Category: GQ

I’ve just knocked the socks of the hottest looking female on the planet for the 100th time. We lay there, arms crossed, looking into each other’s eye with content. But, only I’m not. I’d be a douche if I said something. Truth is, I got bored. Rather quickly. Too quick for even my own good.

Looking for answers, I pick Google’s brain. Endless columns and blogs later, which by the way are in surprising abundance, ramble the same sad fart-induced ideas. Put ice in her foxy fondle, cherry her on top, lick the nutty nipples, chocolate sauce your turtle and let her tongue polish it shiny clean and so on. You get the drill right?

Yawn! Frankly, these just don’t cut it for me. Done. Done. And, done.

I think its time we set aside continental food and gave the Indian recipe’s a chance. I know how this may sound because I can see you’re brain has already gone in overdrive. Imagining daal, butter chicken, naan (bread), dosa, paav-bhaji, imli-ki-chatni, gulaab jamun and mind-blowing-bed-breaking-activities just don’t go hand in hand. Or, do they.

To be honest, the very thought originated, one late evening, by watching a woman swallow a whole “PAAN” post quaffing down a bottle of russian vodka. Till that very moment, I could’ve never put two and two together. Her lips, those drunk-dreamy-blue eyes and back-revealing saree ensemble had my blood rushing for a standing ovation.

I’d say, the next time you’re woman goes under the sink to clean the pipes, drop in the chatni or chaashni (used to sweeten gulab jamun). Top her up with idli-sambhar or if she’s from the North, butter chicken curry and use naans to wipe her clean.

The creative bunch can also introduce achaar, golas (ice candy), bhel-puri as part of the overall seduction game. Don’t be a weiner, try the tikka and see her soften-up like a tender malai-kofta.

Published originally on GQ.

There I was, a chilled beer in hand, on the edge of my seat, watching the match between India and Australia. Despite my bleak knowledge and interest for the game, the cricket fever had gotten the best of me. An adrenaline rush ensued once Yuvraj hit the ball down the boundary towards victory. It sure felt euphoric.

I settled back in my seat on hearing the phone ring. To my surprise it was a distant friend from Bangalore. I figured he’d be excited and be calling friends to congratulate them. But, before I could utter a word, he blurted, “Could you arrange some tickets?”

Even before my phone could find it’s place back on the table, another call from a relative in Rajasthan, and another from Delhi, and another from Mumbai – every one wants to watch the ball bashing action, live.

I feel like a hotshot bookie. I console and sympathise with all of them – “too difficult boss, but I will try my best”. Apparently rumours are afloat that 50% seats have been reserved by sponsors and the ICC for “delegates” and “very important people”. And who will these people be is still speculation.

Newspapers are littered with headlines of elusive tickets and how the “who’s who” have squeezed every connection high and dry. Reports claim that right down from the peon to the government “babu”, all are inundated with calls having to carry their phone chargers everywhere. A few have, in frustration, even switched off their phones completely.

However, I did notice something unusual over the past day. It all began while I was walking down the market and two random men approached me on overhearing my telephonic conversation for tickets. These men assumed I had a few lying around, to spare for random people I meet in the market. I consoled them too but they persisted and ended up taking my number.

I was witness to a unique Indian-like over-friendly – the kinds when you travel to a rare European country and see the only other Indian. This entire episode reminds me of deprived members of society running after a truck loaded with water and food grains. The rich and influential could care less; they’ve rolled out the red carpet to the terrace and VIP box with pocket change.

Frankly, I find heading to a local pub, fitted with a big screen and some chilled beers a far better deal, and it definitely doesn’t cost a month’s pay cheque.

Published originally on GQ.

For the past month, I’ve been dodging social media in all its forms, which includes selling the iPhone. You could call it cognitive therapy for the overdosed in media exile. During this limbo, with time to spare, I took to bodybuilding solemnly.

Like most gyms, mine is littered with 40-inch plasmas, which usually play HBO or CNN. Come what may, I’d step in unperturbed and complete my workout avoiding any social banter. But, to my surprise, something extraordinary happened a few days ago.

Um, well… I – along with other testosterone bodies – salivated at Lisa’s (esque-Katrina Kaif item number for Tees Maar Khan, a Bollywood flick) derrière between lunges. This orgy led to an unplanned huddle by the water cooler – a tête-à-tête on two sex-sirens.

At first, Kate (esque-Maliaka Arora from Dabangg, again a Bollywood flick) took centre stage and tickled our belly of pervert with kinky ideas. The young man on the right plonked, “she’s one sizzle fest, a cougar I fantasise about during expansively boring boardroom meetings or when my wife is away to her parents”. All of us nodded while I pictured this almost immaculately in my mind’s eye.

From Kate the conversation drifted back towards Lisa (Sheila ki jawans fame). At this point, our chuckles were tippled in slinky satire that sounded like a bunch of 13 year-olds who’d just discovered panties in the dictionary. Only at this point I realised that men from all age groups were participating without judging each other (a rare commodity these days).

That day onwards, the moment Lisa and Kate’s doppelgänger- Sheila or Munni appears on television, we all share fist-bumps or smirks and grins from across the floor.

Published originally on GQ.