Blonds and the Biharis

You are witness to the never ending spectre of Biharis milling in every industrial and construction site, every railway station, every city and everywhere across the globe. Even as speculations about possible extinction of people with the beautiful blond hair is making headlines, the population of Bihari speaking people are swelling like the river Kosi in monsoon. It is estimated that the number of Biharis in India alone have crossed a whoopping 82 million as per the 2001 census. Besides the Bihar Industries Association is said to have estimated the number of Biharis outside India at a staggering 20 million, which is almost a quarter of the state’s population.
There is no estimate of the blond population in the world. But the blonds seem to have by nature preferred small family and in certain cases, no child norm. Speculations about extinction of the blonds may not be true. But one thing is clear. The blond’s population lags behind in one crucial aspect-multiplication. Compared with others like the Biharis.
The blonds are naturally beautiful. The world may have millions of efficient, intelligent and able-bodied Asians, Blacks or Hispanic. But a blond is a blond. The only competition comes from another blond.
Ironically the bonds population is not multiplying like others like the Biharis. A stagnant population means that the level of inter-blond competition will either remain stagnant or come down eventually. A time may come when a blond hair is preserved in museums. If you have the nerve, imagine the day when a black man will take the role of a 007 top British Spy in the Hollywood thriller series.
And if such a day comes, your brothers from Bihar may become even more assertive than merely being a bhelpuri seller in Mumbai streets.
Someday you may hear a Bhojpuri accent from some barefooted Bihari lasses in James bond movies. Or some progenies of Shatrugan Sinha might be contesting for the role of the British top spy. After all reports from some British tabloids have never rubbished such a possibility.
And if a Bihari plays a leading role in a James Bond movie, even a Zomi from the far eastern corners of India might as well grab a role in the next movie. Yes there is no dearth of talent and determination against odds like ‘discrimination’. You have world champions in boxing and MMA, which is short for maximum martial arts, if I am not mistaken.
If some day a Zomi MMA champion takes the role of a villain in a bond movie, he is most likely to invite bond to an exotic locale in the banks of Tuivai. A game of cards between heroes from East and the West.
In India, a 90 mm frame with a casino, aclub hall or a bar seldom discounts an item number.
So, you will find a thatched roof hall well adorned with light works of Uptown cable and a bollywood item from a scantily clad punjabi girl descending the illuminated steps with a Chaiya Chaiya remix with toppings in traditional mizo by some Aizawlian.
Then only commences the game. James Bond on the one side and a Zomi kungfu master on the other, eclipsing the rest- a Chinese noodles tycoon, an Arab businessman, mafiosos of Italian or Russian origin, etc. gracing the desk.
The dialogue may easily be like “a putting (not ‘a put’)” if James Bond is a Bihari.
The villain, in deep trouble would be asking, “Exkiuuse mee?”
“Putting, Putting,sunna? you hear?” repeats Bond.
This'd hardly clear the confusion. The Zomi has to ascertain if that’s a put.
“Do you meeen a Put mister Bawwn”. Suddenly Bond'd lost Patience.
And he would say, “Arre same yaar, put ya putting. Mung dekta saala!”
…
Thus an era of Indian Istyle commences in the world post blond domination.

A Simple Work of Art

Some man feel a sense of class
Focussed in the company of page three people,
On a creation utterly useless and sickening.
Have a knack of appreciating,wasting time,
Objects that seem to have born by mistake,
Asserting their intelligence through vocabulary,
Abstractness as a benchmark for learning.
For them is there no ploughing jobs, nor monsoon woes,
Lives of the giants, a story scripted, they believe,
Is an ideal way, a high yielding crop, to sow,
As long as another loser good-for-nothing ear,
Register them in the network of the conglomerate,
Baptised a fiction to dissipate.
Guaranteed a bumper harvest is, a reputation destroyed,
For they that sweat not and had lost frugal appetites,
Long for a diet perverter than mere vegetables,
Spoons and plates, relics for them have appealed like,
They need pipes and needles, things that suck!

sweet hitch hiker

That I am not a cab driver, no question there is,
Nor have I plans for a switover of profession.
Reach I the workshop driving my own car,
Never look for passengers to earn side income,
Nor have inclinations to offer lifts,
The good samaritan instict, being an exception.

In a wilderness of office goers jamming the traffic,
Riding a car meant for four, I do play a part.
Then a companion gracing the windscreen, I noticed one day,
My favour,someone that had never earned.
Its warm to have a companion, here ofcourse,
Than not having one living creature at all,
And being all alone.

Amidst plastics, metals and glasses,
Things that don't breath, only respond to commands,
A sense of connection, you do feel,
With a single living being, close by.
Communication unspoken, a peculiar flow,
The atmosphere so calm, pervades.