GAME OVER

Fwooooosh.... Boom!!! Singh Sa'ab took in the magnificence of the closing ceremony. He watched the rockets tear up through the anthracite sky before they exploded into a spectacular display of bright, colourful fireworks. Except, it wasn't quite as spectacular as he perceived. Ordinary at best. In fact it was more of a Shweeeee... Phat. A pathetic, shrill farting sound punctuated by, well another fart. Singh Sa'ab was of course mighty pleased with the show. Especially since he had netted a neat 62.50 lacs on account of his little kickback in the buying of the 'patakas' (he insisted on referring to them so, even when placing the order with the confused 'pheena' exporter in Guangzhou).

"Lauda!" Sheeba-ji heard Singh Sa’ab saying to her. "Mine wasn't in working condition. The wife had been after me for some time about it. I just got a new one now." Sheeba-ji was no prude (a prune perhaps), but this sudden confession by her junior in rank but probably senior in corruption left her flabbergasted. "The Missus will be also pleased with it." At first Sheeba-ji's jaw had dropped, but as the penny dropped she was already thinking less about Singh Sa’ab’s new Skoda, and more about her own impending purchase. A perky new set of tits to replace those saggy old thailas. "Have to rush for my dentist appointment" she lied. "Good luck with the Laura. I suppose Mrs. Singh will enjoy it more with a driver!" Sheeba-ji could be quite wicked when she wanted.

On the way to Inner Wellness (a known but incongruous name in cosmetic surgery), Sheeba-ji zipped down the lanes earmarked for the participants and officials. She gloated at the stationary traffic in the other lanes. Poor ordinary cunts, she thought. Suddenly the car came to a halt. "Kya hua Anil!? Gaadi kyun rok di?"

"Ma'am aage baraat jaa rahi hai."

A wedding procession in the CWG lane! Her bodyguards and usual coterie of suck-ups were not with her today, as she was going for a very discreet consultation. Only her trusted driver Anil was with her, but he was way too meek to handle any situation. "Fuck them! I'm going to give them a piece of my mind!" Out she jumped, and ran ahead towards the baraat. Where the fuck are the police she wondered!? Little did she know that the groom's brother and friends had been paying off the cops every hundred yards to go for a little urine passing while they passed araam se through the VIP lane. Their private baraat lane on which they jamaoed poora haq. After all, it was their tax money with which it was made. Well, somebody's tax money.

Feverish Bhangra. High decibel Bollywood music blaring through phatta hua speakers. Shiv Mohan Brass Band blowing and beating their instruments furiously. The entire procession wreaked of whiskey. Definitely Punjabi she thought. Such a crass build-up to a sacrosanct ceremony. "Who is charge here?" she shouted. No one heard. She tried to get the attention of one of the more respectable looking young men. He didn't look respectable any more when he started doing vulgar pelvic thrusts at her. "Get this baraat out of the way" screamed Sheeba-ji.

The young man composed himself and answered in his most sophisticated manner. "Hain?" It was as if Johnny Walker had opened a distillery in his mouth. "Come on aunty ji, shake it."

"Shut up! Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You're my sexy sober aunty who needs a stiff one. BOYS!!"

Out of nowhere a bottle of black appeared. Then a hand. And a funnel. Glug! Glug! Glug! Before she could say madarchod she was whisked off her feet and plonked onto a set of Punjabi shoulders. The arms attached to the hand with the funnel were obviously very long, as they continued to force scotch down her throat. She felt her tight ass begin to loosen up. She even found her shoulders bobbing voluntarily to the beat of Munni Badnaam Hui. She was beginning to enjoy the sensation. But the boys were bored of her by now. They flung her off and she landed on a patch of grass in the wide divider area of the road. THUD! That was a sound she had anticipated. But she also heard a splash. She was in a puddle. Bastard MCD! Last day of the games and they had already started slacking. Zooooon! Where the fuck is Anil? Zooooon! A mosquito was hovering around her forehead. Sheeba-ji was way too shit faced to swat the little fucker. But she smiled knowing it would just be a harmless bloodsucker. It was late at night and the dengue mosquito preferred daylight. Fuck you mosi. The mosquito probably smiled back as it effortlessly slid its proboscis into her temple. I'm the malaria variety. Fuck you too!

Sukesh-ji drove up to the entrance of the games village. The guard saluted him and let his car pass through. He pulled up at the river end of the complex. A brand new Skoda stood in the deserted parking lot at the back. Sukesh-ji stepped out and was greeted by the proud owner of the shiny black Laura. The greeting was a stern, bordering on hostile sat-sri-akal.

"So Singh Sa'ab, new car?"

"Chootiye, kaam ki baat kar."

"No need for gaali galoch, ji. We have both profited aplenty. Tomorrow the inquiry will start. Let's work together now and cover our asses."

They negotiated. They argued. They exchanged numbers, probably of lawyers and hawala operators. They pointed to the flats as if discussing who will get which after the games. At one point Singh Sa'ab grabbed Sukesh-ji's collar.

From the top floor of tower overlooking them, they were interrupted by some chanting. "Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!" The two men looked up. They saw a small white appliance balanced on the edge of a balcony railing. Suddenly it tipped over. And then it was rapidly becoming larger, as were Singh Sa'ab's eyes. A washing machine! Fuck LG. Fuck Newton. Fuck. My car! CRASH!! It was a Kodak moment. A pristine white washing machine lodged in the roof of a jet black sedan, and a Sadrar-ji in a white kurta pyjama bawling and hugging the bonnet of his car as if it were an unexpectedly departed loved one.

Poetic justice thought Sukesh-ji. But Sukesh-ji believed in karma. He knew he had been even more corrupt, and that a worse fate awaited him. The paper trail. The Swiss bank account. The media’s obsession with him. The conflicts with Madam's faithful Sheeba-ji. He wandered over towards the river. The less developed part of the village. The stench of the Yamuna filled his nostrils. But he knew he should savour the open air, for Tihar would not offer him the luxury of openness. He took his Peshawaris off, and enjoyed the mist on the grass-blades under his feet. Hissss! He knew at once that his end was near. Yet he hoped for a second that Mallika Sherawat would suddenly appear naked in her glorious scales and give him a BJ. He liked BJs. He felt warm blood rushing to his prick as he thought of this. Hisssss! His life did not flash before his eyes. All he could see were newspaper pictures of the cobras found at the village. Then he saw it for real. An expanded hood. The pearly white fangs. It seemed to grow taller by the second, and loomed ominously over him, appearing to look angrily at his hard on. Hisssss! The fun was over. The games were over. Any second now, he knew his life was....

Game Over.

Jai Ho-Hum!

"Rehman has won the Oscars!" orgasmed an excited RJ on Radio Mirchi the day after. Really? What was the score? Two - Nil? Or 200 for no loss? I didn't know the Oscars were a game. I also want to play.

I was hoping the euphoria over Slumdog would die down before I wrote this, so that I would not get lost amongst the other million blogdogs already covering the same topic. But then I realised we are never, ever going to let anybody forget that we Indians have finally arrived on the international arena of cinema... until of course the next Indian connection at the Oscars. Just like when we were all gung-ho about Kalpana Chawla, until that new chick Sunita Williams came around and buggered everything up for her predecessor. (Kalpu may have been the first Indian origin babe to go to space, but our Suni was the first to go and come back.)

This piece is actually not an attack on Slumdog, or Rehman, or Gulzar. I actually liked the movie. I am also liking the songs (I say that in the present-continuous-or-whatever because I am listening to Jai Ho as we speak; and also because it is very Indian to say I am liking). It's just that I feel we're a wee bit overexcited. A tad too proud. No, actually we're over the fucking moon (beat that Sunita). So we've won a few Oscars. Calm fucking down. In the not so famous but unwittingly wise words of Mohnish Behl's character in Maine Pyar Kiya, "Relax-take-it-easy-cool-it-yaar!" We have not achieved WORLD PEACE or anything like that...

Every TV channel and it's poor radio cousin, every glossy and it's step supplement sister, is talking about Slumdog. Senior politicians are beaming about it on national news (because they have already sorted out everything else, haven't they?) But in all this coverage, if you are not too busy drooling about our success, you can pick up on some brilliant could've-been controversies. For instance when Rehman was asked about his transformation from the simply dressed man to the armani / sabyasachi wearing stylo, he answered "When one is representing one's country, one doesn't want to look like a beggar". Beggar!? Shouldn't he have said fucking Slumdog?

Ok, now the critique.

First, there's a huge debate going on about our claim (India's claim) to Slumdog. Yes Allah Rakha won two. Sampooran Singh a.k.a Gulzaar won one. So did Mr. Pookutty (pre-oscars we might have gone Who-kutty?). And it ends at that. It was British direction - American production. Made by UK, paid by USA. Not Indian. Definitely not Bollywood. So may I request all the delirious hosts at various Bollywood award functions to please stop frothing at the mouth. It happens to be a movie about India, shot in India, with a whole lot of Indians in it. But it isn't an Indian film. Just like Out of Africa wasn't an African (Kenyan) production. And consider this. Will the next space movie have some Martians staking a claim to it. Or Kalpana Chawla?

Next. Jai Ho. Like I said - good song. Great song even. But again, like I also said: Calm Fucking Down. Ok, Akshay Kumar, I mean thumbs up to Rehman for the composition of the sound track (some of the beats sound quite African - do we hear any African claimants?). But he's often delivered as good and better. Then, Hrithik Roshan, I mean two thumbs up to Gullu-ji for his usually unusual lyrics. But as I am listening to and liking the song Jai Ho, I am also wondering, why out of the neele aasaman there are Spanish lyrics? Baila Baila! Why-la Why-la? Enrique, did you have something to do with this corny and unnecessary bit of lyrics?

Finally. The poverty issue. Was it fair to expose the dirty stinking underbelly of modern prosperous India? One point that I like to make is that Danny Bhai (well he's one of us now) has had a bit of a shit fetish to begin with, so no need to take the latrine-scene personally. Remember Train Spotting. The bit where Ewan McGregor dives into the shitter. Sean Connery wasn't offended by that, so why did the Big B object to this? Or was that OK because it was an English style crapper, while ours was a desi tattighar? Those against the motion also have a point. Would you want the world to see your jewels, or your stools. This debate is really banal. Frankly my dears, I don't give a shit. But I would like to suggest some alternative lyrics for Jai Ho which could have read (instead of ratti ratti sachchi maine jaan gavayi hai...) tatti tatti sachchi maine gaand ki khayi hai...

Anyway, to sum it all up, Slumdog and it's music, while good, was... is being... will be... over over over-hyped, and all the hullabaloo around it (and about it being Indian) is really beginning to bore me. Jai Ho-Hum.