Bollywood led to guano boom, says study

You see pigeon shit everywhere. Sometimes, you become guano receptacle and a spectacle for those who catch the moment. But why is there so much of it around these days? What led to this poop mania among pigeons? A new study attempts to get to the root of it (with due apologies to Sonam Kapoor, but the ad agency for Garnier should try pitching on the lines of a shampoo that clears bird poo from your hair, and perhaps have her say, Because you're worth shit).

According to the study, it was Bollywood that gave rise to this phenomenon. It glorified and romanticised kabootar (pigeon), through songs like kabootar ja ja ja (pigeon go go go).

Or chad gaya oopar re atariya pe lotan kabootar (the rolling pigeon has climbed the attic)

And then you have this, kabootari bole kabootar se (she-pigeon tells he-pigeon)

And some even called the pigeon Lucky:

And dil junglee kabootar (heart is a wild pigeon)

Now, these are a few examples. Bollywood fired the pigeon's passion. The already randy species went on a lustful lovemaking spree, making more baby pigeons along the way. As a result, you found them in unabashedly compromising positions all around you, typically on the ACs, balconies, the washing machine, the kitchen vent - you name the location. Naturally, the pigeon population boom had to end in pigeon poopulation boom.

The study, conducted by Sulabh Ghareloo International, studied guano generators in various cities across the country. They found that the likelihood of guano in neighbourhoods that played such songs was higher than those that did not. Also, the quantity of guano from an individual pigeon almost doubled when the song kabootar ja ja ja was played.

According to the study, chances of kabootar shitting on you increased drastically when the song Lucky Kabootar was being played. Dr Kab Utar, pigeon psychologist, attributes this to the bird thinking that shitting on one's head is lucky for the one who gets it. Apparently, he said, the song twisted the old adage, crow shit on your head being lucky, and hard-wired it in pigeon species brains.

The study concludes, "From the samples we have tested, it is clear beyond considerable doubt that Bollywood has been single-handedly responsible for turning pigeons into stool pigeons. The lyricists of Bollywood may not have understood the consequences of their words when they were penning those lyrics. The nation is now paying the price, with guano overload."

Mr. Poopta Prasad of Lalooganj says, "We had been listening to the songs (mentioned in the study) but did not put two-and-poo together. Now it all makes sense. Our household has stopped listening to kabootar songs now. In fact, we don't even mention the word at home. Our balcony seems cleaner. My car has less poop."

Mrs. Pottyvrata Nariman of Tattisgarh says, "Whenever I hung clothes to dry on our roof, the neighbourhood pigeons ensured they leave their poop on them. I was so fed up that I had nightmares about it. I would dream that guano was taking over my world. We were being eaten alive by this huge wave of green and white poop. But now I know the reason; I have decided to act on it. I want to change my world."

While these people have changed their circumstances by making certain changes in their playlists, a sizable population of the country continues to grapple with the toxic omnipresence of pigeon shit. Sulabh Ghareloo International now hopes that their study results will help India rid itself of kabootar poop.

The Cat King & Queen and I (how the three came to be)

When it comes to fuzzy wuzzy furballs, how can anyone ever discriminate between pups and kittens, dogs and cats, or for that matter, any hairy mammalian species (except certain Homo sapiens who should be taxonomified as Homo sap-your-lifebloodiens) that inhabits the planet. I sometimes find the question - are you a dog person or a cat person - particularly annoying. The thing is, I love them all, in all their shapes and sizes (all right, barring the neighbourhood, particularly high-pitched Pomeranian who is more often than not leashed and who thinks it's his or her birthright to bark and bay at the drop of the hat, cap, sombrero or whatever headgear you might be wearing). In this case, too, I will give benefit of doubt to the breed and it would suffice to blame the humans who keep their dog tied almost always and never give them the opportunity to be what they really are - dogs.

Anyway, today, I have two cats (one cat and frisky teenaged kitten, I believe, drawing parallels in his behaviour and human teenagers) and the decision to adopt them was never easy.
The first time it occurred to me that I needed a furball to help me cope with the stupidly harsh realities of life was when I had given the city of Mumbai a lot of blood, sweat, tears and countless hair on my pate. It was decided that in order to make sense of this apparently purposelessly spinning glob of water and rock, I should get me a kitten. Adopting a puppy was impractical, for that would have meant 24x7esque attention (which neither I nor my friend and flatmate could afford). It was a life-changing decision, to say the least, and one that I will never, ever, regret (sorry Taylor Swift, this "never, ever" reference sounds far more sensible in this context than any of your undeserved Grammy awards performances).

HRH Wasabi

Wasabi happened then, almost two years ago. With a little help, persuasion and encouragement from friends (read flatmate, an erstwhile Farmville neighbour on FB, and a workplace colleague), she arrived home. Naming her Wasabi was fraught with hours of contemplation. She could have been Aloowalia, given her penchant for the potato (aloo in Hindi, and Ahluwalia being a common surname in northern India) basket in the kitchen, but that was soon ruled out and Wasabi chosen for her sharp claws and teeth and our love for the quintessential Japanese condiment that gives beer that extra kick.
Wasabi, despite all the drama she did on her way home from a Bandra terrace to a Malad 1-BHK, was quick to declare the latter as her sole territory. She became the Queen of the humble dwelling, and was aptly anointed Her Royal Highness With Parenthesis Around Her Nose by a former colleague and fellow furball lover (if I may say so).
On nights I returned from work devoid of any joie-de-vivre and willingness to be enthusiastic about anything in the world, HRH Wasabi was quick to wipe it all away. As she grew from being a month-old kitten to a teenage kitty, she brought back much of the excitement of being alive that was otherwise sucked dry in the daily grind, the local train travels, the endless traffic and oft-brain dead work.
As fate would have it, Wasabi was, in less than a year of claiming her Queendom, subjected to her first trauma - change of cities. She endured a flight in a cage relegated to the luggage section of the aeroplane. She successfully moved to New Delhi, but not without complaint (which is an understatement). However, she soon adapted and adopted a bigger home space as her own. And grew up quicker than I could say cat. Things were going smoothly, creaselessly and seamlessly in her domain. She had sole proprietorship of my limbs, furniture and any drama associated with contact with another human. For a year, it was so, till a surprise kitten threatened to disrupt the power equation in the house.

Enter Momlette

Momlette, who I first got acquainted with as Fire, happened more through chance than by design. He was this little ginger kitten, ever afraid, cautious and restless. That was my first impression of him. My heart went out to him, but I never imagined he would actually be a part of the lives of Wasabi and me. Nevertheless, he was here to stay, and Wasabi had no clue. She was not pleased.
The best advice I got at that time was to let things run their natural course. Yet, I had to be watchful of Madame's reaction. She hissed and swiped at Momlette, and hid and wallowed on the topmost kitchen shelf. It broke my heart to see her like this.
Momlette, on the other hand, was discovering his new-found Kingdom.
It took me one day off work and a night of standing on the kitchen shelf just to convince HRH Wasabi that she needed to get down and familiarise, socialise with her own kind. If my back gave me pain in the process, I couldn't afford to pay heed. And indeed, she did relent, but not without her empress demeanour.
She descended from her perch, and was almost ready to kill this little imp when I intervened. I quickly took him into my arms, like a parent would his child to protect him from harm. And sat there as Wasabi stared at us. And I stared back at her, Momlette in tow. We sat like that for who knows how many hours. But I think that's what sent out the message - Momlette was one of us and she better accept him.
She did, eventually. The next morning. She couldn't resist the temptation to play with the ball Momlette was playing with. She couldn't resist chasing this hyperactive little ball of fur, too.

Soon, the dark clouds of potential enmity and rejection dissolved into a little happy trio - two cats and a human.
Soon, the house was resounding with chases, crash and clang of things around.
Soon, Wasabi grew to be the big cat, now more royal in her ways than ever and keeper of all feline dignity I ever witnessed.
Soon, I grew to understand what it takes to be a parent who has to balance and equitably apportion love to all his or her children.
And soon, Momlette, Wasabi and I learned natural harmony comes instinctively - one doesn't have to try hard, or try at all.

Hope against hopelessness

I was appalled to hear a woman politician from Uttar Pradesh's Samajwadi Party say that there have been cases of rape in UP, too, but not as ghastly as the one in Delhi.

I write this not with the hope that the person in question will get to read it or change his ways if he happens to read it. I write this because rape is an outrage, no matter where it happens and to whom it happens. I write this with the hope that this time, it is time to change the factors that allow men to rape. And, cliched as it may sound, change begins at home; change begins with the way we educate our children.

Dear Mr Randy-in-Delhi,

I understand that your hormones have taken over your limited capability to think beyond your testicular appendage. I understand that for you, being born with a penis is a matter of such fundamental mighty pride that none shall stand in the way of what your revered phallic tool wants. I understand that you must satisfy your carnal cravings in any which way you can, or please. I understand that for you, everything is on offer, and that you must grab it, without having to feel the need to ask. For you know not the meaning of refusal. And even if you do, you do not wish to take no for an answer. You are not one to back off. For you, grace is not in backing off, but in violating that denial because it deigns to defy your aforementioned penile pride.

I understand that you must at least ogle at a woman, regardless of her dress, and at least pass a remark, a slur. And given a chance, grope, touch, feel as you please. I understand that you are given to believe that a woman is always ready to get laid by you and only you. I understand that you have taken upon yourself the highly sacrosanct mission dictated by your dick to deflower a virgin, violate a non-virgin, and shatter any ideas a woman might have of her being human. I understand that violence is an extension of your might. That you must use it when faced with resistance. I understand that you wish to obliterate non-acceptance from women's conscience altogether.

I understand that you have the support of those who blame everything on Earth and beyond but you for your macho desire for flesh. I understand that somewhere, you've also had the support of your parents who brought you up to believe you are god's gift to the universe and god forbid anything or anyone that tells you otherwise.

I understand that you believe law is there only to protect your interests. I believe you have kin in high places who will bail you out in the rare instance that you are caught with your pants down. I understand that you bank on collective amnesia; you believe others will forget, media will move on to the next breaking news, people to protests about other matters, police to newer cases and governments to debate on quotas and FDI.

Mr Randy, I want you to now understand that your misplaced sense of machismo, your false masculinity, your smugness reek of your rotten self. Mr Randy, I want you to know that you are scum. You are the shit that this country needs to flush out, and believe you me, we will flush you out - one changed mindset at a time.

Yours sincerely
A new Delhi.

Thank you for the laughs, Bhattiji

Yesterday was bleak. Word of Jaspal Bhatti's death trickled in, and took a while to sink in. Soon enough, that sinking feeling surfaced yet again.

A particular slice of hilarity is no longer part of our lives. The news brought back those evenings when we, as a family then, sat worshiping the idiot box as Flop Show came on. Back then, TV entertainment was showing early signs of decay. But here was a programme that strove, and succeeded, in taking the drab out and giving us what we needed the most at that time -- a reason to laugh at the world around us and laugh at ourselves.

When Flop Show days were over, Jaspal Bhatti could be seen in odd news, spoofing government policies, berating inflationary trends, and that was that. There were a few largely forgettable Hindi movies, but blame Bollywood for roping in a talent just for the name and then killing it. Somehow, Jaspal Bhatti never seemed to let this set him back. His humour, when independent of constraint from producers and filmmakers, remained undiluted.

Today, the route comedy takes on popular TV channels is far removed from Jaspal Bhatti's. His was never below-the-belt humour. It was cerebral, never personal. It never needed a double entendre as a tool to rouse a few sniggers. What he has left behind is a very tough act to follow.

Who else could take a jibe at the political and bureaucratic practices of those times without inviting charges of libel, sedition? Perhaps he was not an activist, all he wanted to do was kindle among people that spark to fight, to be activists at a personal level. It was not a rebellion, but a laugh riot. It did not require anyone to be manhandled and paraded in streets, face blackened and all. The way he poked fun would secretly put to shame the ones he aimed his humour at. 

I don't know if that changed any lives, but it certainly did leave an imprint. Why else, after so many years then, would his death have affected many of us?

Why am I affected? Having heard and read the likes of Shail Chaturvedi, Kaka Hathrasi, Shreelal Shukl, I'd often wanted to be able to express humour in similar vein. Jaspal Bhatti perhaps taught me that one needn't necessarily go the hasya kavi way. In my teens, I aspired to be a satirist, but in those days writers, let alone humorists, were considered an abomination -- it was not a "profession" for your kin to be proud of, for it did not guarantee money, security and marriage. The dream is still alive. Somewhere in my mind, Jaspal Bhatti's laugh riot still trounces the dreary day-to-day tedium. Someday, perhaps, it will be.

Here's to Ulta Pulta. Here's to Flop Show.
Here's to the Laugh Out Loud moment that is now gone.

A shaadi rant

This neighbour of mine, a grandmother of teeny tiny itty bitty kids, intercepted me the other day as I stepped out to do that ghastly chore - grocery shopping. As all good mothers, mine had taught me to greet thy neighbours with a polite, "Namaste/Hello, how are you?" And so I did, knowing little of the consequences that would follow, the consequences, which for me are inconsequential, but perhaps meant the world to the person who stood in front of me.

"I'm all right. Par aap ek se do kab ho rahe ho," asked the neighbourhood auntyji. Literally translated, it means when are you becoming two from one, which means she meant to know when I was getting married. She quickly added, "Then we can come over to your house, chat with your better half."

As she said it, I began to picture her as the keeper of righteousness and virtue, acceptable social behaviour, out on a mission to convert anyone who dares defy convention, anyone who does not fall in 'their concept of the line'. Complete with a spear or a sword, and any religious text that she considers her foutainhead of bigotry. Brrr. I shook off the thought as soon as it got to the religious text.

Really? Is that all that neighbours do? Chat with your better halves? As if chatting with just you (as a single man, no family in sight) is an abomination of all kinds. Will she speak to my better half is she knew he is going to be of the same sex? I suppose not.

"No aunty, that's not happening. I am happy with my billi (cat)," I said, restraining myself from calling the cat pussy. I was surprised at the amused smile I could muster. But it seemed to have done the trick.

"Oh, you are impossible," she pshawed, rolled her eyes and muttered quick goodbyes (OK tata not been nice to meet ya and all that implied).

With this auntyji dispatched, I moved on to the chore at hand, but this conversation again brought me to this society versus you debate.

Another example that comes to mind, a very recent one at that, is when my own kin said it in as many words. The thing is, I was invited to visit Switzerland, but on one condition. That I get married and the honeymoon trip will be sponsored by them. Oh, right, I thought. You will be surprised when I do get married and bring my partner over for honeymoon. I would love to see how that goes down in their straight and narrow lives.

It's different with me, but for so many straight friends I have who do not believe getting married is the be all and end all, the questions that pop up all around them are the same. What, perhaps, is even more flustering is that when the people, who apparently should know you better, toss these questions as if they met you for the first time and had little clue of what to talk about.

Perhaps the concept of shaadi, or marriage, is so strongly ingrained today (thanks to the films, soap, commercials, fashion shows that focus on the bridal lehengas and groomal sherwanis) that getting married is considered the only logical thing to do in life. But let that decision rest with the two who wish to walk the aisle and let those, who do not, be.

I wonder when the concept of a big, fat wedding as a precursor to a happy life together started congealing in the cultural context. Your kin, your neighbours that advocate marriage are more often than not only interested to that extent. For after the wedding, they will disappear, leaving the two of you to fend for yourself, grapple with your own issues (which would have been the case even if you were single - they have the excuse that you don't have a better half with whom they can talk to and sort out your life. Not that you would want them to).

I also wonder if a slight difference in one's way of life throws the society's perception of homogeneity out of gear. Anyone who does not fit the slots created by the society must be considered odd, someone the others dare not have a conversation with, unless s/he got themselves a better half and then all seemed right with the world.

For me, I am happy not to be part of that homogenous mixture if that is all it gets you. I love the space outside the milieu, where this bunch of 'like-minded' individuals celebrates the differences we share, better halves notwithstanding.

A little whine shopping snit

Sometimes, you are forced to act the snob, not because you enjoy it but because someone will corner you with either his/her stupidity or try to impress upon you that you possibly cannot know better and do not know what you are looking for. The following happened at a 'Wine & Beer Shop' in Delhi. I am yet to come to terms with it.

So, this afternoon, I thought I would shop for things that I have been postponing for quite a while now. Anyway, off I hopped to the nearest shopping mall, bought all I needed and was headed out when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the board, 'Wine & Beer Shop'. All right, just what one needed for the hot summer afternoon. I thought I'd stock up some Wine & Beer, and entered the deserted store.

There was hardly any customer, and it seemed I'd sauntered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet, the draw of beer was too alluring to rush out of this ominous trap now. So quickly, I picked up some beer, and then stopped at their wines section.

Duh! Wine.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone yelled, "Sir, ye wine hai (Sir, these are wines)."

To which I replied, as politely as I could manage, "Pata hai, isi liye dekh rahe hain. (I know. Hence, I am browsing this section)."

The man's tone changed, and he started yelling instructions to his store boys, "Sir ko wines batao. (Show sir some wines)."

And almost immediately, a pimply bhai saheb parked himself next to me, to 'show' me their wine selection.

I tried to resist, but then gave in, and asked him, "Zinfandel?"

His eyes went wide, and he retorted, "Gin? Wo to udhar hai. (It's on the other shelf)."

"No, no," I was a little exasperated now, "ZINFANDEL. Or Rosé?"

"Hain (huh)?" He went even more quizzical.

"Rose?" I said, making sure the sneer is obvious.

"Oh, rose wine hai na (Oh, we have rose wine.)," pat came the response. He then handed me a bottle.

I took it, turned it around a couple of times, and asked, "What year?"

"Sir only XYZ rupees."

"I didn't ask for the price, I asked what year... how old is this wine?"

"Sir year toh whiskey mein hota hai. Ye toh ekdum nayi wine hai. (Sir, years are applicable to whiskeys, this is the latest wine," the man said, with such pride that his chest was about to burst out of his shirt. That would have been the ugliest sight in the world.

At this, I beamed, pricking his big bubble and showed him where the year was printed on the label. "You see, here it is." I had a nagging urge to tell them - next time, don't assume all your customers are ignoramuses like yourself - but stopped short.

I picked up what I wanted, paid and stepped out of the shop, nothing achieved really.

The Fat 'Contagion'... why some research sounds blah.

First, they said you get fat if your partner/lover/roommate/dog/cat/turtle/lizard/whatever-lives-with-you tends to attract adipose. Today, there's a report saying that to lose weight, you must work in teams. Hang on a minute. So, if you start losing weight, will your whatever-lives-with-you will too, or will let you? Fat chance!

What if you were working out in a team that is industrially trying to lose weight, and after a hard day's blood, sweat and tears, you come home to your live-with-you, who is unabashedly soliciting the fat monster? I suppose you will have to get your live-with-you to join your weight loss programme, perhaps it would work then. You two can lose and gain and lose and gain in an eternal cycle, like your relationship — up and down.

Adipose, as defined by science (all right, by Wiki), is a tissue that acts as a "fat depot (I just love the sound of this)" and is composed of 80% fat. Basically, this tissue is supposed to store fat. The more fat you eat, the happier your adipose is, and it shows in your waist line. Also, an excess of certain nutrients is converted into this food stock for emergencies your body might face.

Adipose constitutes your internal make-up. Some have more of it, some less; some say it runs in the family. If your ancestors were generously endowed with adipose, chances are you will inherit that lipid legacy. So, to avoid that legacy from manifesting itself and ruining your chances of sporting a six-pack, you will avoid partners who could spell trouble with big FAT. You will discriminate, and you will limit your chances at having a life.

What if you were just living with yourself, you enrolled with dedicated teammates to shed extra pounds? You came home, looked yourself in the mirror and voila! Adipose was back into your life, pumping your lipido? Over time, you will lose your teammates, who will accuse you of slacking while they are doing their best. In such a situation, team dynamics don't look very healthy.

I think fat is just that... fat. You have it, you lose it, it comes back, you lose it again. Why bother if external factors sound contradictory. You can love yourself and love your fat, too. Just don't pamper it too much, that's all. Weight loss teams, weight gain partners... researchers will not let you live in peace with your lipid love.