If you thought AIB was funny, read this… If you thought satire is over, read this… Even if you don’t read, read this…. Muhammad Tahir is lambasting his way through this hilarious piece about Modi, AIB and Kashmir.
Well guys, you might be feeling as if lately you were trapped in an Alice in Wonderland moment when a lot of hullabaloos spiced up this otherwise wishy-washy lazy duck winter.
First, because he had to meet his American buddy O-Balma, Mr. Narrator Damn-All-das Moody went around the town somewhat in an exuberantly modified avatar. After all, PM aka Pradhaan Mantri is the nose of a nation, and to make his Swadeshi portly frame more presentable to the great Videshi guest, Mr. PM aka Wazeer-e-Aazam donned a blue Libaas-e-aazam which was pinstriped with his full 22 letter name in gold, and if we listen to our reliance, sorry reliable source the Libaas-e-aazam was custom tailored by a famous Angreezon ke Zamaane ka tailor. And Maa Shapath, we are not making it up. In fact, we heard it straight from Raw-full Baba’s horse’s mouth, and he cannot possibly lie through his soberly salt-and-pepper stubble which hangs on his face as a melancholic keepsake of Election 2014.
We also heard that NSG averted a big scandal when they arrived on time to sterilise Mr. Moody’s royal dresses from the perfume wrongly sprayed by him. According to National Academy of Sciences sources, the perfume of Wazeer-e-Aazam contained notorious chemicals which could have potentially not attracted lady O-Balma but rather sparked an acute neurochemical reaction in Mr. O-Balma during the novel lingering snuggle ceremony which Mr. Moody added to the protocol. But then badhe badhe deshon me…
Secondly, the great AlB Roast hullabaloo went viral like Chikungunya. The naughtiest kids of the tinsel town baldy Run-veer Sing and weirdo Aur-jinn Ko-Pour had put up a raunchiest show,and look at their chutzpah, the show was held in the stadium named after the very grandfather of the Bakht-jans- Gujju Patel Bhai and, pray, tell me why wouldn’t Parivaar aka Bakhtistaan go all bananas!
Lest you may forget let me tell you this straight, as straight as K-Jo aka Karan Woo-her: Ashok is not your run-of-the-mill Pandit. He is an Angry Pandit, and his anger is all legally Kosher, and mind you he is no Ashoka either; he is a no non-sense no hanky-panky man, so please don’t mess with him guys, otherwise he will tweet-a-shit on your face, like he did on poor K-Jo aka Karan Woo-her because in actuality Karan Can’t Woo-her.
And do you remember guys when did AP aka Kosher Angry Pandit previously shat? Yeah, you’re bang on, it was the fateful summer 2004. We heard that the pharma stores outside the cinema halls showing his movie Sheen (snow) went short of aspirin as the audiences were seen running out of the theatre crying Sahara Chahiye Sarkar Sar Dard Ke Liye. And just recently somebody told me AP has removed the Qawwali song Sahara Chahiye Sarkar from the movie, because people had misunderstood the word ‘Sarkar’ for the government.
But dus saal baad (tan tanaaaa…) [10 years later]:
Ashok the Kosher Angry Pandit aka AP is back with the vengeance. Just the other day he announced his two new movie projects and you know what? They are tentatively titled as The Incredible Tale of a Foot-in-Mouth Bakht and Sakhshi’s Mirage: The Great Womb Factory Churna. We heard from our sources that News Hour’s Beefy Bully-Boy Mr. Err-nob Go-Swimming has entered a secret pact with his old buddy AP to invite him at least 7 times a week on his show to make sure his movies get a tax waiver in all the cities across India. After all, the nation wants to know: how to tweet-a-shit and how to be a real bakhth and conceive quadruplets in 40 days. AP will, though, continue appearing in the Beefy Bully-Boy’s Show with Sheen movie poster in the background – that perennial prop.
Third, we heard Bakht Jan Party’s (BP) lotus may soon bloom in the troubled waters of Kashmir. The talks are on for many days now and it is just a matter of days when the sequel to Mission Impossible 44+ gets released. Meanwhile Nathu’s is preparing big green ladoos sprinkled with finest of saffron for the flood affected Kashmiris.
Although journalists could not get the details of these highly confidential talks one can just imagine and speculate. In order to aid the readers in their imagination, we are presenting a plausible scenario:
What was once Abu Ghraib of Kashmir is now a green and white majestic bungalow perched on a fantastical green landscape; and inside its deftly transformed ambiance, now-a-days, moves about the old leader of the Perfidiously Double-dealing Party famously called Muftuk Seed. Slumped into a low sofa, his hooded-eyes ooze out waves of unrest, perhaps his heart rattles inside every now and then at the thought of the elusive nature of that heartless damsel called Kursi aka Chair. He is agitated and has lost peace of his shrewd mind for many days now. Outside his Abu-Ghraib-turned-bungalow stands a milling crowd waiting for his drowsy Deedaar. They have come from all corners of Jammu and Kashmir with a belief that their leader’s famous mind alone will do wonders and fill their empty pockets with wades of bills, happiness and what not. They think everything can be done by his legendary brain, whose exploits have now become an integral part of the local folklore.
Perhaps nowhere is a cerebral cortex more overrated than in Kashmir. And one can easily argue that the cerebral cortex of Muftuk Seed is the most overrated one in the entire world, although the Jewish Conspiracy Theorists (JCT) may think otherwise.
Well, for long Kashmiri scientists reasoned: whisky-induced neurochemical reactions in a tiny walnut brain (whether originating in Bejbehara aka Vejbyour or elsewhere) alone cannot move the mountains or the armies on them for that matter. Again, I am not sure what JCT has to say about this line of reasoning.
But the crowd outside the Abu-Ghraib-turned-bungalow shouts again and again:
Muftuk Seed Agay badho, hum tumhare saath hai [roughly German translated: Heil, mein Führer!]
Some of them inside their naughty native hearts keep supressing, out of sheer fatigue and boredom, the strong urge to cry: Come now, announce whatever shitty business plan your bottle-induced brain has drawn for us. We waited long enough here, tell your portly guys to give us another round of chai and samos and Cavendar filter.
Muftuk Seed Agay badho, hum tumhare saath hai; another round of ‘Heil, mein Führer!’ goes.
In between these shouts and slogans, the foreboding old leader turns to his Advisor-e-Aala Mr. NAA, who for years has overtly and covertly served this leader with reassuring Yes Yes, and has earned a rare distinction for Kashmir in the Guinness Book of World Records: the most number of nom de guerre used by a single person. He had used so many pen names and written so many things behind them that he has almost forgotten (or may be have suffered amnesia!) which one is a real he. Like his Leader-e-Aala aka Muftuk Seed, Mr. NAA’s mind is also wired, now-a-days.
‘To be or not to be, Neema?’ asks the leader in his shrill voice, sucking at his long Gold Flakes honey-dew.
‘Yes, Yaa, I think, Yes’, responds Mr. NAA, nodding with rapidly blinking eyes behind his reading glasses, smiling like a starving goat; his thin lips twitching in the uncertainty of his own confused thoughts.
The leader nods and looks down at the carpeted floor with his bulging heavy eyes. He is deep in thoughts, deep, dark and fuzzy like the innards of the 1947 Accession and its notorious planners. Perhaps he does not know what lies beyond the horizon where his overrated cerebral cortex has failed to reach so far and perhaps that explains his present fuzzy state of mind and his reliance on greying yes-man Mr. NAA for some aid and assurance in figuring out the ways.
Their faces assume blank expressions, as blank and nebulous as pillars of ethics and principles of their own Perfidiously Double-dealing Party. They feel that inside a pressure cooker moment.
‘But how to convince the people about this accord, Neema?’ he asks again, letting out a swirling cloud of smoke out from his mouth.
‘See the crowd outside, see their enthusiasm. We have people’s support, don’t we?’ said Mr. NAA. As he said it, he could almost smell a certain compelling aroma wafting about his Persian nose. An aroma that emanates from the safe steel lockers of the wonderland called Sektrait.
The leader blinks rapidly, blankly, incessantly as if navigating an unyielding thought behind his weary hooded-eyes.
In another room of the bungalow, a conversation on the same topic between Mr. Hastily Dooba and Mrs. Naïve Measure goes like this:
HD: We can give the accord a fancy name; Kashmiris like fancy names, don’t they?
NM: You are so well read, wallah! Why don’t you come up with one?
HD: Hmmm. May be we can call it CMP
NM: CMP? What does that mean?
A deafening voice echoes through the room suddenly: Common Machiavellian Plot, hahahaha!
