ANDHRA BANK... Where a choiceless India banks

The other day  I decided to open a bank account with Andhra bank ( doesn’t have anything with Telangana sentiment) , the biggest mistake I did was to go to bank myself rather than sending my office peon. Its gut wrenching, as it is the first time I entered a public sector bank premises for any purpose. –I simply couldn’t handle the intensity and range of emotions that an Andhra bank experience took me through. I’m convinced it is a ploy by the government to nip the little rebel n you– nothing prepares you for a life of dealing with Andhra bank employees who do not give a fuck about what you want.

When you enter an AB outlet, you will notice a man your grandpas age carrying a double barrel gun. This is called security. Because really, nothing makes me feel more secure than a man needing a cataract operation carrying weapons from the sets of Sardar Paparayudu. When was the last time you saw dacoits charging in on horses trying to loot a branch even in Gooty? Wouldn’t it look fantastic when a bunch of thieves come in with quick loading handguns and shoot the place down and our man is busy trying to find bullets somewhere inside his medicine box? Isn’t it easier to buy a walking stick instead of a double barrel if they’re used for the same purpose? I know! Why don’t we just keep cannons inside the outlet? Seriously, that’ll scare them! Cannons! Even our man will look more authentic standing next to one. Not like anyone is going to museums in India, plus the kids will have fun shoving their heads inside the barrel instead of running around like puppies on crack trying to scratch a tick on their ass.

You will then meet the employees. You know how in superhero movies a mad scientist always inserts a serum inside a human body which goes terribly wrong and creates the villain? That’s what DRDO does with Andhra bank employees. Able-bodied individuals are taken from each state and inserted with a serum that makes them equally shitty no matter which state or branch you have the misfortune of visiting. They’re like human Mig-21s. I’m surprised every employee doesn’t have a serial number (AB-05-3304/172) written with a chalk on their forehead like every computer desktop, almirah, metal chair and everything else that is classified as government infrastructure. There’s a fun game I like to play when I’m at AB i.e. spot the employee who’ll keel over and die of diabetes first.

AB branches operate on a crucial principal i.e. every branch will have multiple counters out of which only ONE will be functional. Other counters will either be empty mocking your existence or have employees sitting around drinking tea refusing to do your work. It’s the governmental equivalent of showing rebellion by wearing a Che t-shirt. You then stand in a “queue” flanked by two people on either side whose only job is to somehow cut in front of you if the opportunity arises. They are usually older, have a big cyst on their scalp and pull every emotional card they know. The first includes not saying a word – just looking at you every three seconds and grinning nonchalantly. The second is the emotional card of having to deposit money into a distant relative’s account who has blood cancer (a trope from 80s Telugu cinema where for some reason that’s all people got) and won’t be able to recover if a sum of 900 rupees isn’t deposited immediately.  The third is when they realise they have an account in Central Bank of India and not AB and that they just wasted theirs and everyone else’s time. Finally after an hour when your turn finally comes, an employee will emerge from the back bearing prasad from a recent trip to a religious centre which will then lead to a 30 minute conversation between the tea drinking employees about all the religious centres they have ever visited and which offered the best prayer conversion rate so their mother in laws would get herpes and kids wouldn’t have to work in an AB. There are higher chances of Narendra Modi getting a U.S. visa in one shot than your work getting done at these ironically named “single window” counters. When they say 0% interest, they’re talking about how they feel about their work.

What this waiting period does provide however is a chance to reflect on the deeper, more existential questions in life. For example, why does an Andhra bank poster of a fixed deposit always feature a white baby doing shit like growing a plant? First off its not an Indian baby if it doesn’t have a black circular spot on the forehead atleast 40 cm in diameter that will miraculously save it from ill will. When was the last time you saw a baby who was fond of gardening? An accurate representation would be a baby eating mud and shitting itself crying while the parents pull their hair out trying to access their fixed deposit. Why does Syndicate Bank have a dog as their logo? Why do I know things like Syndicate bank having a dog as their logo? Will Syndicate bank be successful in Korea because people love eating dogs? Am I supposed to be turned on by the aunty counting money in slow motion while constantly licking her finger?

While in that queue, an aunty saw me carrying my application receipt and started chatting me up. I say chatting me up because it sounds sexier than using the word conversation.

Beta, you’re applying for the new application?

(ledandi naaku janaala  hair oil vaasana  peelchalani sarada ( no aunty , its fun to smell people’s hair oil) Haa aunty

At this point aunty looked at me as if I was Deepak Chaurasia’s testicle and turned away. If there was ever an justification for my helpless impulsive shopping, its never having to step foot in an AB ever again to deposit money again. I hope you never have to either, unless you have an account in the State Bank of Travancore. You know your bank is shit when the kingdom its named after doesn’t even exist.

THE NEEDLE MAN

Stranger things have happened? I think f*cking not...

And now I have proof of that very fact.

Take for example what happened to me when I stepped out for a run in Bangalooru. It was last weekend, and friends and I were chilling there, so I decided a jog would be awesome. So I stuck on my running shoes, warmed up and set off. And it was a good jog, the sort where you can hear, and almost feel, the dying screams of little globules of fat in your body. I made it four kilometers, and I felt good, by which I mean "another 100 meters and I'll die of an asthama attack and hernia all at once", so I decided to walk back home.

So, I'm ambling down the street, feeling good about life, looking forward to a nice guilt-free Dusera dinner, and suddenly this guy starts walking towards me, all wide-eyed, and pointing excitedly in the general direction of my head, like he expected a midget to come running out of it and fart the macarena.

So I froze, based on past experience. I mean, it's happened before, maybe it's happened to you too; you're walking under a tree, or a large shrub, and some sort of insect/worm/odd creature/bird shit lands on your head or clothing, and you don't notice.

So I figured he'd spotted something like that and was going to help me. And he kept coming at me, still pointing, asking me to hold still. And then he reached for my shoulder, which is where I figured the trouble was.

And then, just for fun, he pulled a needle out his pocket and tried to stab me in the ear.

Now, you will agree that unless the ghost of Sir Lancelot is hanging off his earlobe, there is simply no excuse to try and spear a man in the ear. And so, luckily, thanks to the sort of reflexes and titanium-grade wrist-strength that only years of masturbation can bring, I managed to grab his hand just before he got it in there.

Now most people would have run away by this point, but no sir, not me. I say this not because I'm brave (rubbish, I think I'd wee'd myself a bit by then), but because I am nine hundred kinds of stupid.

"Oi." I said, by way of conversation opener.

"Arre!" he said, by way of his opening move.

"What are you doing?! Why are you trying to stick a needle up my ear?!" I ventured.

"Ah" he said, looking at the needle in his hand as if he'd only just noticed its presence. "Accchhaaa!! Okka nimusham (telugu for one minute) ! Pleej. Wait!" he added, with the look of a man who's realized that unless some sort of explanation comes quickly, he's going to get a needle up his rectum.

With his free hand, he pulled a card out of his pocked and handed it to me. "chadavandi!" Read, he implored me. And, because I'm that stupid, and because it isn't every day that you get to live out a Bunuel-Dali co-production, I actually read it. Here is what it said:

"Hello! I would like to recommend to you the services of the bearer of this card, Mr.Munna Yadav, a professional ear-cleaner. I have used his services before on several occasions, and I whole-heartedly recommend his excellent services, which will clean your ear like never before!"

That is *exactly* what it said on that card. Those very words, that very language. And underneath, the writer of this fine testimonial had signed his identity:

Signed

By The Authority.

That's what it said. "By The Authority". No name, no signature. Well, wow, guess he's super-reliable then, seeing as how he's "The Authority" and all.

"Boss," I said, handing his card over. "nuvvellu ikkada nundi." Get outta here.

He looked at me for two seconds before making me a counter-offer.

"Accha.Fine baaleka pothe paisalivvoddu , kaani cheyinchuko!!"

Sigh. Fine. Don't pay for my services, but lemme stick a needle in you for free!

And that, there, is the beauty of optimism. Not only will you go into denial about the fact that you're *this* close to an ass-kicking, but you'll offer me the valuable service of getting a needle in my noggin for, gasp, FREE!

I suppose as a bonus, given that it was Dusera  and all, he'd let me bend over for him free of cost too.

And so I looked at him, incredulous. And discovered that while looks can't kill, they can say "leave before I throw you into oncoming traffic" because he shook his head and left, in search of someone else to stab with a needle.

The moral of the story is simple; if I hadn't set out to exercise, I wouldn't have been accosted by a needle-happy madman.

That shit can't happen to you when you're on the couch with chips watching the Test match. And so that's exactly what I went home and did.

For the next two days.

ALL FOR THAT HUNK LOOK

I've always thought that exercise is a bit over-rated, and that it does you more harm than good. Every time I go for workouts, I think it's one of those dirty secrets that only a select group of powerful people somewhere know, like those people who apparently know that Jesus is coming back (a week from Tuesday, apparently), or that group that ordered the Kennedy assassination. I think there's a group like that for exercise as well, made up of people like Arnold Schwarznegger and co, who meet once a week to laugh at people like me who go on three kilometer jogs and still have the highs  size of South America. They get together to eat pizza and the souls of small children, and they laugh at me, because deep down, they know exercise is bad for you.

Being a fitness freak and lack of entertainment in gooty made me to enroll in the gym of local officers club which I ve zeroed after a long tiresome search, before the daily dose of protein shakes and oat meals , it is the same everyday, stretch like Jane Fonda on the perverted bars, run like Forrest Gump on thread mill with other  folks around you smelling like mountain goats. The gym here also boasts itself for having a sauna which is not a easy thing either, but it taught me empathy. Now I feel like what a potato feels inside a microwave oven, or how a shirt will feel inside a washing machine

.

The companions I got in this gym range from good to ugly, starting with the smelly goats herding toward the weights and make painful faces and equally painful sounds as though they were being sodomized. Hell, if it is so painful to lift that thing in the first place, why lift it at all.

And there is this woman who look like a “Helga” who comes to gym everyday with her dog. I call her “Helga”, because, that’s the name that crosses my mind when I think of an obnoxious, arrogant middle-aged woman. I think she considers herself good looking, well at least somebody did. The more I looked at Helga, the more I liked her dog.

Then there was this middle aged man whom I refer here as “Dick”. A formless being, his sole purpose in life was to come in and ogle at all the pretty woman at peak-time,all he do is to chat up all the women in the gym. For some strange reason, he used to work out in what one can call a “ monkey-cap”. It was like a condom pulled right over his head and he is a dick of highest order. You know those typical ones with the garrulous laughter and fake lecherous smile who laugh at all the wrong parts of the joke? That kind. May be he comes in just to see if all the machines are being worked optimally.

Then there is this “The Thing”. All bulged up, so stiff that he could have given a telephone pole real stiff competition. Sixty percent of his time was spent on looking at himself in the mirror and striking strange poses, twenty percent would be spent on grunting with weights, eighteen percent spent walking around and showing off his muscles and the balance two percent on going back to where he started. I wonder ,may be he eat rocks as food, as they also seem to have found their way into his head. His face is like a thoroughly beaten up jerry can and we could have used those arms as jacks for replacing a flat-Tyre. If we chopped off his legs, they could have been used as beams to hold up two municipality buildings of gooty, built by cheap contractors, to prevent the roof from caving in. He can be practically categorized as a “construction equipment”  and so he is “The Thing”

 I have changed my dietary pattern also . oats are in.  I am having so much of oats that I have no choice  but to stand and sleep at nights like a horse. Oats do that to you; that’s why horses sleep while standing. The nuts and crackers made me think like a bird. The meals had to be high-fiber and if I couldn't get a high fibre meal, I should chew bed-covers and linen. Chicken and mutton are a strict no-no and I am living life at a discount.

With all these efforts, hopefully,  I could turn into my new shape like that dude from “Avatar” before I move out of this place

Effect of Toofan(zanzeer)

*Krishna + Crowd wait outside screening room for 11 45 pm showing of Get Shudh desi romance*

*11 45 becomes midnight.*

*Midnight becomes 12 15*

Us: "Uh. Excuse me. Why won't you let us in yet."

Inox Staff: "Actually sir, room is being cleaned."

Us: "For this long?!"

Inox Staff: "Um. Actually sir, Toofan (Zanzeer) was going on, so cleaning will take little more time."

ON BEING FAT, OR PRETTY

This article written by my friend on ZYNGA , copy-pasted as it is, with her permission and concealed her identity on her request.... somehow felt familiar

On Tubby Legs and Heavy Hearts

I watched a video on Upworthy today. A video about Dustin Hoffman on his character in the film ‘Tootsie’. I’m sure it was shared somewhere on your Facebook walls or Twitter timelines.

If not, here it is — http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPAat-T1uhE

Watch it again, if you haven’t already.

Now, I haven’t blogged here in a very, very long time, but today, this moved me to immediately pen down my thoughts.

Mr. Hoffman, at one point in the video, says he couldn’t believe that he wasn’t more attractive when he was made-up to look like a woman. For me, this hit the proverbial nail right on its narrow-minded head.

I’ve struggled with weight and self-esteem issues for as long as I can remember. Apart from being a skinny toddler, I’ve always had the chubbiest cheeks, the tubbiest legs and the dimples on my elbows that so many kids in school seemed to lack.

Back then, it was cute. I was pampered and smothered with love. People would stop my mum on the street and comment on how adorable I was.

Now, as I face the problem of being overweight, it’s not so cute anymore.

I have no excuses to make for my weight, and I don’t choose to look for any. Simply put, I love food. I love everything that is bad for me and I lack the willpower to say “no” on a regular basis. But I don’t think that’s stopped me from leading a happy, relatively active lifestyle. I travel a fair bit, I run around for meetings all day and I rarely turn down an invitation to go dancing. The problem is that I’m constantly afraid of what I look like.  If I dress up at home before a night out, I feel like I am pretty, until I step out on to the street. I look at the dresses women around me wear, and the fact that they can flaunt parts of themselves that I’d never dream of inflicting upon the general public.

Many times, I’ve tried to combat this feeling. I’ve worn knee-length shorts to Bandra and received strange looks on my way. I’ve worn an off-shoulder top and been asked to change, by my parents.

I’ve been out with friends and heard people say, “Dekh dekh, kitni moti hai”, as I’ve walked past them.

I’ve run into people from school all over the city, and a fair number (not all) of them have said the exact same thing – “You’ve not changed at all! Still fat!”

Once, I’ve been told that I must “be so funny because I have to compensate for my weight.”

It’s come to a point where I recently refused to go to an event that asked you to “Flaunt Your Back”, partly because I was terrified that I’d be the only one who wasn’t able to bring herself to actually do it.

I’ve always had skinny friends, and, when we go shopping, I stand and look at jewellery while they rummage through the latest collections, because there’s no way I’ll get clothes my size.

I go to a tailor to get a lot of my clothes stitched, and I never tell people that because I’m embarrassed. Instead, I’ll “forget” where that shirt is from, or say, “My mother bought it.”

My favourite instance, though, was when someone who used to follow this very blog many years ago, got talking to me and asked if we could meet. I agreed, semi-reluctantly, and we went to a neighbourhood coffee shop. I was having a good hair day, and I wore my nicest top and jeans. I reached five minutes early and occupied a prime spot. 

As I waited for this person (Let’s call them “A”) to show up, I nervously checked if my kajal was smudged. just then, someone who i suspected could be “A” walked in, looked at me and walked out.

I was too nervous and shy to say anything, so I sat and waited. “A” sat at a nearby table. We both ordered cups of coffee, drank them and left, without saying a word to each other.

I messaged “A” later that night, after hours of toying with my phone and dealing with feelings I was unable to completely process. The reply to my question, “Where were you?” was, “I came in and saw you. But you were very different from what I expected. So I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can be friends.”

Instead of letting it go, I pushed for a clarification. In no uncertain terms, “A” messaged back – “You’re too fat. I’m sorry.”

Now, I’m not saying this to garner pity or anything of the sort. I’m not looking for you to say, “Awwww, you poor thing”, nor am I pretending that there’s nothing I can do about this.

But this isn’t my point. 

As I watched this video, it hit me – I’m conditioned to believe that, just because I’m overweight, I am not beautiful. I am not someone you’d chat up in a bar, nor am I someone you’d claim to have a crush on.

It’s me, more than anything – I refuse to accept compliments under the guise of being coy. I immediately discount the fact that I could be remotely interesting to anyone, because, hey, look at me.

I am blessed to be surrounded by close friends who’ve never made me feel the pinch, so to speak. They’ll sit by quietly as we slowly suffocate to death due to lack of space in a rickshaw and move the table a little further away from the seat when I have to get up at a restaurant.

I guess, at some level, I’m just writing this to say, we all face this everywhere. No matter who we are and what we do, we will always find imperfections within ourselves – some obvious, some invisible to anyone else.

After watching this video today, I find myself sitting here with tears streaming down my face, because, even though so many years have passed, “A”‘s text still rings in my head every time I check myself out in a mirror, or look at photos of myself.

I will probably never feel beautiful or attractive. No matter how my body changes over the years, there will always be something to nitpick about, and, to be honest, I don’t know how I will ever combat it, and if I’ll ever be able to move past this negative body image.

It will always come as a genuine surprise when someone tells me they think I’m pretty, and I will never be able to positively respond to such a statement.

But, I will try. 

Will you? 

"DEAR DR SAMARAM... I AM A BRAIN DEAD. Please help"

 I love SWATI (A hugely popular Telugu weekly) Aside from offering us images of dazzlingly proportioned women who have finally found a useful purpose for whipped cream, it also has a special feature column named "SUKHASAMSAARAM"  i which a famous sexologist Dr Samaram gets queries from the flotsam, jetsam and dimsums of the human race.

my predecessor of bangaulow has left in cupboard a lot of old swati books which i am reading right now.  Below is a bunch of ACTUAL questions I found  in those column called some at a love/relationships agony column, the other at a sex advice column. I have provided answers wherever I've seen fit, just in case any of you are plagued by the same questions:

Hi, married 4 yr. back and don't have kids. My prob is my husband didn't respond my desires, he always ignore it and busy with mobile etc. I'm trying to talk to him so many times he replies- Every thing is upto in God, believe in God, wait and see. Now I'm fed up all of this...he don't have any interest in husband wife relationship. He fulfill all basic household requirements, help in the kitchen, partying, socializing with me but only one thing is no no. Tell me what to do?

As my friend Girish suggested, upon reading your query; "Try sending him an sms?"

Good afternoon sir. i loved a girl and she also loved me. we had some joy moments. i have kissed her lips and ************ but she has left me. i am puzzled. answer me sir.

Dear dude. As I have never had joy moments with a woman's asterisks, I have no understanding of your dilemma.

sir i have affair with my sister in law shall i continue

Yes. Also, continue raping children, continue throwing rotten apples at homosexuals, and take the lead in a giant race riot. These are all also examples of appropriate behaviour.

i am attracted with my mother-in-law, how to attract her for physical relationship? advice me...

Fuck.

I have no grilfriend canyou give me a girlfriend

Will cyanide do instead?

My problem is despiet being happily married, I get attracted to beautiful women. Due to my suave talking skills, most of them also get attracted to me with full trust on me. My wife will get furious if she knwos that I was freindly to a gal in the last birth also. Idont mind, as I find every individual being unique and different soul. How do I reconcile?

hi IM IN LOVE WITH A GIRL,SHE ALSO LOVES ME BUT EARLIER SHE WAS AN ESCORT N NOW A DAYS SHE IS NOT DOING ALL THIS BULLSHIT BUT I DNT KNOW I FEEL THAT SHE IS USING ME AS SHE LIES ME ALOT ALWAYS DEMANDS MONEY FROM ME SHE GOES TO NIGHT CLUB N COMES BACK HOME LATENITE KINDLY ADVISE AS M VERY MUCH UPSET

hi IM A FOUR LEGGED ANIMAL WITH A TENDENCY TO MOO. SURELY THIS DOESNT MEAN IM A COW, RIGHT? (SHE'S A HO SHE'S A HO SHE'S A HO). I HAVE AN UDDER AND EVERY FEW DAYS A MAN COMES AND YANKS AT IT (HO HO HO!)AND I SECRETE MILK AS A RESULT. SURELY THIS DOES NOT HAVE TO MEAN I AM A COW? (DUDE! SHE RUNS OFF TO THE CLUB WITHOUT YOU WITH YOUR DOUGH! NOW, WHAT RHYMES WITH DOUGH?!)

I am a 25-year-old man. The size of my testicles has reduced over a period of time. Will this affect my future sex life? Please suggest a remedy for this.

Dear Bobby Darling. Stop asking me dude...ette.

I am a 24-year-old man. When I have sex with my girlfriend, she asks me to wear three condoms as she is scared. Can I use one condom? Please tell. 

My friend recently had unprotected sex with one of her staff. She hasn’t got periods yet, her last was on 21st November. She’s been eating papayas. Kindly suggest a solution urgently. She is very worried.

There is no solution for eating papayas. Some people just seem to like em. Congratulations on your friend's pregnancy though...

I am 23 years old. Some time back I used to "handpractice" because of which my penis has turned left. I have quit handpractice since two years now, but there's no improvement. I applied many Ayurvedic oils but to no avail. Please tell me, will this be a huge problem after marriage? If yes, what should I do?

Your penis turned left? Shit. But the directions specifically say go STRAIGHT for four blocks, then turn RIGHT and take the flyover. Fuck off now, let it stay lost. I also used to do handpractice. Now I prefer typing, it's a lot quicker.

I am a 24-year-old man. Six months ago I was sexually involved with my uncle. I have heard that such activities lead to AIDS. Please advise, he wants to have more sex with me.

Dear dude. Unless your uncle is named Cameron Diaz, you're both fucking pervs.

I am under tremendous pressure. I have red spots on my penis and an itching sensation too. A doctor had told me it is 'haprics' or something like that and put me on medication for six months. I used to visit sex workers occasionally during this time and I noticed the spots would increase only after using a condom. Please let me know how dangerous this 'haprics' is and how do I overcome this problem.

Im sorry your penis is an industrial-grade toilet cleaner.

I am a 25-year-old married man, with a baby. My wife and I have a great sex life. Whenever she feeds the baby, I'd get a feed too. Will this habit cause any disease for the two of us? My wife likes it, but will she get breast cancer if we continue?

What the fuck dude?

Is it true that if you masturbate, your moustache grows? My friend says that it does.

Yes. And when you yank on your left testicle, a Norweigian man hiccups somewhere. Also, is your friend's name Gandalf?

I had recently read in your advice in this column about dipping testicles in cold water for ten minutes. Why did you suggest that? What can be the result of it in our body?

Dear dude, I was stoned and I thought the image of a dude hovering over a bucket of cold water and dipping his sack in every few minutes would be funny.

I am a 35-year-old married man. When I get sexually excited, I emit a transparent fluid through my penis. I suffer from occasional memory loss. What's my problem?

(expert's actual reply) Rest assured; you are not passing your memory through the secretion. This is normal with all men and occurs when a person is excited. If it has increased, check for infection with your doctor. Also, ask for remedies for your loss of memory.

I am 47 years old and married. We enjoyed a satisfactory sex life till this Diwali. But recently I had severe electric shock. I haven't been able to get an erection ever since, even after masturbating and watching porn. Can this be rectified? What would be the duration and the expense of the treatment?

HA HA! You got a cock-shock! HA HA!

The position of my penis has changed due to masturbation. What should I do?

If by "changed position", you mean that it now hangs out your left armpit, consult a doctor.

What is meant by sperms and can it be dangerous to me in the future?

Sperms are a bunch of expert Olympic grade swimmers who prefer hot climates. In their country, medals are considered evil, and so they race for eggs instead. True story. They will be very fucking dangerous to you in the future, as all 100 million of them will convince you that that chick at the bar is damn hot. The next morning, you will awaken to find yourself nestled in the folds of fat of a sub-woman who looks like Marilyn Manson with a dysfunctional thyroid gland.

I am an 18-year-old man. Whenever I watch porn I secrete a white substance from my penis. I feel giddy. What is the solution?

The solution is called cum. It is made of albumin, spermatazoa and Fevicol. I just made that up.

I am an 18-year-old man. I have been suffering from bed wetting since birth. I have also been masturbating for the last four years. I try to wake up early in morning to urinate but in vain. I have also stopped masturbating because of this problem. Please suggest an exercise which will help me to stop bed wetting?

Fucking fuck dude. You pee in your bed at 18?

I am an 18-year-old man. I take tuitions from a tutor who is 21 years old. She is always asking me to have sex with her and satisfy her sexual urges. I get excited but I feel it's not the right age for me to indulge in such activities. What is premature ejaculation, anal sex and oral sex? Will I contract AIDS if I have unprotected sex with a woman who is not infected by AIDS?

Lucky fuck. I really went to the wrong tution teachers. I was stuck going to Aditya coaching centre.

What is an orgasm? Can it be seen or one just experiences it?

*insert obligatory "no-one can be told what the Matrix is..." joke HERE*

I am a 17-year-old boy. I enjoy staying nude at home. I masturbate every alternate day. I love to watch porn too. I want to tell my parents about all this but I am scared. Please help. Also, will drinking sperms cause any harm to me?

No. But telling people you drink your splooge will.

I am a 22-year-old man. I have been getting severe headache attacks on the days I masturbate. They often last for 3 to 4 hours. Sometimes they are also followed by a hissing sound in my head and I feel as if there is an intermittent flow of blood inside my head. I am really worried. What can be the solution to this?

Hissing sound? Really?

We indulged in sex once or twice a month. For the last couple of months she has been getting dreams that she is indulging in sex with her close relatives. She blames her sex life for that. She wants to stop having sex with me. I am not mentally prepared to marry any other girl. How should I convince my girlfriend that we can have a normal relationship without having sex?
She. Dreams. of. Banging. Relatives.

Dude. What. The. Fuck. 

I am a 25-year-old man. I masturbate at least twice a week. I have never had sex but would love to do it safely. I try to get pleasure by caressing one of my relatives which arouses me. Is it okay for me to derive pleasure in this manner?

(actual expert reply) Ask yourself – your relatives are very tolerant of you. Wait till you are married.

MORON HAS THIS NEW PLACE

Finally! After months of suspense, I‘ve been transferred to a non-descript town called Gooty in ananthapur district of Andhra Pradesh from Dahod in Gujarat. It hardly makes any difference to me barring some existential issues. But this whole shifting thing is a sort of personal tragedy for me. I, personally never gave birth to a child, but I have seen it dramatized a number of times in movies, and I would say that in terms of pain, childbirth does not hold a candle to moving. For one thing child births do have a definite end to it. The baby comes out, and that is it. Whereas, the average move goes on forever. This is why my advice to people who are about to move for the time is always.

DON’T DO IT! SET FIRE TO YOUR HOUSEHOLD GOODS RIGHT NOW AND JUST WALK AWAY FROM THE WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A BACKWARD GLANCE! IT WILL BE EASIER, IN THE LONG RUN.

I couldn’t do this and I am already in my new home and started unpacking and I feel it will span over a period of several years, so that I can savor the joy of discovering the kinds of comical items I choose to pack.

Apart from the farewell emotional blues that I face whenever I leave any place, adjusting to this new place which falls in my own state is a tricky issue. For beginners, Ananthapur district in Andhra Pradesh is an arid desert devoid of much rainfall and less contact with civilization. As usually, my personal helps and peons are the first human contacts I had here. When u have flunkeys to take care of rotten household stuff, life can be a bliss. Everything is fine with me except the singer I had in my night watchman, I suspect his singing is that made this place a desert, or his singing which send him to this place as punishment. The man was unstoppable when it came to singing. With a gun-throat like that, I was hoping to unleash him on encroaching Chinese, use him as a sonic weapon, make him croon till they beg, plead, get down on their knees and give Tibet back to Tibetans.  For a thoroughbred, totally spoilt, party animal like me, to keep myself entertained in this place is going to be challenge. For initial 40 days for my experience here, I can say living life doesn’t cost you money, just needs a whole lot of attitude.

FUCK YOU !!!!MUKESH

I have to a strong reason to complain. Indian authorities have said a lot of stupid stuff but this stands out as genius. Before watching every film in Vadodara at PVR I have to face this 24 years young man called “Mukesh” who died of cancer because of smoking. This promo sucks the feel of the movie going experience out of me. I mean it should have some aesthetic value after all. I am not interested in spending 200 bucks to see this shit. This Mukesh is made as a sort of celebrity whose pics sprang around the city.

 Should someone explain to someone at some point, that in a movie, this stuff is not actually happening? I understand cigarette causes cancer as I would imagine most people that go to the cinema, do. Are 43 public service messages showing macabre images of our chest with some fool talking in a “you’re going to die” accent necessary? It’s Sunday, we’re out for a movie, take it easy. We get it. The people in the movie are smoking because the character does, it does not mean I leave PVR and jump into a sea of Marlboros. This is the 21^st century; we get what’s meant to be a story and what’s not. If they feel our citizens are so dumb that they can’t tell a film from life, why just end with cigarettes? Why not have massive disclaimers at the end of Zero Dark Thirty, which says, “Yes this film was about a terrorist. DO NOT go home and become a terrorist. Or like in this movie, you’ll be shot in the head.”

And do they think these kinds of censorship warnings actually help? Do they think Osama sat there thinking, “You know, yes the world knows me as a mass murdering terrorists but this movie affected me and now I’m thinking, maybe…pottery?”

People say stupid things. It’s what makes us people. After the horrible shooting in Newtown Connecticut in America where a teenager shot a bunch of 6-7 year olds, one Republican gun owner suggested that the massacre could have been avoided if the Kindergarten teachers were armed. Again, brilliant. A KG class where your teacher pulls out a gun if you don’t know what two times two is. Brilliant.

Here, however, the stupidity has hit a stratospheric level. The political party seems to have decided to overlook the idea, entirely, of “fiction”. That films involve, um, stories, that aren’t actually true. That reasonably tiny component that makes up cinema.

I don’t really know where to start. Perhaps explaining the idea of “imagination” something that they may have missed in their mugging up and spitting out education. Should we sit down and explain that there isn’t a man dressed as a bat defending a town called Gotham – and looking for this place on makemytrip.com might be disappointing. That the 3 Idiots aren’t actually enrolled at IIT. That Shah Rukh Khan doesn’t actually detonate bombs when love struck, and Nagarjuna cannot be romantic hero with all those dirty wrinkles and awkward attires in “greekuveerudu” That some people make it up in their heads and put it in a script and then go shoot it? Or might it be too advanced an idea for them to digest?

Whenever stuff like this pops up, (earlier this year with Kamal Hassan’s Vishwaroopam and some years earlier with Jodha Akbar, Komaram puli and many others), the argument in the media is always about censorship. One group objects. The media asks entertainers should there be censorship and entertainers naturally respond with no (who will say yes?). That’s essentially the wrong argument. The argument is not one of censorship – it’s one between literacy and illiteracy. People who object (leaving their 4 minutes of fame as their incentive aside), have a much more fundamental literacy problem. They actually believe the people in a scene are those people in life.

Granted it is a very small minority but a minority in a billion people is perhaps the size of Holland. People can be illiterate but you’d think if the government should take a side, it should be the literate one. That would be, um, the educated thing to do which you think (hope) our lawmakers are. We may not be a nation that values imagination and storytelling over say, money and power, fine, but isn’t that where our elected officials should step in and say, “Listen everyone, this is a story. It is different from your life. If you are dumb enough to think what’s happening on screen is happening, then we’re here to tell you, it is not. And if you protest, you are a moron. Relax, it is just a movie. Rhitik Roshan is not Emperor Akbar, because then he’d be 532 years old, and we’d be hard-pressed to explain why he moved from The Red Fort to Juhu and Rahul Bose is not a one-eyed terror mastermind villain chilling in New York plotting terror with pigeons (we hope). Go enjoy yourselves, eat some popcorn, watch the action, it’s fun, it’s all made-up. Forget about it.”

Instead our politicians say, “Muslims in Vishvaroopam? Hmmm. Maybe. May not be. Not sure. Let us investigate!”

If our politicians join the illiterate bandwagon, where does it end? Will they put up signs for tourists that say, “You are safe. Andhra Pradesh is a R Narayana murthy-free zone”. When the next Krrish franchise comes out will they tell the police, you can have the day off, we’ve seen what Krrish can do. Mr Rakesh Roshan will manage the city with his superhero from now on.

And what will they do to Hollywood movies? When the next King Kong comes out, would they issue a travel advisory to New York? Would a politician cancel a conference or delegation thing saying “Nope. Am fine right here. Not going to New York, what if King Kong grabs me and thrashes me around like he did to The Empire State Building”. Or “Indians! Don’t go to small towns in America. I’ve just watched ET. One minute you’ll be riding a cycle. Next minute, an alien is flying your cycle. Dangerous place, the US. Avoid.”

And imagine if people abroad started taking a cue from this and noticing how we portray white people in Bollywood movies. They’d say, “Right you can’t shoot here, you show all our people as incompetent policeman or prostitutes. Your billion audience thinks all New Yorkers are Eastern European back-up dancers. Please leave”.

Or if aliens saw how they were portrayed in big budget Hollywood and said, “Eh, we don’t look like that ok. And why do you always show us destroying the White House? We have nothing else to do or what? Now bus stop it. (I have no idea why an alien sounds like a 19 year-old Delhi college girl).

Old school film villains would often complain that when people met them, the most common comment was, “BUT he’s such a nice guy!”

In some parts of the world, human imagination is celebrated to an extent where they built entire theme parks around a movie or a character. You can go on a ride with pirates at Disneyworld or get scared by a mechanical Jaws at Universal Studios. Creative people in India are trying that, pushing boundaries and doing really cool stuff. Instead of helping them by telling the audience, “listen to him, he’s trying to tell you a story, get lost in it, they’ve dreamt up a whole world for you, how cool”, the first instinct of the authorities is to say, “Shut up. Just take your imagination and shut it”.

If Indian politics controlled our imagination, I can see the Indian movies of the future. A 2-and-a-half hour blank screen. No one would take offense. Nothing would happen. A perfect feel-good film for them. I can see some party saying “What a movie huh. Awesome no? No one was offended. Super. I can’t wait for the sequel. I hope they make the screen even blacker.”

PEPSI, DANCE AND A CHANCE

The road to mature adulthood is booby-trapped with a lot of questions. Almost on the wrong side of 25 now, I’ve managed to sidestep most of the dangerous question-traps, such as ‘What am I doing with my life? What is my purpose?’ etc.,
However, there are some questions I’m glad to have found answers to, such as ‘Will I be able to finish the large pizza by myself?’, ‘What happens if I move my finger a little to the left?’, and of course, the most pertinent and pressing question of them all, ‘What does the inside of a dance bar look like?’ the fact that I am moving out of Dahod very soon , and i will never be spending chillout weekends in Mumbai made solution for this question even more urgent,
Yes, that’s right. The deed is done. After years, yes, years, of being constrained by lack of will, dare  and testicular fortitude, I, Vamsi Krishna Reddy, straight A student in school, erstwhile Hope and Pride Of The Family, have finally been to a dance bar. While doing so, I looked thirty seven different kinds of stupid, but that’s something I’ll discuss a little later.
Now I understand if this dance-bar revelation makes you think of me as some sleazeball who can’t have a normal relationship with women because he keeps flicking money at their faces. However, that’s definitely not the case, for I have many female friends and as far as I can remember, I haven’t paid them a dime. Moreover, I respect women to the point of having made a supreme, gut-wrenching sacrifice for some of them – I’ve gone shoe-shopping. The defence rests, Your Honour.
DIGRESSION ENDS.
So yes, dance bars. For years, I’ve been fascinated by the subculture, and I don’t see how anyone can not be. After all, these are getaways from the real world, where the only thing louder than the music are the colours – pinks, yellows, neon – that shimmer and shine, as if to defy the darkness outside. These are palaces, no less, where money buys you queens, and where mere contact with the upholstery can give you herpes.
My imagination was fueled further by Suketu Mehta’s account of Monalisa, a famous bar dancer, in his book ‘Maximum City’. I imagined striding into those shady portals armed with investigative resolve, just like Mehta had done, and effortlessly picking out a muse named after a fat Italian of indeterminate gender.
Unfortunately, things did not quite go that way.
Let’s start from the beginning. My first attempt at entering a dance bar was about three months ago. A cocktail of extreme boredom and curiosity finally overpowered the wimp within, and my friends and I decided to hit the bar. We reached the area soon enough, directed on the phone by a friend who had made the pilgrimage once before. It’s not like we’d be lost without directions though – the bar sits on a busy main road, bang opposite a famous supermarket (thus adding new meaning to the phrase ‘bang opposite a famous supermarket’.)
This was it.
Being a teetoteller , it poses another problem for me , what to drink inside? coupled with problem of my vomiting when I smell any Beer or alchohol, so we had an understanding among ourselves that we will have only pepsi inside the dance bar.
Money, balls and body hair – we had what it took to get inside. Nothing was going to stop us now.
We could see nervous laughter on each other’s faces. We walked.
We could see ourselves entering the forbidden world of molls and gangsters. We walked.
We could see…some girls leaving in rickshaws?? We walked, now a bit confused.
“Arre sahib…bar band ho gaya hai. Time ho gaya na 9.30…” said a watchman, hurrying up to us. What do you mean the bar’s shut, we ask him. No women inside?
“Nahin sir, ladies service nahin milega. Gents service chalu hai,” he replied helpfully. (You won’t get ladies service. Gents service is available though.)
‘Gents service’. The phrase naturally conjured up images of men in shiny sarees, dancing to ‘Saat Samundar Paar’ with hair peeping out from where cleavage should be. I still get nightmares about it.
Of course, we had no idea that the rule was being enforced so strictly all over. The evening wasn’t a total loss though, for the watchman turned out to be quite the orator. Seeing that we were newbies, he let flow earthy wisdom gleaned from 19 years of experience as a dance-bar watchman. The essence of the Wise Watchman’s lengthy discourse is as follows:
1. Bar dancers are not dancers, not anymore than Bruce Willis is a ballerina. They are all whores. They will do it with anyone, including you. Yes, you.
2. The bar we were standing outside was a ‘decent bar’. Scum like “rickshawalle aur bhajiwaale” did not come there. They went to another bar in Vashi, owned by the same ‘decent bar’ owner.
3. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, attempt to pick up any women in and around the bar premises, including a short path leading up to the entrance. Giving them a lift in your car parked 5 metres away is ok though, because this is a ‘decent bar’.
4. If you misbehave inside the bar, the bouncers will rip you a new hole, stuff it with masala papad and charge you 250 bucks for it. Which brings us to the next point…
5. Dance bars are expensive. 250 bucks for beer, 100 for water, 170 for a soft drink. “Aur yeh toh kuch nahin hai sahab…log lakh lakh uda ke jaate hain. Yeh aisi jagah hai sahab, jahaan aadmi sirf deta hai…leke kuch nahin jaata,” added the Wise Watchman, following it up with an Gummadi-type sigh.
(This is nothing. People blow up hundreds of thousands of rupees in here. This is a place where a man only gives, and takes back nothing.)
He further implored us to not get addicted to the shindig, seeing as how we looked like “young students from decent families”. And yet, in the very next breath, he asked us to drop by in the evening sometime, “just to see what it’s like”. We told him we’d be there. Heck, if a guy outside the bar could be so entertaining, the bar itself was a seedy film begging to be watched.
Which brings us to next weekend.
Boredom caught up with us again, and this time we knew where we had to go. I headed over to my childhood friend Surendra’s house to pick him up. As I was waiting downstairs, all pumped up and ready to enter the Bootysphere, I saw something that absolutely skewered all hopes of a great evening.
It was Surendra. Wearing shorts.
Now I don’t have a problem with guys wearing shorts, even if they boast of a body hair cover that little children occasionally get lost in. But Surendra is the guy who was once stopped from entering a theatre showing ‘The Mummy’, because he didn’t look old enough to watch the A-rated comic adventure. And now, on our first trip to a place populated by tough, swarthy men – the kind who had probably knifed a few people and then used the same knife to scratch their balls – my friend had decided to turn up looking like a schoolboy. We told him that if he was turned away, he would be on his own. Just this once, we would have to break the (quite literal) ‘Bros before hos’ rule.
However, we made it past the watchman without a hitch. Off the main path, through an entrance on the right, up a flight of stairs and there it was – the door. Standing there, I realised what Columbus must have felt when, after months of scurvy and sailor sweat, he finally came upon the first Hooters. The doorman smiled at us, shook our hands and swung open the door.
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re naked in a ridiculously inappropriate place, like a wedding, and can feel a thousand eyes upon you, not just because you’re naked but also because you happen to be the groom? That’s what it felt like when I walked in and saw about 20 bar girls staring at me while mentally undressing my wallet. Not used to being objectified by ladies of the night, I turned towards my friends who, judging from their line-of-sight, had developed a sudden interest in the floor tile pattern.
At this instant, for some strange reason, the strains of Dostana’s ‘Maa da ladla bigad gaya‘ started playing in my head. Of course, it was drowned out by the eardrum-raping music that filled the bar in an attempt to either titillate the men or impact the earth’s rotation, I’m not sure which. This complete initial assault on our senses took about two seconds, after which we were shown to our table by about six hundred staff members, each of whom smiled and insisted on shaking hands. It was time to get down to business, and we would have done so if only we knew how.
Now at this point I should mention that the term ‘dance bar’ is a misnomer. The government has banned the women from dancing, so these places really should be called ‘Stand-around-and-occasionally-pout-at-the-customer Bar’, because that’s what they do in there.
Thankfully there were prettier specimens around, and we did what young, virile men do when given the opportunity to order women like items off a menu. we all three ordered PEPSI That’s right – we looked down at our glasses, then back at each other’s faces, then back and forth, glasses to face, face to glasses, clueless and embarrassed, like Tibetan monks at a bondage convention.
Meanwhile, the other customers continued with their routine, immune to novice afflictions like embarrassment. We watched as the man seated behind us got about a hundred rupees exchanged for a stack of tenners. He then passed a couple of notes to a waiter, pointed out a dancer and hey presto – she started a striptease on his table! Ok no, not really. What happened was, she came up to the guy, spoke to him for about 20 seconds and swished away back to her spot at the centre of the room, maybe to practice her pouting. There was NO touching involved, and the man seemed quite pleased with himself for having made a 20-second conversation with (gasp!) a woman.
By now, the traitors that I call friends had decided that they were quite content with staring at their Pespis, and were blushing a deep shade of red that probably matched their frilly panties. It was up to me to restore the manhood of the table. I had to take the next step. So naturally, I went to the loo.
With the pee break over, I had exhausted all possible means of procrastination. So I approached a bouncer, and yelled over the din into his ear, “Yahaan pe kyaa hai?” (What happens here?)
He looked at me as if I’d just asked how his third nipple was doing.
“Dance bar hai (It’s a dance bar),” he replied, slowly. Maybe the in-house music had killed all his brain cells.
I hollered again, asking him what was and was not allowed.
Big Moose was more helpful this time. “Paisa tumhaare upar hai, kitna bhi dene ka. Ladki ko direct paisa nahin dene ka. Waiter ko dene ka. Ladki aayegi, baat karegi, baithegi nahin tumhaare saath, khaali baat karegi,” he said.
(Pay whatever you want. Do not pay the girl directly. The waiter will pass on the money. The girl will only talk to you, she will not sit next to you.)
I walked back to the table, confident in the knowledge that come what may, I would end up leaving the bar looking like a douchebag. I explained to everyone the novel concept of paying a woman to talk to you. We agreed that it was a dumb and loser-like thing to do, and then forked out five hundred bucks to be exchanged for tenners.
After a few minutes of shyly casting glances at women who, technically, were supposed to be blatantly ogled at, Satish picked out one of the slightly better ones. He passed on about 20 bucks to a waiter and pointed to her. “The white one”, he said, as if she were a shade in a paint catalogue. The waiter gave her the money and she turned her heavily-lined eyes towards us.
Gulp.
“Call her here,” hissed my friends.
“What the fuck are we gonna say to her?” I hissed back.
“We’re not going to talk. You talk. You wanted to do this. Now call her.”
“Bastards”
All this while, the girl was staring at us from across the room, giving us the same look prom queens give nerds in teen movies. I looked in her direction, beckoning her with the classic raised-eyebrows-and-head-tilt gesture. At least I *think* I beckoned her. What she saw was a guy shyly raising his head, like a newlywed Indian bride from the 50s, doing something weird with his eyebrows and turning away again, all in a matter of milliseconds. Thankfully, she got the hint and started walking towards the table.
This was it – my first conversation with a being that until now had been almost mythical. As she leaned over, her tresses lingering over her face, now dangerously close to mine, the investigator  within woke up (And no, that is not a sexual metaphor). I had to say something deep and engaging, something that would make her stay a while and eventually lead to insights about women living on the dark fringes of society. I took a deep breath, letting her perfume fill my senses, and said, “What is your name?”
Yes, I’m quite the Don Juan.
Her response to the tepid question was better. She put a hand to her ear and shrieked, “Kya??” (WHAT??)
My use of English had sent my friends into a tizzy. Ignoring them, I repeated the question in Hindi, “Aap ka naam kya hai?”. “Sanjana,” came the dour reply. She was clearly uninterested and wanted to go back to normal customers who did not scare her with words like ‘aap’.
I tried again.
“Aap kab se yahaan pe kaam kar rahi ho?” (How long have you been working here?)
“Ek saal“, she mumbled. (One year.)
After a moment’s silence, she turned and walked back. By now, my friends had multiple hernias from holding in their laughter. I had paid to be snubbed by a bar dancer. It felt strange, almost dirty, and stupid. There was only one thing left to say, so I said it.
“Let’s call another one!”
In my defence, I understood the game better now, so now I wanted to play the game. My friends were perfectly fine with the idea, as long as I did all the talking (Have I used the word ‘traitors’ already?)
The next dancer was much prettier. She was petite, with full, maroon lips, straightened hair and a glittering sari that promised to fall off any second, if it weren’t for the shiny clip on her shoulder. When I first saw her, she was flirting with a man who looked like he was a member of the 1980s Bollywood Junior Artistes Association. I wondered if he was a regular high-roller who would stab me with a fork for looking at his girl. The ten rupees he was handing over though put the high-roller notion to rest.
I went through the whole routine again – call the waiter, point out girl, hand over money, tip the waiter extra for handing over money, signal for the girl to come over using the ‘shy-indian-bride-head-tilt-raised-eyebrow’ method, and try to think of something clever to say.
This one had a little trouble comprehending the signal. She couldn’t figure out if I was calling her over or practising Kathakali. A few twitchy eyebrows later, she mouthed the words ‘Aaoon kya’? (Should I come over?). I nodded meekly. So much for second attempts.
Determined to not look like a fool again, I opened my mouth, only to say ‘Aap ka naam kya hai‘? (What is your name?)
“Shama”, she replied. Yeah right. And my name is Studmeister Steelcock.
“So…Shama”, I ventured, “aap ke paas yahaan khade hone ke alawa aur koi bhi talents hain?“
(So Shama, do you have any other talents besides standing around?)
“Nahin,” she giggled shyly, her Maharashtrian accent coming to the fore, “mere ko aur kuch nahin aata.”
(No, I don’t know anything else.)
Her giggles were well-timed, rehearsed like part of a Bollywood script. She walked back, throwing us the occasional glance, as if to say that her looks did bring all the boys to the yard, but it wasn’t her fault that the boys were cheap virgins. It was a great act; one that brought out the ‘Shama’ in a girl whose real name was probably Savitri Bajirao Thorwade. It was the same with Sullen Sanjana, and every other woman in the bar. And yet, despite the pretences, the appeal of such places is obvious. It gives many men, brought up within the confines of a regressive social structure, a taste of lust, power and yes, even love, that evades them in the real world. Or simply put, dance bars help ugly people get the feeing of momentary pride. so I ve decided not to go to dance bar any more.
I wish I could tell you more – about the prize dancer with a heart of gold, and about the leper pimp who has the singing voice of an angel. But there was no time to explore all that. We’d had enough of being rejected by bar dancers and were itching to get back to the real world, where we could be rejected by regular women. We called for the bill and as we hurried out, I could feel the women still staring at us, quietly laughing at our problem of ‘premature evacuation.’