Khamba's Blog: May 2010

As a hardcore Delhiite who dines at Karim's, watches movies without standing up for the national anthem and likes his clubs playing Bollywood remixes (though I spent a few pre-puberty years in Ludhiana – which is basically Delhi on crack with bigger cars, better butter chicken and more female foeticide) I have consistently been dragged into socio-cultural debates over the city’s merits and pitfalls compared it to more humid cousin, Bombay. Now, I’ve lived in Bombay for a year (purists will say Hiranandani isn’t Bombay) and while I don’t think a year is enough to really judge a city and its character, if random white people can write best sellers after having spent 3 months in our country, I believe my opinion should count for atleast something. So without beating around the bush, I hate Bombay. Here are my reasons:

Raped For Space: Quite simply, as a Delhiite, I’m used to rape in my life. I need to read about it in the papers, I need to learn about it from the poor immigrant from the north-east living in the PG and I need to potentially see one every time I step out after 6:30 in the evening. And quite frankly, Bombay has bullshit amenities to facilitate rape. I mean seriously. You can’t kidnap someone and bring them to your apartment complex because the security guard will squeal or call some Shiv Sainiks. You can’t rape anyone in the car because the goddamn traffic will never allow natural speed bumps to facilitate the process and dump the hapless woman at the side of the kerb. Heck, to be honest, the sheer number of gaudy Guajarati women is enough to give any man Penisitis Deflataris. In Delhi atleast I know if I go around Chittaranjan Park I’ll get to see atleast some ‘famous for being slutty’ Bengali women. Complete fail.

My Ecosystem Is Better Than Yours: Again, I understand that Bombay peeps would be pissed at Delhi. I mean I would too if someone stole 40% of my money, built a Metro out of it and point to me and say – Ha Ha, can your spirit handle this you Bade Miyan loving piece of shit?! But this game of one-upmanship has to stop. Just because Delhi has tonnes of monkeys on rooftops that bite our kids and shake our illegal mobile phone towers doesn’t mean you keep unleashing a goddamn leopard from your national park every couple of months. I’m half convinced it’s the Shiv Sena that does it on purpose because it’s the closest thing that resembles their logo – but still, what gives? Just because Delhi cuts half its ridge to make way for a rugby stadium that no one will use a week after the Commonwealth Games doesn’t mean you start chopping your mangroves to show them who’s boss. I mean are you really that insecure? Just because my city parches to death every summer you decide to flood your ass and give us an ecological middle finger? That’s some bullshit right there.

The Name Game: For a city that is supposedly the harbinger of

India

’s cultural revolution and exporter of soft power, I would imagine there would be more creativity involved when it came to naming things. I mean EVERY DAMN THING is named after that one king whose name I won’t mention for fear or unleashing Maratha angst and was the title of Rajnikanth’s latest hit movie. What gives? Just look at the creative energy Delhi has in comparison. We have stuff named after Indira Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi, Sonia Gandhi, Sanjay Gandhi, Rahul Gandhi, Mahatma Gandhi…I mean the list is endless! All you can come up with one king who is now supposed to compete with the Statue of Liberty. I mean WTF? And it’s not just that. Even parts of the city have such random names. Borivili, Dombivili, Parla, Kala Ghoda, Fort, Cuffe Parade – I mean who came up with this shit? Imagine telling an outsider the first few names – atleast I thought my taxi dude was mentioning someone’s penis. Parla sounds like a cross between the biscuit company and lingerie maker. Kala Ghoda? Ahh well, better than that village in Haryana called Bhonsdi. Fort? What Fort? There’s a fort? WTF?! And don’t even get me started on the S&M imagery that Cuffe Parade creates. (Though I secretly wish I could participate)

Compare this to the awesomeness of parts in Delhi. Shahpur Jat – a name that evokes a rich romance of the time the Jat kings were allies with Shahjahan. Nangloi – When you’re naked, take a blanket (loi) Khan Market – the poshest part of the city named after our poorest minority – now THAT is bloody secular. Khirki Extension, Munirka – I can go on and on. I mean shit, atleast give them better tags. Why stick to East and West all the time? Why not “Greater” and “Lower” like our Dalit cousin Noida?

Taking Everyone Along: Frankly, I’m tired of the Slumdog rhetoric and constant harping over how Bombay is so much more tolerant and inclusive as compared to Delhi. I haven’t heard a bigger lie since Shah Rukh Khan said he loved driving the i10. I mean for fucks sake - let’s take the 93 Bombay riots for example. 900 people killed on both sides and hardly anyone went to jail. Delhi? We killed 3,000 people in 84 and made the instigator the Chief of the Indian Judo Federation for life. And we’re not inclusive? Hell, we take care of our people. Instead of beating them up when they come to give exams, we use them as illegal construction workers and wait for death to strike when it gets cold in the winters. We’ve got Tibetans shacking up on one side of the border, Jat boyz on the other and UPites on the third. So don’t you DARE call us intolerant. What is your tolerance? A Parsi food joint at Colaba?

And don’t even get me started on the slums. All you ever hear in Bombay is how Dharavi is this bastion for entrepreneurship and collective community – followed by how it will be razed to make way for new low cost housing projects. Again, unlike Bombay, we take care of our slums. Not only do we regularise all of them in our city’s master plan so that they can never be torn down, we even cover them up with massive curtains and plastic barriers so that nosey white people can’t abuse their privacy by clicking their pictures all the time. After all, they have self-esteem too.

Everyone's a Bloody Foodie: You’ve got Nando’s, we’ve got Tandoori Chicken legs hanging at every corner. You’ve got Little Italy, we’ve got Big Chill. You’ve got Bade Miyan, we’ve got Khan Chacha. You’ve got Junta, we’ve got National. You’ve got Jazz by the Bay, we’ve got Bennigans. You’ve got 2 brothers fighting over Pop Tate’s, we’ve got 3 of them fighting over Giani’s. You’ve got Theobroma, we’ve got bakeries whose names you can pronounce. You’ve got Five Spice, we’ve got Hot Pot Chinese van with everything dipped in Soya and schezwan sauce

You’ve got Parsi food, we’ve got Dal Makhni. You’ve got Feta Cheese, we’ve got Paneer Makhni. You’ve got seafood restaurants that serve crab, we’ve got Tawa Mushroom that gives you crabs. You’ve got crepes, we’ve got roomali roti. You’ve got beef, we’ve got buffalo disguised as beef. You’ve got Hummus, we’ve got actual Israelis overstaying their visas in Pahar Ganj. So seriously, don’t even try. Food in Bombay consistently sucks. Can’t really blame you though with everything being tadkaed with 10 kilos of kadi patta. That’s just IBS waiting to happen.

And btw – WTF is cutting? Can’t you just call it half a cup?! Is half a joint a cutting joint? Is a man with a small penis a cutting prick? I will give you this though, atleast you have restaurants named after cricketers. Manoj tried to open a Prabhakar's, but people got pissed because the prices were fixed.

The Music Shall Set You Free: Another thing I don’t understand is why Bombayites take so much pride in the concerts that happen there. What’s the big deal anyway? One bloody piece of barren land called the Bandra Kurla ground and so much attitude? What for? Ok so you got Iron Maiden and Megadeth and Roger Waters (which I went for – and the only concern people had was the inflatable pig landing near Haji Ali) and Skazi and Van Buren and Bob Sinclair and Richard Bona and god knows who else. But seriously – have you looked at the competition? Let me roll it out for you. Jazzy B. Sukhshinder Shinda. Punjabi MC. Akon. Stereo Nation. Juggy D. RDB. Kunal Ganjawala. Shaan. Jasbir Jassi. And if that wasn’t enough, EVERY concert, bar mitzvah, public execution and road rage incident is headlined by Parikrama. Can it get any better?! So STFU.

Public Ka Aana Jaana: For some reason, Delhiites like to lie prostrate in front of their Bambaiya brethren when it comes to talking about public transport. I don’t know why, but if you’re a Delhiite, there is no bloody reason to be ashamed.

Firstly, stop cribbing about how Bombay is so disciplined and people get in line for the bus. Have you seen our new buses? Low floor sexy as shit, green, environmentally friendly and right on time. They’re so awesome they have areas designated specifically for them and drop you in the middle of the road. That way you’re never stuck with the problem of having to cross over from one side to the other. You can always choose any side you want, thus maximising your choice as a consumer. Plus, I bet you a cotton mill if any BEST bus can reach a destination quicker than one of our blue lines.

Second, the autos might take you anywhere you want while playing Himesh on their woofers, but they aren’t half as interesting as Delhi autos. Frankly, I prefer an auto that says something like “Lose weight now ask me how” instead of a “Panvel – Bhayandar”. Also, half the auto guys, like a lot of strays in the city, seem to be afraid of getting their ass kicked and thrown out at any moment. So the possibility of engaging in an interesting political conversation is much more remote. Delhi autos – you never know if you’re going to be cheated, raped, stared at or dropped off at the wrong location. It’s like a box of chocolates. Plus, they teach you survival skills. The same goes for taxis.

And who drives a Fiat nowadays anyway? Shanghai my ass, can’t even beat Shimoga.

My Favourite Anchor: Arnab Goswami broadcasts his daily debate team captain wet dream on Times Now from Bombay. And oh yeah, Cyrus Broacha? I have dried kharbooja seeds funnier than him.

Image courtesy www.travelbrook.com

P.S. Thank you Nishtha Kanal for the inspiration and bringing back bad memories.

Annoying people at Delhi's Malls

Posted by Khamba in May 24, 2010

I must admit, I quite like malls. There is something about recycled climate-controlled air mixing with the smell of fair trade coffee beans and destructive capitalism that really turns me on. Where else can you feel good about paying a 1000% mark-up for the same bag of popcorn that you can buy from the 8-year-old stray dog bitten orphan in your local market? Where else can you get the sense of importance at being begged to take a pamphlet from a Rocket Singh wannabe who spent 12 lakhs on an unrecognised MBA degree? Where else can you stand on the 2^nd floor balcony and spit out pieces of chewing gum hoping they land in an auntie’s cleavage filled petticoat like an Olympic diver scoring a perfect 10? Where else can you bite into freshly micro waved doughnuts while groups after groups of teeny women walk in front of you as if it were a La Perla Summer Collection special?

Heck, add to that the 100% power backup and option of having your testicles rubbed by the security guard at the front gate as many times as you want, and malls are the closest

India

will get to a Vietnamese go-go bar, with CFL lighting.

That said, walking around malls in Delhi nowadays is like stepping into a closeted minefield of it’s blowhard bourgeoisie. Maybe nut huggers with embroidery have given men and women across the city a confidence that I was not accustomed to or familiar with – all I know is, it has led to an influx of certain kinds of people that have completely ruined my final bastion of self imposed isolation and moral depravity. Which brings me to the types of annoying people in malls:

Croc Wearers: The ugliest thing produced by man since Ashish Nehra. Seriously, what purpose do these foot condoms serve besides making squeaky noises over shiny marble flooring and desecrating the Amazon rain forest? Durable? So are hawai chappals but you don’t see anyone wearing those. Stylish? So is Lady Gaga’s makeup but you don’t see anyone imitating that. So WTF is it about these consumer versions of a biological attack that makes them so fucking popular? The last time such level of mass delusion struck the Earth, Hitler decided to invade

Poland

– and even THAT gave the world some bloody good sausages. These? These are the kinds of things that will make aliens mock us when they eventually find our remains on Earth. You would seriously want to see these in the Navi Smithsonian? The next time I find a kid sliding about in these things, he better expect his face to meet my size 13.

The 'Break me, Shake me' couple: The break-up couple is a boon for still photographers since they sit at the same place next to each for hours without end – foreheads wrinkled, hands crossed interrupted by the occasional “Are you sure you cant convince your parents?” There is also an 8 out of 10 chance that they are of the same gotra. The man will be employed kinds with a solid, slightly oversized shirt completely buttoned down with cheap khakis and Indian knockoffs of Chinese knockoffs of Red Tapes (it’s not an editing mistake). The woman also, normally has a longish pigtail, boot-cut jeans with embellishments and can’t answer what a push-up bra is to save her life. You will find atleast 4-5 of these at any given point littered across a mall. If you stare at them, they will stare back and see right through you. You feel bad for them given they probably wont find anyone else for the rest of their lives, but then you notice the next category and quickly forget these couples exist.

The Facebook Model: Seriously, who gets their pictures taken in front of malls anymore? Everywhere you go, you bump into atleast 5 dumbfucks who are getting their picture taken infront of an expensive car or another hotspot at a mall. Then there are the women who curl their lips, arch their ass and put a hand on the neck while their man-friend clicks a snazzy picture to masturbate to on his Chinese Nokia clone. Does this have some defacto rishtaa implications? If you marry me I’m going to take you to the KFC instead of that Subhash fellow who can only afford ice-cream at India Gate? All I know is, the next time you get in my way, I’m telling security you’re an LeT member on a recce mission. God knows you look the part.

Escalator #Fail’s: Look, it’s a goddamn escalator, not a level out of Super Mario 5. If you’re poor and have never used an escalator before, use the fucking stairs. If you’re fat and can’t use the stairs, put the goddamn gelato down, get some liposuction and stay at home. If you insist on standing on the left and blocking people’s way, don’t complain when I stick your face in the gap between the escalator and the point where you get off. If you’re going to imitate Usain Bolt and try and run down an escalator moving upwards, I will push you to your eventual death. Just shut the fuck up, get on top of one of the stairs, stay on the right and stop staring at people going down the other side. Assholes.

Mooby Uncles and Fanties(TM) with visible panty lines: I can understand the need to look modern. Maybe your fellow friends at the kitty party are all dawning Hillary like pant suits. Maybe you want to look cool in front of your kids by showing them that you are “with it”. But seriously, check your fashion disasters at home and put some traditional clothing on. I DO NOT want to look at visible panty lines from your ill-stitched pants. I DO NOT want to see you walking towards me wolfing down muffins from Cookie Man. It is not nice to freak out hundreds of shoppers just in case you decide to get gas or a heart attack at that particular point. There is not enough security staff to be able to carry you and yes, I have a problem if you treat your body like the national granary of

Somalia

Marketing Mascots: Maybe its just me, but I’m not a fan of men in suits pretending to be 7 ft tall dogs, elephants and other such animals. Frankly, my first instinct is to trip them, followed by ripping off their masks and delivering a spine-shattering tombstone pile-driver. I don’t give a shit if you’re selling an air-conditioner. I don’t need your pamphlet telling me about the 64 ways I can get diabetes. I will not contribute to your cause of helping sick guinea pigs escape from the clutches of Parsi aunties in Bombay. I don’t want to buy juice from you when your fucking mask doesn’t even have a hole to drink a pack with a straw. So seriously - stop freaking the kids out and stop pretending to not know how to talk. Dogs can’t freaking stand on their hind legs for 12 hours anyway. Just be glad I haven’t reported your Gujjar ass to your panchayat. We’ll see if you still consider yourself a man then.

Overzealous Employees: Dear manager at Music World, what is the point of installing so many CCTV’s and RF detectors in the store if you are going to have employees tailing me all the time to ensure that I don’t steal your merchandise? It’s a goddamn Himesh CD – no one except the Ruby Tuesday’s DJ from Gurgaon would want to steal it. You should be happy that someone still walks through your door in an attempt to coerce themselves into buying something. But if you’re going to get me hounded by a minimum-wage, Zardari-esque smile flashing pre-pubescent freak asking if I need “help”, you best believe I am taking my business to Palika Bazaar.

Coffee-shop Consultants: Look, it’s a coffee shop, not your freaking office. People go there to chill, enjoy a cuppa, flip through a couple of pages of their current novel, reflect at the pace at which life has left them behind and other such Friends inspired dumbfuckery. NOT to listen to your babblings on the future of Iraqi oil while you play solitaire on your computer screen without an internet connection. Just because you’re wearing a suit and have a Bluetooth receiver attached to the ear does NOT mean I will take you more seriously. It will only mean you skipped geography class when they were talking about “Seasons” and need a trip to Mehr Jessia’s finishing school to learn coffee shop etiquette.

As you can see, malls are becoming an increasingly gut-wrenching investment when it comes to spending quality time and preserving one’s sanity. And while our mall culture does give me immense happiness sometimes (Like at the Great India Palace in Noida recently, where Hrithik Roshan and Barbara Mori got Dalit-handled for unleashing a bundle of dry camel turd called Kites) I’m seriously contemplating taking my business to the only other place in Delhi where you can see rats for cheaper. The zoo.

Stuff I learnt through the movie 'Kites'

Posted by Khamba in May 22, 2010

The title of the movie doesn’t need to have any correlation with the movie as long as you show something connected to it in the first or last frame of the movie. Consequently, you could have named this movie “Mermaids”, given how the love affair starts and ends in the sea. Personally, I would have shown a cat in the first frame and called the movie "Pussy".

You can openly sell pirated DVDs in front of Casinos in Vegas.

Kabir Bedi left his gig in the Bold and the Beautiful only to become Las Vegas’s biggest casino magnate. His first order of business included choosing the world’s most hideous font and naming his casino with the same.

To be the son of the city’s biggest industrialist obviously means you will be promiscuous, an alcoholic and a wife beater. Not to mention supremely ugly as compared to the main lead. Also, whichever character is named Tony always turns out to be ch*%$ya.

Immigration officers in the

United States

do not keep any photographic records or fingerprints of past applicants.

If you are caught counting cards, you will be shot to death by casino authorities.

Yuri Suri, despite being sent on a pilgrimage to Mecca in his last outing with Hrithik, still remains loyal to his 12 fingered master.

Cyclone Laila is a consequence of Hrithik's sadness.

To seduce a Latin woman, you need to be an expert in making shadow puppets.

Hrithik Roshan’s nipples invert while turned on.

Cops from the LVMPD are not trained to shoot a 50 foot hot air balloon from a distance of 10 metres.

Indians wear monkey caps and gloves in the middle of the Nevada desert.

The chances of bumping into an Indian who speaks Spanish is the middle of the Nevada desert are higher than winning an Olympic gold.

Cars, while being transported from one location to the other on an 18 wheeler come equipped with a full tank of gas.

Nevada has no black people.

Hrithik Roshan will make an excellect surdie if he wears a turban with his beard.

Arizona recently passed the new anti-immigration law after watching Kites.

Mexico

has no police officers left because all of them have been hacked to death by the drug mafia in Juarez.

It takes one week to get a brand new Mexican passport.

Even without any dialogue, Kangna Ranaut is shriller than the anti-Facebook lobby in

Pakistan.

Taran Adarsh sells his soul faster than a Chinese factory replicates the latest Prada bag.

The only Anurag you should bother spending money on is Kashyap.

PVR Rivoli has really spruced up its act as compared to when it ran morning shows and each man would sit leaving a gap of one seat between them (in case of bodily projectiles).

Bandiyon ke chakkar mein naa hi pado to accha hai. Nahin to jaan se haath dhona padega.

Image courtesy www.bollywoodhott.com

Whose tattoo is it anyway?

Posted by Khamba in May 19, 2010

Last year in March I had done a post called The dangerous regression of Sikhism. It was largely to do with the fact that things that differentiated Sikhism from others i.e. its level of tolerance, forward thinking attitude, being against specific set rules and being riddled with inanities that plague are fighting a losing battle against the very things it set out to vanquish. (bitter politics, intolerance and a sense of insecurity etc) For me, the Mandira Bedi tattoo incident was a reminder of how we are continuing to waste time and energy on random issues while the community faces larger challenges. Check out the link above. I still feel every word of it holds true.

Open letter to Hrithik Roshan

Posted by Khamba in May 18, 2010

Dear Hrithik,

For someone who has been shown to start khaping women while baking biscuits, you have some nerve saying your face between Barbara Mori’s choco chips didn’t affect your marriage. I might even have believed it two years ago, but the way you say it - chewing your gum, wearing your khaping Mariachi Band hat and leaving your top four shirt buttons open – ticks me off more than the release of every Uday Chopra re-launch. I mean seriously, just because something has a Mori doesn't mean you khap it.

Do you have any bloody idea how much you have damaged the Indian psyche? Ever since you burst on the scene with Kaho Na Pyaar Hai, men started working on their upper bodies as if it were inflatable bubble wrap. Millions of kids started looking like a cross between Bobby Deol and Ozzy Ozzbourne with tits and chicken legs. But noooo… that wasn’t enough! You had to talk with a fake bloody accent and make every call centre worker in the country imitate your bullshit! Do you know how much business an inbound call centre loses when every employee starts sounding like Sharad Pawar with a salivary gland problem undergoing a root canal?

But how could you! You were probably busy finger khaping everything that moved. I guess I would too if I had so many thumbs. Emperor Akbar my ass. If I had 12 goddamn fingers even I’d never drop the sword in a fight either. Here’s an idea, why don’t you try for the Indian Olympic fencing team? You’re already used to wearing a mask and dressing like a homosexual on Dominatrix in Spandex night. Or is Krissh worried that his ego might deflate along with the etch a sketch ab? Yeah, I thought so.

And what’s up with your adverts? I know you can dance and have the flexibility of an underage Chinese gymnast, but does that mean every product you endorse include a 2 minute dance performance like someone stuck a live electric wire to your nuts? Or are you generally retarded? I’m thinking the latter – that’s probably why you looked so bloody natural in your performance in Koi Mil Gaya. I doubt anyone sane would submit to being called “Duggu” for the duration of their existence. Or maybe everyone in your family is dyslexic and unable to say Guddu. Oh, wait, that was Darsheel. My bad.

I’m sick and tired of everyone crooning about how you are a Greek god who rocks every movie with his presence. What the khap was Dhoom 2? Did the scriptwriters use your nipples like an ink pen to come up with a plot or were they generally sore because of Abhishek’s Dostana? Let me also remind you of the year 2002 where you gave our industry brilliant hits like “Mujhse Dosti Karoge (which suckered the audience into liking you) “Na Tum Jaano Na Hum” (mimicking the audience reaction at the movie and their entire relationship with you) and Aap Mujhe Acche C#$^&%e Lagne Lage (to complete the trinity) Take my word for it, don’t trust Taran Adarsh – he sells out faster than Danish Kaneria.

And finally, khap you for reducing my career into the leftover dhaniya at the bottom of a tray of masala peanuts. You might think your goldilocks and orange bar like tan, ripping muscles and two cent Latino actresses propels you into the big leagues – but you will always remain Aamir Khan’s ass monkey. Your pop isn’t the only one in the industry with friends and someday, even if its in 2050, “Victory” shall be mine.

P.S. Khap you bitches who think he is hot and ruined a decent intelligent man’s chances.

Regards

Harman Baweja

Image courtesy www.parinda.com

Differences between North and South Indian porn

Posted by Khamba in May 17, 2010

There are only two eternal truths in the world. Dogs sniff other dog’s asses, and men watch porn. Even Karan Johar.

While access to high quality pornography was limited to the rich and connected back in the day (Khushwant Singh having famously subscribed to a German magazine called Screw which got customs clearance under the pretext of it being an engineering guide) it is now a mere spill proof anti-microbial keyboard away for any Indian who wants it. It lies innocuously in the hidden folder of people’s phone memory cards, in the appropriately titled ‘Documentaries’ folder in their External Hard Disks, under the Mills and Boon stack at local magazine stand – heck, even in that paying guest in your neighbourhood where girls from the North East are being secretly filmed taking a shower as I type.

It teaches Indian men the few things they know how to execute in bed, gives them the confidence to jerk off looking at a white woman’s shoulder in a train, prevents atleast 69 rapes from happening in Delhi per day and sustains the livelihood of millions of cyber-café owners across the country. Clearly, pornography is an essential part of

India

’s socio-cultural fabric; a piece of latex if you will, that keeps everything together.

That said the quality of Indian pornography, much like Bollywood, has always left a lot to be desired. Gone are the days when people would go to desibaba and accupressure themselves knowing full well that the berries on display were not, in fact, Mamta Kulkarni’s. Gone are the days when people would be willing to buy that the woman wearing the bindi was a horny Hyderabadi instead of a luscious Latina (Shouting Ay Papi does not equal haaye paapi). Globalisation, access to information and the Nokia 7650 with Vibrate mode left people with higher expectations – a move that eventually led to the current ejaculation of Lucknowi laundiyas, Bum-visphot Bengalis and Gujju gashtis taking over the Indian porn landscape.

Needless to say, the current situation is sticky at best. Therefore, to help you hit the right spots, I have decided to do a comparison between the major sub-groups of Indian pornography i.e. North and South Indian

The Lexicon: First, let me say that there is no way to ensure the authenticity of all that websites claim the footage to be. Till I manage to personally interview them or find these people on Facebook, there is no way to confirm if the woman is actually a schoolgirl, an aunty, a model from Lahore, a stewardess, a college student with her boyfriend etc. That said; let’s take a look at the words associated with videos from either part of the country:

North Indian women are normally associated with “Petite, schoolgirl, horny, NRI or cheating on her love interest”. I’m not sure if this is pandering to existing perceptions or actually true, but I can vouch for the first three atleast. On the other hand, South Indian women are normally associated with “Aunty, Booby, Busty, curvaceous, Bhabhi etc”. This is not surprising given Mallu-wood (no relation to the man in the videos) is still the largest cause of men with Herpes.

The Setting: Location is key to creating a successful product. While a majority of South Indian porn still features largely descript, run down bedrooms, hostels or parks as the setting for where Shiva gets angry, North Indians mostly prefer doing it in hotel rooms, malls, basement car parks and other more eccentric premises. The idea is to integrate the location with your act of boom-chika-chika wow instead of the run of the mill Blue/Pink walls that are a staple of their South Indian counterparts. Perhaps it is a sign of a rising income inequities or just a case of high-end South Indian stuff being restricted for the Malaysian market. Either way, North Indian porn is I pills ahead when it comes to creative settings.

Camera-work: Even though North Indians (think DPS MMS) invented gritty, realistic camera work (ala Blair Witch) in Indian pornography, the South Indians have run away with the technique. Every third video now features a young man self-shooting himself and his female accomplice (who tries to hide her face but nothing else for some reason) before demonstrating diagrams drawn in

India

’s most famous book. This requires a certain level of flair as balancing the phone and keeping it steady while shoving your tongue down another person’s throat can be hard. North Indians have moved on to other gadgets such as webcams and camcorders that provide a higher resolution and a wide-angle shot once mounted on a tripod. Still, there are some Dibakar Banerjee types who use the phone camera to stellar effect when women get over their inhibitions.

The Music: While North Indians mostly stick to tried and tested background music such as Enigma, South Indians prefer to re-live their American fantasies by romping to Michael Jackson and the likes. The lower-end of the South Indian industry still focuses on Hindi/Malayalam/Telugu music sometimes (A.R. Rahman’s Saathiya being an old favourite) i.e. unless they want to hear natural sounds as a means of turning themselves on.

Body-hair: The probability of encountering a dense forest is a lot more in South Indian pornography thanks to what is known as the “Veerappan effect”. This makes it harder for the male to zone into the target, thus making him value the acquisition a lot more as compared to North Indian pornography where foliage is as menacing as the Amazon basin. Needless to say, it is like going fishing to an aquarium and the value goes down considerably.

Foreplay: North Indians don’t even seem to try, so I am going to head straight to the South Indian section on this one. Foreplay can be divided into 4 sections:

- The kiss: For some reason, the second most romantic thing after holding hands i.e. kissing does not find much favour in videos coming from either side of the country. Maybe it’s because Indians are horrible kissers in general. Maybe it’s because the guy has rasam breath. Either way, the same scene gets played out over and over especially in South Indian videos. The woman lies down. The guy gets on top. The woman is completely stiff and her arms are completely straight. The guy tries to take stuff off her body with his mouth but fails. The woman lies expressionless. The guy wonders why she isn’t groaning like she is supposed to and decides to kiss her. His paunch comes in the way and no matter how hard he tries his face remains as far from hers as Musharraf’s chances of becoming the Indian PM. He slides off and ties again from the side. He moves in with his 4-inch wide moustache but the woman turns her face away. He tries the other cheek but the woman is quicker. Forget ice-cubes or body rubs or Nutella, I’ve seen people getting asphyxiated having more fun. Repeat process till phase two.

- The kneading: Phase two is when the guy says screw the kissing let me get to the breasts. Now let me just say, for someone who has been a rice eater all his life, the South Indian male is excellent at kneading breasts as if it were the dough for tandoori roti. The woman winces; the guy doesn’t know what the hell is going on because he has seen this work perfectly in movies. Then he decides to pull a Peter North, digs his face in the cleavage, and shakes his head about. That ofcourse, is as erotic as watching Manisha Koirala lick chicken curry off her elbows. The woman stays stiff and wonders WTF the guy is thinking.

- The Tantric attempt: The guy, happy that he got to touch a pair is now ecstatic and doesn’t really care if the woman is actually enjoying it or not as long as he can boast about it to his friends. He then gets into a trance and does some shit which I still haven’t been able to figure out. It involves a lot of licking up and down the torso, moving the hands about an inch above the body as a way of cleansing an aura. The woman, keen on hiding her disappointment continues to play along and fakes expressions that would put Irfan Khan to shame. She still won’t let him kiss her though.

- The WHO-ORS: All I’ll say is that it is a pity a majority of our population is vegetarian because till you have experience eating Chicken Lollipops, this aspect shall never improve.

Positions: Again a disappointment on both fronts. It seems no one knows anything but the missionary. I blame Mother Teresa. For a cow and stray dog-loving country, we don’t nearly seem to buck and doggy often enough.

The Talking: After carefully straining my ear to hear any communication between people in videos from either part of the country, I have concluded that Indians suck at dirty talk. To be honest, it doesn’t even need to be dirty talk. Isn’t the whole point to communicate and give occasional instructions as to what is working and what isn’t?

The North Indian seems to like giving orders like his Hollywood counterpart and expect the girl to follow but fails miserably. I would like to shove as much as a pencil up these guys asses to see how well they respond to my commands. On the southern front, a lot of time gets spent merely coaxing the woman into taking the flowers out of her hair (no pun intended. And if you thought of one, shame on you) Then, as stated already, she prefers lying expressionless wondering what the hell is going on till the end of the show. I did hear a few “No” and “Make me your chettinad” though. I think.

The Money Shot: Given how long this piece is you might be thinking the process of fornication has already exceeded an hour and forty-five minutes. Incorrect. By now, we have reached about 2 minutes and 18 seconds. The money shot has been hit and woman is wondering if she was part of a T20 match. And again, this seems to be an issue that plagues my brethren from either side. The ONE thing in which they should be like the Indian elephant, they decide to emulate their Chinese counterparts. Not even Doctor Sachdeva whose ads you saw on the city walls will be able to help on this one. Damned shame.

In conclusion, if higher resolution, raw and uninhabited footage is what you are looking for, stick to the North. However, if you want action, drama, suspense and comedy rolled into one, look no further than the stuff from down south. The women might be a bit heavy for your liking sometimes, but that’s what you get for being a “khaate peete ghar ki ladki”.

P.S. No bed sheets were stained during the process of writing this article.