.
Sandwich finished, he washed it down with a diet coke! A diet coke for a man who thought beer was water! Diet coke! Was he ill? No, couldn't be. He has the constitution of a tank with multiple armours that has been let loose around an anthill.
"Dude, care to explain what's happening? Since when have you started making your own meals and begun drinking diet coke?"
"Just today."
"Why?"
"Actually, I want to lead a life of no sin."
"Oh, so you are turning vegetarian and are not going to eat any more meat, is that it?"
"No, no. I am not going to give up non-vegetarian. It's just that I don't want any food to lead me to commit a crime or anything."
"Food leading you to crime?"
"Yeah, you know it was in the newspaper the other day that eating chowmein leads to rape as it imbalances the hormones or something like that. Some great guy came out with this finding after an extended research."
"Really? Tell me something, what if Pinky (his girlfriend, name changed for understandable reasons!) eats chowmein and comes and rapes you, would you hate her for it?"
"She won't rape me."
"Why? After all she'll have had chowmein."
"Dude, I broke up with her."
"Oh Christ! Why did you have to go do such a daft thing? After birth, Pinky was the best thing that happened to you."
"Yeah, I know. I wanted to make sure that she wouldn't rape me or vice versa."
"You've lost it."
"No, dude, I haven't lost it. In fact, I don't want to end up raping a woman after eating something that is likely to cause my hormones to act up and drive me to do something mad. What do you think my mom and dad would say if they found their son, that's me, in case you didn't know, being prosecuted for rape or something worse? I've decided that I won't be going to any places where there are women who wear short clothes as that also leads to rape."
"I can understand your dilemma, but what are you going to eat?"
"Pinky's agreed to cook for me."
Oh boy, this was getting confusing for me. What kind of a twisted tale was it that he was telling me. I was definitely sure that this wasn't the time or the season for April fool's day.
"But didn't you just break up with her?"
"I did. It's complicated. We won't be boyfriend-girlfriend, we won't date, or go out for movies, but we'll eat together and she'll cook some nice home food."
"Okay," I said, nodding my head in a state of disbelief.
"And yeah, I've told her to wear something that covers her up properly."
Let me tell you something about Pinky. Pinky is the hot girl from next door who you want to marry but who your mother thinks isn't good enough for you. And yeah, she only wears shorts or jeans or such clothes that highlight her curvy body.
"Dude, I seriously think you need psychiatric help. Let me call Pinky. Between me and her we'll take you to a good doc, what say?"
"No, no. I am perfectly fine. See how lovely and juicy this radish looks. Imagine this in a paratha with some nice curd and a cup of tea," he said, as he fished out a radish from his grocery bag.
I called Pinky.
Pinky picks up. Sounds low, as if she's been crying.
"H..h..hello."
"Pinky, get to Titoo's place immediately."
"Wh... what happened?"
"He's lost it, says he's broken up with you, asked you to cook for him and that he's only going to eat home-cooked food."
"Yes, he did that."
"Are you going to take this idiot's antics lying down? I am leaving his place now, by the time I come back in the evening, he had better be sorted out."
"Okay." Now she sounded a bit upbeat. I think it was simply the idea of beating Titoo to pulp at work in her mind.
That evening, rather, later that evening, I reached Titoo's place.
The door was locked from inside. There wasn't a sound coming from the place.
"Oye Titoo, open the door, you jackass," I hollered as I rang the bell.
I heard some shuffling going on inside and then came a sound.
"Dude, can you like come back tomorrow morning?"
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I am fine."
"What did you have for lunch?"
"Uh... Chowmein."
"What about Pinky? Is she ok?"
"Uh... yeah... she's fine... sort of... "
Now that was a worrisome answer.
"What do you mean sort of?"
"Uh... she had chowmein and came here."
At first I didn't quite understand... and then it struck me.
Laughing, I went back to my car, got in and drove off thankful that my friend had been cured.

A Fictitious Dialogue Between Superman and Batman OR The Trauma of Being Superman

Warning: Some readers might find it offensive. Please don't take it personally.


Opening scene


Superman (all dressed up with nowhere to go and looking all haggard with a month-old beard, unkempt hair, blood shot eyes and wearing a clothes peg on his nose and ear plugs in his ears) sitting on a chair in a dark room in his flat, shivering and crying.


There's some noise coming from the other room as if someone is moving around there.


Enter Batman.


Batman: Superman, what are you doing sitting in the dark?
Superman (whimpering): I can't take it any more, Bruce.
B: What is it? Has Lex finally found a way to defeat you? Where did he manage to get the Kryptonite?
S: No, No... It's...
B: What is it, Clark? Tell me. Who has done this to you? Do you want me to call the JLA?
S: No... They can't help. Neither can you. It's me.

"Save me, Bruce, Save me."

B: I don't understand, Clark. What could you have possibly done to yourself? You are Superman! The man with the coolest, most awesome powers in the world. You can spin the earth around if you want, you can fly, see through walls, you are faster than a speeding bullet.
S: I know, I know. For you and the rest of the world I have these great powers, but they don't know what it's like to have them. They are always at work. I can't switch them off even if I want to.
B: So? What's the problem?
S: I...I don't want these powers.
B: Whaaaaat? What will happen to Superman then? Who will fight Lex Luthor and his devious schemes? Who will save the earth from every murderous meteorite or asteroid that comes hurtling towards the earth threatening to wipe away all of humanity?
S: I don't know. I don't want to be able to hear everything, smell every thing or see through walls!
B: Huh? I don't understand.
S: You know I have this fantastic hearing ability? I can hear a pin drop a hundred miles away.
B: Yeah, I know. Like the rest of you everything is super. What about it?
S: Do you know what is the worst sound that a man can be forced to hear? The sound of someone letting loose a wet fart! Forget the sound of the pin dropping, I can hear every fart that is let out in this world by every single human... from infant to adult. Forget people's farts, I can hear animals farting. Now, think you have to listen to that sound every single minute coming at you from every direction. My super hearing is such that I can even hear what to a normal human would be a silent fart! For you a fart is within the human hearing limit. My superhearing acts like an amplifier and leaves every one of them ringing in my head. At times it feels as if someone put my head in a huge bell and rang it. I get headaches that don't go away.
B: I am sorry I asked.
S: Worse still. You know what is worse? It's the ability to be able to smell those same farts that overpower my hearing senses. I know, just from the smell of the fart, who has had what food recently, who has had sex and who hasn't taken a bath. Sometimes, the smell is so potent that I can almost taste it. Why do you think that stupid robot managed to hit me the other day? Because it was of one person who had gathered around to see me fight the robot. That idiot let out one of the foulest farts ever. I was overpowered by that smell and couldn't react. I wanted to get away from it. While I was debating whether to stay and fight the robot or get away from it, the robot managed to take a good swing at me. I did, however, manage to defeat the Luthor's evil robot in the end, but that fart has left me scarred for life, Batman. I can't go on like this.
B: Boy, and I thought the world had troubles.
S: That's not all.
B: Oh, what's left?
S: I think I am turning into a sort of pervert.
B: (raising his eyebrows suspiciously and taking a step back) How? You aren't going after men, are you?
S: Bruce, this is no joking matter. I can see through walls, Bruce.
B: Yes, I know, Clark, you can see through walls, so?
S: Did it ever strike you that I can also see through clothes?
B: I figured that a long time ago. So, what about it?
S: Well, everytime I am flying through the city, guess what I see?
B: What?
S: It's like having my own soft-porn channel. I see women... naked through their clothes.
B: And?
S: Like, last week, I was flying through the city and towards a disaster site when suddenly I spotted this young girl... she was 22 years... I checked her driver's licence. She was walking down the road wearing a pair of yellow jeans, a green tee-shirt and sneakers. Before I could realise it, my x-ray vision kicked in and I saw clear through her clothes. Boy, she had an ass or what? And guess what? She wasn't wearing any panties! And those titties, I just felt like boxing them. Each one of them was the size of a melon.
B: Clark, why don't you go spend some time in the himalayas? Go medidate and take your mind off things. Or, since you can do it, why don't you go medidate on Pluto for some time?
S: Bruce, do you know what Wonder Woman is really like under that costume of hers? She's H-O-T... hot! And her pubic hair is shaved to spell WW. And guess what Batgirl is really like?
B: Superman, it's OK. Don't talk. Just keep quiet.
S: Batgirl's got a weird bondage fetish... she's usually got clamps on her nipples when she's wearing costume. She's always hot, man. I think you should do her sometime soon. She'll like being whipped, I think.
B: (Getting uncomfortable) Uh, Superman, don't.
S: Why? Don't you want to know what each of the superheroes looks like naked?
B: No, I am getting uncomfortable here in this costume.
S: Too tight, is it? Not enough space for the bat to rise up?
B: Uh... yeah... I think I should go...
S: Before you go... your girl Rachel... do you know she lets out some of the loudest farts possible, but underneath her clothes, she's hot.
B: (lunging at Superman to hit him) Claaaaaaaaarkkkk.... stop it...


A scuffle ensues even as the curtains come down.

Delhi's car owners and their fascination with weird bumper stickers

Bumper stickers! The next time you are driving, slow down from your maddening speed and take a couple of moments to look around you. While you are welcome to stop and smell the roses, let me draw your attention to the cars that zip past you with the man, or the woman, staring at you and snarling away to glory, while you take it a bit easy.
A word of advice: if you have a bumper sticker on your car or have something written on it, stop reading right here.
Now, for all those still reading, on to the subject at hand: bumper stickers.
Bumper stickers originated sometime in the 1940s soon after the first cars were put out in the public market. The first known bumper stickers used as advertisements were for Rock City and the stickers usually covered most of the bumper.
Today the stickers are used for many things, anything from religious to humour to endorsing a candidate in an election in the US. The UN even recognises them as labels to identify the origin of cars that cross borders quite frequently.
Now, with globalisation and the opening up of the Indian economy came fancy cars. Where you only saw a BMW in a western movie earlier, you now see them a dime-a-dozen on the road. Along with these cars came the concept of bumper stickers.
And like all things Indian we decided to add a twist to the whole concept and make it our own in our own twisted way.
So, instead of bumper stickers what we have now are rear windshield stickers. Bumper stickers were meant to mean something. In this light, take a look at some of the bumper stickers around you.
What does the sticker, “Dad’s gift” or “Mom’s gift” on the car’s rear windshield say about the owner of the car? That he are a total jerk who pestered his dad or mom to buy him the car even though all he deserves is a kick up backside? Or, that the driver’s mom and dad have spoiled him so much that they wanted him to have a car and he, in order to show his gratitude or love towards them, got said sticker pasted on his car?
Think about this one: “Down payment by mom, EMI by wife, Enjoyed by me.” So, basically, the driver’s mom and wife are rich, while he is just a poor driver, is that what he are trying to say?
Here's another one: “No girlfriend, no tension”. What it actually means is that the driver of the car is a loser and doesn’t have a girlfriend and isn’t getting any action, while the rest of his gang or comrades or acquaintances are living it up.
A similar one to go with this is “Us bewafa ki yaad”. Dude, she dumped you or cheated on you, deal with it, don’t announce it to the world. Anyway, there are other fish in the world, so what if one got away?
A slightly arrogant one that announces the driver’s virility and high libido where it was supposed to mean something else goes like this: “Loins of Haryana”. Does this mean that the Innova on which it was spotted is the driver’s “loin” (if yes, then well, that’s one jumbo-sized set of loins) or was the word entirely misspelled from “lions” to “loins”. I’ll go with the misspelling.


Here are a couple of similar stickers:

• “Loss of money, Out of mind, Vaste of money, End of life”
• “I hait girls” (yup, those are the spellings, written in a flaming yellow font, of hate on the car)
• “Love is sweet possion” (Should have been poison, unless he meant potion).

Let’s move beyond statements of love and such and take a look at some of the other in-your-face kinds of decorative statements.
Among Delhi’s youth, there are a couple of benchmarks that identify you as an “arrived dude”:
a) The number of girls you’ve slept with or are dating or have “pataoed” (whether you’ve been dumped by all of them or discarded like a used sanitary pad by one or more of them is something else altogether, we’ve already been there; read above), and
b) How much alcohol you can hold.
From the second benchmark comes the sticker, “Jatt risky when tipsy”. I ask you, are Jatts, no offence to them, a separate breed of human beings? Isn’t everyone risky when tipsy? Or does it mean that anyone who is tipsy, by dint of being tipsy, is a Jatt? But then again, when you spot stickers like “Jatt Boyz” splashed across the back of a car, you do tend to wonder, “What is it with these guys? Does being a Jatt automatically make you something different? I mean are they supposed to be a better class of people, better built, better everything?” If you get the answer, let me know.
And then there’s the very, very cryptic, “It’s me” with a black hooded figure pointing its fingers at the shrouded figure’s face staring back at you from the back of the car in front of you. You wonder “Kaun hai yaar ye”, don’t you? Next time, see if you can come parallel to the driver, roll down the window and say, “Hi, Me”. Though, I doubt the driver would understand what you are hinting at, but at least you’ll have made a new friend and his name will be so easy to remember: “Me”.
Another thing I don’t get is, ok, you’ve got yourself a fancy SUV or whatever, why, after having got that fancy ride and having got it registered in Delhi or the NCR, would you want to paste on a number plate of some car in California or some other US region? Is that the licence plate number of your car in the US or wherever you were before returning to Bharat Mata? More likely, it is a copy of the licence plate of the sedan your tayi’s chachi’s son’s bhua’s beta’s nephew is driving out there, while you are so proudly sporting it here on your car.

I can just imagine the conversation you must have had with the relative abroad:
You: “Tinku, teri gaddi da number ki hai?”
Tinku (a little offended at the use of the familiar name): “What’s it to you, man?”
You: “O das na, yaar. How number plates look there, I want to know.”
Tinku (fidgeting on other end of phone): “I’ll mail you a pic of my car’s licence plate.”
You: “O nai Tinku, tere lasens di nai, number plate di photo bhej.”
Tinku (looking exasperatedly at the phone): “The number plate is the licence plate.”
You: “O yaar, tussi bade advance ho. Number plate te lasens ik hi hai?”
Tinku: “Yeah, nice talking to you to, bye.”

A couple of days later, you check your email and find a mail from Tinku with the photo of the “lasens plate” (his mom got him to send it).
You (addressing your son): “Oye, Pappi, aa photo di lasens plate banwa leya."
 Next day, you take your car out with a flourish, drive over the neighbour’s plants in his outdoor, street-side garden while you are reversing and put an extra coat of polish on the licence plate so that it shines. If you had your way you would have put huge signs directing everyone’s attention to your car’s newly acquired “lasens plate”.

And by the way, if you didn't have this conversation, good for you, but you still have the US number plate on your car, or don't you?

Here’s a list of some of the more memorable stickers:

1. Beer is cheaper than petrol. Drink, don’t drive (Sound advice, I would say)
2. Hell was full, so I came back
3. God is relly busy, May I halp you? (No, thank you, I can ruin my day perfectly without your help!)
4. Horn broke, watch for finger (Cocky!)
5. “Amli jatt” (Another Jatt quality, I suppose)
6. Nobody remains virgin life fucks everyone. (Never a truer word was said)
7. I am the best! (don’t even dare question or argue that)
8. My brother is in the army (Oh, great. Is this another way of saying you can score cheap booze from the army canteen to impress your lazy ass friends and show off to that girl you’ve been trying to patao for the last three years with her not giving you enough ghas?)
9. It’s my Grandpa’s road (Baap ki nahi to kya hua, dada ki to hai!)
10.  On my way to work... PLEASE KILL ME (umm, no, we won’t. If we suffer, you also suffer)
11.  Mum to be on board (with two cute prams beside the middle line) (Good luck to you)
12.  Princess on board/baby on board (this one is usually spotted soon after #11 and the car invariably has a middle-aged old man behind the wheel. Maybe he’s called “baby”, I don’t even want to guess about the princess bit.)
13.  Wife and dog missing... reward for dog. (think what you will, but am sure, the guy isn’t married)
14.  Toyota/Ferrari/Lamborghini decals on Tata Indica
15.  Car sickness is the feeling you get when the monthly payment is due
16.  On a Mahindra Renault driven by an old man—“Dad says, puttar no aashiqui”
17.  My day is not complete until I’ve terrified a complete stranger (written in one of those horror-type fonts)
18.  You may be rich, but I am single
19.  On a Reva, “Emission impossible” (You rock, dude!)
20.  Love is trash, girls need cash (reminds me of Agent Smith’s dialogue in Matrix “Only the human mind could have created something as insipid as love.”)
21.  Chal Rani, dhande ka time hai (this was behind a truck, but makes you wonder, no?!)
22.  Loose wait, don’t wait (yeah, those were the spellings for lose)
23.  Girls are looking smarty, but heart is very dirty
24.  Girls R injurious 2 health
25.  My other ride is ur mom (Seriously, dude, you’ve got issues, do/talk to your mom)
26.  Maaf karna, kad zara lamba hai (behind a car carrier in Gurgaon)
27.  Horny ok please (had too much Viagra or didn’t get any action at all?)
28. Wail for side(!!)

Last but not the least (these were spotted behind Maruti vans being plied as taxis: “Black Perl” and “Captn Jacks Pairo” or the absolutely inimitable “Gems Band” (put it in the comments if you figure that last one out).
If I missed out some of the more interesting ones, put them in the comments.