Leave Hinduism or Islam, CRICKET is the biggest RELIGION in India

'I hope I marry a man who is not so crazy about cricket,' I thought out aloud seeing my whole office stuck to the India v/s Australia T20.

'Now that's a tough demand, Poorva. Such a man would be really hard to find,' one of my colleagues told me what I already knew.

No dying people, no political scams, no tragedies mattered today... because the biggest tragedy and the most important news was India's pathetic performance.

In my channel's newsroom, all the headlines were written in advance. The packages were ready. The shows were all set to go on air ten minutes before time! The reason was neither a sudden salary hike, nor the big boss' presence. Everyone wanted to get done with their work in order to catch the remaining balls.

Those fathers who could not make it to their daughter's birthday party on time, were home early. Those shopkeepers who don't shut shops well past 11 pm, had already downed shutters. Those students who finish their homework by 2 am, were free at 7:30 pm. The roads were empty, parking was full. Only one channel was on in every home.

As I absorbed that feeling standing in that unusually silent lane which leads to my home, I realised that no Hinduism, no Islam, no Christianity, no Sikhism binds India like cricket does. No festive season is as much awaited as the next series and no festival is as big as an India match. No result is as fruitful as a win. No failure is as bad as a loss.

Cricket is the biggest religion in India with eleven gods who keep changing. But mind you, these gods have a tough job in retaining their godliness in front of their devotees. Drop a catch or miss a ball, and their temple will start shaking. Lose a match, and prayers will stop. Defeat in a tournament means they are not gods anymore. Even the real God doesn't have such a tough challenge in front of him!

But even after the challenging nature of the job, everyone wants to become this cricket god. It's like what they once used to say about government jobs... your life is set if you become a cricketer. One match will give you a good bride, one tournament will be enough to open a restaurant, if you are good looking as well, advertisement offers will knock your door everyday. A cricket academy or a career in commentary is obvious. You see, this job comes with the best retirement plan too.

A close friend of mine who was an awesome athlete gave up the field. His father had told him... doctor, engineer or cricketer. No other sport is welcome in the Indian household. After all, what do hockey, football or athletics give you in this country? One or two medals perhaps. They are of no value. Nobody needs them. Nobody cares a damn about them. A thousand athletes can't equal one cricketer. Nobody will watch their race on the free-to-air DD Sports, but everyone will happily pay Rs 45 to catch the match on ESPN-Star Sports.

That friend is an engineer today. He is earning well, much more than he would have ever earned as an athlete. But I know he is not true to his job. His heart is on the tracks. It always was. But this cricket-crazy country didn't give him a choice.

And well, he is not the only one without an option.

Doctor V/S Doctor

It’s been more than four years to this incident. I had just shifted to Bangalore and was experiencing a lot of pain in my legs. Nothing was helping so I finally decided to visit the doctor. He sat in a big room in one of Bangalore's most prestigious hospitals. The setting looked 5-starish. I had a feeling the doc was going to be awesome too.

He patiently asked everything and jotted it down. At the end, he gave me a long list of tests I needed to get done. God! Was I so ill? He even gave me an offer to visit his friend's clinic for a good discount on those tests instead of getting them done at the hospital. He told me that the total after the discount would be somewhere around Rs 10,000.

Seriously, the leg pain was nowhere in front of the pocket pain that day. I had heard that doctors charge a bomb, but this looked like nuclear that day. I had never visited a doc without my mom before and this time the money was from my first salary. So obviously it hurt even more.

A friend advised me to take another opinion before going for the tests. But I was in no mood to pay more fee to one more doctor. She persisted, and I had to relent.

This doctor did not sit in a posh room. It was hygienic and more doctorish than 5-starish. He did not recommend any tests. He did not scare the hell out of my wallet. He just told me I need to drink more milk and eat bananas for extra calcium. I was fine in a week.

Had I not taken the second opinion, doctors would have remained money-eating mongrels in my mind throughout my life. That one experience taught me that it's very easy to form a bad opinion. But one man's wrongdoing cannot be implied to his whole community... be it professional or religious. 

I realised that not every doctor is a looter. Not every businessman is a cheat. Not every maid is a thief. Not every restaurant serves stale food. Not every girl has weird mood. Not every saint is a sinner. Not every prisoner is a killer. Not every Muslim is a terrorist. Not every Hindu is NOT a terrorist.

If you ever find a rotten apple, keep it aside and look for the healthy ones. Chances are you'll find some, only if you are not stuck in a government department where all the apples have become rotten after years of exposure to bad air.

Our country has gone to GODS!

I don't think Ganesha would be too happy with all of us... for polluting the rivers in his name. Year after year, putting POP down the lakes. Saying Ganpati Bappa Morya, and adding chemicals to the water-bodies.  He never asked for it. No God ever asked for it.

Today I was walking down a road which has a huge Ganesha temple at the corner. The biggest rangoli I have ever seen, the most beautiful idol, that agarbatti smell, the garlands... and the devotees immersed in a BRAWL! One of them holding the other’s neck, shoving him to the temple wall, calling him names...

Many a times I wonder if we actually fear God. We keep our phones on silent during a meeting with our boss, but attend calls in a temple. We build temple to encroach a land and then keep expanding it, because we know no authority would dare touch it.

We remember Him in trouble and forget Him as soon as we are out of it. We pray hard during exams and an hour before the result, but we would rather watch a movie during our holidays. When we are left with nothing, we leave it to Him.

We pollute His land on Holi, His air on Diwali and His water on Chaturthi, and we USE Him in doing all this.

You say it’s all written in the puranas. But can you tell me even one line from the same puranas which makes you do all that you actually end up doing on these festivals? They say Parvati created Ganesha from sandalwood paste. But did Parvati also ask you to create him every year from Plaster of Paris, paint him with some chemicals and immerse him in water? Ram returned to Ayodhya after 14 years of vanavas. But did Ram ask you to blow up thousands on useless firecrackers for his feat? When Prahlad sat on the pyre and Holika burnt instead, did he also ask you to burn trees each year and give the Earth a colourful chemical bath the next day?

God has become a commodity these days. Man uses it to take holidays, to enjoy, to blame, to kill, to hate. Seriously, God looks like the most pitiable personality I have come across.

But God, please don’t worry. Not everybody is that bad. Not everybody is trying to ruin your creation. In fact, some of those great souls have taught me the good lesson too.

My Ganesha is only clay. I double-checked. No colours added. And by God, it looks so beautiful! Even Parvati would be proud of it!!

I haven’t burnt any crackers for ten years now, ever since I took that oath in class 9^th. Yes, I stuck to it. Last year, I bought two sarees for my maid’s daughters for the same amount that an average Delhite burns on a Diwali night. She was so happy. Told me the elder one wore it at her graduation.

I don’t play Holi even if they keep asking me. They tried to drag me into the mess this year, but I am strong, you know.

God, I am on your side. Not only because I fear you, but also because I love you and respect you a lot. I know you painstakingly created the world where I live. I know how much it hurts when someone puts a minor scratch on my car. And look at you... they are putting major scratches on your model every day, every minute, every second! From my side, I can assure you I won’t add to your miseries. Promise. I don’t know about others though.

The SMALL BULLIES of Bangalore

It's not a big tanker. It's not a rickety local bus. It's not even a posh SUV. It's either a bicycle, an auto or a woman! If you have had the awesome experience of driving in Bangalore, then you know what I am talking about.

The most painful people on this city's roads don't sit inside huge vehicles. They are on two feet or on two/three wheels. They are those who cannot hear a honk, they can't even hear three, four, five, ten honks. They don't care about the world around them. They know if some big four wheeler *&%^$ dares to touch them, he would be blamed. After all, it's always the fault of the big guy. The small ones can't be bullies. That's the thumb rule.

Take for example the auto driver. He rules the city. He doesn't use one lane, he uses two... half of both. On top of that, his speed won't cross 30 kmph. So both you and your friend on the other lane are stuck. Buy a Mercedes here but you will be forced to slug at 20 kmph behind this auto. And for goodness sake, don't take that 6-gear car a company introduced sometime back. You will never even get to the 5th gear here.

I forgot to mention that you won't find parking space outside your office because that auto driver would have already used it. He is sleeping inside. Don't disturb.

I don't know why some Bangaloreans are demanding a separate cycle lane in the city. Sir, all the lanes belong to the cyclists only. I am not talking about those activist-types who wear cycle helmets, knee pads and all that fashionable safety gear to go to office on their mountain bikes. I am talking about that black bicycle that my laundry man used when I was a kid. Yes, that black cycle is still being used here... that too, on the main roads!

Our Mr Cyclist rides during rush hours. In the middle of the roads. I am so glad he doesn't have the size of using two lanes at a time like his auto driver friend. But well, he fills in the void by his sweet pace of 5 km per hour.

And parking? Aah! That's no problem at all. Find a two-wheeler parking and abandon your cycle between two bikes. It's poking out, huh? That's not his headache! His cycle does not get scratches.

Have you seen a cow on the road? And have you seen an aunty ji on the road? What's the difference between them? I would say none. Both of them walk as if they have earphones on and are listening to loud music. They don't hear traffic noise. They are not designed to hear traffic noise. You are honking, screaming... dear, you are actually wasting your energy. Sit back, relax, take a deep breath, try not to get angry. Let aunty ji enter a shop and then drive out in peace.

Just because you have a big vehicle does not mean you are big. Here in Bangalore, small is bigger than the big. 

What the HELL!

When they first brought me here, I was excited. I liked my new cage, my new home. I would get biryani almost every alternate day. The kids would come and play with me. Their mom would clean up my cage. Their granny, that fat woman who shouts at everyone, never shouted at me. They were happy. I was happy.

I am the parrot that spends its days and nights in a cage that Poorva's landlords have kept. 

One day they took me to the terrace in my cage to play with, but after five minutes, they lost interest and got busy with themselves. It was then that I met someone.

A pigeon was perched somewhere over there on the top. I could see she was about to lay eggs. She looked hungry. She had to build a nest as well as search for food. I felt good. I had a better home, I did not have to hunt for food, the winter was not going to kill me. 

My owners were nice initially but I had no clue that they would forget me so soon. That they would throw food and water in my cage like a daily routine, without even looking at me once. They would stop cleaning my cage, playing with me. My new cage became old in just two weeks. The excitement died down. Biryani was no longer tasty.

After about one-and-a-half or two months, my owners showed some sympathy and took me to the terrace again. I had almost forgotten about the pigeon, but recognised her as soon as I saw her. Her egg had hatched.

That day too, she was hungry. She had to arrange for food not just for herself, but the baby pigeon too. She would keep flying short distances to find some food for the little one but in vain. She did not have the option of going to a faraway place because she feared for the baby.

After concentrating at her for sometime I realised that she still looked the same she did when I saw her last. But I looked sad even though I ate better food and had no tension. So what was lacking?

My mother had once told me the story of heaven and hell. In hell, they give you everything you can wish for... good food, clothes, lavish life and to top it all, there's no work! In heaven, they give you all that, but only after you work. I had laughed at that story then. I thought if this is the case, I better go to hell. Only after God fulfilled my wish, I realised why hell is called hell.

The TOM, DICK, HARRY College of Mass Communication

I hate it, simply hate it. How can government give everyone a license to open a college with pathetic standards of Mass Communication? And the result... these colleges produce 'journalists' of such poor standard that we want to hang our head in shame.

Mass Comm was once considered a prestigious course which only a select few could crack after three-four grilling rounds. In my college itself, they selected only 28 out of the 2,500 who took the test that year. My parents would proudly claim that I am studying Mass Communication. But now it has become the course-next-door.

Everyone is offering this 'in-fashion' course. But mind you, fashion only lasts a few seasons. If you buy all the dresses of a particular fashion, you will have to change your full wardrobe to remain in fashion after sometime. Unfortunately, you cannot change your career after studying a professional course for three years.

You will end up rejected in media jobs or become teachers to produce more pathetic batches of Mass Comm students.

Their motto: Bye-bye journalism!

Please realise that India does not need so many journalists. The channels are full. The papers are full. The magazines are full. And they all want the best. You are not the best because you went to the Tom, Dick, Harry College of Mass Communication and did nothing there apart from getting a degree.

You don't know camera, editing, scripting, PCR, production, and you all want to become anchors or reporters. You stand in front of the mirror saying Good Morning with a smile and you imagine yourself on TV. Your parents encourage you without understanding that you are not meant for the business. You can't say a line without fumbling but you want to be Arnab Goswami or Barkha Dutt. You don't have good command over language, you write wrong spellings, you can't frame sentences, you can't pronounce simple words, still you have your own show in mind.

I am not saying that you must do Mass Comm to be a mediaperson. We have doctors and engineers doing quite well in this field too. But they are here for their passion, and not only for profession, and that's what is the key to every mediaperson's success.

Journalism is neither an art nor craft. It's not a job, it's not money. It's life, it's dedication... it's like what my boss says, 'Journalists are a separate breed of people, as if God made human beings and then God made journalists.'

If you don't have that in you, then perhaps God made you for something human. Don't mind, but please don't pollute this passion.

My teacher who could NOT be a hero

Everyone loves to show off. In front of your boss, you want to be seen as the most hardworking employee, the best student in front of your teacher, the obedient son of your parents, the most handsome boyfriend etc etc. I had a teacher who wanted to be a hero in front of all the students and other teachers.

It was the summer of 2004. Even at 8:15 am of an April morning, the heat was unbearable in Delhi. I was on duty during School Assembly, which precisely meant I had the mandate to check anyone's uniform and send that person to defaulter's line if he/she wasn't dressed properly.

After checking the seniors, I would usually roam near the primary and pre-primary classes. It gave an inner peace that a lot of people may not understand, given my reputation as Hitler in school.

Suddenly I heard a thud. I turned to see that a petite girl of class I-B had fallen on the ground, unconscious. Her little classmates rushed to see what happened, scared. None of them had the 'courage to touch her'. Her class teacher was standing in the shade somewhere, head covered with a dupatta and big ugly sunglasses hiding her eyes.

I ran towards the girl, and other kids scattered, murmuring, 'Hitler didi, Hitler didi.'

I lifted her in my arms (yes, feeling like a hero already), and started running towards the medical room, which seemed like a mile away. Let me admit that the girl actually felt heavy, but I was not supposed to show that she was. Heroes don't display such emotions.

To reach the school building, I had to cross lines of many other classes. With each step, the gazes towards me increased. Nobody was interested in prayers. There were ohhs and OMGs all around, giving me the encouragement to run faster. For a moment I even thought I was going to fly like Superman. But just as I was about to take off, one of my teachers came in front of me. Enough of me, it was his chance to be a hero now.

'Poorva bete, give me the kid bete.'

Yes, he had this habit of saying 'bete' 2-3 times in one sentence.

'Sir, it's fine. I will manage.'

'No bete. The kid must be heavy. I will take her to the medical room.'

'No Sir. She is quite light. I will take her. Please don't bother.'

I realised I was losing my mission.

'No bete, give me the kid now.' 

He almost snatched the girl from my hands and started running. I think I know why he took a longer route and crossed senior students and teachers. Our Super Sir was to be hailed a hero in classes and staff room that day.

I kept running behind him, thinking he might need help. And he did.

After some time, he stopped and turned.

'Poorva bete, you still there bete?'

'Yes Sir.'

'Bete, please go and ask Rajesh Sir to get me a shirt and a pair of trousers from my home. This girl has puked on me.'

WTF @#$%^&*!

Please check on me tomorrow, because the secret I am going to let out now can have me murdered.

I have this huge, bulky fella as my friend. I cannot reveal his name for reasons you will know once you finish reading. So I will only use pronouns while talking about him in this post.

Now this friend of mine is such a giant that finding clothes (including undergarments) and shoes for him is a mammoth task... literally! His shoe size is somewhere near 15, his waist must be 42, height 5'9 and his weight keeps dangling from 125.5 kgs to 125.7 kgs.

His dark complexion adds to his handsomeness. And to top it all, he has long hair, because he thinks he is a rockstar! His potbelly is the only thing on him that looks bigger than him. Not a very nice profile for shaadi.com, I must say!

He had been wanting to go shopping for a long time, but there was no company. To tell you the truth, he had exhausted all his friends. Once you go clothes, a.k.a tent hunting with him, you will vow never to, again. As fate would have it, I was caught in the net this time.

So we went to Forum Mall in Koramangala, Bangalore last Sunday. He picked up some XXXL t-shirts at Shopper's Stop and two free-size trousers. Yes, the colours were really dirty, but he had no option. I guess that's the price you pay for being on the heaviest side of the scale.

He finally stuffed himself into the trial room somehow, asking me to stand outside so that I can approve his choice. I don't think there was much to approve though. It was as if we were doing size shopping instead of clothes shopping.

Whatever, there I was... standing with other women who were waiting for their husbands or boyfriends to appear from the trial room, looking like blaahs and feeling like Hrithik and Shahrukh. I wanted to hold a placard claiming that I am not related to the elephant who will squeeze out of that room in sometime.

I heard some commotion, and realised my dear friend was in the process of opening the door and coming out. There he was, beaming, happy with the clothes.

'Hey da, so what do you say to this? How do I look, huh?'

I stood there, dumbfounded. Then I heard screams of women, followed by their kids, and then the men. They started running after that, cursing and still screaming.

I closed my eyes. I did not want to see what I almost saw, and what all those other shoppers had seen. I was blocking a full-length mirror, so I stepped aside to let my friend see what had left everyone horrified. He stared at himself, red with embarrassment.

'What the f*** is that?'

'It's not what, it's you the f*** is that. Where are your trousers? And why don't you wear anything under that?' I shouted at him, angry at the fact that I was accompanying this beast.

His modesty was on public display. It took him full 2 minutes to turn and rush back to the trial room. That fool did not even have the common sense to cover his big bums with this hands while he stuffed himself inside.

And well, he had the courage to tell me later that he would buy all the clothes he tried. I mean, how could anyone have the guts to stand at that place for even a second more and pay at the cash counter? Leave the showroom, I didn't even want to visit that mall again in my life.

'Well, you see, that room was very small. Yes there were mirrors all around, but I could hardly see anything. My stomach blocked the view and I didn't realise I had forgotten the pants.' He gave an explanation I didn't want to hear. And even after all that drama, he had the nerve to say,

'I didn't find any underwear of my size. Everything has become so tight. Errr... will you come shopping for that with me?'

You are what you EAT

Two lovers went to the seashore and slit each other's throat. Wife with four husbands. Parents kill daughter for crying at nights. Nothing might look common in these three cases, but there is something which binds them together. Ask anyone in our newsroom, and pat would come the reply: THIS HAPPENS ONLY IN ANDHRA!

The maximum number of jilted lovers, their acid attacks, weirdest and goriest ways of killing people, raktha charitra (bloodshed), failed marriages... one state in the country cannot have all this for no reason. Drink their hot rasam or eat their chilly chutney, and you will know why the Telugu blood is always boiling.

Now have some lassi, sarson da saag & makke di roti. I know you know what I am talking about: The smiling Sikhs, who will hug you even if you are a stranger.

Like Newton said, 'To every action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction', and our reaction to everything is definitely the action our food does to us inside. Look around you or look at you, anyone eating a lot of spices on a daily basis would not be on the calmer side of the scale, and vice versa.

Those Indians thinking I am being regionalistic, travel a bit east and compare the Chinese and the Japanese. They all look the same, but there is a sea, or better say, spice of difference between them.

They eat bland food in Japan, almost all boiled. And the effect: a Japanese travelling in a Merc will stop on the road and signal you, the pedestrian, to cross instead. Better not talk about the Chinese who would have definitely eaten a hot and spicy lunch.