Marriage is fun... Ya right!

Dear Raawan Uncle

Jai Shri Raawan

With your blessings and well wishes we (me and my missus) celebrated our 10^th marriage anniversary, last week. Some how my friends were happier than I was, probably because of the alcohol flowing freely on the bar table. These 10 years were more better than worse, more sweeter than sour. We tried our best to stay together and have fun and everybody around us acknowledged that by drinking to the hilt.

Uncle, with this letter I want you to understand the psyche of a modern day husband. Of course while you were married to Mandodari aunty you would have had your set of problems. But in those days at least saas bahu soap operas were not there. So embrace yourself to enter into the mind of a today’s married man. The following incidences are the feedbacks given to me by intellectual husbands, and I am generalizing the whole institution of marriage with this. I thought it would be only wise to raise a voice of concern for all my brethren.

Marriage is fun, that’s interesting as it is but harsh realities of life makes it simply impossible to believe. Couples married for a long time, I think are just growing together for the sake of it. For a woman it may be a satisfaction of being looked after or rather looked at by somebody, but for a man it’s to look after and look into every matter in detail, it’s certainly different.

For the first few months sex blinds and binds as well. Half of the married population gets pregnant around this period only. Rest takes their time to stroll around and learn from other’s mistake. That’s a wise decision to take but then it would happen sometime later and also you will have to wipe those cute little bums of your baby some day. Men don’t even realize at this point that their personal hanger had been invaded. For one the wardrobe which used to be full of dull shades of blue, black, green and brown looks like a riot of colors now. I would like to update you that there are like 18 shades of every color available in the market. I for once thought I was color blind all my bachelor life. And for second your bathroom now consists of 287 toiletries, out of which, you can not even spell half of them right. One of my friends was ordered by his wife to use a cream to soften his skin. Tauba, tauba… that’s horrible. Its like making Marsian to speak Venusian. But its still fun.

When you get out of the initial hibernation then only you realize what you have gotten yourself into. The war fare starts with smaller arguments. The ego takes the front and your dreams back seat. Your-parents-my-parents phenomenon takes its toll on this relationship. But its still fun.

Your mother in law has a major role in your life. She is more important than a condom actually. She is omnipresent, really almost like a god. She is the best woman on the face of earth. Sometimes you think you should have got married to her as well. But I guess you are already married to her as you are married to her daughter. She is going to be there for the rest of your life, well, between you two.

The day in day out guerilla war starts at this time. You like the company of your friends, and she wants to go to her mother’s place. The interference of your in-laws increases by the day. Your mother in law knows what you had for dinner, even though you were dead drunk to know it your self. She teaches her daughter all the god forsaken recipes of nuclear waste over the cellular phone, and eventually you get to eat that and pay the bills too. Your father in law is the only sane guy who knows where to put your money.

Your parents are sworn enemies of your wife. They seem to have developed a phenomenon, not to like any thing that your wife does. Suddenly they started to dislike spicy food and your wife cooks everything hot. They don’t like your wife’s taste of colors and she hates their taste of food. Eventually it becomes your battle and you resolve to; if you are going to do this to my parents I will do that with your parents. That actually diffuses the situation and you start living a calmer life, as a loner. The kid grows as a brat and you as a drunkard. It’s still fun.

Every woman wants her husband to be like her father, but he is like his father. Every man wants his wife to be like his mother, but she is her mother’s daughter. Expectation breeds contempt. That’s my take on the subject.

Rest, you can update me on the subject as you are married to Mandodari aunty for a long time.

Waiting for your words of Raawanism.

Raawanistically yours

Chota Raawan

Ronen Chicken

Jai Shri Raawan

Dear Raawan Uncle

The Raawan of the week award goes to Mr. Ronen Sen, though he is caught in a time of trouble. The India’s ambassador to the US has ventured into the territory, which is only equivalent to scaling on a Marsian Everest. What he has done is in true Raawanism spirit. How can you call an Indian politician a headless chicken? I mean it could have been spineless monkey, toothless elephant or may be a heartless hippopotamus, but no sir he had to call them a headless chicken. Under no legitimate circumstances, you can call an Indian Humorless Politician a Headless Chicken.

He also kept on reiterating that he used headless chicken thing for the scribes. Now he will be tried on two counts. He firstly used abusive language against our politicians (hoh….) and now he is calling them liars (bigger hohhhhhh…)

Now he will be ambushed from all the corners. The recent news is that he is called back to face the privilege committees from both Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha. Also he will be given a book to read in the parliament, named, “Count your chicken before they hatch.” So it would be all chicken and eggs for him despite being a Navaratra week. Right after the committee’s hearings he will be put on an aircraft and be dispatched to Rwanda as a High Commissioner (Jhinga lala huh…).

So what exactly is a headless chicken anyways? I think by saying a headless he meant brainless and by saying chicken he meant… well, chicken. So that means he wanted to call them brainless chicken. That’s so brainless thing to do Mr. Ambassador.

There is another storm brewing up in the other part of Delhi. Next week there is a meeting being called by The Great Indian Chicken Association (TGICA). Chickens from all over the country will stage a protest and give a memorandum to honorable Prime minister. “We can’t take it any more ji. We are being compared with a politician, hain ji, that’s way below our standard ji. We chicken brothers haven’t been able to recuperate well from the last bout of bird flu ji and now this, and then people expect us to be tasty and fresh on their platter ji. This is way too much to ask from a chicken ji, I am telling you,” informed the convener of the association, Kukar Singh. “We are completely shattered ji and really angry with the government ji. We want the government to take stern action against the guilty ji, there is no way government can get away with it, haan ji,” he further added. “We chicken eat worms, not words like politicians,” pressed Kaka Singh the young president of The Little Chick Association of India. (TLCAI). It’s also on the grape wine that TGICA is forming its own under-privilege committee to hear Mr. Sen out. So now he will face three committees.

Meanwhile my neighborhood Dhaba owner is busy working on a new recipe containing chicken and is intending to name it “Ronen Chicken.” “I thought I should take the advantage of the situation. I am not reveling the contents of the recipe yet and planning to launch the “Ronen Chicken” right after the Navratras, and also my boys will serve the platter wearing Khadi,” informs the proud owner, Dhakkan Kumar.

All the best Mr. Sen, welcome back to India and reality. Please bring your best face to face the committee, not that chicken wala. That’s so Raawanistic of me to say, LOL.

Chow for now,

Raawanistically yours

Chota Raawan

Interview of Ms. Blue Line…

Jai Shri Raawan

Dear Raawan Uncle

I am all proud to tell you that I am officially the first human being to communicate with a mechanical one. I was blessed with an opportunity to visit the dump yard where the cops are keeping all the confiscated blue line busses. I was there to get my car which was also confiscated by the cops just because it had a big blue line scratched on the bonnet. Probably the handy work of a neighbor’s brat. I don’t blame cops for the misunderstanding, they are specifically told to bring in all the blue lines.

As I entered the dump yard I saw my car was standing pretty with a parked blue line bus. Ordinarily I would have suffered a stroke seeing my baby standing so close to a bus. But then what can an innocent looking bus sitting pretty in a dump yard do to my car. Nothing… probably. As I stepped ahead to get my baby I heard some one sobbing. Sure enough the voice in concern was coming from the Blue Line bus. Startled, I asked “who is there?” “Its me Ms. Blue Line, the bus,” answered the poor ahhhhh… well bus, and started the interview which created history.

Me: I can’t believe a bus can speak.

Ms. Blue Line: If I can crawl, run, crush and crash, why do you think I cant speak.

Me: Yah but, you are a bus…

Ms. B.L.: You humans live with so many pre-conceived notions. Anyways to tell you the fact, its only I who can speak among my peers and also you are the only one who can hear me.

Me: So I am the lucky one

Ms. B.L.: Well if you are still alive despite being so close to me, then either I am not being driven or you are really lucky.

Me: Now there don’t scare me, tell me how did you land here and why were you crying?

Ms. B.L.: Tell you the fact I am feeling a little out of the place. I mean I am here being imprisoned for a mistake which I haven’t made.

Me: What do you mean by that, you guys (ahem…) have killed so many people still you think you are innocent?

Ms. B.L.: Well tell me what do you say when your computer stops working. I mean Kaboosh, nothing on the screen?

Me: I would say my computer is crashed.

Ms. B.L.: Yah right! It’s the Computer that crashed. Let me explain it to you its like blaming your computer for crashing though its your Disk Operating System which crashes. Bole to DOS, right?

Me: Right

Ms. B.L.: In my case my DriverS and OwnerS crash me its not I who crash them. Bole to they are the DOS in my case. They operate me I am not the one who operate them, and they are still out there in the open and what do I get, a synonym like Killer bus and imprisoned. Those drivers are killers not me.

Me: Well you have a point but then the government is all out to nab them also.

Ms. B.L.: It never happened and it would never happen in the future also. And talk about the government, remember when one of my sisters was crashed in a house by one of the errant drivers, all they did was, they changed our color from red to blue. As if Delhiites are all color blind, or may be the government think they are. Now, even I think Delhiites are color blind.

Me: What??? Ahem… ok what next?

Ms. B.L.: They will again change our color what else probably to a green, but personally I like magenta or black may be. I don’t know I am still confused about the color.

Me: So why don’t you retaliate? Do something to convey your feelings, by lets say, refuse to start in the morning or may be crush a traffic cop for a change.

Ms. B.L.: Oh no we have seen enough blood on the road already please don’t talk about it. I would share a secret with you we are planning an agitation and a march to the Jantar Mantar. I suggest you don’t travel on the day after tomorrow.

Me: Thanks for the information, but I think they have already planned to phase out you guys in less than a year.

Ms. B.L.: Well I know but what good it would be if they are going to hire the same set of un-trained drivers for the new busses.

Me: O Hello, I would like to mention The Metro here, what do you say about that?

Ms. B.L.: Aaah the Metro, if that’s the case I would like to dedicate a song for her, “Kar chale hum fida jaan-o-tan saathiyon ab tumhare hawaale Delhi saathiyon.” (Sob…)

Me: (Sob…)

Period…

Me: Would you like to dedicate a song for Delhiites also?

Ms. B.L.: Ya why not, “Kal khel mein hum hon na hon, gardish mein Delhi walon ke sitaare rahenge sada, bhoologe tum bhoolenge woh par hum tuhare rahenge sada.” (Even bigger Sob…)

Me: (even bigger Sob…)

Me: All the best and good bye (SOB…)

I could not muster enough courage to ask more questions, and left the dump yard with heavy heart and even lighter pocket. I am going to crush the neighbor’s cat under my car someday…

I know it would be rude of me to say to you to enjoy the Dussehra, but any ways Happy Dussehra. That’s Raawanism, LOL…

Chow for now,

Raawanistically yours

Chota Raawan

So much so that for distraction...

Jai Shri Raawan

Dear Raawan uncle

These traffic policemen have a fetish for me, or so it seems. Yesterday I was challaned for talking on my cellular while driving. I was ambushed and waived by big burly, Raawanistic looking cop, who almost threw himself on my car’s bonnet. I slowed my car and informed him in gestures that I would be stopping my car on the bolder. I didn’t know I was this good in gesturing. Anyways, I was slow hence he was walking just outside my cars periphery. For once I felt like the US president as he was escorting my car towards the bolder. I stopped the car and he came rushing to my window. Before I could open my window completely, I heard him saying “Bhai sahib Le-cence (License) dikhao”. I was like a child caught stealing a candy, but while asking for my license (read candy), he didn’t look like my mother at all.

I asked him “kya hua bhai sahib?” To which he said “aapne na maloom ke hoya? Fone pe baat kar rahe they aap. chalo le-cence (license) dikhao” Okay time to tell a lie. We Delhites are good at judging just about the right time to lie. I think while living in Delhi (not New Delhi) its my fundamental right to lie because of my proximity to the politicians. I mean I don’t know any politician personally but they lie so much that its in the air. Yes! A lot of lies are hanging in the air. All you have to do is jump and catch one of them and use it. But remember outsiders “Right lie at the Right time”, that’s Raawanism.

I explained “Arey nahin bhai sahib maine to phone bas pakra hua tha haath mein, main baat nahin kar raha tha.” Then he said in an amusing tone, “yeh koi jhanda hai ki haath mein pakra hua tha, chalo le-cence dikhao, haath mein mobile pakrne wala challan kaat denge.” I got out of my car saying “arey kya bhai sahib challan bhi koi kaatne ki cheez hai, murga kato, bakra kato challan kya kaatna.” “Wohi to kaat rahe hain” he replied. I pleaded “Aap to bas sewa batao, challan kaat ke kya milega,” (old habits die hard huh!). To which he said “bhai sahib kya bataein challan kaatna parta hai is mahine ka target poora karna hai aur fir 26 January aane wali hai sarkar ko paise bhi to chahiye.”

His patriotism and resolve to challan me, made me hand over my license to him, looking at which he questioned “asli hai?” Hurt I was, I nodded and he proceeded to his immediate boss called Z.O. (whatever that means, zoo operator I think). I was awarded a challan of Rs. 900/-. There goes my Friday party with friends.

Now my question to the Commissioner of Police, if the inmates of Tihar jail can use the mobile why can’t we do it, hmm, well… while driving our cars? I mean that’s Raawangiri actually. To which he reverted back (not to me, to the press dude!) it’s a distraction while driving. Talking about distractions Mr. Commissioner, we mortal souls, driving in Delhi has many. My wife telling me directions all the time, my daughter shouting on top of her lungs for a Pepsi and Lays from the backseat of the car, beautiful damsels walking down the street wearing stitched-to-body denims are to name a few.

We dodge rikshawalas, auto walas, cycle walas, uncles and aunties on the road. Tell you the fact; I still wonder how blueline bus walas manage to keep their small vehicles on even smaller roads, (I would try to do that one day, Raawan uncle). It seems like stray dogs have a fancy for my car, and does that cow sitting in the middle of the road ever moved, I think not. Why can’t we move them to a safer place?

“No, No, No. These cows can not be moved. These poor creatures have their rights too. Move the road if you have to,” tells Maneka Gandhi to media persons.

Potholes on the road are distractions; rather road between stretches of potholes is a distraction. I strongly believe that the F1 racers can best be trained only on Indian roads. They would have too many potholes to dodge, (oops sorry read road). In fact there are so many potholes on the roads that it would be a disgrace to call it a road. “Its good for the bowel movement,” said the Chairman of National Commission for Road and Safety, “more over people tend to drive slow if there are many potholes hence fewer accidents.”

Even the speed limit of 50 for cars on ring road is a distraction. I don’t know about Sarkari vehicles you travel on but our petrol guzzling beasts cross 60 even if we roll them on the bridges of Delhi with engine switched off.

Your people sitting behind the bushes waiting for us, is one of the distractions too. The other day I was driving with an NRI friend sitting next to me. The poor soul came back to India after a gap of some 08 years. Suddenly a cop came from behind the bushes and right in front of our car. My NRI friend was hysterical, and almost had a heart attack. The first thing that he asked was, “what the heck that guy was doing behind the bush, do they still do it (defecate, he meant, don’t get any ideas) behind the bushes.” I could not answer his query, probably our Commissioner can. I had to assure my NRI friend that I would never break a law and would definitely not defecate behind the bushes.

“Where is your Commissioner and my husband?” asked missus Commissioner. “Behind the bushes madam checking the speed of that car coming this way” replied the orderly. “Oho! Go and tell him its his son-in-law visiting him after a long time. He would scare him off again by giving him another challan like he did last, when “beta” was here with the barat.”

Well Mr. Commissioner here goes your dinner.

With regards

Raawanistically yours

Chota Raawan