The Good, The Bad, The WTF

A couple of weeks back, 6 not-so-young boys decided to battle the floods, the land slides and head off to the extreme right of Mother India. Arunachal Pradesh was the destination. After this amazing outa this world mind fucking intro I shall now get straight to the point. This is about that part where we go from Assam to the Arunachal border only to find some fucking short Arunachal men waiting to beat us up. This post will also document how we got the ‘permit’ thanks to the all so great scavenger of the the season, Mr. Mukesh Mukhi.

Yes, 6 young boys jump into a Sumo at Guwahati ready to hit the road and explore Arunachal Pradesh (AP). Now for some trivia on AP. Nice sexy state lying on the right sharing borders with Bhutan, Burma and China. If India were ever to punch China in the nuts, AP would be put to the job. Now China’s and India’s love for AP is so immense, that there was this battle some few decades back. Some Chines dudes were like, “Neehaw, we is going to takes the AP to China!” And, India was like, “Fuck that shit, we are keeping our momos.” All this meant we needed a damn permit to enter AP else if we were to die, we’d be buried in Bangladesh.

Now we could get this permit from some dude in Tezpur. I’m not really sure who he was, but he surely was some smart ass important government official and he had to sign the damn permit stating that 6 suicidal boys have expressed immense pleasure and interest in entering AP. If they were to die we will take them off the Indian head count. It also stated that no one will give no shit and we would be served under the name of some exotic meal at some Chinese cafeteria.

Mr. Someone Important who had to provide us the papers had gone somewhere to do something that somehow nobody gave a shit about. Basically that meant we were at his house in the middle of the night ringing the bell only to be looked at by a locked door. We were like fuck him (actually we had no option), lets just go to Bhalukpong (the Assam and AP border), spend the night there and then figure out what to do the next morning.

And off we were. Now that I’ve given you a whole lot of boring bull, let get straight to the jazz.

Location: Bhalukpong. Assam – AP Border
Time: Sometime around 9 pm
The Scene: Heavily armed army personnel, a lot of police and really short locals

Our sumo stops at the check-post. Army guys head over to scan the vehicle. We step out and look around.
One army guy comes up to me and says, “We were told that some people in a silver sumo were clicking photos.”
I was like, “Er, yes. That might be us.”
Army guy, “Come with me, there are some people who want  to talk to you guys. Call the driver also.”

Fuck, what’s gonna happen now? As soon as I reach the police check-post, one really tiny local fucker starts jumping and pointing the shit at me and goes ballistic. I was like wtf, hope the other guys are behind me, I’m gonna fucking shit in my pants if I don’t have support.

Tiny fucker goes on with some jazz yelling some shit which sounded to me like I just eloped with his new born calf. Army guys, cops, tiny fucker and his associate, me and Rahul Rishi are there. A crowd builds around us. Fucking scene. Get me outa this shit someone. I want my mommy.

Tiny fucker to the cops, “Someone in the back of the sumo was clicking photos of us and on top of that they did not allow us to over take. They blocked out vehicle.”
Rahul to cop, “No Sir, it was not us. We were just clicking photos of ourselves.”
Tiny fucker, “He’s fucking lying, there were two people in the back of the sumo. Him (me) and him (pointing to Mukesh).”

Suddenly a bell goes off in my head.

Flashback: Mud road. Back wheels kicking up some sexy dirt. Headlights behind us flashing. Amazing photograph it would make. Out came the bad ass Canon EOS 1000D. The cheapest in the EOS series. Click, click, click, click. Review, review, delete, review. I’m fucking awesome. Photoshop here I come.

Ah fuck man. Shut the fuck up tiny fucker.

Me to cop, “Yes, I did click some photos while we were on the road.”
Cop, “Get your camera. Lets have a look.”

I head back to the vehicle and get back my camera. Tiny fucker goes berserk again pointing to the camera, point to me, saying some shit. Fuck you tiny fucker. I show the photos to the cop. Tiny fucker start to point and yelp again seeing his headlight in the photograph.

Tiny fucker, “That headlight, that’s our car. That out light. He fucking captured the light from our car without asking our fucking permission. That’s against the laws of AP. Kill the Goan fucker who looks like a Sardar.”
Cop, “Okay fine, delete these photos.”
Me, “Okay, sure (I don’t wanna fuck around with tiny fucker).”
Tiny fucker, “Now, become a Murga (video) and say sorry.”
Me, “Dude, I’m sorry man I’ve deleted your photos, isn’t that okay.” (But the fuck I’m gonna do a murga for you mother fucker, fuck you).
Cop, “It’s okay, let him go, they are tourists, they don’t know of you fucking nonsense.”
Tiny fucker, “yelp yelp yelp murga yelp yelp.”

Thanking my stars, I walk away from the scene. In the meanwhile our man, Vignesh ‘I dont know a single fucking word in Hindi’ Anand was conversing with an army guy, in Hindi! I was like wtf are those two talking about.

Vignesh, “Abba abba, amma. Thank God you guys came I don’t know wtf that dude was talking about.”

What he did manage to derive from the conversation was that all AP people are psycho and that they only want to pick fights and the army does not involve tiffs between civilians, else he would’ve beaten the AP shit outa the AP guy.

While all this shit was going on and while everyone were thanking their respective Gods the great Mukesh Mukhi comes and announces that he got the permit. How he got the permit, who he spoke to, what he did will never be known. But all we know is that he did get the permit and all it required was to have our fucking names on it and we were off to AP.

And this is what took us in.

AP Permit


I had decided not to abuse. But then there are those moments in life that make you do. I had my moment a few minutes  back. This is the story.

The great company I work for is kind enough to provide us with cabs to and from work. This is like great, coz you don’t wanna die on the road in Hyderabad. You can also look out of the window, appreciate all the shit going on there and relax inside, chilling. There is nothing wrong with cabs as you might know. But at times there are people in your cab who are completely fucked up and they fuck the shit out of you fucking sane mind. I mean that. I fucking mean that shit when I say that.

So, I’m sitting in my cab on the way home with these other two guys. I’m on the back seat. Next to me, seated behind the driver, is this other dude who is in his own world staring out of the window, doing his own thing. On the seat in front of me is, lets call him, Mr. X.

Some context about Mr. X now. Mr. X is a fucking dumb-ass. This is how he introduces himself if you meet him: “Hi, I’m Mr. X. I’m an engineering manager”.
Well fuck you!

So the cab passes through the fucked up streets of Hyderabad and then suddenly Mr. X asks the cab driver to take the next right turn. Now that’s a “Wow great” moment for me, as my house is also that way.

I lean forward and ask Mr. X, “So where exactly are you getting off?”
Mr. X: At my home.
Me (in my head): Arrrgghh, right! I should’ve guessed. FuckKK!!!

Yes! Fuck with two trailing capital K’s. That bad a fuck answer it was. FucKK!!!

I regain my composure and ask him, “And, where exactly is that?”
Mr. X: My home.
Me (in my head again): Ahh, fuck yes! Fuck, I’m so fucking dumb!! I’m such a dumb fuck I couldn’t figure the our right. Like where in the whole wide fucking world would you be going now right! FuckKK!!!

As my brain cells resurrect, I realize we are at the road to my place. We have to turn left and go around 100 meters in to reach my house. I ask the driver to stop the cab.

Mr. X: It’s okay we can go to your place, we are not in a hurry.
Me (my head, yes): Ah, suddenly saw the Jesus in you right?! Motherfucker. Die!!!
Me (in reality): No, no. It’s a short walk in. I’m safer walking.


I know. I’m not supposed to being abusing. But seriously. What the fuck! Freaking engineering manager in the middle of the night, going home. Damn, why the hell didn’t I listen to my father and join an engineering college! Why, God why?!?!

Pop: Son, I know you are dumb. But I am rich. I shall get you a paid seat. But go to engineering college. Let the money do the talking, you just make sure you pass in your examinations.
Me: Eh, no. I don’t wanna study with boys who tuck their shirts and have soda bottle spectacles. I wanna study with the girls. I’m going to regular college. Yay! And, I’m gonna be a stud!

If only my father had been more elaborate.

Pop: Son, I know you are dumb. But I am rich. I shall get you a paid seat. But go to engineering college. Because, when you grow up, one fine night, you will meet an engineering manager who will fuck your mind so bad that you will not know how to respond and you will have to fucking walk home.
Me: Where do I sign?

So here I am, writing about this shit. I hope that engineering manager’s mommy has kept his fucking milk warm for him. Else, she is so gonna get fucked up when he reaches home!

Fuck you engineering manager. SMC!!!


Everyone loves the Goan Wedding. So do I! Like who does not like to watch the freak show of outfits, the drunkardness, the chaos and crap.

Now that age old question might have propped up by now, who the hell blogs at a wedding? The answer is me.

Now lets document the crap.

First on the list are the people, the crowd, the guests. The card says the reception will start at 7.30 pm, it’s 9pm now and there is no sign of any activity. The guests is the major factor that screws up weddings. My piece of advise to you would be, “when you get married, Fuck the Guests”. If they don’t turn up on time, fuck them, let them make their own snacks. So, fuck the guests.

Next in the line of morons are the wedding couple. These two are the biggest nuts of the night. They don’t realize it is their special day. The fucking fools sit in the car waiting for the guests to turn up. I don’t understand this nonsense. I think it is a trend now, which couple can set the longest guest wait record.

Just picture this.
Couple #1: We waited for 4 hours till the guests showed up.
Couple #2: We waited three days, and then decided to postpone our wedding.

Like who the fuck needs guests to get married?

Once again, as I said, fuck the guests.

Up next. The Ugly Fucking.
Now I don’t mean to be rude here, I know there are a lot of you ugly people out there and I don’t have a problem with you being ugly. The ugly fuckling are those people who are ugly and dress up like they are the hottest piece of shit around. This stuff is though to document. I don’t want to hurt my people here, yes you ugly people, you are all my people. Well the ugly fuckling is that one who tries to hard but grasses me out. I mean like seriously, if I see you ugly fuckling first thing in the morning, I will fucking shit I’m my pants, puke and go into a coma. My advise for you guys is to go some place far, away from society, and die.

Next. The kids.
All the kids at weddings. Well, all, and I mean ALL of them are freaking retards. The should die too. They chase confetti and run around. Makes me wonder whether they had the zygote fused with some some animal DNA.

Father: Hey baby, my soldiers, when they all swim to your castle, well only one soldier will make it in. Was thinking if you’d like to have a lion soldier invade your castle too?
Mother: Oh sweetheart that would be awesome.

Too bad the lady at the sperm bank gave them a pig soldier and now the fucking kid is rolling on the dance floor squealing like a wild piglet.

Shoot the kids.

The biggest pain in the ass next is the MC. The so called Master of Ceremonies. I really don’t know what MC stands for. As my good friend from UP would put it, I think MC in this case would be MadarChood.

The fucker is paid to talk shit. Like “ladies and gentlemen I’d like you to now kick me in the nuts and tell me what a wonder experience it is”. Woohoo, fuck you MC. Hope you choke to death.

Now for the ‘Best Man’.
No the best man is not the groom. Yes I’m confused too. Like who the fuck came up with term best man. Yeah like steal the grooms thunder. He’s now married and gonna get fucked anyway, lets fuck him a little more and call that ugly fucker by his side the ‘Best Man’. The best man should die.

Oh fuck no! The toast master is gonna start. This role should be killed from weddings. If anyone can fuck the MC then it’s the toast master. When the battle of bullshit, as far as words are concerned, starts, these two lock horns. Thwarted toast master is just one of those useless people who make you wonder, who the hell wants to hear his crap. Just show me the food and the booze. They will talk about how the grooms is such a nice boy, MBA, PHD earns a million a week. And then he will talk about how the bride is a talented young piece of shit and done her MBA and then decided to fuck her career and put her certificate on the wall instead and stare at it when she needs to reach her orgasm. Fuck the toast master, he is making me a bad person.

Don’t kill the toast master, kill the role. Save all brides from screwing with certificates in their heads.

I need some booze, where is the fucking bar?! Ah Yes,m Old Monk!! Now on with the post.

Next. The wedding march. This should be renamed to the death march. Have you ever seen prisoners lined up and walking? Well at least the prisoners are upbeat. The wedding march is like a death march.

Ah this Old Monk tastes so good. Screw this post. Old Monk I’m coming back to you..

Posted by Wordmobi


Blogging from the phone now

So I’m at some friend of my pop’s place. It’s some new year party, but it’s like a major drag of crap. Which means I’ve just installed Wordmobi and I’m blogging via the phone. Wanted to do this long long back but just did not bother. Thank God for technology. This software is going to be used a lot from now on.

And yes, screw the new year. I know all you jackasses are like “yay, it’s the new year.” But seriously, screw that. It’s just another year, so face that.

Over and out for now.

Posted by Wordmobi


Continued from: Part 2: The Dying Sequence.

Before I start Part 3, let me throw some light on the content that you are going to read. Please consider this as a work of fiction. The characters are real no doubt, but the manner in which they are displayed is exaggereated a lot. Danny is not really a paranoid fellow, Rahul does not use ‘Dude’ and ‘Awesome’ so much, I do not swear the whole day, and so on for the other characters too. I have used real characters, real events, but the content is part of my imagination or lets say ‘talent’.

Also, after some feedback I got from some readers, I’ve now decided not to censor any of the foul language.

Part 3: The Day, The Wait.

Yes, finally the day to leave had come. All of us were in office, all filed in our half days and were ready to hit the Himalayas. The enthuisasm was high and none of us even bothered to do any work. The flight was scheduled for the afternoon, but I guess the entire morning went with us discussing about how exciting the trip was going to be and stuff like that. The mini conference at Johnny’s cubicle was in full swing once again.

Vignesh who was slogging his ass off in the United States of the one and only America had just hit Indian soil at around 1 a.m. the same day. He caught on a few hours of sleep and was ready to hit the road with us in no time. What I learnt that night was that that thing called jet lag, it either does not affect machaans, or they just don’t know that something like that exists.

Rahul: Dude, this is so awesome dude! Just a few more hours and we will be on our way.
Me: Fuck you man. Don’t remind me. I can’t wait.
Johnny: Ya man, let’s do this!
Vignesh: Machaan, I hope I haven’t forgetten anything. I feel like I’m missing something.
Me: Yeah, your brain you fucker.
Danny: Somebody tell him to stop swearing so much.
Me: Fuck you man. Cock sucker. Suck my cock mother fucker. Son of a bitch.
Danny: Hehehehe.
Johnny: Okay, now listen. I’ve booked a cab. It shall be here in the afternoon. I want all you fuckers to be ready on time. If any of you are absconding then well will leave without you.
Me: Yeah, fuck you fuckers.
Rahul: Dude, this is awesome, I’m so excited!
Me: Fucker, take your awesome and shove it up your awesome ass man. Fucking UP choot pakoda.
Rahul: Hey, hey! No regional violence okay? No regional!
Vignesh: Machaan, but what about girls da? You think there are hot chicks there?
Johnny: Dude, the place is white listest. All good stuff. All firangs (foreigners), but the Indian maal (stash, wrt women, not supposed to be offensive) is good too. And, for that matter, all the women who go there, Arabian chicks too.
Vignesh: Danny machaan, heard that? Arabian girls. Surely from Muscat.
Me: Fucker, if Danny even thinks of doing a girl on the trip, Jesus will fall from the cross.
Danny: Arrey, what are you fellows talking all rubbish.
Rahul: Dude! Awesome man! I love chicks!
Me: Ya, I hope you find a real hot chick, who has a cock. Fucker!

With that most of folks there grossed out and we decided to go to our respective desk and do some work. Well at least we pretended to be doing some sort of work. John Paul was frantically typing, trying to convince eight women that everything will be okay in the few days whe he will be gone. Danny dialed a number that took him straight to his lady love and then the two of them started speaking in some language that I could not understand. May be it was arabic, but then again, I got a hearing problem I think. Well that’s what I tried telling myself, but I guess I did not hear myself well. Vignesh went to get some coffee for himself and disappeared around the corner.

Rahul and I headed off to the urinal. Rahul on his way telling people how awesome their desktop wallpapers were. We both enter the room marked ‘Men’ and relieve ourselves, ah, bliss.

Me: Fucker, you know what would be really sad?
Rahul: If it’s one of your cock jokes, then don’t bother.
Me: Fucker listen at least.
Rahul: Okay, okay!
Me: Yeah, you know, if we are taken hostage, we escape, but Danny dies.
Rahul: Hahahaha!! Oh, and you know what would be even worse?
Me: What?
Rahul: Say, we all are abducted, no once can do anything, not even Mayawati. We all die, but somehow, against all odds, Danny escapes and comes safely back to Hyderabad and goes home. He is just about to enter his house, he slips on the door step, bangs his head on the door knob and dies.
Me: Hahahahaha!! Oh fuck, that too funny man! Hahahaha!! Shit, if we tell him that he will cry man.
Rahul: Hahaha.

We head back out and return to our respective cubicles. The seconds tick by slowly. The few hours seemed like forever. Then I get a call.

Guy: Hello Sir, am I speaking to Mr. Lowaal Bear-neeard Deeessuuu.. er…
Me: D’souza (fucker), it’s D’souza.
Guy: Yes sir. I’m ‘some-tamil-name’ speaking on behalf of Citibank. Sir, is this a good time to speak to you?
Me: Regarding?
Guy: Sir as an esteemed customer of Citibank.. blah blah blah.. credit card.. blah blah.. Birla Sun life insurance.. special offer.
Me: (fuck, I shoud have said ‘no’).
Guy: So sir are you interested in the offer sir?
Me: No, thanks.
Guy: Sir, but as a Citibank Credit Card holder, you are one of the lucky..
Me: No thanks. I already got myself insured.
Guy: Sir, but this offer..
Me: So, are you from Citibank?
Guy: No sir, I’m from ‘some-fuck-who-gives-a-shit’ marketing company. I’m calling on behalf of Citibank, we are authorized to..
Me: Are you from Birla?
Guy: No sir, as I said, I’m from ‘some-fuck-who….
Me: Then you are not from Citibank and you aren’t from Birla either.
Guy: Sir but our company..
Me: Wait, I’m too busy right now, speak to my assitant.

Enter into the scene Mukesh Mukhi. Also known as Mukesh, Mukhi, Babu and Anna. But most of the time referred to as Mukhi or Babu. Mukhi wasn’t on the trip due to health reasons, so he shall not be documented in detail.

Me: Babu!
Mukhi: Cheppu Babu. Wassup?
Me: Phone Babu. Some Citibank poser. Selling me some shit. Insurance I think.

Mukhi puts his hand out. My phone flies across a couple of cubicles and lands into Mukhi’s hand.

Mukhi: Helllaaaa.
Guy: Sir, am I speaking to Mr. Lowaal Bear-nard Dejuja?
Mukhi: Noooooooo. But why are you calling sir?
Guy: Sir, I’m speaking on behalf of Citibank sir.
Mukhi: But why are you calling everyday and disturbing sir? Sir is a very busy person.
Guy: No sir, I don’t call everyday.
Mukhi: Now you are lying. Everyday you call and say you are from Citibank and asking to buy credit cards, insurance, car, house loans, etc.
Guy: No sir, I’m speaking on behalf of Citibank..
Mukhi: Oh! So you are not from Citibank!
Guy: No sir, behalf sir.
Mukhi: What is this behalf? Can you explain?
Guy: Sir, our company is an authorized marking company for Citibank sir.
Mukhi: But you told sir that you are selling some Birla insurance. Are you from Birla?
Guy: No sir, behalf. We are authorized to..

Just then Vignesh passes by. Mukhi signals to him and calls him to his desk.

Mukhi: Where are you calling from?
Guy: Chennai sir.
Mukhi: Ah, Chennai. So you must be knowing how to speak Chennai right?
Guy: Sorry sir?
Mukhi: Chennai people, you speak Chennai right?
Guy: Sir, I ‘am’ from Chennai.
Mukhi: Yes, I know. That language, ah, Tamil, you speak tamil right.
Guy: Yes, sir. I speak tamil sir.
Mukhi: Ah nice. I got my tamil friend here, speak to him. He will know what you are saying.

Mukhi hands the phone over to Vignesh who starts some inga inga illa iila. He goes on to ask the guy why he keeps calling me. The guy is in tears by the end of the conversation. We felt bad for him. But at the same time, screw him. If they don’t understand the meaning of “No, I’m not interested” then to hell with them.

I look at the clock. The conversation did not eat more than 7 minutes of the long wait. Forever felt like forever++. I put my head onto my desk and sleep.