Today khed (regret) is everywhere—railways, politics, social media, even obituaries mistaken for wedding photos! Leaders cultivate votes with garlands and khed, newspapers sell ads with khed, and doctors, police, and babus hide behind khed while work rots in files. VIPs get instant condolences, while the aam aadmi gets seasonal sympathy during elections. Truly, in India, if nothing else works, at least khed will always be available on demand.
In today’s world, simply being human isn’t enough—you must be somebody’s man. From jobs and promotions to ration and awards, everything belongs to those stamped as “our man.” Without a “man” tag, you’re just a number in the aam aadmi crowd. Whether rubbing noses, bowing flat, or squeezing into ribbon-cutting photos, the rules are clear: survival requires patronage. After all, licenses, favors, even tea—flow only to somebody’s man!
“Being first is our birthright—whether it’s buying the first iPhone, overtaking an ambulance, shoving in temple queues, or even rushing ahead in a funeral procession. Indians don’t just live life; they race through it with sabse pehle syndrome. Mount Everest can wait—our summit is the top of every line.”
Forty years ago, happiness was cheap. A stick could be toy, antenna, and mango-harvesting tool. A single roll of cloth dressed the whole family—eventually turning into bags and mops. Doordarshan’s Ramayan was a divine weekly event, while sugar toys were both playthings and sweets. Today, despite endless gadgets and choices, smiles feel mortgaged. The old equation still rings true: fewer resources, more joy; more resources, less joy.
The hunger for awards has turned into a literary disease—treated at roadside “Purushkaar stalls” like quack clinics. A writer without an award looks impotent; with one, even neighbors doubt it’s genuine: “So, where did you pull this off from?” The real nightmare begins with the Thank You Speech—who to mention, who to skip? This, indeed, is the philosophy of Award-ism.
In our home, “Can you pin my saree?” is not just a request—it’s the official ceasefire declaration after a husband-wife war. Pinning sarees for 26 years has been my marital duty, peace treaty, and constitutional right. Without it, even Swiggy feels like punishment!
"For ten days, I’ve been suffocating in the minister’s trash bin, buried under countless petitions. I was born as a ‘desire,’ a letter of hope, but discarded like poison. You thought an MLA’s note could break walls without grease? Fools! In this democracy, glossy bribes live, while plain words die. My last wish—recycling, a samosa plate, or even a child’s paper boat. But here I rot, a symbol of your forgotten vote."
In this satirical slice of clinic life, a doctor recounts the visit of an old acquaintance who barges in unannounced—not for treatment, but for tea, gossip, and emotional unloading. When asked casually about his son's marriage, the conversation spirals into irony. The man, a staunch traditionalist who once led community match-making and frowned upon ‘compromised’ unions, now pleads for any bride for his 35-year-old son—divorcee or widow included. The doctor reflects silently on the cruel poetry of life, as the man, without mentioning any ailment, exits the clinic leaving behind nothing but tea stains and truth bombs.
Numbers don’t lie—unless they’re told to! Donated blood once—now in a report, I donated four times! Chitragupta did it for dharma, NGOs do it for drama. Graphs are sexy; the truth is not. Elections are won more by numbers than by people.
A man’s life is a cycle of questions—“Did you eat?”, “How’s the job?”, “Do you love me?”—and no answer ever sets him free.