Tag Archives: Life

Swine Flu and the Fellowship Dinner – II

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Before you read any further, may I recommend you read Swine Flu and the Fellowship Dinner – I first and then return to explore this post.

Dr. Dimple Minochha, fondle fondly called Dr. Dimpy by all of us, is the hospital radiologist (that is to say, her knowledge of the human body is understandably more than just skin deep). A youthful person of attractive features and cheerful disposition, she is particularly known for her spectacular set of huge boo books, and she quite seems to appreciate the stares that her boo books attract from all and sundry. Even patients of anal fissures in undisguised torment are known to sit up wide eyed and forget their agonies in the presence of Ms. Minochha, with mouths agape and gazes fixed on her awesome assets, the books. Therefore, it goes beyond saying that most of us utterly love to discuss her texts in our spare time, particularly the ones having interesting tit titles like How Large Is Your Dosimetry Error and Bare Bones Radiology. I must, however, make it known that I do not particularly enjoy the discussion veering off on salacious trajectories, which happens rather regularly and inevitably when Phadnis is around.

I summoned Susie and sent her off to Dr. Dimpy with the message that I wished to discuss a few topics of grave clinical importance with her at the hospital cafeteria.  Susie returned shortly, confirming the appointment. At the appointed hour, I trotted off towards the canteen, humming Ek ajnabi haseena sey, yun mulaqaat ho gayi, fir kya hua, ye na poochho, kuchh aisee baat ho gayi. No one should, however, derive any conclusions other than that I am a devoted fan of Kishore Kumar, and that the song I was humming was purely on account of an effusion of un-adult-rated happiness rather than being any reflection of immoral intent on my part.

I found Dimpy Minochha at the cafeteria table. She greeted me with a sparkling smile as I took the chair opposite her. “Hello Dr. Dimpy…er…Dimple”, I said, exposing my teeth.

“Hell-low Dr. Bonerji. How are you?”

Boner ji? BO-NER-JI?? I mean, did she actually say BONER JI???

I was aghast. To be called a boner by a young respectable lady is perhaps the worst thing that can happen to you after swine flu. Not even my most hated detractors have ever dared to address me by such slanderous endearments. I felt like drowning myself then and there in the dirty pool of spilled coffee on the cafetaria table, right next to Dimpy’s voluminous books.

“Excuse me, but my name is …(I told her what my surname was). And not every Bengali is a Bonerji or Chetterji.”

I was itching to deliver a powerful discourse on Bengali nomenclature to Dimpy, explaining in no uncertain terms how she and her clan overused the letter ‘o’ white pronouncing Bengali names. Come on guys, if you cannot pronounce Ganguly properly, better say Gun-Goli. Gongoly, Kolkota, Roshogollo, Omi Tomako Bholoboshi etc. are utterly unacceptable.

Anyway, I decided against displaying any impetuosity before this girl. My primary objective was to wriggle out of tonight’s lecture on swine flu, and I was here to see if there was anything of interest in Dimpy’s books on this matter.

“Well, Dr. Dimple..”, I began quizzing her in earnest “have you heard of swine flu?”6CD5F-flu

“Swine flu? Yes there was something about that in the papers. But I didn’t read…”

Holy hooligans! She had no idea of swine flu! This was even better. I rubbed my hands in glee.

“But you must be knowing about tonight’s seminar…”

“Yes..I just signed the circular. You are speaking on the topic tonight..na…?

“Well..you see Dr. Dimple..” it was time to play my cards “I’d have loved to but I have a terribly sore throat and won’t be able to pull it off..” I broke into a loud cough and thrashed about a bit, just to underscore my point. Dimple looked alarmed.

“Would you deliver the lecture in my place, Dr. Dimple? I mean…. its just a polite request…”

“Me! Oooh no!” Dimple Minochha gave a violent shudder whick shook the whole table with her books and all. A fly which was trying to accomodate itself at the edge of my coffee cup fell into it and drowned instantly. This was getting sticky. There was no way I could allow the opportunity to slip.

“Look Dr. Dimple…” I began reasoning with her in a calm, patronising sort of tone, “what’s the harm? We all know you are one of the most brilliant academics around (which was a lie, of course). So what if you do not know the details? I shall help you out…” I coughed again and pretended that it hurt a lot.

“You know what a common flu is…don’t you Dr. Dimple?”

“Yes…but….this isn’t common flu!”

“Hardly any difference”, I reassured her. “Same sneezing, watery eyes, choked throat…you know.”

Dimpy Minochha’s eyes brightened. “Isn’t our Director saab suffering from flu too…? I saw him sneezing violently in the morning…”

Aha! That was news to me. I wasn’t aware of the old scrooge having contracted the sneezophrenia already. “Swine… with flu”. I said to myself.

“Oh yes of course! How silly of me not to mention that…” I exclaimed. “Why, you could even quote his example while describing the signs and symptoms of swine flu. The two aren’t much different after all…”

“But…”

“Now no ifs and buts Dr. Dimple. This is a great opportunity for you to hog the limelight…”  

After another twenty minutes of cajoling, and one more round of frappe, Dr. Dimpy Minochha finally acquiesced. By now, she was enough informed to acknowledge that something called swine flu existed. I took her hand in mine (only for shaking briefly, mind you) and thanked her profusely for having saved my poor throat from complete outage. As we walked back to our respective chambers, I politely offered to carry her books and was a tad disappointed when she declined. Back in my chamber, I shot off a brief note to the Hospital Director, thanking him for considering my name for tonight’s honours. I told him about my throat problem and assured him that Dr. Dimple Minochha would address the audience in my place.

EPILOGUE – What a royal waste of food it was at the Fellowship Dinner. I’ll tell you what happened. The Hospital Director sneezed a couple of times as Dr. Dimple Minochha rose from her chair. She began her address thus-

“Dear colleagues. As you know our Hospital Director is suffering from swine flu…”

Needless to say a pandemonium broke out. The auditorium was deserted in 48 seconds flat. But not without a brief and violent elbow fight at the exit. I clearly saw Dr. Mrs. Pandey grasping Dr. Meglani’s collar and chucking him aside in a most dastardly manner, all in a bid to escape first. Only three of us, the HD, Dimpy Minochha and myself were left behind after the melee.

That night I ate 15 chicken legs. :-D

Doctor Do-Very-Little

Posted on by Rofl Indian

I have always been greatly impressed by the way doctors (the ones which are trained to treat humans) have conducted themselves in Hindi movies. Not only have they thrown their weight around with a certain degree of royal fervour, they have done the sensibilities of the audience a great deal of good by bouncing off a large number of hamming heroes/heroines on screen. Following are a few general observations on doctors (as depicted in Hindi cinemas) which I’m sure is worth sharing with a wider audience.

First and foremost of all, a doctor in a Hindi cinema is usually shown saddled with two daunting challenges in life. One, it is his professional obligation to scare the living daylights out of his patients, their kith and kin, their dogs, cats, parrots, goldfishes and in general, the unsuspecting lay viewer who chooses to be sandbagged by such technical gobbledygook as lymphosarcoma of the intestine and its evil variants thereof (Remember Anand?). Two, a doctor has to be rather passionate towards his female accomplices associates with whom he is seen to rub shoulders in the day’s work. It’s a great deal of disservice to the noble profession if a youthful doctor isn’t shown wrapping himself around well endowed nurses in skimpy uniforms behind cupboards of laxative bottles. This will albeit be shown in a dignified and courteous manner becoming of a medic, and that too in his spare time, like, in between two complicated heart operations. Such scenes often end with a minor accident or two (like the cupboard toppling over) resulting in the couple getting  well lubricated with mint flavoured Mom Plus. Remember, all this is compulsorily done with the doc attired in a spotless white coat. Talk about being particular about dress code and all that! Besides this, a doc in a Hindi movie would be seen to wine, dine, sing, dance, go to a party, go for a morning walk, go to the bed at night, to the loo in the morning, to the beach, poolside, funeral, court, temple, rather anywhere wrapped at all times in a white coat. All other things are optional; he may have a ponytail, wear slippers, pyjamas, loongi, mundu, kachchha, underwear, specs,  hats, tattoos, or even nothing at all, but he would never desecrate his profession by slipping out of his white feathers even for a second.

Then, a doctor in a Hindi movie would unfailingly carry with him a rather large syringe with a stout looking needle, and which he will endeavour to insert into the unmentionables of his unwary patient at the slightest pretext. He would proceed to do this with a sudden jabbing movement and would usually be assisted in this act by a beefy sort of sidekick in khaki shorts, who would grapple with the subject briefly before restraining him with a vice like grip. Needless to say, such an act adds immense nonsense value and is unquestionably funny.

A doctor in a Hindi cinema shall always have detailed knowledge of every single medical speciality on earth. He shall uproot teeth with a common household sandaasi, give electric shocks with wires stuck in a 240 volt outlet for curing madness, read the ECG upside down, fix fractures with karate chops, cure piles by just a few soothing words, graft hearts working under lights from mobile phones, take bullets out of the brain without injuring a single nerve, return the eyesight of a blind mother 20 years after she lost it in a kumbh ka mela, perform the most complex of transplants like interchanging heads and butts and even kickstarting dead hearts by measures which include kissing and caressing in a scientific sort of way.

Coming to more specific situations, it must be mentioned at the outset that operation theatre scenes in Hindi movies, and of course the accompanying dialogues, are by far the most fascinating of all. Few broad rules are unfailingly followed. In the ‘delivery’ scene, the  heroine thrashes about emitting complex vocalisations (an observant viewer would admit that its the same set of vocalisations which she emitted while getting pregnant too)biting her lips, clawing the poor hospital mattress savagely, and suddenly arching up her belly in a bow like fashion. This is usually followed by an infant’s wail signaling an end to the viewer’s acute embarrassment. Then comes the all important dialogue. “Badhai ho….beta hua hai”. A common variations is “Badhai ho…aap papa / dada ban gaye hai” How tearfully original! But wait…..if there is a caesarean scene involved, the usual outcome is ominous. “Bacchhe ko to humne bacha liya hai……par afsos…..hum maa ko nahi bacha paye…..” (sad violin interlude) or “operation to ho gaya…..par afsos…..wo fir kabhi maa nahi ban sakti”  (sad violin interlude again).

However, docs in Hindi films are exceedingly devout and God fearing when it comes to owning up for the actions inside the operation theatre. So much so that almost each operation in a Hindi movie is concluded with a pious exhortation to Gods to intervene and save the hopeless patient’s life. Sample a typical scene: Doc comes out of the OT with a serious look on his face, mumbles “ab sab kuch uparwaley ke haath me hai” and before the baffled audience can even bat an eyelid, the doc quietly slips away through the patli gali. Awesome. Can any doc in real life ever muster enough courage to actually come out of the OT and put everything squarely on God’s shoulders without running the risk of getting roughed up by the patient’s relatives! “Uparwaaley ke haath mein……eh? Saa*la….baap ka raaj hai? Hospital ne paisa kis baat ka liya hai???”Never mind. Just an insignificant professional hazard which docs have to face every now and then. But it doesn’t end here. Bollywood’s dialogue writers have taken faith healing to the highest echelons. So much so that docs in Hindi movies freely advise patients and their relatives to chuck medicines out of the window and take recourse to prayer and faith. “Ab isse dawa ki nahi….dua ki zaroorat hai.” How convenient. No bitter pills to swallow; no pungent syrups to gulp. Just dua it!

Three random generalisations in the end.

(a) The length of a nurse’s skirt is inversely proportional to the alphabetical grade of the movie (A grade: knee length; B grade: mid thigh; C grade: ..well)

(b) A ‘Dil ka Doctor’ shall invariably have long hair, a boyish charm on his face & be surrounded by at least a dozen pretty nurses all the time. He shall be proficient in the art of dancing around trees in the rain, and of course an expert in the science of wooing heroines.

(c) In a Hindi movie operation theatre, the assistant always passes on the correct tools in the correct sequence to the surgeon, with robot like precision, and without the latter uttering a single word.  Real life OTs are messy and anarchic in comparison, with the surgeon mouthing the choicest of expletives all the time in perpetual dissatisfaction of the assistant’s perceived lack of commonsense. Only if all OTs were like those in the Hindi movies!

Well…that was a short, and admittedly insufficient, exposition on the medical profession as depicted in Hindi movies. Looking forward to your inputs in the comments section, which I hope shall add all the missing flavours for sure.

(a)

Hair and Now

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.
- Matthew Arnold

This one is straight from the horse’s mouth. Though it is certainly not that I can be called a horse by any stretch of imagination; what I mean to say is that my account on hair loss can be blindly trusted as coming from someone who has seen it all and silently…well…er……endured it all. If you too are a healthy young (youngish/slightly older than youngish/frankly not so young) male and appear to be confounded by the inexplicable disappearance of fuzz from your scalp, blame it on the tRIO of genes, germs and geology.

Science has finally (yes, finally) succeeded in unearthing the bizarre truth behind hair loss. According to the tested and testified testaments published in scientific testimonials, “Thou shalt lose it, if thy genes carry the code for ‘androgenic alopecia’ or male pattern baldness (MPB)”. Its the extra testosterone in your blood and you really can’t help it. Rather a lousy dilemma – isn’t it? I mean, look at it this way – you don’t know whether to be exuberantly happy or silently gloomy about it! And God forbid if you’ve got dandruff; you will find yourself losing your ‘cover’ in double quick time! Lastly, the dihydrogen monoxide which you use for your ceremonious ablutions every morning may contain certain toxic impurities which your scalp may not find entirely appetising.

The reasons for hair loss is a subject that no two doctors, scientists, quacks or clinics seem to be able to agree on; everyone seems to have his or her own pompous opinion on the subject. The moot question, however, remains unanswered. Can hair loss be stopped? Particularly ‘androgenic alopecia’? Male Pattern Baldness to be precise. The consensus, based on current medical findings, is – no. If your mane is destined to leave you, it will. Yet, the mesmerizing variety of hair loss prevention therapies range from the incredible to the ‘down’right bizarre. It’s actually a multi-million dollar industry, doling out third rate strategies by the dozen for fleecing the poor hapless neobalds. Google returns a whopping 52000000 results for ‘bald’ in 0.05 seconds flat with nearly each website enticingly dangling its own hairy carrot! . None of the following remedies offer anything but purely temporary hope.

go

1. Spreads and sprays: Didn’t your padosi aunty suggest you dip yourselves head-on in a gooey batter of eggs, besan (flour), nimboo (lemon) juice and tulsi leaves paste purely as an effective ghare-loo (domestic) measure? You won’t taste bad either if deep fried properly. People have gone to the extent of suggesting smearing cowdung and rinsing hair with cow urine (see pic)

2. Shampoos: I was once prescribed a COAL TAR shampoo by a bald dermatologist. One application nearly removed 30% of my remaining hair.

3. Medical therapies: Propecia, Minoxidil, Avodart, Revivogen (all trade names) are a few of the ‘promising’ (of course, they promise to drill holes in your pocket) therapies that have been empirically tried in MPB. The catch, however lies in their disclaimers: Results will not be achieved in days and probably not even in weeks, usually it  takes about three to six months for any (slight) improvement to be (barely) noticed but no two people will achieve the same results, what works for one may not work for another. Great! Moreover, each drug has its own side effects, and the result of tinkering with one’s hormones may not always be pleasant or predictable.

4. Vitamins & Superfoods: Poor Popeye! He couldn’t grow a single new hair on his pate even after munching tons of spinach. So do not expect much from a mushy concoction of chlorella, spirulina, micro-algae extracts, astaxanthin, broccoli sprouts, beans, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, seaweeds like wakame, arame, hiziki and vitamins like ascorbates, cobalamins, tocopherols etc. etc. And yes…May Almighty God save your guts, spare your digestion and replenish your poor pockets!!

5. Lasercombs: The lasercomb is the first take-home version of the rather expensive cosmetic laser devices found in salons all over the world. Individual treatments are very expensive and are usually only for the very wealthy. The Lasercomb is FDA approved as a cosmetic device for thickening the appearance of hair, and is currently undergoing testing as a bonafide hair growth stimulant. Once approved, it will hit the market for astronomical prices. Try it if you are Brunei’s Sultan!

6. Hair growing robots: During a 30-minute operation, these robots would pluck hair follicles from pre mapped areas in the back of the neck, then grow these follicles in culture until they number in the thousands. Then these robots would inject the follicles under the skin where the hair needs to grow back. Seems straight out of a sci-fi movie. But you never know if the robots might develop any snag midway. Technically speaking, a faulty robot may fail to limit its attention at the back of the neck, and attempt to pluck hair from wherever it may appear to be growing in abundance.

baldman1

There are bound to be other ingenious ways of preventing hair loss. Try them if you wish to. NO RESULTS GUARANTEED

‘Engilish’ Teachers, Their ‘Efluent Engilish’ & Sundry Coal Centres

Posted on by Rofl Indian

(That was a year ago)

An ‘ENGILISH’ teaching shop had opened uncomfortably close to where we live. Uncomfortably – because the students parked their bikes and scooties right in front of the gate of our group housing building, and all requests to spare the entrance had fallen on deaf ears.

I came to know about it when our liftman earned a gash over his right ear and came to me for the necessary patchwork. A little history-taking revealed that he had tried to prevent a few brawny ‘engilish’ students from intentionally damaging a frail little Yo bike belonging to the daughter of one of our neighbours.

The whole affair naturally made me curious enough to do some drwatsongiri on my own. So one fine morning I trudged down to the shop on the pretext of referring somebody who was keen on passing the TOEFL.  Located within the basement of a mall, the shop itself was a very lacklustre affair – a 12 X 25 ft partitioned cubicle, stuffed with undersized chair table sets having just enough wood to barely stick your butt upon, a fiber glass blackboard, a tired looking PC and a glassless almirah holding well thumbed versions of ageless Rapidex-type volumes. Stacked in the corner were pamphlets claiming to make their students proficint in engilish speaking in 90 hours flat. Noble intentions were writ large on the proprietor’s cheerful countenance – he wanted his pupils to pop in the engilsh pill and take on the big bad world a la Dharam Paaji style, and do everything in chaste angrezi, be it booking a merrij hole (marriage hall), purchajing and raping (wrapping) a gift for a garalfrend or mouthing chic expletives like seet (shit) and other four lettered words fluently like punctuations. It appeared to me that he too was a recent by-product of the flourishing English teaching industry, someone with keen business sense and quick to cash on the wave of Anglo-mania hitting this sleepy neo metropolis. As expected, the proprietor had no idea what TOEFL was, yet he was aggressively forthcoming in assuring every kind of help to whomsoever I referred to him. As a special consideration, he even offered to give a 10% discount on the course fee to my referrals.

He told me that his “ishtudents were moshtly from the Hindi medium bakeground, there were nurses end compounders who want to settal in Amrica, kollejers (Collegers?) heving littal computer no-lage but no English no-lage, ledij who want good merrij but not get good husbend becoj they don’t know english, boys end girls who want to chet on the internet but note knowing efluent English, girls wanting great future by joining air hoshtess course, peepal who want to epply fore English teacher post in schools, marketing peepal who want to epply in benk jobes, tourisht guides end aalso house wifes who want to increase their no-lage of world...”

And who would employ his students? Mosht of our ishtudents go to coal centres, benks, Kingfissure airlines……

Coal Centre? I remembered having passed Hariram Coal Centre by the Chandpole Bus Stand a number of times. But that was a dark and dingy place, and always had trucks either loading or dumping tonnes of coal…..why would Hariram Coal Centre need to employ English speaking graduates by the dozen, unless of course they planned to go global and acquire a few European coal centres on their own! Coal center..? I politely enquired….

Yes sir, big coal centres, Amrican coal centres…..I then realised he was talking about GE and Convergys. Sure they needed effluent English speaking graduates.

I had to come out, as the benches were being filled up by the first batch of the day, all brawns and beauties raring to sharpen their English speaking skills. Why? To gain that extra edge while appearing in interviews for ‘glorified’ jobs, that actually were abominable traps for the ‘educated’ unemployed. As I was leaving, the proprietor enquired what my profession was and if I was interested in joining the course myself. I thanked him and told him that I was a doctor, but had no intention of settling in Amrica. He flashed a big smile and pulled his T-shirt up to reveal his flabby lower abs– “When I waj twanty year old, I had oppen-ducks opreshan”

Appendix – I corrected him.

“Yes, yes…open-dicks opreshan”

I left quickly. I had no intention of discussing open dicks and closed dicks with him. However, I could not stop myself from reflecting on the career prospects of our youth from the Hindi medium background, who take their education as an ignominy and look for ways to redeem themselves by turning to such quickfix methods, and eventually end up on the sidelines of the Great Indian Career Market.

ONE YEAR LATER…


I had almost forgotten about him, so it came as a bit of a surprise when I ran into him again a few days back. Yeah, he was the same guy who was last seen selling ‘english’ to gullible job seekers and who even offered me a 10% commission for all referrals to his ‘engilsh classes’.

He had closed down his English classes this March, as by then, most of his pupils had probably figured out that they weren’t any better off either in the job or in the merrij market with their accents, and that none of the coal centres were willing to coal them even for an interview. Unconfirmed reports emanating from the chowkidaar of our building even suggested that one evening, just before our tutor was about to close for the day, a few of his students had accosted him, quietly pushed him back in the shop, closed the doors and then proceeded to pay him a rather hefty guru dakshina of the most gruesome kind (guru-some kind…eh?), the consequences being a black eye and a noticeable limp detected the next day which he attributed to a fall from the stairs at his home. By the next week, he had truly raped up his classes and was gone. Nothing was heard of him in the following months and it was assumed that he had headed for greener pastures among the teeming suburbs of the city, trying to sell his ideas to the innocent dreamers who looked to the skyline of the metropolis with bloated hopes and inflated aspirations.

But here he was now, right there in front of my eyes and looking every bit cheerful and chubby. Why, he’d even managed to add a few pounds to his paunch and looked quite satisfied with life in general.

He greeted me with a loudish “Hell-low doxaab!”

I returned his hell-low forthwith and said that I was quite pleased to see him. After the preliminary chit chat, I told him that his abrupt departure had robbed the neighbourhood of a truly visionary philanthropist. Sensing that I might start delving into the circumstances which led to his raping up the business suddenly, he changed the topic. But not before he told me that he had found the entire business of trying to teach English to a bunch of rascals a thankless one, and that he had given up on the idea after consulting the whole thing with his wife and his inner shelf (self).

So what was he upto now? It was difficult for me to suppose that he had entirely given up the teaching business. But, as he told me, he was successfully running a clothes store in the downtown, selling the usual stuff…readymadshirt-paints, bun-arsi sarees, bad-shits (both single and double) and sundry other woven merchandise. He had hooked up with a garment manufacturer who supplied him colourful hand printed badshits of the finest quality, or so he told me. “Very smooth and silky”, he had proffered to add.

I enquired if he ever thought of returning to the business of running English coaching classes. “No doxaab, no die-virgin now. I only concentrate on garment bijness.” He was talking about not succumbing to diversions. But suddenly I felt jealous of him. For the smooth and silky stuff he sold, God knows how many virgins he had dying for him!

His cellphone rang once. A missed call. He glanced at the number and immediately proceeded to take leave. “Doxaab I will go now. Misease calling.” I observed that his pronunciation of misease was remarkably similar to that of disease. I didn’t know however, if, he privately equated one with the other! Flashing a broad smile, he gave me his business card. “Next time you purchej badshit, come to my soap. I will give you metching pee-loo cover in 50% discount.”  He was gone before I could even thank him for the offer.

But he was polite enough to tell me where he was going. “To my son’s school doxaab. To attend parent teacher mating….”

Lucky guy!

Moral of the story
Proper market research is essential for succeeding in business. An unscheduled mating is a bonus ;-)

This was first posted elsewhere.


Mammaries: Confessions Of A Contented Voyeur

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Mammaries: Milk secreting organs of the female species of any mammal, created by the Almighty with the sole purpose of nourishing the famished offsprings of the same (and offsprings and adults of a superior) species. Any other purported objective is purely imaginary, prejudiced, polluting and perfidious.

Welfare: What beneficial accomplishment you execute unto yourself before being footed out (farewelled) or footed around by your detractors or the ‘system’. In other words, ‘welfare’ is the state of wellbeing inflicted upon oneself either by design or destiny.

State: A federation of self governed territories in majestic disarray.

(All definitions have been bootlegged from the Bullford Dictionary of misnomenclature; Hamster and Footbridge publications Inc.)

Upamanyu Chatterjee: Born in 1959, joined IAS in 1983. His first novel – ‘English, August’ was a hilarious take on the Indian bureaucracy, and became a runaway success after it was published in 1988. ‘Mammaries’, which retains Agastya as the main protagonist, is considered to be a fitting sequel to English August.

My tryst with ‘Mammaries’: I picked up ‘Mammaries’ enticed by its ample size, lusty appearance and the sheer provocative appeal of a she-goat’s oversized udders (plus driven by a surge of funny hormones and in perfect consonance with Darwin’s theories of natural selection). Such awfully big and voluminous! 437 pages of unabashed, unbound and bouncy humour – or so the title titillatingly suggested. Particularly in view of the aroma of ‘English, August’ so fresh in mammaries, Upamanyu Chatterjee’s third comical extravaganza promised to be a groovy getaway from the drab hullabaloo of life. What can be more enticing than an insider’s salacious description of gubernatorial goof ups and scandalous relations between brokers of political power? This was an issue not broached frequently, and coming from an author of impeccable credentials, it seemed a worthy expenditure. So out came 295 bucks and ‘mammaries’, sensuously wrapped in a loose paper bodice, was thrust into my eager hands by the Crossword salesman. And while I was driving home with the voluptuous volume by my side, I just couldn’t wait to lay my hands on what lay behind those alluring covers.

The Book itself: The Mammaries of The Welfare State is about the travails of unmarried Agastya, a civil servant who doesn’t mind smoking pot and submitting to the sexual advances of a 40 something divorced socialite heavily influenced by yoga and veganism, amidst a hilariously confusing background of housing problems, transfers, goons, girls, theatre groups, propaganda, perversions, plague, political grime, social stigmas and a virtual potpourri of bureaucratic filth.

Chatterjee takes the reader on a grotesque tour of the dinghy corridors of Indian bureaucracy, lampooning the giant juggernaut and slaughtering sentiments and sensitivities ruthlessly in 12 chapters that constitutes ‘Mammaries’. The sarcasm is just too gory, strewn and scattered at every step, with the bewildered (and unaccustomed) reader having to wince at the liberal use of slang and the choicest of expletives. However, the author is clever enough to veil most of the profanities in a garb of seemingly innocuous literary jargon, without compromising on their inflammatory flavour!

Chatterjee really leaves no opportunity to ridicule the system. His weird and kinky characters include Daya (no, not the affable ‘light throwing’ veteran of MS, but a 40 something divorcee woman with whom Agastya shares his amorous nights), Rajani Suroor (an influential jack of all trades who gets shot by a caricature of a goon), Lina Natesan Thomas (who refuses to take things lying down), Bhanwar Virbhim (an elderly, lecherous and scheming politician who makes it to the cabinet), his equally lecherous but essentially moronic muscle wielding son Makhmal Bagai (the same goon who shot Suroor and who too ultimately seeks refuge in politics), Bhupen Raghupati (a senior bureaucrat with clout and thoroughly repulsive sexual perversions), Kum Kum Bala Mali (a popular film actress of yesteryears – isn’t it too obvious by the way?), Bhuvan Aflatoon (PM) and a multitude of odd sidekicks. He has even named the departments with uncanny ingenuity – DIPRAVED (Directorate of Information, Public Relations And Visual Education) and BOOBZ (Budget Organisation On Base Zero) among others.

I managed to rummage through ‘Mammaries’ in little more than a weeks time, Mouthshut (and all the thundering typhoons therein) taking up the bigger share of my leisure. Chatterjee could have made this novel a bit sleeker by doing away with some 50 – odd pages of uninspiring bureaucratic tomfoolery, but I assume his overeagerness to strip the system stark naked got the better of him. I enjoyed Agastya’s raunchy escapades, and commiserated with his haplessness as the Collector of the imaginary plague – stricken district of Madhna. I relished Chatterjee’s version of Hinglish (there is ample of that exotic stuff too), just as I recoiled at Raghupati’s horrid pedophilia. No doubt, Agastya endears everyone with his ‘May-The-Welfare-State-Go-And-Fetch-Oil’ (Welfare State gaya tel lene!) attitude. Now, I would love to expose more of ‘Mammaries’ but that would take away your right to enjoy this masterpiece on your own. So I conclude with two excerpts replete with trademark sarcastic punches which makes ‘Mammaries’ a thoroughly enjoyable read.

In any given set up, you will first identify the principal source of power. Once identified, you will push, with single – minded sycophantic intensity, to get close. When within sucking distance, you’ll genuflect. Then, your relationship having stabilized, you will magnanimously share your booty, and your soul, with him.

Caste is a much more reliable factor than merit. Every Tom, Dick and Harry has merit, but how many have the right temperament, the right ethos, genes, lineage, morality, attitude, biases, hang-ups – in short – the right caste for a job?

Verdict: RECOMMENDED

This review was first published  elsewhere.

Core Temperature

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Dr. Phadnis and I are good friends. Rather on the same babe wavelength I’d say. We share many harmless interests, like coming to blows with each other while ordering coffee for Dr. Dimpy (Dimple) Minocha and things like that. Dr. Dimple is an asset for the hospital, but more on that later. In private, I call Phadnis ‘Faddu’. He doesn’t mind a bit. What he calls me in private is unprintable. Well, I too don’t mind at all. Only Susie knows what we call each other. And we don’t mind that either.

Now, what happened today, as I entered my chamber, I found Phadnis sitting in the other chair, in black and white. Black eye, white apron, that is to say. Susie whispered to me that she had seen Faddu limping, and I was naturally quite eager to learn how such a catastrophe befell him. Apart from a bit of flu which he had somehow managed to catch, he was  in great form when I had left him last afternoon.

“Faddu!”

Grumble.

“Faddooo!”

Phadnis shot me an acerbic glare. Ok. He was in a foul mood.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Grumble.

“Had a fight with Missus?”

It was a wild guess. Mrs. Phadnis was quite a stout woman. Most un-bhabhi like. I didn’t particularly like her. I mean, otherwise also, it is against my ideals to ‘like’ other people’s wives, but even for those who like to ‘like’ other people’s wives, it was unlikely that she could be ‘liked’ by any stretch of imagination. I hope you get the drift.

“Go screw yourself…”

So that was established. I ordered coffee and samosas. Phadnis touched his black eye and groaned. Then he shifted in his chair and groaned. Obviously, he was in great pain.

“All because of your idiotic suggestions.”

“Me?” Mea culpa? “When did I ask your Missus to beat you up!” I protested.

“Shut up! Who told me about those love experiments….? “

“Oh, those!”

“Yes. THOSE!”

Aha. So this was it. But I was only trying to help, you see. Okay, let me tell you the whole story. A few days back I had read a remarkable blogpost by the name of Sick Fun and was deeply influenced by it. The post contained innovative love making suggestions for couples who were sick with flu, cold, itch etc. The blogpost author had somehow determined that the best way to spice up the love lives of sick couples was to have them impersonate movie actors in soar-throat aided husky voice. I thought this was really funny. So yesterday, when I noticed Faddu sniffing and snorting with a running nose, I promptly shoved a printout up his in his pocket and told him to follow the directions exactly as given in the post. He didn’t complain then. Rather he had laughed generously and promised to make the evening with his wife a memorable one.

Why hold a grudge now? As**ole.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

It took a while for Phadnis to break his silence.

“Leela was skeptical. She read the printout and started calling me names..”

“Oh come on Faddu. Behave like a man. You know how to patao your wife…”

Silence again. Phadnis seemed to carefully weigh what he was about to say.

“I tried to joke with her in Dharmender’s voice…”

“Great, whose voice did she copy?”

“Lalita Pawar’s”

Ehe. I shuddered at the thought.

“Too bad. But you could have tried the 69 position See, it says here…‘One word.  69!  Give each other foot-massages’!”

“I tried. Aaaahhieew” Phadnis reached for his black eye and groaned again.

“So?”

“She said my feet stink. So we just lay there..”

“In the 96 position?”

“F*** off!”

I chuckled. “See? Don’t we all tell you to wash your socks daily. I tell you…Susie tells you…even Director saab has told you….”

“Shut up!”

“Okay. How did you get the black eye?”

“She hit me.”

Big deal. As if I didn’t know already. “But why?”

There was a brief silence. Just as there is a brief silence before all dramatic announcements.

“I…..I poured cough syrup on her….”

.

.

“WHAAAAAT?” I nearly fell off my chair. Susie must have been eavesdropping from across the partition, because I distinctly heard her drop a forceps. Pouring cough syrup on Leela Phadnis !!! Pouring aviation fuel on fire!!!

“WHY?”

“Well….I wanted to lick it off her….”

“Had you gone mad?” Even Faddu’s dog shits in terror at the thought of licking Mrs. Phadnis!

“No, I mean…..I just wanted to modify that Tylenol instruction…”

I remembered. Hide a Tylenol capsule in your layers of clothing and let him/her search for it.

“But why…?”

“I didn’t know what Tylenol is”

“Tylenol is the @#$*& MD of our hospital. You saala poured cough syrup on her because you didn’t know what Tylenol is???”

“….I thought it would be more romantic…..”

“Kochi khoka. Faddu…you’re 35. What you did is insanity. Serves you right.”

Silence again. Susie briefly entered to inform us that there were patients waiting outside the chamber. I sent her on an errand.

“So she hit you…”

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yea…aaaah.” Faddu’s gulped. “She said I had started the game and she would finish it…”

Now I gulped too.

“The thermometer….” Faddu’s voice had turned into a croak.

I remembered. Play thermometer race.  Stick digital thermometers in your mouths and see who’s beeps first. My mouth went dry. Faddu stood up with a groan.

“You know my wife’s a vet…?”

Sweet Lord! Of course I knew. On an earlier visit to his home I had seen Mrs. Phadnis taking the core temperature of a goat using a large and stout thermometer which she had shoved up the poor creature’s backside….

“Oh God!…no…..you mean….!!!”

Phadnis didn’t care to reply. He had already turned back and was limping to his chamber with a gorilla like gait.

Core Temperature

“Core Temperature”

Acknowledgements: Twisted DNA‘s post Sick Fun, without which ‘Core Temperature’ was inconceivable :-)