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By Samhita Arni
It probably happened this way. Zeus, after imbibing an un-watered glass of wine, experienced a mind-boggling hangover. Idea after idea swirled in an unending stream through the neural pathways of his brain, putting enormous pressure on his mighty skull. He beckoned his son Hephaestus, craftsman to the Gods, to deliver him from his monstrous hangover. Hephaestus, with a colossal swing, neatly sliced his father’s head in two. And from Zeus’ cavernous head emerged Athena, his daughter, Goddess of Intelligence and Good ideas.
Great Ideas. In fact, the Trojan horse was her idea, not to mention the olive branch, the symbol of peace. It was also she who urged Prometheus to steal fire and bring light to the world of men.
This just goes to show that good ideas and creativity are born under the influence of alcohol. This precious spirit, so the argument goes, allows writers to transmute the grey, mundane stuff of the every-day hum drum into a brilliant, mind-shattering opus.
We wanted to test the veracity of this popular myth. Would a writer, under the influence of alcohol, transform insipid topics (provided by her editor) into great literary masterpieces? The results follow. |
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1. POOR ABHISHEK BACCHAN
Consumption: 1.33 units
Yes. Poor Abhishek Bacchan. Little does he know what he’s missed in life by marrying that woman, Aishwarya Rai’, who nags him to death. How do I know this? Call it my sixth sense.
I can picture their life in twenty years. Abhishek (now hosting KBC) weary and grey-haired after many years of nagging, returning to the family homestead, reluctantly and dragging his feet. He’s had a hard day at the studio, under vast arrays of hot, enervating camera lights, doggedly churning out take after take of insipid lines. Aishwarya, instead of bestowing a kiss on his exhausted, deserving brow, stands there, Louis Vuitton rolling pin2 in hand, features contorted in fury. The years haven’t been kind to her. After snagging this beauteous, perfect hunk of man through cunning means, Aishwarya has let herself go. The acting world has finally realized her abysmal lack of talent, and she is relegated to the lists of has-beens, once-upon-a-time wonders. In the meantime, she’s turned to junk food to satiate her cravings for stardom and attention. She’s fat and bloated, and any pretensions to beauty have long disappeared. Her spending habits have outgrown her income, she constantly shops for diamonds and other unnecessary luxury goods, and her inability to curb her expenditure has led Abhishek to accept unsatisfactory roles in B-grade films. He can do better, but Aishwarya is a millstone/dead weight/shackle around his neck, dragging him deeper into the mire of the bad B-grade Bollywood film world. He longs for escape, and dreams of that incredibly beautiful, bespectacled hack who once smiled at him in an elevator, nineteen years ago.
What is Abhishek Bacchan missing in life? Me. As everyone will agree, I am a ravishingly beautiful young woman, who far surpasses Ash in the brains department (and some will even go so far as to claim that my acting skills are superior. Let’s not forget about my incredible sexual prowess. Were the learned sage Vatsyayana, author of the Kamasutra, alive today, he would dedicate his treatise to me. This is an undeniable truth, the kind of truth on which this universe is based.
1 Editor: I must mention, given the South Indian propaganda that eventually follows, that Aishwarya Rai, like the writer, is South Indian.
2 Writer: Twenty years into the future, Louis Vuitton realizes that despite class, rolling pins are used by every Indian woman, whether it be to roll chappatis, hound children or hit husbands on the head. In a rare flash of inspiration, the product designers at Louis Vuitton decided to create special rolling pins, and every celebrity housewife has been spotted with these must-haves.
3 Writer: This has yet to happen, but will happen in 2008, when I go to Bombay to finally fulfill my dream of working on a major Bollywood feature film. Yes I am a hack right now, but I’m actually a film studies graduate. (The hack thing is just temporary until I get my big film break.
2. AMBASSADOR: THE BEST CAR TO HAVE SEX IN.
Consumption: 2 units
Preface: Editor’s father catches us consuming vast quantities of alcohol and smoking in his mansion-like home. I felt vaguely embarrassed, but noticed Editor’s dad was wearing a very nice, designer shirt1. Must suggest he takes his son shopping. Son (my editor) has a deplorable fetish for pink shirts2. I have vowed, single-handedly, to rid him of this despicable habit.
Truth be told, despite my aforementioned sexual prowess, I’ve never had sex in an Ambassador car.
The Ambassador evokes nostalgia, reminders of my long-lost innocent child hood, when I took many a road trip with my civil servant father, in his official, flagstaff-bearing Ambassador Car.
But alas, those days are over. Now my father’s official car is the vastly inferior, and far less imposing Maruti Esteem. I miss the Ambassador. No longer is it the staple sight of Indian roads, its regal stature is being replaced by shoddy, and gaudy Santros and Swifts. Alas! Yet another deplorable feature of India’s diversifying economic policy.
To get back on topic – Ambassadors and sex. Shashi Tharoor, in the Great Indian Novel, made the Ambassador Car the official courtship vahana. Arjuna uses this car in an attempt to abduct the beautiful Subhadra, but ends up pulling in the wrong sari-wearing female, who turns out to be a fat prostitute. Alas!
The Ambassador is roomy, making it good for lots of rollicking sex, Titantic style, where one plasters a sweaty hand against a steamy carriage window. Ambassador windows are perfect for that sort of thing. And the Ambassador is very classy, like horse-drawn carriages.
But the suspension is bad, and leads me to suspect that sex, while this car is moving, would be a bumpy, zero-g-esque experience, akin to having sex in a moving, horse-drawn carriage. Rollicking sex in a moving Ambassador may lead to self injury. This may be something that will dissuade certain readers.
At the end of the day the Ambassador is better than a Maruti 800 or Zen, but not as classy as a Mercedes (S-Class), or a BMW. Regardless a man who proposes sex in an Ambassador is classy in an old-school way (which is good) and weird enough to be intriguing.
You should be wearing a sari, high heels and have your hair piled in gigantic, towering bun to really ‘fit in’ with the Ambassador look.
I sadly lack all three.
1 Editor: I took him shopping and made him buy that shirt.
2 Editor: I am quite comfortable with my sexuality.
3. DOES SIZE MATTER?
Consumption: 3 units
As a South Indian, I frequently crave Idli-dosa-Sambar and vada with death-like urgency. I start to behave like a cross between a woman in labor and a man sinking in quicksand. All my friends know that there is nothing else to be done, but to drive me to the nearest South Indian restaurant.
But the South Indian restaurants in Delhi are sadly disappointing. They all seem to specialize in over-sized Dosas, and huge, night mare inducing, Idlis. I say night mare inducing because the voluminous size of that Idli leads to horror-film style dreams where I frantically try to open a locked door, while a gigantic, over sized Idli menacingly hovers over me. Or a la Psycho-style, I’m blissfully taking a shower, unaware that a lecherous Dosa, with murderous intentions, is watching me.
And I remember the buttery, heavenly consistency of the Masala Dosas served in the restaurant of Janardana Hotel, on Race Course Road, Bangalore. For close to forty bucks, you get your own experience in heaven. It’s worth the exorbitant plane ride to get there. Those dosas are beyond par, and decently sized, half the size of the ghastly north Indian attempts at South Indian cuisine.
Another example. My editor’s basement contains a large gigantic television. But the picture quality is appalling, and one has to squint blearily at the screen which ultimately leads to eye-ache. Especially when inebriated.
So, size doesn’t matter1. Quality does.
1 Writer: I think my editor was expecting me to write about sex. But I foiled him.
4. DAL-ROTI GREATEST FOOD EVER
Consumption: 4 units
Editor’s Note: ATTN: SOUTH INDIAN PROPAGANDA BEGINS
Rotis can be dehydrating, especially when you’ve drunk lots of alcohol. It’s then the worst food ever. Idli-Sambar is super, best food ever. I dream, yearningly, of South Indian men called Basavaraj or Venkiah in checkered lungis, towels carelessly draped over their left shoulder.
The odor of delicious, sumptuous idli and dosas waft from their sambar splattered garments. And it drives me mad, even crazy, like in the Britney Spears video. The men in checkered lungis, bend over, twirl their large moustaches and hike up their lungis, while proffering me a chutney-stained, laminated menu card that was printed in the 1960s. “Idli-Dosa-Sambar-Vada, medam?” they ask in a melodic, euphonious chant. A holy and sacred chant, the kind of mantra that can be recited to solemnize marriages.
Dal-Roti1 is a gross, crass invention reminiscent of North Indian patriarchy and cultural chauvinism2. This creation attempts to hold sway over vastly superior, far more sophisticated South Indian culture. Dal-Roti is symbolic of everything that is wrong with India, the heat, dehydration, the insipid lackluster mentality, unattractive North Indian men3.
My advice, move south, and get our idli-sambar or your masala dosa. All Good things are south Indian.
South India is best at everything. Idli-Sambar. Hema Malini. A R Rahman. South India rules, baby!4
1 Editor: Eventually, she gets back on topic.
2 Writer: Which my editor represents. Hehe. The liberties one can take while drunk.
3 Editor: I object. Not all North Indian men are unattractive.
4 Editor: Thank God, it’s over.
5. THUMBS UP: GOOD FOR HANGOVERS?
The next morning. Hangover state.
My editor throws out this titillating statement in the cold harsh morning night, after a night of drunken dissipation. He doesn’t offer me one, though I could do with one. The man is the embodiment, in flesh, of the Socratic/Platonic form of Selfishness and Miserliness, and makes no move to provide me with a Thumbs Up so that I can generate a decent response1.
I’m also experiencing hunger pangs. He’s my boss however, and one can not make such imperialistic demands at the source of one’s pay cheque. At the end of the day, I’m just a poor, underpaid, over qualified hack.
In hang-over state, Thumbs up is enticing and seductive. I want one. I want to roll its cool, glass body across my sweaty brow. Twisting of the cap, in radiant, stylish Film star style. Winds will start blowing (from no apparent source), and course through my long hair. And I will lift my head back, and pour this life-sustaining, nourishing elixir onto my parched tongue. All hangovers will be cured. And Kunal Kapoor2 will fall in love with me. And we will get married and make lots of babies (this process promises to be fun). And I can retire from my job, supported by Kunal Kapoor’s millions, and drink lots of aerated drinks.
It will all be because of Thumbs Up.
1 Editor: I’m never inviting her again.
2 Editor: Kunal Kapoor, like Abhishek Bacchan, is a North Indian man and apparently attractive, or so the writer thinks. So, I think this correction is in order: North Indian men are attractive.
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