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'Hair and Hearty' (published in The Pioneer)
By Manas Gupta
Once every year, I shed my sober image and put on a different appearance. This includes shaving my head, some feeble attempts at growing a French beard and a no-no to formal wear. However, this year my attempts to appear cool ran into rough weather.
My mother, like most moms, seems to always know what's going on in my head. That fateful day she asked me what I was up to, and became rather nervous after seeing an expression that could only qualify as an evil grin. She had realised it was "that" time of the year. I did nothing to help her out of her misery, which only increased after seeing her son enter the house without a strand of hair on his head and still wearing the same nasty expression. I was enjoying her discomfort.
I now faced the tougher part - facing the world, or rather my office, without the comfort of having hair. I could see the wisecracks starting: "Had a bad hair day? Well, don't worry, hair today gone tomorrow." The journey to office was rather uneventful, except for the kids who just love a "baldy". Well, I don't blame them. when I was a kid I would rather die than let a baldy go without a few taunts. So I reached office with "ganju patel teri khopdi main tel" still ringing in my ears.
As I entered my office, the fact of my insignificant presence dawned on me, not because no one noticed my bald head, but due to the number of people who came to ask me what happened. This realisation was simply because I didn't know there were so many colleagues whom I didn't know. As I entered my section, I shivered - due to the effect of the air conditioner on my bald pate. I must clarify here that my father has no objections to my tonsured head. However, most people feared something dreadful had befallen my hale and hearty father (in spite of my stupid grin) and proceeded to offer their condolences.
At office, I was called everything - a British hooligan, football fan, Nazi, or even an artist. What was annoying was the fact that almost everyone wanted to rub my bald pate, and some even did so (despite my grin going from evil to diabolic). I am eventually going to go bald. The fact that my father is bald, his father was bald and so was my great grandfather, shows that the almighty did not put a fertile scalp on my head.
I must confess that I enjoy the attention. However, while it would be preferable that this attention comes solely from the opposite sex, the sympathetic looks I get from men with receding hairlines can be quite disconcerting. Then there are also the "oh, poor guy" looks as well as the "what a freak" looks, but I get those even with intact hair. But ladies and gentlemen, after my brief adventures as a bald journalist, I can only advise: Don't shave your head. However, if you are popularly known as an ignoramus, please go ahead and ignore me: It will be at your own peril!
Copyright Manas Gupta
BEASTLY TALES
By Manas Gupta
I recently found that I am gifted with an ‘animal instinct’. Whether it is a gift or not is highly debatable. Consider this, every time I take my trusted 100-cc motorbike out on the roads of Delhi, the sound attracts every passing stray dog on the road, who chase the bike like it was a member of the opposite sex. Animal instinct indeed.
At this point, I flee for his life by speeding away, but at the very next crossing, instead of any traffic policeman on duty, find another dog ready to vent his sexual frustration on my precious vehicle.
Delhi’s dogs also seem to have an ‘attitude problem’. The last time I stopped at a traffic light, a dog nonchalantly walked up to my bike and proceeded to relieve himself on the newly retreaded front tire. By the time I realised what the ‘cunning canine’ was up to, the rascal vanished into thin air. Almost like a hit-and-run accident on the Capital’s roads. It seems that the dogs don’t realise Maneka Gandhi is not in the government anymore.
Coming back to animal instinct, I had a first-hand experience of the Hindi
proverb ‘aa bail mujhe maar. But in my case it was a bull instead of a ‘bail’, who had unfortunately decided to rest in the middle of the road. Well, the animal-lover that I am, I tried to avoid disturbing the animal’s rest, but in the process almost gave myself some rest...in peace. To avoid crashing into Lord Yama’s transport, I crashed my own transport, (yes, the same trusted bike that the dogs love) into the road-divider. The accident resulted in some nasty bruises, a tetanus injection and of course sick leave. Now, I go around telling people that I used my animal instinct to get my insensitive company to give me sick leave.
Of course any story about NCR roads is incomplete without the mention of cattle. A cow blocking the road is such a routine happening in our country that people don’t seem to mind anymore. One wouldn’t be surprised if accident figures show cows at par with blueline drivers for causing the maximum road mishaps. Like most Delhiites, I’ve had my share of ‘cattle-battles’. In fact, I tried to banish my ‘cow-wardice’ on the roads with a serious man-to-cow talk. So when I ran into a cow the other day, I gave it a piece of my mind on traffic rules. The rude animal however, continued to chew something in a rather arrogant fashion, almost like an Australian cricketer and completely ignored me. I felt like I was facing a babu in
a government office.
To avoid such ‘animal anomalies’ on one’s daily route, here is some advice: The dog who feels its the neighbourhood James Bond can be dealt with by stopping your vehicle and giving a fierce growl to match the dog’s. I assure you that most Delhi dogs as well as Delhiites will turn tail at the sound. If you encounter a bull or a cow at breakneck speed, then go ahead and slam into them. The landing will definitely be softer and you will be too preoccupied trying to escape the animal’s fury to worry about injuries. It’s also an added bonus for other commuters, who get a first hand look at a good old bullfight. Ole.
Copyright Manas Gupta |
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It just doesn't ad up
By Manas Gupta
It's a mad, mad, ad-world out there and over the years, the Indian advertising industry has made full use of the funny bone to make its presence felt. This article is an attempt to lampoon the creative genius of those wonderful copywriters.
First, a warning: Readers, please consume the following words with a generous pinch of salt and remember, the truth is NOT out there.
Let's begin with the brilliant Coke campaign featuring the versatile Aamir Khan. Scene after scene, shot after shot; one hears Aamir tell us thanda matlab Coca Cola, till the tedious repetition irritates us and ceases to be funny. However, why would one agree with such a bizarre statement? Imagine one husband telling his wife: 'Darling, it's so Coca Cola today, that I think I'll wear my thermal underwear'. Yeah, right. Thanda indeed.
Then there is Coke's 'meetha' rival. A compilation of its catchlines over the years would go
like: 'There's nothing official about bubbly being the right choice baby. Oye, Aha!' Let me lower their Sprite, err I mean spirits, by saying Un-clear hai.
While on the subject of bubbly, let's discuss Preity Zinta. I distinctly remember an ad for a shampoo, in which our perk-y lass seductively takes off her dress and says: 'Sab kutch utaar doongi'. An MMS could have taken care of that Preity. Then you would have had all the guys going: Preity Zinta-bad. What say?
Correct me if I am wrong, (on second thoughts, don't) but I think the days of the 'real creative ads' are long gone. I am referring to catchlines like 'yeh' under… oops, I meant 'andar ki baat hain' and 'jaandar savari, shaandar .savari' (all of the above to be said in Dharmendar/Deol drawl). However, a certain soap has stood the test of time. It remains, since the 1930s, filmi sitaron ka saundarya sabun (beauty soap of film stars). A saas-bahu soap opera in its own right.
The ad industry is undergoing a change on the sound/noise front too. Melodious songs don't seem to be the norm anymore. Instead, a nasal twang is preferred, which will go well with some poorly drawn animated cartoons. Lasts long, very long. Dinchak, dhinchak, dhin.
Then there is the blast from the past. It was begun a by a Hindi news channel, and the infuriating nasal twang, in the proverbial 'black and white' mode, spread faster than India's population rate. Yup, sabse tez. 'Aji sunte ho ad-wallon. Ab bus karo'.
The print industry has also joined the electronic-ad bandwagon. A certain publication pleads, and I stress on the pleads, to say let there be light. While I have always taken that publication lightly, this plea from the depths of their heart reinforces my belief. I have only this to say to them, if I may, Some newspapers are public ki awaz, baki sab bakwas.
Copyright Manas Gupta
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