Happy family

My name is Aishwarya and I am 12 years old. If you want to be my friend call me Ash. I have a new photo on facebook because yesterday I went with my mother to Habib's Super Specialty Hair Clinic on MG road and got the extra vital straight hair look. It cost 1000 rupees. My mother spent 2500 rupees for the exclusive glowing face treatment. It took 1 hour more than mine but I didn't get bored. I had my new iPad with me and Habib's has free WiFi. 

My father is the head chef at the ITC Windsor Sheraton Hyatt Manor which is the best five star hotel in Bangalore. We get to eat a lot of super goodies. All free! We also go to other five star hotels. My father calls this market research and because this is part of his office work his hotel pays for this. My favorite food is any type of pizza with lots of extra cheese and I also love five star hotel pastries that are dripping with oodles of chocolate.

My mother cannot even finish one medium pizza on her own and is always on a diet. Since the special power yoga trainer started coming to our house last month both my mother and father have lost 10 kgs. My father is now only 110 and my mother is 80. Whenever my father gets time he also trains at the special 20 Lakhs gym that he installed in one of our bedrooms. Both my mother and father had gone to Singapore to do market research before buying all our exclusive gym equipment.

We have three Internet-ready Sony LCD TV's in our house. (It cost us 35000 rupees each) One in my bedroom, one in my parents bedroom and one in the drawing room for guests. Our maid servant Meera has my old TV in the dining hall so she can relax before she goes to sleep. All of us can see our favorite programs without fighting. By the time my father comes home, my mother has finished her serials and he sits on their bed watching late night movies as she goes off to sleep.

Every year we go for a 2 week holiday to a different country and every Sunday we sit in our Ford Endeavor or our 25 Lakh Skoda Superb and go to a mall and spend at least 5000 rupees. Of course we carry our iPads and iPods so we don't get bored in the traffic jam. We are a small happy family. Don't you wish you were me?

(Pencil sketch by Dinkar. Drawn over and colored on the computer by Aditi and Srikant)

Return gift

Ambujakshi from Lepashki was furious! Her hen-pecked husband Satyanarayana who, in his mind called her 'Amby' because of her bulky ambassador-car-like shape, took one look at her and decided to go on a two week business tour of north India. Far away, he thought, so far away that not a single cell phone signal could find him. He had almost escaped out of the front door when he was captured by an 'Emandi!'.
 

'Aiyyo, Tottally gone!', he thought as he turned to face the tsunami. It took one and a half hours, with many interruptions of 'Are you stupid or what', before he finally understood the full story.

Ambujakshi from Lepakshi had been gifted a pink polka-dotted saari in one of the numerous family functions that she frequented. She disliked it so much that at the very next opportunity she gifted it away to her obnoxious distant cousin, Kanakaratnam from Machilipatnam. Useless saari for useless cousin, thought Amby, as she gave it away with a crocodile smile. 

The reason for the earthquake in Satya's life now was that after four years, the very same pink polka-dotted saari had been gifted back to Amby by Sheshanagavalli from Banganappalli. And, said Amby (pay careful attention now because this is the epicenter of the earthquake), Kanakaratnam from Machilipatnam did not even know Sheshanagavalli from Banganappalli. It was clear to Amby that the saari, gifted and regifted, had traveled across Andhra Pradesh from one useless unwanted relative or guest to another till at the very bottom of the chain of uselessness it had come right back to her.

'So, what do you have to say about that?', asked Amby dangerously.

Satyanarayana considered the question in silence. He was certain that no matter what he said he was a goner. Saying nothing was also not an option! He was searching for the least damaging thing to say when his cell phone rang loudly breaking the uneasy silence. It was Airtel! Probably going to sing its stupid signature song to him. 'Airtel', he thought, 'you have saved my life today. I promise to listen quietly to all your crank calls from now on.'

'Hello', said Satyanarayana to the Airtel song, 'What? My god! Are you serious? Ok, when do I have to come? Immediately?'

'Business emergency in North India', said Satyanarayana to Ambujakshi, 'Let us talk when I get back.'

Satyanarayana escaped and returned home only after he heard that the pink polka-dotted saari had been 'return gifted' once again.

(Illustrated by Dinkar)

Taaph!

My name is Bibhutibhooshan Tripureshshar Bishaash. My daaknaam is easiyaar to remembaar and you can also call me Poltu Bishaash. My Marwaadi phrend in Kolkaata say that jaast because my name is bishaash, I don't hab to beliebe everybaady. I am alhways getting in traable like that.
 

I hab jaast shifted to Dilli phrom Kolkaata. Kolkaata is hvery nice plaice. Dilli is taaph! I hab joined phor my maastar digree in Dilli univaarsity. In the phew days hiyaar I hab many times phelt that I should raan ahway to Kolkaata.

Jaast yesterday this nice gaarl in class borrow a buuk phrom me and hwen I aks for it back, she say she nevaar borrow it. Ebhen nice gaarls in Dilli are taaph!

The day bephore thaat, I halp a blind man cross road and he is really pickpocket and he takes ahway my hwallet with 150 rupees and my licence. Ebhen blind men in Dilli are taaph!

The day bephore thaat, I am hwalking on phootpaath hwith many trees hwen a maankey jump down phrom tree, show me teeth and grab my jhaalmuri packet and raan ahway! Ebhen maankeys in Dilli are taaph!

Today I am sitting in DTC baas going to college. There is a maashimaa sitting next to me. I am jaast going to aks but she aks faarst. She is also phrom kolkaata and has bin in Dilli phor twenty phive iyaars. I rich college and see my mobile phone ees missing. Looks like the maashimaa in the baas saw chance and took it. Ebhen Bengaali maashimaas in Dilli are taaph!

Baaba re baaba! I cannot riks hiyaar anymore! I don't hwaant maastar digree phrom Dilli. Ebhen selling jhaalmuri in Kolkaata is bettaar!

Dilli is taaph!

(Note for the hassled Bengali reader: My parents are from Kerala, I grew up speaking Hindi in Dilli, studied and worked 14 years in Bengal and am married to an Andhraite from Dilli. I think that a full 50% of my mixed-up personality is Bengali. This story is not trying to make fun of you. It is making fun of me. However, you are hassled, so I apologize and ask you to make a resolution here and now- close the browser window and never come back to this address again)

(Dinkar's pencil sketch drawn over and colored on the computer by Aditi) 

Paapri-chaat

Growing up in Delhi we counted the paapri-chaat-waalah at the UPSC bus stop, along with the Qutub Minar and the Red fort, as a main tourist attraction of the city. We knew that he came in the morning to his small but extremely popular chaat stall in his own car. This was a time when only the very rich had cars and we did not need any other evidence to prove to us his wealth and fame. This is the story of how we once fooled the paapri-chaat-waalah into giving us free paapri-chaats.
 

We were going back home from school, Arun Nair and Ranjan and I when Ranjan suddenly said, 'Lets have some paapri-chaat. My treat!' Oh yes! Didn't everyone in the world want to eat this paapri-chaat. This is what Arun Nair and I saw as we waited expectantly:

Ranjan (in the middle of the pushing and shoving crowd): 'Bhaiyya! Mere teen plate nahin mile abhi tak!'
Fat paapri-chaat-waalah sahukaar: 'Paise?'
Ranjan: 'Arre, abhi tho diya aapko. Wo dekhiye woh waalah pachaas rupaiye ka note.'

The chaat-waalah looked at the note that Ranjan was pointing to and obviously could not tell the difference between it and the hundreds of other notes in his overflowing money box. Although he was suspicious, we got our three plates of chaat AND we got change back with which we bought even more chaat. Legitimately this time!

 

(Warning: The hero of the story was an expert at this kind of adventure. Try this only under adult supervision and at your own risk! We do not take responsibility for angry paapri-chaat-waalah's running after you with their fat paunches and their sharp or blunt instruments!)