How to write like a twenty year old even if you are sixty

Why would anyone want to write like a twenty something? According to a study, young Indians are using their mobile for news, entertainment and leisure information. Given that young readers prefer reading young writers,  how do you create a niche in an on-line world that is abuzz with noise? How do you infuse the spirit of youth in your keyboard even if you are sliding towards antiquity? You’ve tried everything from pun to fun and yet you read like a didactic dinosaur. Read on. This piece is for you unless you write about the Syrian crisis, the tumbling oil prices, or why Hindus should have four kids.

After several IIT-ians rendered Rushdies and Naipauls redundant, an avalanche of young writers wrote all about romancing their professor’s daughter and losing their virginity. The topics were contemporary, the style unpretentious, and the prose unadorned. If the purpose of writing was to be read, it served the purpose. A blurb on a recent bestseller reads – Her writing is very young, very now and very funny.
Young. Now. Funny. That’s the mantra.

It’s the Humor
Coin a witty, self-deprecating and memorable tagline. Umm, something like the tagline of a popular blogger - ‘This blog is marginally more interesting than picking one’s nose’ or ‘General Idiot for Hire’. Such wizards get blessed with comments like - Frikkin Awesome, LOL-bey, Donkey Balls and Double ROFL. After years of blogging, I earned my single ROFL recently. I am now working towards Holy S**t and Totally Insane.

Short but Substantial
Nothing is more joyous than being able articulate thoughts that resonate with youngsters. Moreover, there is an addictive kick in knowing that young people across continents are enjoying your writing. With the youth conversing in 140 characters, no one has the time or the patience to read edifying sermons. So much for senile snobs who think Twitter is a waste of time. Verbosity today is a refuge of pompous politicians or garrulous television hosts. Even politicians are trying to rediscover the merits of being short and succinct. Long verbose posts are a big No.

Laugh at Yourself
Going by the above premise, your writing needs to pack a punch of irreverence, wit and brevity. Use candid humor, self-deprecation and loads of honesty. Learn to laugh at yourself and make sure that your sense self-importance does not overpower your sense of humor. Else, you could end up sounding like someone who, allegedly in jest, blogged about why Katrina Kaif should be the President of India. Some jokes crash with a thud.

Laugh at Others
You can laugh at someone and yet, respect them. Don’t worry; you can joke about people without belittling them. It’s an art. Some call it satire. Unless you master the art of making your point without offending, stay away from lampooning anything that is remotely saffron or green. It can be deadly as recent events have shown. You might not be killed but income tax guys can drop in for a cup of coffee. Talking of beverages, try writing after a drink or two. Now you are ready to use flowery lingo used by your college going kid’s friend, who you think is a bad influence on your kid. Remember youngsters don’t write different stuff, they just write in a different manner.

Memes and Marketing
Memes are ideal for a relatively short attention span of the internet generation. Which is why, memes have become a pervasive part of popular culture. So learn to play with images. Let’s say, you are as tech challenged as I am. It is likely that you will be in an awkward situation where young bloggers are talking about coding and widgets. Look disinterested and say, “You continue with the basics, while I meet the others.” Or lie, “I don’t believe in tech support. My content is good enough.” Then go home and plead with your kid to teach you about SEO, plug-ins and social media marketing. Learn to tweet like a sparrow, Facebook as if Zuckerberg’s life depended on you, and develop a thick skin. Because for every ROFL, you are likely to get ten, “B**l S**t.” Hell hath no fury like a youngster defending his religion, sex, profession or gender.

Damn, I forgot all about the content being the king. Must be the drink. What? Despite all the gyan, I read like a sixty year old? You dumass!


Also on HuffingtonPost.

Under The Weather

Also in Gurgaon Times, The Times of India, June 27, 2014

It is an annual unfailing exercise. In the month of June, like Rekha emerges during award season, the weathermen emerge from behind the clouds of ignominy. At this time, the television reporters begin visiting the Indian Meteorological Department. Ignoring the fact that 1.1 billion out of 1.2 billion Indians know that the monsoon first hits Kerala before arriving in Delhi, they ask, “When do you think the monsoon will arrive in Delhi?"
Of course, the misery of Kanpur, Bhopal or Meerut is not as important as that of Delhi-NCR. You can’t blame us Delhi-ites. When it rains, humidity kills. When it sizzles, heat scalds. When it  cools, bones freeze. And the rest of the time, we have  haze, smog and dust storms. No wonder, we in Delhi are obsessed with the weather. And at this time of the year, when the monsoon is there but not yet there, our weather fixation acquires the intensity of a tornado.

So we see a balding weatherman clearing his throat and educating us with all the authority at his command, “Delhi will have to wait for the end of June.” 

What he means is, “Dimwit, didn’t I explain it to you last year? And the year before that?”

Moving towards absurdity at a lightning speed, the reporter runs an old footage of a street vendor selling nimbu-paani. “Aap dekh rahe hain ki garmi se log kis kadar pareshaan hai.”

Meanwhile, his counterpart in Mumbai gets all excited about the high tide that hits Mumbai.

Mumbai Reporter: What do you think about this high tide? 

Random Guy (quickly throws the packet of chips on the beach, wipes hands on his trousers): I feel that Modi should do something to stop the high tide.  

Rather predictably, the month of June reminds us that the employees of BMC and NDMC have been busy playing cards for the entire year. Year after year. Because cars and people begin disappearing in waterlogged manholes.

Delhi Reporter near India Gate: Delhi-NCR mein mausam ne aaj achanak karvat li. Please tell our viewers how you are enjoying?

Random Gujarati Tourist (drenched but super excited): We are totally enjoy. Totally enjoy.

Given the heat Delhi tempers are directly proportional to the city temperature. We become Indira Nagar ka gunda. Anything above forty degrees comes associated with long power cuts, menacing stares, middle fingers and a slew of MC, BCs on the road. Don’t judge us. If you experience such heat and traffic, minus the electricity, you too will behave like a caged gorilla. 

Interestingly, extreme weather conditions in the month of June inspire social media users in myriad ways.

Delhi Guy: 48 today. Totally roasted, man. Dread my electricity bill this  month. 

Bangalore Guy: Huh? This is nothing. We had a thunderstorm yesterday. Couldn’t sleep for ten minutes.

Mumbai Guy: Sweating buckets here. 

Patna Guy: Privileged morons, can’t you think beyond the metros? No power for last 3 days!!

Why do I get a feeling that June is retribution time for Hyderabad and Bangloreans? They get the rains first. They are like, “Yo Yo Delhi Daredevils. Burn in hell and scald in your arrogance."  

May-June is also a time when reporters use the term El Nino as frequently as the number of crimes in UP. If you don’t know what El Nino is, don’t stress.

 El Nino is a Spanish soccer player. Okay, so you know your soccer.

 El Nino is actually a weatherman’s favorite whipping boy. When they don’t know what the hell is happening, they blame it on El Nino. Or a western disturbance. Or both. 

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Filmistaan - Filmy Fever

After watching the trailer of Filmistaan, I wanted to see the movie. And I wasn’t disappointed. Debutant director, Nitin Kakkar has sprung a pleasant surprise by substituting the trademark song and dance with a situational comedy in the backdrop of tragedy and action.
The plot is as simple as a kidnapping gone wrong. And yet, the director cooks Bollywood meat over his gentle fire of direction to produce a delectable movie that speaks of universal brotherhood. Filmistaan reminds you of previous sparkling low budget movies like Phas Gaye Re Obama, Shahid, Bheja Fry and Tere Bin Laden. Simply put, Filmistaan is an offbeat mainstream comedy.

A fundamentalist group on the Indo-Pak border plans to kidnap Americans. Instead, they capture a Bollywood buff, Sunny (Sharib Hashmi). Rest of the movie is about how Sunny charms his way out, using his love for Bollywood and his friendship with Aftaab (Inaamilhaq). The fact that movie stars Sharib Hashmi, and not the other Hashmi we know, helps considerably. Because the film hinges on the acting prowess of Sharib Hashmi and Inaamulhaq. Spoof specialist, Gopal Dutt, who performs cameos on Cyrus Broacha’s ‘The Week That Wasn’t’ finds his groove as an abductor with a tender heart. Moments of laughter pep up this two hour drama at right intervals. Just when Sunny gets bashed by his abductors and the emotions run high, he makes you smile with his filmy rendition of Mard Ko Dard Nahin Hota, Rulayega Kya Pagle, Maar Daala Maar Daala.
I laughed the loudest during the scene where Sunny directs a video of his own abduction. And another scene where Sunny enthralls Pakistani villagers by mouthing Salman’s lines in Maine Payar Kiya remains my favorite.
This is not to say that the movie is without any glitches. There are moments when the pace slackens and you begin to shuffle your feet. Also, Filmistaan is not memorable cinema that stays long after you leave the theatre. It is simply a credible attempt, as the director refuses the clutches of a good looking cast, foot tapping music or scenic locales. It isn't easy to draw audiences, when your slightly obese hero remains captured in a mud house without a simpering heroine singing songs.That said, the acceptance of unconventional protagonists minus the six packs is a welcome trend. So yes, a Nawaazuddin Sidiqui, a Rajkumar Rao or a Sharib Hashmi can give some sleepless nights to Varun Dhawan, Tiger Shroff and their ilk.
Finally, if you intend to see Filmistaan in a theater, stay away from watching the trailer on YouTube. Because the trailer captures the best moments of Filmistaan leaving you looking for more. But if you don’t wish to see the movie, go ahead and watch the trailer. Click here.

All Good All Modi-fied

All Good.

Now that our descent into banana republic-dom has been arrested, there is nothing much to write about. We are hanging in a zen like space, holding on to our hopes, giving enough time for Modi Ji to take us to the promised utopia land. Land where Arnab telecasts live charity events, where Nawaaz and Modi play golf together, where Jaya and Mamata attend kitty parties, and where Rajan and Jaitley have enough time to visit a disc.
Until then, the media mavens sit uneasy. All the talk about Achche Din has knocked their socks off. The pool of those they lampooned is now a mere puddle. And in the puddle is a long nosed CM whose daddy believes that raping minors is as minor as stealing candy. Other than goonda raaj in UP, things are pretty much quiet.
Looks like Achche Din are actually Bure Din for the jhola chaap microphone wielding enthusiasts. Prior to the election season, they fed us with so much bad news that it almost became addictive. The bad news provided a justification for the idea that the world is full of big problems and bad people. Bechaara Arnab. So tickled was he by the controversies, that the lull after the storm is threatening his rozi roti. With Nawaz planting a friendly peck on Modi's diplomatic cheek, any slanging match between Zafar Hilaly and Maroof Raza on television lacks punch. Consequently, his rival, Rajdeep, is on a long leave after Mukesh Ambani takes over IBN News Network. Shekhar Gupta, the editor-in-chief quit the Indian Express too. That Rajdeep and Sagarika fade away along with the Congress, says a lot about the media independence. Read Here

With the bogey of secularism buried for now, there isn’t much for Barkha Dutt to nibble away. What is left for political observers to observe when Rahul's own party men call him a clown? Mayawati is not contesting by-elections, Jayalalitha is not sulking, Mamata is celebrating, Nitish is in Switzerland (cold chamber, I mean). And since the leader of opposition is a remote controlled mute operator, parliament is unlikely to witness any fireworks. All good. All Modi-fied.

And no faux pas at Cannes either. Even Aishwarya won accolades for her svelte appearance.Worse, the IPL ended without any  controversy of slapping, doping, and betting. Worse still, SRK and Priety hugged and posed for pictures after a thrilling final. Arrey, even my maid did not take a single leave this month. Batao?How boring is that!
So in the absence of controversial political storms, TV channels lapped up the dust storms in Delhi. Abhi Toofaan Baaki Hai. DIlli Ko Dehla Degi Yeh Aandhi. I call it media terrorism. Create fear. Create anger. And thrive on the demand for dissatisfaction.

From a critique’s perch, I shall wait for Kejriwal to find his groove, Mani Shankar to bounce back, KRK to return to India and marry Karan. And Rahul to give his second interview on woman empowerment.

The Liaison

Fiction

January, 5, 1990

"I am not an invalid,” Cindy protested as he offered to lift her from the bed. “Stop pampering me.”
It wasn’t exactly an ideal start to a dream holiday. Cindy McKinnon had fractured her ankle while alighting from a crowded train in Bangalore. The injury scuttled her plans to travel to other destinations. A week after her cast was removed, the doctor advised Cindy to go for physiotherapy sessions.
She looked forward to the sessions with him. With an earnest face and a naughty cleft in his chin, Raghu appeared younger than the thirty he claimed to be. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a white coat, he could easily be the medical college backbencher who had you in splits.
“Why do they call me 'gory'?” she asked. “Do I look like a bloodthirsty witch?”
He laughed.“In Hindi, it means a fair skinned foreigner." Then he  stretched her leg gently and asked, “Does this hurt?’
She groaned. “A bit.”
At times he was comforting, at times inquisitive. Raghu wanted to know all about her life, her family, her job. For some obscure reason she told him that she had a small business of her own.
“Married?”
“Widow,” she lied. Again.
“I’m sorry,” he ruminated silently.
A day prior to her departure, he came with a box of steaming idlis and coconut chutney prepared by his sister, Sumitra. Cindy polished it off within minutes.
"This was the best breakfast I’ve had in a long time,” she said. "Your sister is an awesome cook.Tell her, I said that."
“I will,” said Raghu. His benevolent smile lit his face. “So when are you flying back?”
“Not yet. I want to visit Agra, Varanasi," she told him."Goa, maybe.”
“Alone?”
“Yup, but don’t worry. I won’t break my leg again,” she smiled. And then she leaned over to give him a friendly peck. “You are a good guy Raghu.Thank you.”


The air was redolent with grilled fish being cooked in the nearby shack on Anjuna Beach. She lay under the warmth of the sun, dressed in a one piece bikini, along with a bright sarong for the entire day. Shining waters, lazy breeze and sliced cucumbers on her eyes made it perfect. A thin layer of clouds moved over her - light and shadow making patterns on her slender legs. The world was both, pulsating and hazy at the same time.
Looking back, she could have made different choices. But soon after college, she began escorting wealthy businessmen for  charity events and business meetings, and there was no looking back. When customers petered out, she taught in a kindergarten. Those were the best years of her life. Until one fine morning, when the father of a student complained that the parents didn't want a hooker to teach impressionable minds. She was scarred for life.
Here, she thought, thousands of miles away, where no one knew about her past, maybe she could begin afresh. Maybe, she belonged here. Maybe, she could settle down, have kids.  
With her mind meandering in different directions, she dozed in spurts. When she opened her eyes, she saw two men next to her. “Madam, massage,” the short one squawked persistently. While his companion was at some distance, the shorter one came close. 
“Go awaaay,” she got up with a jerk to shake his hand away from her legs. And that is when a tall man with a camera slung on his shoulders intervened. He said something in Hindi and shoved the leering youngster away.

“Never trust a man with short legs. Brains too near the bottoms,” the tall man shrugged.
“Raghu?” Cindy rose up on her elbows. “I can’t believe this.”
“Are you okay?” he asked concerned.
“I’m fine. But how?”
“How what?”
“How did you find me?
Taken aback he shrugged, “You could be in trouble. You were alone.”
He had come all the way to find her just because she was traveling alone.
“But, I haven’t broken my leg,” she chided him."Not yet."
“It’s not your leg that dragged me here,” he teased, keeping one hand on his chest. “It’s my heart.”

Wielding a camera, he sat next to her. So unlike the physiotherapist she had met in the Bangalore hospital. In place of the formal white coat and combed hair, here he was, in khaki shorts, loose white shirt, tousled hair through which he ran his fingers often.
“I didn’t mean to follow you,” he said apologetically.
“You saved me from being molested,” she smiled. "I should thank you."
Adjoining the beach, several shacks were selling beach-wear, trinkets and multicolored caps when a fortune-teller caught Cindy’s attention. The bucktoothed, bearded, puny man squatted on the ground holding a parrot perched on his shoulders. The parrot picked fortune cards revealing future.To her amusement, the parrot hopped on several cards laid on a sheet, before picking up one with its beak. When the fortune teller mumbled a few rustic syllables in chaste Hindi, she looked at Raghu. He grinned like a school boy, “Your card predicts marriage on a foreign land.” 
“That’s impossible,” Cindy blurted with a rasp of laughter. 

Together, they spent the day lazing under the sun, with the sound of splashing waves giving them company. Raghu infused her with his own enthusiasm, with camera in his hands, capturing her relaxed mood, her vivacious smile, her toned yet tanned body. Secretly she enjoyed the attention, the admiration and the bliss of doing nothing in a place where no one cared for her past or the present.
That day, they hired a two wheeler and planned a visit to the famous churches of Goa. After an hour long drive from Panjim, they arrived at the Basilica of Bom Jesus in South Goa. The church was constructed in Dorian style architecture and the walls illustrated scenes from the Bible. Beautiful paintings on wood depicted the story of St. Francis Xavier's birth, his anointment and his life. The stained glass windows were ablaze creating jewel like images of saints, doves and fire. The centre aisle lay bare and silence prevailed except for the chirping of birds nesting inside the church. A sense of peace, and emptiness overwhelmed her.

They sat silently for a few minutes and then Raghu cleared his throat and said, “Cindy, I had not planned on anything. But I guess it has happened.” Then he looked at her puzzled face and shuffled his legs nervously. Clearing his throat he said, “Let's get married?” 
“What?” 
 “We have something special, you and me,” Raghu continued. “I know we’re different. But once we met, despite our differences, something beautiful was created,” he shuffled his legs again. “Last week has been perfect for me. I haven’t been happier.”
“But you know nothin bout me,” she said.
"What I know is that you’re beautiful and kind,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I also know that you have a tattoo on your left thigh…and..” 
She interrupted."And how do you know that I am kind?"
"Well, I saw your pictures at charity events."
“I'm much older than you think,”she changed tracks. 
He smiled reassuringly. “Since its confession time, I have to confess too. I’ll complete twenty-six next month,” he said sheepishly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Doesn't matter?When your parents realize you are marrying a forty year old hooker, they’ll kill you, she thought. 

That night, Cindy ventured out for a stroll on the beach. She reminisced how her parent’s relationship had crumbled for the lack of trust. She remembered how her clients invented devious lies to cheat on their wives while they were in bed with her. He was unlike them. He was comforting like her favorite pair of jeans – dependable. What did he say, “I enjoy spending time with you.” No one had said this to her before. If he truly loved her he would understand. You don’t love someone because they are perfect. You love them in spite of the fact that they are not. “So, what have you decided?” echoed a familiar voice breaking the monotony of the splashing waves. 
“ We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About getting married. Moving to Denver. I’ll tell my parents that I’m going for work.”
“Secretly?” she rolled her eyes quizzically.
“I doubt if there is any other way,” he said. “I’m tired of doing what my parents want me to do. They’ll never understand how much you mean to me.”
“What about your job?” she asked. “And your unmarried sister?”
“With you by my side, I’ll manage everything,” he looked at her pleadingly.
Just then a huge wave splashed and soaked them above the knees. In the silence she held his hand tightly.
“I don’t want to go back. Why can’t we stay here?”
He tightened the grip of the hands, reassuring her that nothing mattered. “We’ll return in a few years. By then everything will be fine. Trust me.”

A week prior to the marriage, Cindy decided to meet his sister and parents. After all it was he who had shown what it was to care for another person. It made sense to begin on a clean state. Since Raghu wouldn’t agree, she called the hospital to find his local address.
When the auto stopped in a narrow by lane, she rummaged her bag for the slip which had his house number. Standing in front of the house she thought, “Damn, I hope I am doing the right thing.” Trepidation caused her heart to beat faster as she rang the bell of the modest house in BTM Layout. A young lady dressed in a silk sari with a contrasting border opened the door.
“I’m Raghu’s friend,” said Cindy. “Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” she smiled. Cindy removed her slippers, attempting to adhere to the customs. “I’m Sumitra.”
“I thought as much. Thank you for the hot idlis you made for me,” Cindy said. "So tell me about Raghu?
Sumitra smiled."Well, he doesn’t like it here in Bangalore. He wants to go abroad. In fact, he is in Goa for a business deal."
“Really? Have you been to Goa Sumitra?”
She giggled like a school girl and pointed towards a framed picture on the mantle.It was a picture of Raghu and Sumitra holding hands, standing next to the Basilica of Bom Jesus. "Yes, Goa was our honeymoon destination. "

( This was penned a decade ago, at a time when most youngsters wanted to go to the US to make it big.Back to active blogging next week.)