“No beef. No pork.” My father said. His moustache was as bluntly dyed as his Hitleracious decree for the wedding. My wedding. My wife’s father, not wanting to conjure any complications, nodded along like a bobblehead toy.
Just as Stallone needed a special set of skills to escape from the most notorious prisons inEscape, to entertain an inter-caste/interreligious rendezvous in India, you needed an extraordinary fortitude. Believe me.
Now, this is not a cry about summoning India into squeezing its breast hard and dropping that last drop of milk in the mouth of the classified reserved sects of the unreserved classes and tribes. Because, luckily for India, Dr B R Ambedkar, the Chief Creative Officer of the Constitution Drafting Committee, came from a caste called Mahar, which was cast to be designated at the foot of the social order. Naturally, having an inside man helped the depressed chef up a revenge with class-reserved ingredients that had the toxins to suppress the progressed and possessed into bending their knees on the graves of their predecessors.
JINGOISM OF HINDUISM
The Hindus did not seem to have a problem with munching on yummy mummy cows, until Islam sat on the crescent moon and fished for prospects on the earth.
Hinduism is an aimless religion. Islam has a time sheet to fill when it comes to worshipping the one true God for five times a day. Christianity has made its mission to spread the word of God through its missionaries. Buddhism has the mindfulness to make your mind mindless in a newfound state of nirvana. What does Hinduism have, other than being the nation that offers 1.3 billion Gods on a rhodium platter!
Hinduism is so vigorous about procreating newer Gods every other day, since every beating heart is a God to it, it forgets what the previous God stood for and sacrificed his testicles for. Talk about being a hard-on disappointment.
The rightists are to be pitied. Their every attempt at getting us back to square one, culturally and ethnically, is for eternity riddled with landmines. Can you imagine having to fear to speak out in your own home? That is a trauma very hard to grow out of.
India was aboriginally home to the Hindus. Just as Israel was the deemed light at the end of a long, suffering, dark tunnel for the Jews. As for the Muslims, even though they rose from the desert, their mirage didn’t seduce them like a décolletage, and leave them deserted. Their fate changed for the better, because of an ill-fated kismet some other species had to endure sixty five million years ago. And Buddhism gets its good night’s rest in Cambodia. But what about India?
India has a nasty reputation for being an easy lay. Alexander of Macedonia groped her ankles. Islam grabbed her by the pussy. Trump, I know you heard that, but you got to wait in the line, buddy! The Portuguese and the British rubbed her tits and licked her neck. All on the first date. Now, wouldn’t you want to date her!
The sad thing about India, was that she was a naive village girl. She never really, fully understood her own potential. She constantly dreamt of the city outside, without realising that she was already living inside a diamond. That reckless inquisitiveness got her to blindly accept any date that came her way.
You have to understand one thing. India was wholesome and dusky and voluptuous. She had a lot to offer (sadly, a lot to lose) and most importantly she had the ability to become a virgin after every time she hit home base. Talk about divine gifts.
India was the swiss knife of resilience. She had all the tools to get back up in the wake of the most heinous adversities that were recurringly, prejudicially punctuated in her line of destiny, but no weapons of whatsoever capacity were ever amassed to protect her in broad light, even on the brightest day. A never-ending spell of darkness she has been cursed to cry in, since the last two millenniums.
All deeds, as sad and tragic as they might have been, or as magical as logic might have begged to disagree with, are fortunately or unfortunately bound by a statute of limitations.
The real time for India to have pleaded her case was when the British had arrived. Even though the British weren’t honestly honest as day, they were certainly not as coarse as the previous invaders. Their only lust was for politics and economics. The British didn’t go after women or ask men to change their chants from ‘OM’ to ‘Hallelujah’.
Records indicate that India had lost over 400 million souls during her dating frenzy, putting the holocaust’s numbers to shame. Still, if we look at the duration/victim proportion, Hitler’s ethnic cleansing of the Jews is by no means a scanty misfortune.
No one had asked India to date the other cultures and be on top of the Tinder page. Pitiful, most of her dates turned out to be hardline fundamentalists, who couldn’t care to give enough time to understand her, find out what her likes and dislikes were, know what her childhood was like, instead all they were ever hell-bent on going after was India changing her maiden name, through a forced intercourse.
Christian Grey taught us that inflicting pain can be addictive, while his submissive girlfriend-on-contract, Anastasia Steele, went on to corroborate enslavement as an even deadlier addiction.
India is a country numbed by pain. She’s had many heartbreaks. And it never seems to get any better for her. She could be bitten a million times, but she ain’t ever gonna get shy. She’s genetically coded to tolerate pain and communally activated to be intolerant to everything humane.
Some families have a member who is always frustrated. They never need any reasons to speak with an anal breath. That member, is for the most part, for the lack of courage to face the outside world, pours all his energy into beating the shit out of his own family members. India has one such member. The sweet child of the infamous acronym – B J P.
BJP, the specialists in banning foods, goods, and dudes on dudes, are the misbegotten great grandchildren of the unbridled India. Their greatest challenge has been to avenge the malfeasance of their mother by the outsiders. In that blanket of blind rage and of course in an amazon of imbecility, they are conscientiously unconscientious of the fact that the butts of their arrows are indeed pointed at the mouths of our buttholes. Inevitably, unless we are primed to taking it in the back, we are going to get back at giving it back to them in full swing. The kind of infliction typified to trigger a macabre friction that even the best writer of nonfiction would shiver to render his two pennies worth of conviction. It is hard to not remember this. It was also the year my brother was born. 1992. Bombay riots. Once again, a sad little brainchild of BJP.
Hinduism, the oldest creed since the time man crawled out of God’s seed, had issues. Just as the deepest ocean has a culmination and just as we are born to die, every religion has a melting point. Islam is currently on an unpaid apprenticeship serving perimenopause, while Hinduism is wielding its cougar claws to make one last scratch before it retires to drawing pleasure from the sweet nectars of menopause.
The milk-obsessed, dung-dressed, anachronistic #MakeinIndia mothersuckers have come too far in creating a line of distinction between those who consume beef and those who don’t, pushing those who do off the cliff in search of a retribution, which will be nothing short of a hellish revolution.
History is an attention-seeking whore. It will do anything in its power to not remain a mystery. Even if it means writing itself with the blood of our children, bleeding from the nib of our fathers.
Cows to me, are not adorable like dogs or cats. It is ridiculous to put them on a leash and take them for a walk. Ever since the Brahmins decided to have a reboot, our Gods, dubiously, have gone into hiding behind the hide of Kamadhenu. Yet, we have never found none of these Gods when we cut into her. Either the Gods have taken Hide and Seek way too seriously, or our saffron zealots have sought to hide behind a very convenient truth, seriously.
So many Gods in so many cows and yet here we are, in a country ruled by so many bloody fools. I need to have a talk with these Gods and see just what the heck they have been smoking.
TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN
If cow is indeed your mama, stop suckling on her teats and bring her home. Who lets a mother wander on the highways. I know she is an excellent speedbreaker, but come on, son!
Sadly for you, we find your mummy yummy. You may like what comes out of her. We are interested in what is inside of her. If that is murder to you and you think you have the right to hang someone for being a “stone-cold mother killer”, then let’s hang each other, because frankly we don’t like the way your mother has raised you. You lack awareness, kid.
You see, the cow in concern is and was never really India’s Holy Cow. It was simply the fiction of a political author, fabricated to create a distinction. Like iPhones. They are just ordinary phones priced extraordinarily to boost the egos of those with small wieners and low self-esteem. When you have no bullet in your chamber, you start bragging about how shiny your gun is.
Clearly, India lacks the grit to be 100% secular. Being “nearly” secular is fuzzy logic. That little wiggle room is enough for Modi India Private Limited to pitch its tent with retrograde ideologies and ensure that there shall be nothing left of what’s right, and nothing right of what’s left. Thereby making what’s left of what’s right barely right, because there is barely any left to make it fully right. So in that clause, as ridiculous as it sounds, dividing the nation for cows can be mooing (sorry, had to say it somewhere). The south has already asked for a #DravidaNadu. Seems fair. Asking us to move to Pakistan is not.
Hurts me to say this, but India is still held tightly by the reins of the caste system, appallingly oblivious of the actuality that heavens continue to stay far away because we are (collectively) the untouchables. However, good news is that hell is a lot closer, as we continue to be just the kind of shit it likes to chew and spit out.
You and me, we share equal concerns. You worry about me butchering your mother, and I worry about slaughtering your obscurantism and setting your dumbness on fire. I still can’t fully understand your obsession with cows, for all I care, you can even make her the national animal and replace the four lions in the emblem with four cows, but you will not get me to pity our country, who you want us to think is a damsel in distress.
Before I withdraw my fingertips to grab a bite from my plate of beef chilly fry, here’s something you will relish.
Question: So a cow walks into a bar. What does it order?
Answer: Cows never go to bars. They are sacred.