Angst in my pants

By Rupa Gulab

Have you heard the song Tell Me Lies by Fleetwood Mac? Politicians all over the world think that's exactly what we want to hear. Not the song, but bare-faced lies - the weirder, the better. Why, just last month we were told so many lies, I've decided to give away a special Liar Liar Pants on Fire award. At first I thought I'd declare wannabe prime minister LK Advani the winner for his colourful autobiography (warmly referred to as My Country, My Lies by just about everyone in this country apart from his loving wife and doting daughter - hey, he may have paid them handsomely to shut up) but honestly the competition is tough.
UP Chief Minister Mayawati's recent fabrications have scandalised the socks off even low life forms like me. The naughty girl has obliquely admitted that she is a creepy voyeur - and is partial to keyholes on bathroom doors. Accusing Rahul Gandhi of purification rituals and bathing after fraternising with Dalits, she went so far as to say she knows exactly what brand of soap he uses (gosh, what terrific eyesight at her age). Hey, let America keep its kinky Paris Hiltons - we have our own home-grown version of Girls Gone Wild! Interestingly, Mayawati has never snooped into the bathrooms of her other political rivals before, and I think I understand why. Come on, Rahul Gandhi is way, way, way better looking than Mulayam Singh Yadav! Fortunately, nobody is idiotic enough to buy her filthy purification ritual story - while I sympathise deeply with the Dalit cause and I'm aware that some brainwashed, uneducated, nasty people treat them shabbily, Rahul Gandhi is not guilty. Of that I think the entire nation is certain.
I suspect she lied yet again on Ambedkar Jayanti when she modestly unveiled a statue of herself, saying that her mentor Kanshi Ram had explicitly stated in his will that a statue of hers must be placed next to his (or else his soul would wander restlessly and quite possibly haunt little upper-caste children?). Hmm, now I wonder what else Kanshi Ram stipulated in his will? That Mayawati be given the coveted Bharat Ratna? That she should become prime minister of India first and president of the USA next? That she should have a diamond facial every week? But back to the statue - I couldn't tell it apart from the real Mayawati - perhaps because both have clay feet.
US presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton is up next. She shot herself in the foot with this story: she said that when she landed in Bosnia as First Lady she was greeted by sniper fire and had to make a dash for it while ducking bullets on the runway. Oddly enough, it's not just her supporters who were distraught. Rival candidate Barak Obama's supporters were even more upset - they fervently wished that the story was true and, more importantly, that the shooters had better aim. Well, good old CNN delved into its archives and aired footage of that turbulent visit - we see Hillary and her daughter gracefully exit the aircraft and take a leisurely stroll down the runway while smiling and waving in their best imitation of Lady Di. But hello, in her face-saving defence Hillary said that she didn't lie, but merely ‘misspoke'. So do look out for this strange word in the next edition of Roget's Thesaurus. Tip: Check under the word ‘Fib'.
So which contender really deserves to be hit on the head with this prestigious (and very heavy) award? Mayawati of course - her naughty soap opera had me in stitches!

By Rupa Gulab

While pondering deeply over the recent outbreak of violence in Mumbai, I've hit on a brilliant solution - for me actually, not you. I'm seriously contemplating changing my surname to Thackeray. Then no one in Maharashtra can touch me - not a soul - even if I do something spine-chillingly evil like kicking my neighbour's Lhasa Apso with a contemptuous sneer (hello, what sort of dog is that? Since when did Maharashtra have dogs like that?)

The sudden rash of rapes and molestation incidents in India has brought to mind a line from my favourite book of insults: ‘He's tall, dark and hands!' Trust me, that's what women all over the world will soon witheringly describe Indian men as. Of course, not all Indian men fall into this bracket - there are lots of permutations and combinations to play around with. For example, some could be defined as ‘medium-height, fair and hands', others as ‘short, wheatish and hands'...

Remember the time when the only TV news channel we had was Doordarshan? If we missed the English news bulletin, we'd arm ourselves with Sanskrit-to-Hindi dictionaries in a resigned manner and struggle to understand what was being said. There was speculation in my family that the newsreaders were originally Hindu priests who'd taken the bold decision to switch to modern careers. Heck, for all we knew, they could have been announcing wedding mantras in clipped accents! We've come a long way since then, but I'm not sure whether we're better off today.

Remember Gattu, the Asian Paints mascot? Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi is valiantly attempting an imitation of him these days, with a metaphorical paint brush in his hand, trying desperately to whitewash his communal image. Just as well that he doesn't wear 'Dangerously Low' jeans or else his saffron innerwear would show.