Brickbats! I revel in them. They taste like lal mirchi (hot red peppers) inside the spicy Bengali fish curry that my mother used to make. They leave me hot under the collar, but just for a little while.

Sometimes I voice opinions on my blog that draw indignation. Even without that, I am really not a very likeable human being – always going against the grain – if you told me something was green, I’ll likely call you an idiot and say it was brown. Compounding all that are all the other things that don’t help – I’m balding and ugly.

I am a loner, seeking recognition through my blog, to compensate for the lack of it in my professional career. Liken me to a tubri (Bengali firecracker that goes off like a fountain) that got wet a little and fizzled when lit, ultimately petering out in a series of broops and breeps. I am at the broop and breep stage right now.

No, I don’t have self-worth issues. At 60, you don’t give a flying f–k about that. And no, I am not going through a ‘phase’ either. I have always been like this, prompting many to liken me to the end of an alimentary canal. I don’t mind that, as long as it is not Elton John’s alimentary canal end.(I understand that it is like rush-hour in there).

About a year back, I wrote a blog-post lampooning the complete waste that was India’s Mars mission which roared off to try and locate methane on Mars. Immediately I sensed a general rumble of indignation among most of my Indian Facebook friends, specifically those who live in India. I had hurt their pride.

One guy even went so far as to call me an ‘India hater’. He was soon on a roll, spreading the word that I was also a ‘pervert’, given the frequent references to sex in my writing. I can’t fault him for that. Maybe I am a pervert and should find mention in paragraph-3 above. How others look at you is far more relevant than what you may think of yourself. To himself, Saddam Hussein was a knight in shining armour but the outside world knew what a murderous ars—le he really was.

Of course, knowing how long my middle finger really is, this guy hasn’t screwed up the guts to say all that to my face. I have forgiven him for trying to rouse rabble, especially when I had never caused him any harm whatsoever.

I won’t relive in here the Mars hang-up of a severely deluded nation that fails to see it’s priorities clearly. It is available at the link below and I stand by every word of it….

Finding Nem…err…methane

Now if anybody wants to call me an India-hater after reading the above post, he can go f—k himself, if he has a richard that is long enough for him to be able to, one that won’t break when he tries to snake it downward to effect penetration. (I could never do that. The good Lord, in his infinite wisdom, gave me a tiny little bastard down there).


Lately I have been surfing the Indian talk shows that have hosts such as Barkha Dutt and Arnab Goswami, folks who need some serious butt kicking, so infuriating are they. In trying to emulate American talk show hosts like Bill O’Reilly and Shawn Hannity, they insist on asking a question and then rudely interrupting the guest who has just begun offering his opinion.

Right now I have to endure the endless debates on whether it would have been more appropriate to sentence Yakub Memon to life in prison, instead of frying the son of a bitch. Open up any Indian TV channel and this is all that is being deliberated upon. Bleeding heart ‘activists’ are waxing eloquent on how we are no better than them if we hang him.

Yakub Memon – directly responsible as one of the masterminds of a rampage of bomb blasts in Mumbai 1993 that sent 270 innocents to their deaths and 700 others to hospital. Yakub Memon, chartered accountant, money-launderer and hawala operator, side-kick to the world’s second most powerful mob boss, Dawood Ibrahim and brother of Tiger Memon – yes, that Yakub Memon.

If, after his culpability had been established beyond doubt, Memon had simply pleaded for mercy (which he of course did), that would have been understandable. But after the highest court rejected all pleas and upheld his death sentence, all sorts of creeps began seeping out of the woodwork, claiming that Yakub Memon had actually offered himself as a witness for the prosecution. These creepaloonies argue that this newly unearthed account of his readiness to co-operate should have been treated as mitigating circumstances and his death sentence commuted.

There is absolutely no evidence to support that fantasy. Not once, in the two decades when the case wound it’s way through the courts and the hours and hours of cross-examination, did Yakub Memon ever express a desire to speak out in open court and offer his cooperation. He knew, that if he did, the very next day he would be found hanging in his jail cell, so ubiquitous was Dawood Ibrahim’s presence.

If a prime accused and central conspirator turns approver, exactly whom would they prosecute? The case was against him, for crying out loud. Besides, Dawood Ibrahim, adoringly addressed as Sultan Shah by his Karachi henchmen and ISI minders, is still living in opulence – still worth $20 billion. Tiger Memon continues to lord it out somewhere in Pakistan in a similar fashion in plain sight.


The bleeding hearts’ memories are so short that it is almost as if Flight IC814 didn’t happen at all.

On the evening of the 24th December 1999, just when I was getting ready to go to a party and get sloshed, three Pakistanis carrying fake Indian passports boarded an Indian Airlines flight bound for New Delhi, at Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport. Soon after the aircraft crossed into Indian airspace, they hijacked it and ordered the Captain to steer a course to the Pakistani city of Lahore.

The events that then occurred, seemed like a macabre game of hop, skip and jump, with the aircraft making multiple landings, first at Lahore, and then at Amritsar, Dubai and finally Taliban-controlled Kandahar. And somewhere along the way, a young passenger who was returning from his honeymoon with his bride, got stabbed multiple times and succumbed due to massive blood loss.

Immediately following the hijacking, there was a mob scene in the Indian capital, New Delhi. Families of the passengers were screaming at the top of their lungs, demanding that the hijackers’ demands be met and their dear ones freed, at all costs. I will quote a senior aide to the then Indian PM, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, Kanchan Gupta’s memoirs…..


No senior Minister in the CCS was willing to meet the families. Mr Jaswant Singh (then, the Indian Minister for External Affairs) volunteered to do so. He asked me to accompany him to the canopy under which the families had gathered. Once there, we were literally mobbed. He tried to explain the situation but was shouted down. 

“We want our relatives back. What difference does it make to us what you have to give the hijackers?” a man shouted. “We don’t care if you have to give away Kashmir,” a woman screamed and others took up the refrain, chanting: “Kashmir de do, kuchh bhi de do, hamare logon ko ghar wapas lao.” Another woman sobbed, “Mera beta… hai mera beta…” 

To his credit, Mr Jaswant Singh made bold to suggest that the Government had to keep the nation’s interest in mind, that we could not be seen to be giving in to the hijackers, or words to that effect, in chaste Hindi. That fetched him abuse and rebuke. 

“Bhaand me jaaye desh aur bhaand me jaaye desh ka hit. (To hell with the country and to hell with the nation’s interests),” many in the crowd shouted back. Stumped by the response, Mr Jaswant Singh could merely promise that the Government would do everything possible. 

On another evening, there was a surprise visitor at the PMO – the widow of Squadron Leader Ajay Ahuja, whose plane was shot down that summer during the Kargil war. She insisted that she should be taken to meet the relatives of the hostages. At Race Course Road, she spoke to media and the hostages’ relatives, explaining why India must not be seen giving in to the hijackers, that it was a question of national honour, and gave her own example of fortitude in the face of adversity. 

“She has become a widow, now she wants others to become widows. Who is she to lecture us? Yeh kahan se aayi?” someone shouted from the crowd. Others heckled her. The young widow stood her ground, displaying great dignity and courage. But as the mood turned increasingly ugly, she had to be led away. 

Similar appeals were made by others who had lost their sons, husbands and fathers in the Kargil war. Col Virendra Thapar, whose son Lt Vijayant Thapar was martyred in the war, made a fervent appeal for people to stand united against the hijackers. 

These exhortations fell on deaf ears…..


I won’t go into the pathetic details of the hijacking, but IC814 goes down in the annals as the textbook example of a nation at it’s wimpiest worst.

In the end, the hijackers’ demands were met – three dreaded Pakistani terrorists were released from Indian custody, one of whom went on to mastermind the brazen 2001 attack on the Indian Parliament and the other became the one who relished slitting American journalist Daniel Pearl’s throat and posting the execution online. To the pacifist bleeding hearts, Mrs. Daniel Pearl’s grief obviously didn’t count.

In the old days, when the Sicilian Mafia carried out a hit, they killed the man’s male children as well, not only to set an example but also to ensure that there would never be a future blood revenge. Similarly, in the world of terrorism too the only way to get the message across is to hang the son of a bitch as quickly as possible.

Indians need to take the cue from nations that dare. Israelis, to the very last man and woman, are willing and ready to spill blood, put their lives and limbs on the line and make the sacrifices necessary to ensure that no one can f—k with them. Interestingly, this fervor has not only ensured security but it’s by-product, a rare commodity named ‘self-esteem’, has made it the most industrialized and one of the richest nations in the Middle-East.

Gandhiji, you were wrong. An eye for an eye doesn’t just work, it rocks.