satire: Floods? Sing a Hymn!

  

(former film star turned politician’s advice; when she visited her flood-hit constituency)

 

Just when you think politicians can’t possibly surprise you anymore, one of them manages to outdo every expectation. Their talent for the absurd truly knows no bounds. Take, for instance, our beloved ex-movie-star-turned-politician. When floods devastated her constituency, she suddenly remembered — oh yes! — she actually has a constituency. And if she didn’t show up, those soggy, homeless voters might just dry up their affection, come election time. She thought she may not be with them but she should appear to be with them in their hour of grief.

 

So off she flew — all makeup, bangles, and misplaced confidence — to visit her people living in what the government lovingly calls ‘shelter homes’ i.e. nothing but make shift tin shed.  In simpler language: tents, tarpaulin hellholes. Nevertheless, shelter home sounds classy and has a Govt. angle to the whole thing, you know? Like a flood-themed Airbnb.

 

Now, tragedy struck: she’d left her bottle of glycerin at home. Without it, how could she shed those trademark cinematic tears? Genuine ones were obviously out of stock. Helping people wasn’t part of the script either — no budget, no will, and definitely no guarantee that the ‘High Command’ would even give her a ticket next election. Thankfully, the district officials had already done most of the real work. But there she was, strutting around as if she personally ordered the clouds to stop raining.

 

“How are you? Getting food? Two meals? No discomfort, right? You’re comfortable here?” she cooed in her limited Hindi vocabulary, the kind she used in those old films before the dubbing artists saved her scenes. Only this time, there was no dubbing — this was a live performance, no retakes, no filters, just pure political theatrics.

 

Meanwhile, the District Collector and his entourage hovered around her like extras desperate to impress the director. They explained every little thing as though she were their boss — as if one frown from her could have them all transferred to Timbuktu. Of course! they too were busy posing for photographs, trying to look like Raj Kapoor in a disaster film.

 

Now, our glamorous politician doesn’t visit her dusty district more than once or twice a year. Who would? There is no airport. There’s no vanity van, no red carpet, and the only crowd screaming her name is begging for either employment or free ration, not photographs or even autographs. Within minutes, her makeup began melting. 

 

The drama was wrapping up nicely when inspiration struck — she decided to sing a bhajan! (A devotional hymn, because clearly, God was the only one still working) The Collector, terrified of being labelled communal (anti-Hinduism/anti religion) immediately joined in. Then his staff, fearing transfers, followed suit. Soon it became a divine chorus of bureaucrats and clerks belting out hymns like their promotion depended on it — which, to be fair, they probably did.

 

There was so much devotion that for a moment, people actually forgot all about the flood. Cameras clicked, hashtags were born, and one pre-coached woman tearfully announced that after singing with the actress, all her sorrow had vanished — at least for the duration of the song.

 

And that, dear reader, is this star-turned-politician’s greatest contribution to society: she makes people forget their misery. Maybe not forever, but at least for the duration of the film when she is dancing and singing. A new formula has now emerged for the political playbook:

If there’s an earthquake — organize a dance.

If there’s a flood — sing a hymn.

If crops fail — play music

If there’s a pandemic — throw a concert.

If prices rise — hold a fair.

If there’s a fire — start a circus.

 

Because why solve problems, it is a costly affair full of pains and bottlenecks.  Instead, why not just perform? After all, in today’s politics, tragedy is just another genre — and every disaster, a photo-op

satire: Lonely Grandma and Friendly Police

 

So, I recently read this unbelievable story from some foreign land. An 87-year-old woman called her local police station. She said she was hungry, all alone, and couldn’t cook for herself anymore. Within minutes, two police officers showed up at her house — not to interrogate her, not to take a bribe, not to ask for documents — but to cook dinner for her. They whipped up a meal, ate with her, gave her company, laughed, chatted, made her day.

 

And ever since, one question keeps bouncing in my head like a restless cricket ball: Could something like this ever happen in my country?

 

Let’s be honest. First of all — how on earth is this woman even alive, living all alone at 87? Where are her relatives? Where are her caring children, her loving grandchildren, her ever-helpful neighbors? Is she rich or poor? And if she is rich, how come no scammer from Jaamtara has discovered her yet? What about all those offline crooks — thieves, burglars, conmen? Have they all taken voluntary retirement?

 

In our land, an old lady with property living alone is like a pigeon sitting calmly among cats. If you’ve got a house, a pension, or even a gold chain, there will always be a long queue of people eager to help reduce your loneliness — usually by reducing your assets/bank balance first.

 

There’s a saying that perfectly fits our situation:

 

Widow, bull, stairs, or monk

Escape them all if you want to enjoy Kashi

 

And honestly, if you manage to survive your own family, you don’t need enlightenment — you’ve already achieved it. So, if this grandma has somehow survived indifference of her son, cold shouldering daughter-in-law, and the entire extended family, she shouldn’t celebrate just yet. Remember! that case from Mumbai? A teenager killed his grandmother just because whenever she came to visit, her arrangement to stay was made in his room. Apparently, her very existence was an intrusion upon teenager’s privacy. Imagine explaining that in heaven.

 

And then comes the biggest player in our game — the police. In that foreign country, they cooked dinner for the old lady. In ours? Well, our police are also very helpful. Their official motto practically says it all:

‘Always with you… for whatever needs to be taken from you’

Whether it’s your wallet, your patience, or your will to live — they’ve got you covered comprehensively. So yes, the story of the lonely old lady and the good Samaritan policemen make for a heart-warming headline could happen in some other land only. But here, before the poor woman could even dial the police, a dozen relatives would already be at her door — half pretending to care, half calculating the value of assets/ property.

 

Because in our beloved homeland, loneliness is a luxury. No one will let you be truly alone — not your family, not the neighbors, not even the system. Someone will always find you. And if they can’t find you to love, they’ll find you to loot. Gotcha!

satire: My Advocate Wife

 

      (A humorous look at the perils of having lawyer wife)

 

When your wife happens to be an advocate, it’s like adding bitter gourd to a dish already full of neem leaves. Let’s be honest — wives are born advocates anyway; the law degree is just a formality. They don’t need to study cross-examination — they come factory-fitted with it. In fact, when we got married, my wife insisted on arriving at the mandap in her black gown. “It’s my uniform,” she declared, “and everyone has the right to be proud of their profession.” Later I learned she had an actual case scheduled that same day — and had to rush straight from the mandapam to the courtroom. Luckily, the court clerk was also at the wedding function, so technically, the hearing never got adjourned.

 

Barely a week had passed before my wife began pouring her law knowledge all over me, not Bonafide in good faith but more in intimidating tone. She’d narrate court stories at every chance, making me feel like a prime suspect under trial. I’d lie silently on the bed, afraid to say a word, because who knows which statement might be used against me later. She remembered every date like a human case diary — the date I said “I love you,” the date I didn’t, the date I came home late. I sometimes felt she was gathering evidence for some mysterious future proceedings.

 

Whenever she lost a case in court, my domestic life turned into a punishment hearing. The arguments she couldn’t fire in court, she unleashed on me with full force at home. And when she won a case, she’d smile and say, “I’m in a great mood today — don’t ruin it.” Either way, I always lost. She would drop terrifying legal terms into casual conversation — “I’ve filed a habeas corpus,” “I’ve slapped a 391,” “I’ve got you under 166,” or “I’ll make sure you don’t get bail under 240!” I began to suspect that I hadn’t married a criminal lawyer at all, but a well-dressed criminal mastermind.

 

At home, the atmosphere was that of pure courtroom. The living room felt like an extended session of the sessions court. She’d argue over the smallest domestic issue with citations and precedents. I’d stand there like a guilty defendant, wondering when the judge would bang the gavel. By the end of our first year, I had a stack of legal notices to my name — habeas corpus, prohibitions, show-cause notices, all personally drafted and lovingly delivered. No sticky notes for me — just official-looking, double space green papers with water mark starting with “Notwithstanding” and ending with “I reserve my rights.”

 

One day, I complained to my in-laws about her legal terrorism. My father-in-law sighed in relief and said, “So she’s finally found a new victim. She’s already served notices to all of us — her brother, sister, neighbors, even me!” He looked like a man freshly absolved.

My friends stopped visiting me. My relatives avoided eye contact. Even the neighbors crossed the street when they saw me. “That’s the guy married to the lawyer,” they whispered. “One wrong word and you’ll be in contempt of court.” I was socially quarantined — a prisoner in solitary confinement, trapped in my own home, living what can only be described as a lifetime sentence without parole.

 

Now I realize I wasn’t born to live freely — I was born to serve time. My trial is held daily in a fast-track domestic court, and the list of my offenses has no end. The honorable judge, Her Ladyship! presides with unmatched authority. And as for the final verdict?

Guilty on all counts. Always guilty.

The sentence: life imprisonment — to be served jointly with love, laughter, and occasional legal notice or two.

 

satire: A Mother of Nine Elopes with Her Lover

 

What strange times we live in! Anything can happen, anywhere, anytime — things we couldn’t even imagine are unfolding right before our eyes. The impossible has become everyday happening. As they say, You haven’t seen nothing yet.! If there was ever an example to prove that love is a divine madness — wild, blind, and gloriously irrational — this is it. Love recognizes no barriers, no logic, no social construct. It simply happens. There’s an old quote: 

 

 “Few hearts are earmarked for love divine,

It isn’t a song could be played on every instrument.”

 

But just look around — nowadays, this tune is being played on every possible instrument, tuned or untuned! Love has gone global, universal, omnipresent — and yes, blind, like the goddess of justice herself. No distinctions, no boundaries, no age limits. Take, for instance, the lady in question — a mother of nine who fell in love. Well, if the heart decides to take a leap, what can one do? Or for that matter what nine poor kids could do?

 

Three of her nine children, they say, are already married. But let’s not get into what kind of example she’s setting for them. Everyone’s too busy setting examples of their own, for themselves anyway — we’re a world full of moral sculptors with clay feet. If people truly learned from others’ experiences, we’d all be living in paradise by now.

 

What this woman has proven — albeit unintentionally — is that love has no substitute. Some branches in her heart, though weighed down by nine pregnancies and years of domestic duty, were still green, still tender, still waiting for that one true spark to sprout all over again. And when it came, no chain was too strong, no wall too high. When the tides of passion rise, even the strongest dams burst — and all we mortals are left to do is what we do best: argue endlessly on television panels, over tea, or on WhatsApp groups.

 

Perhaps her husband was a dreadfully boring man, the kind who could make even the ticking of a clock yawn. Imagine her — nine children later, still waiting for something to make her heart beat faster. Maybe her marriage had turned into a mausoleum of routine, and she longed for a little air, a little madness. So, when the first opportunity fluttered by, she spread her wings and — poof! — she flew over the nest.

 

And really, whether she had nine kids or nineteen, married daughters or toddlers — all that is beside the point. When Cupid’s arrow strikes, there’s no vaccination, no escape. The lovers, smitten and stung, become each other’s balm.

 

Ah, but there’s the tragic twist — the part that sobers the laughter. The husband, heartbroken or humiliated, was later found dead. The children, weary witnesses, revealed that “Mom had run away with the same uncle four or five times earlier also — Dad would always bring her back.” This time, she left for good.

 

And so, the tale ends as it must — not in poetry, not in outrage, but in irony. Because love, that exalted emotion, that divine folly, continues to play out in the most unexpected places — in homes, headlines, and hearts that refuse to die.

 

As for the lady, she might well say with a sigh and a smirk:

 

I became Zandu Balm darling for you!

satire: You dare not touch me!

 

 

In a small Indian town, a newlywed bride, on her honeymoon waved a knife at her husband and declared unequivocally in no uncertain terms “Touch me, and I’ll chop you into 35 pieces!” Now that’s a kind of boldness the world hadn’t quite seen on honeymoon, ever before—at least not in the name of women’s empowerment. If this is the new definition of empowerment, we might need a dictionary upgrade.

 

Let’s be honest—what is marriage for, if not companionship in every sense? A platonic marriage sounds like a self-contradiction. Platonic love is fine before the wedding, but once the garlands are exchanged, such idealism starts sounding suspiciously like punishment. Now imagine the groom, decked up and hopeful, hearing his bride say, “Don’t you dare touch me!” That alone would be enough to turn his face fifty shades of pale. But that wasn’t the end of it. The poor man barely had time to blink when the bride pulled out a knife from under her pillow and, with the dramatic flair of a Bollywood villainy, hissed, “I’ll cut you into 35 pieces if you touch me!”

 

The groom had only ever heard the old romantic song, ‘Is dil ke tukde hazaar hue…’ (My heart was shattered into thousand pieces). But this was a new twist—thirty-five pieces, not of the heart, but of his entire self. That’s the kind of math that doesn’t add up to love. One can only imagine the man’s expression: one moment pale as chalk, the next flushed like a tomato.

 

Somehow, he survived that night—what they call the night of murder. The day passed, but as evening fell, so did his peace of mind. The same horror repeated the next three nights—each time, the bride’s voice, the knife, and thirty-five pieces. By the fourth morning, the groom’s nerves had given up. He couldn’t take anymore. He spilled the entire story to his family.  Naturally, they were stunned—especially at the oddly specific 35 pieces. Without wasting time, they rushed to the police station. Soon, the bride’s parents were summoned too.

 

When confronted, the bride calmly declared that she loves someone else, her heart belongs to her lover. In short, she belonged to someone else. She was, in her own words, “I’m a promise made to someone else” and one must never betray a trust. A poetic sentiment, no doubt, but perhaps a bit late in the day—say, four nights too late. That very night, she disappeared from the house, leaping over the courtyard wall and vanishing into the darkness.

 

I belong to someone else, don’t crave for me

You’ll never have me, so don’t pursue me

 

A tragic ballad if you like poetry; a scandal if you prefer news. 

But the real question is—why didn’t the bride tell her parents all this, before the marriage? Why did she let an innocent man and his family suffer this humiliation? It did no credit to her family either. Her parents, too, could have asked her clearly before tying the knot. What’s the use of arranging a wedding when one party has already booked her loyalty elsewhere?

 

In the end, everything turned out just as destined. Somewhere, a frightened groom still mutters under his breath, “So this is women’s empowerment?” while carefully checking under his pillow/mattress/bed for knife before going to bed.                 

satire: And they Lived Happily Ever After

 

(These days, the way newlywed brides vanish with their boyfriends right after the wedding…)

  

Something’s definitely off in our system. Earlier, such things were rare gossip; now, they’re practically breaking news every other day—someone’s wedding gone wrong, someone murdered, someone eloped. Betrayal and poisoning seem to have gone wholesale. Forget pre-marital affairs—now extra-marital ones are treated like casual Friday at the office. This chalta hai (it’s okay) culture, once limited to missing deadlines or skipping work, has now profoundly entered the sacred institution of marriage. Nobody knows when or how it happened—but here we are.

 

So, in one state, a grand wedding took place. The family celebrated, the band played, the guests stuffed themselves with biryani, and everyone thought—finally, peace! According to tradition, the bride went to her parents’ home a week later for what’s called the customary short visit. But after a few days, she decided that home was overrated—and bolted with her old boyfriend. Gone like a deer, or perhaps a doe—swift and silent.

 

Naturally, her parents were distraught. What would people say? What would they tell the in-laws? The horror of it! Still, being law-abiding citizens, they rushed to the police station. Because, you see, in modern times, not filing a report can get you in trouble. Why didn’t you report it earlier? the police will ask—and before you know it, you’re the one under investigation.

 

There’s an old saying about dealing with the police in our land: Neither friendship nor enmity…keep distance.

So off they went, trembling and embarrassed, to file the report. The police sprang into action. A few calls and little more efforts and soon they had a lead. Because, as everyone knows, you can hide love only as long as your phone battery lasts. Eventually, it pops up—loud, bright, and traceable.

 

Through their network of informants, the police learned exactly where the lovebirds had flown and at what time. Phones were put under surveillance, and within a week, both Romeo and runaway Juliet were caught and brought to the station.

 

The police called in the bride’s parents, who wisely called the groom too—after all, transparency is important in such joint ventures. Everyone arrived, tension thick in the air. The bride calmly declared unambiguously that she preferred her old lover over her new husband. Then, in a display of pure accounting brilliance, she returned all the gifts and jewelry. Accounts settled. Gold and silver might dazzle others, but her heart was priceless—and already occupied.

 

The police watched the scene unfold like spectators at a reality show. Both were adults, so technically no crime had been committed—except, perhaps, against good sense.

 

The groom, surprisingly, didn’t shout, didn’t fume, didn’t even blink. He just smiled faintly and said, “Honestly, keeping such a bride is life threatening. Who knows when she’d buy a blue plastic drum and cement. I’m just glad my life is saved. As long as my head’s intact, wedding turbans can always be found.”

 

And with that, he walked away—a free man, a wiser man, and perhaps the happiest of all three. And that, dear readers, is how—they lived happily ever after.

 

satire: Simple People – Simple Choices

 

 

It happened in good old city Kanpur — In one lively neighborhood, there was a birthday party. The friends and neighborhood friends were invited. Among the guests was a perfectly normal husband-wife duo. Music started, lights dimmed, and people began dancing. Wife danced and danced, no problem there. The moment Mr. (Husband) joined in and began dancing with another lady guest, boom! the peace treaty collapsed.

 

The wife was furious. Not ‘I’ll never talk to you’ kind. Instead she declared “I’ll die” and off she bolted, crying & declaring she would end her life under a train. Kanpur Railway Station almost got a new kind of drama that day. Somehow the neighbors dragged her back home, but she refused to calm down. Husband tried pleading, explaining, even emotional blackmail — nothing worked. And then… came the samosa.

 

Yes, the humble triangular savior. One bite and all was forgiven. Hatred vanished, sorrow dissolved in the chutney, and harmony was restored. That was the moment I realized — that famous ad Unche log, Unchi pasand got it all wrong. The truth of Indian marriage is: ‘Simple log – simple pasand’

 

Now, personally, if I were the husband, I’d swear off dancing forever. You never know when your wife might decide to express her anger through a suicide threat. Imagine if the train actually came on time! Still, to avoid future disasters, I feel wives should simply issue an (ODR) Official Dance Rulebook for husbands:

 

1. Husband shall only perform certain approved dance forms — kathakali yes, kathak no. Bharatanatyam okay, Odissi not okay.

2. Maintain a two-foot security distance from all women on the dance floor. No touching, no Chipko Movement.

3. Must you dance? do it with another man. Problem solved.

4. Consider enrolling in classes teaching launda (Boy) dance.

5. When invited to a party, simply announce that your leg is broken. If necessary, keep a fake plaster cast handy. Strap it on before any event and you’re safe.

 

See, the real goal in marriage is peace and harmony. Not disco. Because once your wife starts her own version of ‘Tandav dance’ So dear husbands, forget Elvis Presley, forget Shammi Kapoor, even Mithun Da — take one good look at your wife and put dancer in you, rest. 

 

And if, despite all logic, the dance fever still rises — keep a few samosas ready. You never know when you’ll need them to save your life.

Simple people – simple tastes