satire : The Stunt of Stent

 

These days, it seems the human heart is under serious stress — and not just medically. A big share of the blame, I suspect, goes to our movies. Every film is a festival of heartache — dil lagana, dil todna, dil ke armaan…If some aliens were to watch our cinema, they’d assume India is one giant emotional spa where everyone spends their day falling in love and singing-dancing about it. No wonder the poor heart is overworked!

 

So naturally, when your chest feels tight, you start sweating after a flight of stairs, or you breathe like a tired buffalo, you head to the doctor — who, by the way, has been waiting for your heart to arrive. His heart nearly skips a beat when he sees you: a potential case of “stent-worthy chest pain. The ritual begins. The doctor, with the seriousness of a monk and the tone of a banker, informs you that your arteries are 85%, 90%, and 45% blocked. That one surviving 45% is apparently the only thing keeping you from meeting your ancestors up there.

You timidly ask, “What should I do, doctor?”

And with calm philosophical detachment he replies, “If it keeps running, it could last months. If not... well, you might not last till evening.” Then, with surgical precision, he terrifies you just enough to ensure you’ll be back — tomorrow, preferably with a credit card.

 

The schedule is simple: one day for tests, one for the surgery, thereafter 48 hours for ‘observation’ in ICCU.  By the third day, he assures you, you can return to your office. You sheepishly admit you don’t have an office job; he smiles benevolently:

“No problem. Visit a bank. Update your Get your passbook updated. Stay active”.

These days, every second hospital is a “Heart Institute.” Every doctor is a “Cardio-something.” Some even have better PR than movie stars. They whisper-spread myths about themselves:

“Doctor Saab’s hands are magical!”

“People wait six months just for an appointment!”

“Queue of his patients is longer than the visa queue for America!” Consider yourself lucky if your turn comes.    Then begins the poetic recitation of medical jargon — angiography, angioplasty, ballooning, mitral valve repair. Each word costs a few thousand/lakh more than the previous one. The humble “stent,” of the size and price of a paperclip, suddenly demands five-star billing because it’s being inserted by a man who speaks to you in jargons and that too in English with European accent.

 

 I know a man — proud carrier of four stents. He tells about them in conversation like some kind of military medals won in a battle. He tells people, “Yes, four stents, of Titanium, imported, Limited edition.” His chest, he believes, is now a medical marvel, part-human, part-hardware. The irony? The stent costs less than the air-conditioning in the operation theatre.

The real expense is for the doctor’s smile, the hospital’s marble flooring and chandelier of course the Latin terms on the discharge summary included.

 

The truth is, our hearts are not failing from cholesterol alone — they’re collapsing under the weight of commercialization. Doctors have become investment consultants for our arteries, and hospitals, five-star resorts.  These are the times of The Stunt of Stent — where fear is the best salesman, and your heart, the most profitable moving real estate in town.

satire : Romance of an Astronaut

 

Japan recently witnessed a love story so cosmic that even Bollywood would have blushed. An 80-year-old woman, lonely yet elegant, living somewhere between nostalgia and Netflix, received an unexpected message from a man who claimed to be—hold your breath—an astronaut. Yes, not a retired banker or a yoga instructor, but a real, floating-in-space astronaut who just happened to pass by Earth and thought of texting her. Because apparently, in the twenty-first century, astronauts carry their own Wi-Fi in orbit.

 

Like a hero straight out of Bobby, he began with the timeless line, “Will you be my friend?” And our lady, who had been ignored by the men of Earth for far too long, was instantly swept off her feet. It was poetic justice: where ordinary men failed, extraterrestrial romance succeeded. She felt reborn, radiant, desirable—practically Miss Universe. Who needs anti-aging cream when Cupid descends from another planet?

 

Soon, the two were chatting endlessly. Mornings glided into nights; nights melted into starlit daydreams. He told her stories of galaxies and stars, and she giggled like a teenager rediscovering love. He promised to take her “beyond the moon,” which at eighty sounded far more exciting than a pension raise or a free health check-up. He painted magnificent pictures of life in space—shopping malls on Mars, weekend sales on Saturn, rejuvenating spas on Venus where no one ever grows a day old, and elegant dinners in zero gravity where you could never gain weight. Our Earthly Juliet didn’t even need a rocket; she was already floating among the stars.

 

And then, as in all love stories, came the tragic twist. One day, her celestial lover messaged her in distress. “Darling,” he wrote, “I’ve run out of oxygen in my spacecraft! I need one million yen urgently for a refill!” To her, this seemed entirely reasonable. After all, on Earth, cars run out of petrol; why not oxygen in space? Without a flicker of doubt—or perhaps still dizzy from romantic orbit tales—she transferred the money immediately. “It’s just money,” she must have thought, “mere dust of the hand! Love is priceless.” And that, dear reader, was the last she ever heard from her astronaut.

 

Bollywood had warned us long ago: ‘Pardesiyon se na ankhiyan Milana’ Who listens to old songs when the heart is dancing to interstellar music? The poor lady still believes her astronaut will return one day, perhaps with a convincing explanation: “Honey! I went to Mars to get my   wedding sherwani stitched, then stopped by Venus to buy a colorful kimonos and wedding gowns for you. Now I’m back—just transfer another ten million yen so I can book the banquet hall. You see, my planet’s currency doesn’t work on Earth.” And I bet, she might have just done it.

 

In this age of Wi-Fi, WhatsApp, and wild imagination, love travels faster than light—and scams even faster. So, if someone tells you they’re an astronaut in distress, take a deep breath, look up at the sky, and smile. Because while love might be universal, oxygen refills in space are definitely not. And perhaps it’s time we all kept our hearts grounded—at least until NASA starts Dating site.

satire : Use and Throw

 

 

Two years. That’s all it took. A brand-new, Charcoal fresh, ribbon-cutting-worthy road—gone with the first rain. Washed away like it had been built of biscuits instead of bitumen.

 

Once upon a time, we used to take pride in things that lasted, we would flaunt-- this shoe has been with me for ten years! we’d boast, this wrist-watch belonged to my grandfather, still ticks perfectly, this fridge? Bought when I was in school. Works like new, and that old TV—twenty years and never once repaired. Those were badges of honour.

 

Now, welcome to the glorious consumer economy! Here, if your stuff doesn’t break, how will the new one sell? Either the product gives up on its own, or it starts throwing tantrums until you give up first. You finally sell it for scraps, surrender and buy a new one. And if it stubbornly refuses to die, advertisements come knocking: ‘Exchange offer! Old is boring, new offer is brought just for YOU!’

 

Today, TVs come in more varieties than potato chips—fat, slim, slimmer, plasma, L.E.D. and who knows what’s next, ‘see-through’ maybe. Even fridges have evolved like Pokémons. Back in the day, defrosting was a family event. Everything came out, the kitchen looked like a grocery shop exploded, we waited for the ice to melt while the fridge door was kept open, wiped every corner, and restocked—except for the mystery box at the back with something so old it had turned into a science experiment. Naturally, we got scolded for it—both when we were kids, and when we had kids of our own.

 

Slowly but surely, this “Use and Throw” philosophy spread everywhere. Plastic bottles, pens, watches, computers, even cars—nothing is made which is meant to last. Something breaks? Don’t fix it. Throw it. Replace it. Move on. The saddest part? This attitude of use n throw crept into our relationships too. Nobody remembers anyone unless they need something. And once the job’s done—poof! —you’re ghosted faster than a bad Tinder date. We’re friends? Only till we are of some utility to each other.

 

Gone are the days when selfishness was frowned upon. Now it’s considered wisdom. Parents teach their kids early: “Beta, learn to say no.” Books sell by the thousands—'How to Be Selfish and Still Loved’ Altruism? Out of fashion. It’s something NGOs do for photoshoots. The new mantra is: Me, mine, myself.

 

And now, the latest chapter in our grand policy of Use and Throw saga—a road that cost a whopping 430 crore rupees, built as a showcase for Indian excellence during the G20 Summit, gone within two monsoons. Some say it cost 420 crores, but the extra 10 were added to make the figure look respectable, just so the number didn’t sound like a scam.   Anyway, the summit’s over, the road served its purpose. Mission accomplished. ‘Use’ done, now let it be ‘thrown’ away.

 

 Why complain? How long do you want a road to last anyway? Not every builder is Sher Shah Suri, and not every highway can be the Grand Trunk Road. Besides, what about the economy? If roads don’t wash away, what will the contractors, engineers, labourers, and politicians do? Think of the poor tar industry! The road rollers, shovels, buckets, and tender forms will all gather dust. We are a poor nation we can’t afford this scenario.

 

So, the rain must come. Heavy, relentless, blessed rain! Farmers pray for gentle showers; the construction industry prays for a full-blown monsoon. Washed bridges, cracked pavements, crumbled walls—all signs of divine employment opportunities.

 

After all, destruction and reconstruction are part of nature’s cycle, aren’t they? Who are we? mere mortals! What locus-standi do we have to interfere with the sacred ‘Use and Throw’ philosophy of modern civilization?

 

Let it rain. Let it wash. Let it build again. After all, what’s life without recycling—of money, materials, and morals?

satire: Haru Urara (The Queen Who Won Every Heart)

 

 

You probably don’t know Haru Urara. Honestly, neither did I — not until I read a small newspaper headline announcing her death. She passed away at the age of 29. In her short life, she ran not one, not ten, but a whopping 113 races. Yes, you read it right — 113! Imagine someone who spends her entire life just running — either running in a race or getting ready for the next one. That’s not ordinary dedication; that’s devotion in motion. How many of us can say we live with that kind of single-minded focus, that unshakeable commitment to our chosen path?

 

In India, we once had a politician fondly (and hilariously) nicknamed 'Dharti Pakad' — He was famous for contesting elections. He fought so many elections — and lost all of them, not only election but deposit also. So many elections he lost that he actually made it to the Guinness Book of World Records. That’s the kind of “never-say-die” spirit we’re talking about here. It takes a special kind of madness to keep trying when success keeps running the other way.

 

There’s a tagline we’ve all seen somewhere: — Beyond fear lies victory. But here’s the real secret: victory hides behind persistence. You keep trying, not because you think you’ll win this time, but because ‘not trying’ feels like quitting life itself. At some point, you stop playing to win — you play because that’s who you are now.

 

There’s an old English verse that says:

 

For when the One Great Scorer comes

To mark against your name

He writes—not that you won or lost

—but how you played the Game

 

We often hear those delightful stories — a father and son clearing their exams together, or a grandfather and grandson graduating in the same year. Sure, it’s touching — but the real triumph is in the persistence. They might have failed countless times but they never gave up. And that spirit is worth celebrating far more than any medal or mark sheet.

 

Haru Urara — who galloped her way into history not by winning, but by never stopping. Born in Japan in 1996, she began racing in 1998. Over her lifetime, she ran 113 races and didn’t win a single one. Not one. And yet, she became a national hero. Why? Because she refused to quit. Every time the gates opened, there she was — ready to run, to try again, to defy defeat one more time.

 

The Japanese came to adore her. She was a symbol of resilience, of courage, of smiling through failure. She taught a whole nation that sometimes, losing beautifully is a bigger victory than winning easily. So, here’s to Haru Urara — the losing legend who proved that in the grand race of life, it’s not about crossing the finish line first — it’s about showing up, again and again, until the world starts cheering not for your victory, but for your spirit.

 

•         Haru Urara was the race mare of Japan

satire: Tommy @ Moti! Rise!

 

(A certain province’s leader has just announced that his government is seriously considering a law to prescribe life-imprisonment to dogs indulging in not just barking but biting around unsuspecting passers-by)

 

The great Netaji declared, with his usual chest-thumping confidence, that the dogs in his state had started behaving like… well, dogs — and the people were fed up. He declared it has now become his highest priority to make dogs of his state behave with manners. Henceforth, no Un-sanskari behavior will be tolerated. All canines — bourgeois, proletariat, street-smart, or just simpleton/docile ones — are hereby warned that strict Dog Laws would be enforced. Under the grand BDS (Bhartiya Dog Samhita), any dog found guilty of doggish behavior would face the full might of justice. ‘If any person is bitten by a dog, whoever(dog) abets the commission of such bite, shall be punished with life imprisonment’. Any dog caught involved, abetting or causing man-teasing in our state, Netaji thundered, ‘the dog will face dire consequences!’

 

Naturally, this state proclamation caused massive unrest in dog community. Emergency meetings were called in every alley and backyard. Senior leaders of the KU (Kutta Union) from German Shepherds to Indian stalwarts, gathered for an urgent extra ordinary GBM Sabha. Much barking ensued. Legal experts among them tried to decode the human law jargon, though dogs are no strangers to law — after all, no courtroom in India is complete without a few of their informants in the campus. 

 

The issue was simple, yet tragic. Who bit whom? A dog bit a human. Who will represent the human? A man. Who will judge the case? Again, a man. In short — you are the lawyer, you are the jury, you are the judge. Of course, the verdict will be against us! Whom should we bark our grievances to? Does no one see how humans behave with us?

 

We guard their houses all night, then try to nap in the morning, when suddenly some two-legged creature thinks it’s funny to throw a stone or kick us.” They put teddy-bear lions next to us just to scare us and film our panic for Instagram reels. Do we have a court for this? Can we file a complaint for canine harassment? If yes, where.

 

Picture the courtroom scene:

“Tommy alias Moti — present yourself!”

You wag your tail politely at the judge, showing your best manners. The judge, without even sniffing the evidence, listens to the human side and would declare: Life imprisonment.! No bail, no parole, no second chances. One bite — and you’re in for whole life. Dog justice has turned into dog injustice. It’s like crushing a fly with a road roller.

 

Isn’t there something called a reformatory? How can every case be decided ex parte? Should we start filing caveats all over the courts in the state? Or maybe get a B.A.L.L.B degree — Bark and Learn Law of Biting! But half our lifespan would be spent in law school; when would we ever get to practice?

 

At least fix some standard punishment — not this “one law fits all tails” business! You can’t treat every bite as a national crisis. Humans need some training too. We’ve lived beside you for centuries — your 1st companion in civilization. Guard you, Guide you, Act as therapists, comedians, and sometimes, only friends. But do we get biscuits? Milk? Even a pat on the head? No! Only Rebuke after rebuke, punishment after punishment.

 

At this point, the honorable judge banged his hammer repeatedly, shouting “Order! Order!” Poor Tommy kept barking, trying to drive home his point. As always, nobody listened. His bark still echoes today — the eternal cry for justice. Because, my friend, justice is never as simple as fetching a stick or ball. Generations after generations passes by of both the accused and Me Lord, and still the justice looks elusive and barking-cum-chasing-cum-biting continues unabated.

 

satire : Dead or Alive

 

 

It’s one of the most overused lines by villain in Hindi cinema: “Bring him to me—dead or alive. He’s mine. I’ll kill myself” Sure enough, by the time the movie ends, the person we’ve been mourning for two hours turns out to be the killer himself. Apparently, even dying in our films is optional—one can check out and check back in whenever the script demands.

 

They say movies corrupt children, but honestly, adults have learned far more. Whether it’s robbing a bank or proposing to your crush, there’s always a film reference to guide you. Nowadays people openly admit, “I learned this trick from a crime show.” Well, that explains a lot—because real life now looks like a badly edited sequel to reel life. It’s hard to say who’s copying whom anymore.

 

Every other week we hear a bizarre story from some village or town where a man declared dead on paper turns out to be very much alive and chewing paan outside the tehsil office. More often than not, it’s his own relatives who staged his “death,” usually over land dispute or inheritance dispute. Cine actor Pankaj Tripathi even starred in a film called Kaagaz (Paper) about this exact circus. Take my word for it—coming back from the cremation ground is easier than coming back from the office of the Registrar of the Birth and Deaths, once declared dead in their papers. Once the bureaucratic gods stamp you as “late” resurrecting yourself requires a lifetime of paperwork, petitions, and pillar to post relay race. It’s the only situation where “fighting for your life” is not a metaphor.

 

Someone once told me a story that sounded straight out of a dark comedy. In a mental asylum—sorry, ‘psychiatric facility—there are not just patients who genuinely need help, but also two very special categories. The first includes people dumped there by their families for convenience and never retrieved—perhaps they stood between someone and a portion of pie or land. The second group consists of those who’ve fully recovered, but their families refuse to take them home. The reasons? The same two classics of Indian tragedy: property and paramour. Apparently, both can drive you to madness—and keep you there indefinitely.

 

Since the rise of old-age pensions and government grants, the ‘living dead’ business has truly boomed. There are cases where someone declared alive keeps collecting a dead man’s pension—or someone declared dead is still paying taxes. Some geniuses have even created fictional widows and imaginary dependents. One government scheme offers a job to the widow or child of a deceased official, which naturally led to people discovering new and creative ways to die on paper. In a certain case, the man himself a Govt official goes back to his village, gets a fake death certificate issued by the village headman, and voila his son walks into the office, head shaven in fake mourning, and lands the job. It’s when fine art meets fraud, and the audience is the government.

 

Honestly, only in India can rebirth and resurrection be both a spiritual truth and a bureaucratic loophole. We swear eternal love across seven lifetimes, we believe in reincarnation, and somewhere between the two we’ve turned ‘death’ into a negotiable status. As Ghalib once sighed,

 

“In love there’s no difference

between life and death;

We live only by gazing at

the infidel who kills us.”

 

But today, seeing so much sub-standard poetry being passed on as his, Ghalib might need an affidavit to prove he’s dead and yet to be resurrected.

satire : ATM on Wheels (Indian Railway’s Newest Achievement)

                                

 

Once upon a time, Indian trains had humble ambitions — to reach the destination, preferably in time with all passengers still onboard. But that was the old India. The new India’s priority is not speed, punctuality or safety — it boasts to bring you comfort and ease of committing crime... right at your berth. Introducing the latest wonder from Indian Railways: the ATM on Wheels.

 

Yes, you heard that right. After pantry car, library and onboard pickpocketing services, we now have a full-fledged Automated Teller Machine in the train. This, my friends, is not merely a convenience — it’s a government initiative for holistic welfare. From honest citizens to professional thieves — everyone now enjoys level playing field to banking!

 

And yet, ungrateful citizens of India refuse to clap for the Indian Railway minister. Instead of calling him the Rail Minister, they call him Reel Minister — as if his achievements belong to Instagram, not Indian Railways. How unfair!

 

The first chosen train for this revolutionary experiment is the Panchavati Express — yes, the same Panchavati where Lord Rama once lived in exile. Clearly, the ATM’s divine protection is guaranteed. Unfortunately, divine protection does not extend to your wallet. Around this ATM, expect an ecosystem of creative professionals — pickpockets, card cloners, and “withdrawal assistants” — all ready to help you part with your cash faster than you can say “transaction declined.”

 

Of course, this innovation hints at the inflation ahead. Soon, a bottle of water or a plate of rice might require a quick withdrawal. But why stop at an ATM? If we are truly modernizing the railway experience, let’s go all in. Here’s my humble proposal for the trains of future:

 

1.       A bar, serving every possible spirit — whisky, beer, gin, brandy. The real ‘spirit of India’

2.       A casino, for passengers who like to gamble not only with money but also with their destiny & destination.

3.       A dance bar, because nothing says ‘Indian culture’ like fusion of gyrating dancers on a moving train.

4.       A disco, complete with strobe lights, for those who can’t dance but must.

5.       A massage & spa coach, for that “relaxed before derailment” feeling.

6.       A police station, to register all the crimes committed during journey. This will end jurisdiction conflict between two Railway stations as also ever grey area between GRP & RPF.

7.       A mini hospital, not just for emergencies but also for elective surgeries — dental implants, plastic surgery, hair grafting, and maybe a quick counselling session before train arrives at your destination.

8.       A shopping mall, so that every passenger’s family till she can burn that wand of currency or her card is blocked or the Railway station arrives, whichever is earliest. 

9.       A travel booking centre, for booking hotels, cabs, flights, wheel chair/stretcher, movie tickets, and even your next accident insurance policy.

10.   A Bank branch Speaking of money — since we already have an ATM, why not a full-fledged bank branch? Withdraw, deposit, apply for a loan, or maybe refinance your house while waiting for the next signal.

11.     A property dealer’s office, announcing, “Sir, just by booking today you get 10% off on our railway-facing flats!”

12.     A life insurance counter, because death does not keep a Bradshaw nor needs berth, confirmed or RAC. 

13.     Astrologers of course, no Indian experience is complete without the astrologers — reading palms, scanning horoscopes, and telling you whether your Saturn is more robust than the train’s engine/track/bridge/signal system. 

There you have it — the complete blueprint of Futuristic Railway journeys. You may notice there are 13 facilities listed above. Thirteen is considered unlucky, and that’s precisely what makes it perfect. After all, our Railways too, of late, is being perceived unlucky.

 

So next time you board a train, carry your ATM card, your Hold-all full of Good Luck and a good sense of humor to take things in its stride. You’ll need all three.