satire: M.A. in Puja Ingredients

  

Once upon a simpler time — when school assemblies began with prayer to almighty. we had a subject called ‘Religion’ It gave us a polite summary of the world’s major faiths: who founded them, which book they swore by, and what moral takeaway they offered. It was like a bouquet of belief systems — so that you knew basic teachings of the major religions of the world. 

 

The Time, like Ganga water has flowed on — now generously seasoned with chemical waste and political flavorings. Lo! Behold! a university in India has decided to launch a Centre for Hindu Studies. Not a casual short duration course, mind you — a full-fledged academic empire with M.A.s, P.G. Diplomas, and Certificate courses in everything from T.M. (Temple Management) to T.K. (Theory of Kirtan Practice).

 

This, of course, is curious. For decades, we’ve been told that Hinduism isn’t a religion but a ‘way of life’ Which raises a simple academic question: Could one get a Master’s degree in a way of life? What’s next — an M.Sc. in Tooth Brushing Techniques or a PhD in Procrastination Studies?

 

The ‘course list’ reads like a modern-day Rigveda of career opportunities. Postgraduate Diploma in Temple Management — because small or big, every temple needs an MBA now. M.A. in Kirtan Shastra— a scholarly dive into the acoustics of devotion. Imagine viva voce exams that begin with “Sing after me: Govind bolo Hari Gopal bolo.” The practical, no doubt, will involve Antakshari in the temple courtyard of devotional songs. Of course, Mumbai offers perfect campus for internships. There’s a shrine every two blocks, and one can easily major in ‘Incense Logistics’ or ‘Bell Synchronization Techniques’ Dress code? queries remain unresolved — do students have to maintain a sacred thread, or will the administration allow modern haircuts in the pursuit of divine knowledge?

 

Inclusivity too begs contemplation. Will these courses be open to all four ‘varnas’? Can international students apply? Imagine a confused French exchange scholar chanting “Om Namah Shivaya” with a nasal twang. If the government plays its cards right, we could soon have Temple Attachés in every Indian embassy — reviving Emperor Ashoka’s PR strategy, equipped with PPT.

 

Naturally, fees — or shall we say ‘dakshina’ — will be an important factor. Perhaps students can pay via UPI: ‘OmPay’ accepted here Coursework could include vital modules like Selecting the Right Flower for the Right Deity (with substitutes for seasonal shortages) Thali vs Basket: A Comparative Study in Offering Methodology and Crisis Management: Handling Angry Devotees When Prasad Runs Out.

 

For a touch of intellectual rigor, one hopes the syllabus will feature a comparative component — what Jainism says on the same issue, what the Buddhists counter with, how Parsis shrug politely, and how Islam stays out of it. But that may be too much to hope for. Far likelier is the unit titled Why Hinduism is the Oldest, Greatest, and Most Misunderstood Religion — Discuss in 500 Words.

And since every academic venture needs future expansion, allow me to humbly suggest a few electives:

Diploma in Puja Ingredients- Procurement and Inventory Management

Certificate Course like Economics of Fast

M.A. in Worship Logistics and Temple Crowd Management

Advance Diploma in Pilgrimage Studies: Queue Theory at popular temples

Certificate in Dream Interpretation and Nocturnal creatures/ Superstitions

 

One wonders, though, about campus placements. Will recruiters of major Temples line up to hire or poor Post Graduates would have to roam around the corridors of bureaucracy seeking divine intervention? Perhaps the government can introduce an Agniveer for them — a three-year contractual service in national devotion. Until then, the future looks bright — saffron-tinted, incense-scented, and fully accredited.

 

satire: Court-Orders- How Are You, Darling?

  

When this matrimonial-cum-domestic dispute case reached the court, His Lordship decided to act Cupid for the day. In a rare moment of judicial creativity, he didn’t send the couple for counselling, but simply back home — with one divine command: “The husband shall, without fail, every evening after return from office would lovingly ask his wife ‘How are you, darling?’  before doing anything else,

 

So far, the executive or the legislature has been providing us with national amusement. Now, our courts too deserve some credit for amusement. The judiciary refuses to lag behind in bringing smiles to our faces. They understand how badly we, the common people, need laughter therapy in our daily circus called life.

 

Apparently, this particular husband-and-wife duo had been living in a full-blown domestic warzone. The wife complained, “He lives in his own world. Doesn’t care about me. Never talks unless he’s drunk — and then also only to fight!” The husband, on the other hand, looked like a man who’d rather wrestle a bear than have another conversation with his spouse. Divorce was the only common objective they shared. A complete case of “domestic un-bliss.”

 

You see, these days marriages happen at the speed of a swipe — and divorces, well!  faster than food delivery. Gone are the days when couples said, “Let’s adjust.” Now it’s more like, “Let’s call the lawyer.” Either someone ends up in blue drum duly cast in cement or someone just falls off a cliff in Shillong — love stories turning crime thrillers.

 

But this judge, bless his wisdom, decided to apply a very Indian solution: emotional jugaad. No long lectures, no sermons. Just one order: every day after work, the husband must on entry at home and chant the sacred mantra, “How are you, darling?” Loudly, clearly, and with full devotion. Thereafter, only he should keep his briefcase, remove his shoes later, but the first act upon entering his home must be to check on his ‘darling’s wellbeing’

 

Everyone’s hopeful that this “mantra” might just lead to miracle. After all, didn’t that old dacoit find salvation after accidentally chanting ‘Rama’ instead of ‘Mara’ Maybe this poor man too will discover domestic bliss by chanting “How are you, darling?” every evening.

 

Of course, tone matters. The court has not permitted any sarcastic versions of the phrase. You can’t say it through clenched teeth or with flaring nostrils like you’re hurling an abuse. Nor can you mumble it under your breath like a man uttering his last prayer. It must be said as if your world depends on it - sweetly, audibly, and with enough sugar to cause a diabetic reaction. 

 

Because this is crucial our wife might be surrounded by her friends. She could be at her kitty party, and you must still perform your court-ordered duty, loudly and lovingly, for all to hear. You never know when one of those ladies might be called as a witness: “Your Lordship, on so and so evening he didn’t ask ‘How are you, darling?” And then, who knows, the Me Lord might give him a longer sentence — literally!

 

So, gentlemen, take this as divine advice. Chant your personal mantra with sincerity: “How are you, darling? How are you, darling?” Repeat it daily, faithfully meaning every word. This is your personalized mantra-your key to domestic bliss. Who knows a happy marriage, like enlightenment, might just be one court order away. Where are you rushing to? I see to ask her- How are you darling? Do not forget she is your BEST half and you are merely a REST half.

 

उतरता नहीं

कभी पी थी तेरी आँखों

से मुहब्बत की शराब

नशा है कि उतरता नहीं

तूने माथे पर रख हथेली

पूछा था हाल कभी

पारा है कि उतरता नहीं

झलक भर देखा तुझे

गली के मोड़ पर आँख से

गुलाबी डोरा उतरता नहीं

ये कैसा मुसाफिर है?

आखिरी स्टेशन आ गया

मुसाफिर है कि उतरता नहीं

satire: Oxygen – The Enemy of Life

 

 

Our atmosphere is 78% Nitrogen. That means oxygen barely manages a humble share in the leftovers. Just imagine — share of oxygen is 21% and in remaining 1% there are all sorts of other gases. No wonder there’s such a mad rush for oxygen! Yoga Veer wake up at 4 a.m. to inhale oxygen as much possible with great gusto and devotion. Hospitals start screaming for oxygen, the moment a patient sneezes, and we all saw the great oxygen war during corona time. The world is busy planting trees to increase oxygen levels, while we, the proud citizens are busy cutting down forests to build expressways, factories, and open new mines — because who needs trees? We need four-lane highways.

 

I heard Bhutan has negative carbon rating— they literally give back more than they take. Meanwhile, our AQI hits 400 or 500 and we just shrug. We’re a chill nation. Pollution doesn’t bother us — life and death are all in God’s hands anyway.  

 

So, these little AQI numbers can’t scare us. We’re too busy being ‘developed’ And development, of course, must never stop! You ‘trim’ one tree in your backyard and the Municipal Gods come running to serve you with notices, legal threats and so much paperwork. However, you cut a thousand trees for ‘nation-building’ we’ll give you an award. Builders flatten entire forest, then sell you flats boasting of ‘eco-friendly living’ — complete with a plastic-grass lawn and a narrow man-made lake complete with chemical froth having detergent like smell. 

 

Have you ever seen a single political party talk about oxygen or the environment in their election manifestos?   You can get a Pollution Control Certificate without ever bringing your car for testing. Similarly, your vote can be cast without going to election booth. It only goes to prove that human morals have ‘fallen’ once you fall, you keep ‘falling’ be it any field, environment, politics, or ethics?

 

Anyway, back to oxygen. In one hospital, a patient’s condition became critical, and, as usual, oxygen was administered — or as we say these days, ‘he’s on oxygen’ Not to be confused with a ventilator — which is a different ball game. So, oxygen was given, with the hope that even if no improvement, at least stability would be there, while meter(bill) is ticking. But then, boom! the oxygen cylinder itself exploded. We used to hear only of cooking gas cylinder blasts; now even oxygen has joined the club. Truly, this is the age of ‘Kalyuga’ — when even life-giving air decides to go out with a bang.

 

The patient, to whom oxygen was supposed to give life, was instead blown to bits. ‘Died painfully’ the report said — as if there’s a painless way to explode. There’ll be an inquiry, of course. There always is, that is the norm. But maybe it’s time we ensure that oxygen, the very symbol of life, doesn’t turn into the reason for death. Because at this rate, soon you talk of oxygen, relatives will react; ‘No thanks, doctor — we’ll take him home. He’s safer without oxygen’ And that, dear readers, is modern civilization in one breath — or rather the lack of one.

 

satire: Therapeutic Hug @ 600/-

 

Ever since I read that news, I haven’t been able to recover from the shock. Apparently, China — that overachiever of civilizations — has launched yet another invention: the paid hug. Yes, women there, are now shelling out between 250 and 600 rupees for a five-minute “magic hug.” The men who provide this service are called man-mums. So much for the monopoly women once had on maternal tenderness and care — now even men are getting certified as mums.

 

But then again, this is China. The same country that gave the world paper, printing device, compass and gunpowder. They’ve always had a knack for combining invention with business. Why stop at fireworks when you can monetize ‘human affection’ itself?

 

Apparently, you can even book your ‘man-mum’ on an App. One click and your emotional void is home-delivered — five minutes of warmth, no strings attached, no awkward breakfast conversations. The digital age truly leaves nothing to the imagination.

 

Now, before any of my fellow countrymen start packing their bags and dusting off their passports, let me clarify: not every man qualifies for this noble profession. You can’t just waltz in, chest out, arms open, and expect women to line up with cash in hand. No, there are certain requirements, what you call Eligibility conditions.

 

First, you must be physically strong — because apparently hugs in China are full-contact sports. Second, you must be gentle, humble without fumble which in this context means you should be able to speak softly without grunting or belching mid-sentence. And third, you must be patient — a virtue most men do not possess or lose at the drop of ahem! hat. 

 

Back in the day, when the Vietnam-America war was raging, rumours floated that due to large scale casualty, Vietnam was facing a shortage of men and might start importing them from India. Indian men instantly sprang to life, polishing their shoes and updating their biodata— yes, biodata, because back then nobody had heard of CV or résumés. It was a proud time for Indian men and masculinity.

 

So, before you start dreaming of exporting yourself to China as an official hug technician or Hug-Engineer as you fancy, remember — this is not an equal-opportunity employer. The strong, gentle, and full of endless patience ONLY need apply.

 

Still, one can dream. Imagine — a plane full of Indian men landing in Beijing, armed with deodorant, charm, and government-approved hugging licenses. China wouldn’t know what hit it.

 

Beware, fair ladies of the East — the subcontinent is warming up its arms. HJ has begun. Didn’t get it? Well! Hug Jihad my boy.

 

satire: Buy one Get one free

 

This sounds like the plot of an English comedy film. You must have heard many stories of medical blunders — the honest mistakes and the creative ones, where the patient’s body, mind, and wallet are all simultaneously operated upon. But this latest story takes the cake — or rather, the entire Pâtisserie.

 

So, there’s this father and son. The son was supposed to get a surgery done. Morning comes, the poor boy is wheeled into the OT (operation theatre) and the father waits anxiously outside. Suddenly, from inside, a voice booms: “Who’s Jagdish?” The father, being a simple man and indeed named Jagdish, dutifully replies, “Yes, that’s me!” Before he knows it, two attendants rushed out and ushered him in.

 

Now, Jagdish assumes perhaps his son called him in, or maybe the doctor wants to share some update. But instead, an attendant hands him a green hospital gown and says, “Change into this fast” Jagdish, ever obedient, thinks — ah yes, hospitals have all sorts of rules about removing shoes, wearing caps, washing hands with sanitizer — this must be one of those ‘infection control’ things. So, he gets into gown.

 

The next thing he knows, he’s being gently (but firmly) laid on a table. Someone waves a mask near his nose. He tries to ask what’s going on — but poof— darkness! 

 

When the effect of anesthesia wore off, poor Jagdish opens his eyes, everyone around him is smiling. He’s being congratulated. People lean over his stretcher, tapping gently “Operation successful!” He blinks in confusion, looking from face to face — like a man who woke up in someone else’s movie. He didn’t ask the usual cliché Who am I? He just wants to know, “Where am I?”

 

Then he looks down at his arm. There’s a bandage. There are stitches. His brain refuses to comprehend. He was perfectly healthy! What in the holy name of Hippocrates did they cut open?

 

Panic ensues. Doctors whisper, nurses shuffle papers and then comes the classic line — the doctor smiles reassuringly and says, “Please don’t worry sir! we’ve taken full responsibility. Both father and son will leave this hospital completely healthy. Just, uh… don’t mention this to anyone.”

 

Now, I personally call this the hospital’s proactive approach. The doctor clearly believes in prevention. “Today, it’s the son. Tomorrow, it could be the father!” So, why wait? Better to perform a preventive surgery, while the tools are still warm! That’s efficiency redefined for you.

 

Some are trigger-happy — always ready to shoot like in spy thrillers similarly some doctors, it seems, are knife-happy— always ready to cut you open. See a patient? Or even patient like? Bring him onto the operation table! Slice first, diagnose later. If nothing’s wrong, no problem! There’s always the ‘service charge for opening and stitching back’ Like old time mechanics — they used to charge you just to open the fridge, radio or tv. How could surgeons be far behind?

 

Honestly, I wonder — when God designed humans, He must’ve known man would one day invent spectacles. That’s why He gave us two ears — to hold the glasses in place. But if He foresaw doctors like these, why didn’t He give us zippers all over our body? Would’ve saved everyone the trouble. Just unzip, take a look, do your work and zip it back. No stitches, no anesthesia, no confusion about who’s getting operated for what.

And if anyone asked, “what for operation was it actually?” — we could simply say, “Just, unzip and have a doctor’s eye view!”

 

satire: From ‘Shri Delhi’ to ‘New Delhi ji’

 

 

Changing city’s names is our national hobby. Whenever people aren’t looking, few hyper-aware citizens sneak out at midnight and paint over the old signboards. Delhi itself has been built, destroyed, and rebuilt so many times that even it must have forgotten its original name. Once upon a time there was Curzon Road — now it’s Kasturba Gandhi Marg. Kitchener Road? That became Sardar Patel Marg. Harding Bridge turned into Tilak Bridge, Minto Bridge into Shivaji Bridge. Such an economical way to show patriotism! No expenses, no sweat — just a few strokes of ink and voilà! duty done. This is our unique Indian way of honoring great leaders: if changing a name brings happiness, why bother with actual development? After all, construction costs money, and quality is a feature we can’t afford.

 

You must have seen our bridges. Their lifespan rivals that of monsoon mosquitoes — two months if we’re lucky, two years if we’re blessed. We’re a deeply philosophical people, perfectly aware that life is constantly fleeting. Poets have been reminding us for centuries: ‘Man is mortal life is only four days’ So why build anything meant to survive longer than that? By that standard, our bridges, statues, and roads are practically immortal.

 

Of course, changing every single name isn’t always practical. There’s always some protest, some paperwork, or some bureaucratic ghost blocking the way. But worry not — innovation is our middle name. Someone discovered a brilliant, cost-free shortcut: when you can’t rename something, just decorate it. Add a ‘Shri’ before it or a ‘sahib/ji’ after it. Instantly more respectable, more patriotic, more Indian. If the name happens to be feminine — no problem! We already have “Shridevi” to set the precedent. Cost effective, elegant, and everlasting. Honestly, can there be a more affordable way to broadcast your public spirit?

 

Shakespeare, poor man, never met we Indians. Had he known Indians, he wouldn’t have written ‘What’s in a name?’ Because here, everything is in name — politics, pride, and a pinch of piety.

 

If I were to introduce myself today, I’d probably say, ‘I’m from New Delhi ji’ I studied in ‘Shri Bangaluru’, lived for a while in Hyderabad ji, then moved to Shri Nasik. My first posting was in Shri Ratlām, later in Kota ji and Shri Bhavnagar, before I finally landed in Shri Jaipur. I even spent years in Mumbai ji, not to mention short stints in Shri Vadodara and Secunderabad ji.

 

So yes, I’m a citizen of a country where bridges crumble but names never die, where respect can be prefixed, reverence can be suffixed, and patriotism comes printed on a signboard. Welcome to the land of eternal makeovers — Shri Bharat Saheb!