The real reason behind the caste system

The forefathers had it right. I am talking, of course, about YOUR forefathers who were busy expanding the Indus Valley Civilization, and not mine who were busy trying not to fall off their horses while riding from Central Asia to Harappa. The former did it right by dividing the populace into four sections or castes, although it can be debated that Aldous Huxley had that idea first, as described in the Brave New World. But for the time being, we will assume that the forefathers had not read this book, having passed it off as yet another piece of literary trash from the decadent West.

The Vedas tell us the story of why the people were divided into these sections. However, I always had this lingering doubt about how easy and simple that description was. After dedicating myself to seconds and minutes of deep research, I think I am ready to claim my fifteen minutes of fame by unmasking the real reason behind the caste system. And the real reason, ladies and gentlemen hold your breath, is --- Chicks. Sigh! yes, even in the ancient times, they were the root cause of all problems. And to understand how, let us look at the four castes separately.

1. The so-called Shudras. These guys were freaking hot! They were the plumbers, auto-mechanics, electricians, telephone-repairmen and cable TV installers of that era. It was no surprise that they developed bulging muscles, taut bodies and glowing tans that would make David Hasselhoff wear a skirt in shame. Obviously, chicks used to dig these alpha males and the Brahmins tried to bury them back. And we all know how the rest of the guys feel when one of us lands a bombshell as a girlfriend. So, these poor chaps were perenially persecuted by the rest of the society.
2. The Vaishyas. These were the wannabe Shudras. However, their bodies paled in comparison because they were averse to physical labour, and they had no tan to show off. One thing that they had, however, was brains. I say this with great objectivity and not because I am supposedly a Vaishya myself. And so, these guys had wisely discovered that the only way to get chicks was to be good at making money. They were the Wall Street types, with trophy wives, club memberships and tickets to the Derbies. The rest of the chaps hated them as much then as we do now when we see a gorgeous babe with an orang-utang. Such girls were not highly regarded either, being referred to as a Vaishyaa (one who puts out for a Vaishya). Even now, this term causes girls to wince and guys to queue up outside the door.
   
3. The Kshatriyas. Awarded with neither brains nor brawn, these chaps resorted to arms and violence. Resorting to bride-napping and multiple marriages, they made sure that their surnames survived. Nowadays we see them driving convertibles (physical inadequacy anyone?) and joining the Navy, at sea for ten months and beating jack-rabbits at their own game in the remaining two. They became the gun-toting, ever fighting warriors of that age. The term Kshatriya has its origins in the word Chattri, which is Hindi for umbrella, then used as a weapon to poke at Vaishyas and Shudras. Later on, Chattri became a synonym for the condom, which again, is a weapon of mass destruction when not used. Coincidence? I think not. So point is that these chappies dealt with weapons throughout their lives. And it did not help their frayed nerves that they had to explain to everyone that the "K" in Kshatriya was silent.
   
4. The Brahmins. I will be blunt. These guys had absolutely no way to get laid. They had neither the muscles, nor the brains and Kshatriyas had called first dibs on arms. Consequently, these poor blokes did what anyone else in their position would have done --- pray like hell to the Lord. However, fate was never in their favour. It turned out that their Lord was Brahma, who because of all the prayers, developed a hard-on for these guys. Hence the name Brahmin (Brahma's-"men"). So, striking out in all directions, and being pursued by Brahma from above, these guys went into depression. They resorted to gluttony and thus were able to maintain a body weight atleast six times their age. Pot-bellies came into fashion and wrinkles were hidden behind layers of tilak. Some of them became ballistic and resorted to arson and pyrotechnics. Ofcourse, those were called yagyas at that time, which also doubled up as rave parties of the era. There was no respite for these guys, and ultimately most of them were forced into becoming life-long bachelors, a not-so-voluntary practice then known as Brahmcharya. Legend goes that every one out of hundred of these Brahmcharya-practitioners were awarded with a belly-dancer (locally known as Apsara), and 1/100 were better odds than what the rest of the Brahmins suffered.
   

To conclude, I hope that I have convinced you of this theory, with ample examples and proofs littered all over this post. This theory also explains various traits and practices of that society as we know them. In my next post, I will propose a new caste system, one that is representative of our times.

Acknowledgements: This research was supported by Kingfisher, who supplied beer cans, Pepe Lopez, who supplied tequila, and Samsung who provided the refridgeration.

Finally, some update

Yes, I am alive. Thank you, thank you all (*waits for the ovation to die down). Now shut up and read. I have been in the US for the past few days for a conference (my annual pilgrimage). It is my bread-and-butter conference, so I had to go all the way to Oregon, to a town called Corvallis. The town's claim to fame is that it has no airport, so the journey here is quite a voyage. But enough about the town. I really have nothing to say today (as if I always do), so here are some ramblings:

a) It took me almost 24 hours to reach here and on reaching, all I wanted was someone to bang me on the head with a hammer and liberate me from this world. Now, after sitting through almost 35 presentations in two and a half days, I feel the same way.

b) I will never ever try to make a lame joke while making a presentation. Yes, you guessed it right, I made a stupid joke and only a few laughed. Rule of thumb is that if want to get people to laugh at your stupid utterances, you better be in MIT or Berkeley.

c) I really need to stop watching South Park. Now whenever I see a Chinese guy facing me, all I think is that he is about to say "Werrcome to Shitty Wok, take your order pree?"

d) Bubble baths are gay, but DAMN! they sure feel good.

e) By Murphy's Law, the most interesting papers are the ones presented by Chinese/Japanese presenters. So I cannot understand a thing beyond "Let x be a data point". And after the talk I get this urge to go eat a Momo/Sushi (see (c))

f) It is difficult to concentrate on the conference when the volunteers and catering staff are gorgeous. Conference organizers should make sure that the support staff is as ugly as the conference participants.

Now I gotta go checkout the news about how the motherland is doing while I am gone. But first, I gotta eat some noodles.

Blogger astounds self with borderline gay stuff

DELHI (21 May): Area blogger Rahul Gupta is in the news once more, again for the wrong reasons. Reports indicate that he has surprised himself by doing some stuff, which in his own mature words are "gay or something".

Readers must be aware that after exhausting all avenues for shelter, he was forced to move alone in a new house last month. The last bastion of singledom, he was tired of giving people his magic Midas touch time and again, so a sentence of solitary confinement was gladly implemented by him. However, what happened next was amazingly horrifying. In an act of unprecented maturity, he bought carpets for his house, not one but three, along with more than a dozen curtains. Previously used to a spartan lifestyle, he finally decided to enjoy the feel of a rug beneath his feet. Eyewitnesses went on record with his ancient remarks to the effect that "Shopping for carpets and drapes is an activity best performed by women and their gay friends. No man worth his salt would be caught dead in a carpet emporium". It is reported that the sight of three well-laid out carpets brings tears of happiness to his eyes every single time he wakes up.

In another supposed blow to his manhood, he then went ahead and got a gas connection -- lock stock and a smoking cylinder. In his previous avatar, he had unilaterally declared that cooking or attempting to cook is an activity best left to moms and bais. Not only did he get a connection, but he was spotted buying more than five kinds of dals and bargaining with the utensils salesman, in a style reminiscent of the 80's when mothers used to barter old clothes for a new cooker. We are not sure if the blogger paid for his stuff using his t-shirt and jeans.

However, in a decisive blow to the last remnants of his testosterone, against all counsels he ventured inside the forbidden zone. The place which is more feminine than even a lingerie shop. Yes, you guessed it right. We are talking, ofcourse, of the place that sells sofa pillows. Those little square cushions whose purpose on earth is more futile than, say, an HR department's . Till now, the blogger had had a love hate relationship with these pillows from hetero-hell. However, yesterday, no less than five people spotted him taking a 'feel' of the pillows by gently brushing them with his fingers. He finally purchased three of them, but only after loudly declaring that he is buying them "only for smooth comfort which the back desperately needs". Three innocent bystanders who saw through his lies were instantly struck with nausea.

Subsequent manly activities of buying a wireless router, an iPod FM transmitter and gulping a few beers were too late and weak to undo the irreversible damage caused by the shopping mania.

As his friends continue to taunt him to "grow a pair", the blogger indicates that further damage to his machismo is expected in the near future, as he contemplates the purchase of a few coasters to save his furniture from beverage-induced condensation.

Ten million, and I was the fastest?

DELHI (Apr 30) Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the chronicles of one of the nation's supposedly crème de la crème.

This guy, India's hope, is trying to use his dashing new washing machine for the second time. All is hunky dory, the wash-cycle is on, only 38 minutes remain, the dude eats his dinner in peace, and waits for the washing to finish.

Only it doesn't. A trip to the machine reveals that it is stuck at 22 minutes and the rinse cycle is desperately trying to start. The spin cycle which comes after it has no chance in heaven. Totally flummoxed, the dude opens the lid and surveys the scene. Two seconds after watching the filthy goo floating around the tub, it strikes him. All his clothing posessions are in that tub, and if the #@%!@#$## machine doesn't resume, then his idea of Casual Tuesdays will become a tad more than just an idea.

Desperate, he tries Plan A, also known as the Microsoft Windows Plan. It involves switching the machine on and off rapidly enough to beat the living daylights out of the poor microchip but not fast enough to actually cause a meltdown. Just like Microsoft Windows, the plan doesn't work.

Switching to Plan B, he tries the mechanical way of things. That of physically knudging the tub clockwise to incite it to rotate. A gentle, and later, a harder nudge on the side is also added as an extra bit of measure. The tub, however, has other plans, mostly involving cosying up to the electric motor and spending quiet quality time of stillness amidst all the washing frenzy. Beads of nervous perspiration quietly form on the dude's forehead.

The time comes for Plan C. This mostly involves reading the manual (or RTFM as we comp geeks call it). Now real men never read the manual. Infact real men would rather sever their reproductive organs and neatly wrap them in cellophane than read the manual. The first thing that real men do when they buy an appliance is to roll joints from the manual's paper. But obviously real men haven't ever been forced in an only-baniyan-and-shorts-to-wear situation. So dude searches for the manual, only to discover that the manual is at a friend's house. Panic starts settling in, as even the internet refuses to locate an online manual. It is 10:45pm and uneasiness grips the dude, and understandably, he feels the need to use the restroom.

Plan D is now employed. It is not so much as a plan, rather a ritual. Consisting mostly of cuss words, about how this Indian nation can't prosper if they make crappy machines like these, and how LG sucks bigtime, and how he's gonna stick it to those lousy customer reps and service engineers, and how the dealer is gonna get more than an earful. The censor has a hard time bleeping out the diatribe. Totally exhausted after this verbal diarrhoea, the foolproof Plan E is now rolled into action.

That of physically transferring the clothes to a bucket and rinsing them manually. Totally shattered, the dude starts his ordeal and manages to clean all but one piece of cloth in a seemingly endless stretch of 20 minutes so far. It is then that he realizes that the drain pipe of the machine is still hooked vertically up instead of lying down by the drain.

Mixed feelings of euphoria, relief, shame, and anger rush in instantly. The Hindi phrase kaato-to-khoon-nahi seems apt for the situation. The drain pipe is unhooked, the cycle finishes, the machine beeps gleefully and everything is silent once more. Everything. Except the shattering of the pride.

Tomorrow I shall shave with Occam's razor.

The New Jersey Turnpike

[Warning: Not for those who are afraid of turnpikes, or for that matter, footnotes]

DELHI (Apr 12): Us citizens, tourists and expats living in this allegedly great nation have to ask this question once and for all: Do we have to report every lame-wad news such as this?

Now I have read the news that I trashed, and evidently managing the New Jersey Turnpike is a big thing. So, I will no longer trash the above mentioned news item, and instead recount what happened to be the eighteenth most memorable incident in my life ¹.

It so happened that during the last fourth of July weekend, I found myself in the New York City area. In the past, I have found myself explaining my driving to a cop, sharing a bed with a fellow friend, programming on a calculator or doing something equally disgusting, but this was different. I was in the US for a conference and halted in NYC at a friend's place. Well technically it was across the river in New Jersey, but thats one tinsy tidbit the East Coast NRIs conveniently forget to mention in their tourist brochures.

Another one of my friend was driving alone from Toronto, little knowing that he would initiate a ghastly sequence of events in the hours to come². Being a true follower of Murphy's Law, he covered 485 miles out of 500 without any glitch, making only one stop on the way -- to buy an adult diaper. It was at the crucial mile no. 485, that he decided that he was lost 'somewhere around the Alexander Hamilton Service Station' and called us to come pick him up. Now that was a wise thing to do (calling us, not getting lost), and one would assume that a rescue mission would be trivial. Well, one would assume wrong.

My NYC New Jersey friend and I took a cab and left for the fateful Alexander Hamilton Service Station (AHSS). After driving for 20 minutes, we realized that the Hispanic cabbie knew more about rap music (which was blaring loudly in our ears throughout)³ than the AHSS. Ofcourse, his prison tattoos and his 300 pound physique precluded any questions from our side. We figured that a guy like him would never need to go to a service station, he would just lift the car with one hand, look underneath the chassis and repair the fault with the other hand⁴.

So we reached the famous turnpike and saw a deadly sight. That of a zombie black African-American tollbooth operator waiting to pounce on us and rip our kidneys apart unless we paid the 1$ toll. After the driver duly paid the toll ⁵ and crossed over, he realized that he had come the wrong way. Two miles and a U-turn later, we paid the toll again, and precisely six minutes later, we landed at the exact tollbooth again, manned by the same operator from hell. Unfortunately, this was not our last rendezvous with the tollbooth, and like a toll-addict, we made six more stops at the exact same booth. The operator had begun to wonder if we wanted to ask him out but were too shy to ask. If anyone was watching from above, s/he would think that we were doing F1 laps, except that our Ford model cab was so dilapidated that even Henry Ford himself would have felt ashamed to step into it.

Meanwhile, our Canadian friend had called up a gazillion times asking for our status, liberally sprinkling his queries with the four letter word. So after swallowing his burrito and then his ego, the cabbie finally decided to ask a local for directions. Only that it was around midnight, and the local turned out to be a 60-year old African-American⁶ crack addict, and the neighborhood turned out to be a ghetto. I mentally prepared to ask the question -- "If you don't shoot or mug me or try to sell me crack, can I ask you where the AHSS is?", but luckily our cabbie did the honours -- by furiously banging on the crackhead's car and asking "YO!! 'SSUP? Y'ALL KNOW WHERE THE ALEXANDER HAMILTON STATION IS??". The dude pointed us towards the direction, and we drove off before he could ask us for any spare change.

All was finally well, we picked up our friend one hour after we had promised we would, and as a reward we got our butts kicked and got to eat his prized leftover chips. And for old times sake, we took the NJ Turnpike on the way back and paid a 1$ toll for, what I hope, the last time in my life.

¹ As an ex-IITian, I reserve the right to publish a highly mediocre book about my top ten, so don't wait up for me to blog about them. The title of the book will be on the lines of "Anything for a night with five point something ma'am at a call center", so something equally risque.

² Eight hours to be precise. He passed time via eating chips and refueling his car. Or did his car pass time by gorging on Lays and feeding him gasoline? I really cannot recall.

³ Thanks to rap music, I realized that every girl in New Jersey is a bitch or a ho'.

⁴ All the while eating a burrito. Yes, we believe in racial stereotyping. I have personally taken a 2-week stereotyping course.

⁵ For some reason, he had a roll of 1$ bills. We thought he was taking us to a stripclub containing some of them bitches and ho's.

⁶ Well la di da! I feel so politically correct now.

What makes you sicker?

[Warning: No humor, only rant. Read at your own risk.]

India's pre-mature exit from the World Cup? Or the thousands of post-mortem analyses written by nincompoops with access to a keyboard?

For me, it is the latter and in this post, I shall strive to join the abovesaid thousand idiots, but not by posting a why-I-think-India-lost. As an engineer, I know the fallacies in making a judgement from a handful of data (two losses). And frankly speaking, I watch cricket with the naivety of a three year old child. I have no idea what a green grassy pitch implies. I have no clue how reverse swing works (although I have read about it a couple of times, and I keep forgetting), and frankly I do not break any sweat over my ignorance of the technical aspects of the game. There! I said it.

What I do not understand is this: When India lost a series each to Sri Lanka and West Indies, and badly I might add, there were no such inane analyses. India lost four out of five games against West Indies, there is a lot you can say about the teams and their shortcomings based on this data. Now India lost one game apiece to two different teams, and suddenly every self-appointed know-it-all jerk in the nation seems to have a rock solid theory about what exactly the pain points were, based on only two games.

I am no fan of the Indian coach, or that idiot who has overstayed his welcome in the team (Sachin), but calling for their heads is totally uncalled for, based on these two games. We played, and we were outplayed on both the occasions. Get over it already! Why do we find it so hard to accept that one side has to lose, and unless we are not careful, that side will be ours. Thats all there is to it. Atleast for me, that seems to be simplest explanation.

Rat's behind and city rankings

[Warning: Longish Post. Sorry rahega.]

BOMBAY (12 Mar) Living in Delhi for 9 years and in Bombay for almost 2 has made me an expert in the hot emerging area of "city-comparison", according to people. Everywhere I go, I am swarmed with hordes of strangers who think that asking a Delhi vs Bombay question is a helluva icebreaker, which is really good because otherwise they would ask embarassing questions like "Is your wife in Bombay too?" (No such entity), and "How is your PhD?" (Excruciatingly slow). This post is dedicated to such noble creatures. I present some sample conversations; the dialogues marked "Them" are real, and the ones marked "Me" are the ones I would have really liked to make:

Them: Wow! Bombay eh? City of dreams? Bollywood-Shollywood eh? How many film stars have you seen?
Me: Oh I see them all the time. Living in an IIT hostel sure has its perks you see. My next door neighbour is Abhishek Bachchan, and I can hear him making threatening phone calls to the tree that Aishwarya married.
Them: Oh stop kidding! So tell me, have you witnessed any gangster shootouts there?
Me: Yes why not. I moonlight as a country liquor merchant in Dharavi and have shot a few non-paying customers myself. Ram Gopal Varma is dead-right about this gangster thingie. Everyone in Bombay is shooting either a film or a fellow gangster. Infact, Mumbai police provides every resident
with a revolver for self-defense.
Them: So how do you find Bombay as compared to Delhi?
Me: I will mail you a 500-word laminated report, so you can read my expert opinions at your leisure.

Them: DELHI!! SAHI HAI OYE, BALLE BALLE!!
Me: ...
Them: Balle Balle ummmm.
Me: I am waiting for the question.
Them: Oh I thought you are a Punjabi, aren't you?
Me: Yes, all Delhites are required by law to be Punjabi. Infact people from any other races are shot on sight. I, however, have Haryanvi roots.
Them: Still, its the same thing na?
Me: Yes, as interchangeable as Gujju and Marathi.
Them: I see. So you must have found Bombay culturally very....whats the word for it...different. Isn't it?
Me: Yes, at first I couldn't put my finger on it, but after a few months, I realized that I am in a different city.

Them: Yaar, Bombay girls are very easy going na? I mean not like these god-awful Delhi girls.
Me: My easy academic life has given me plenty of chances to talk to plenty of girls (three in all). One of them switched teams after talking to me, another one put her matrimonial plans on the fast track, and the third one refused to return my calls. So I have no conclusions.
Them: No, but its true na that Bombay girls don't refuse if you ask them for a dance, they flirt back, and are generally looking for a "good time". (This is usually accompanied by a wink, or if I am lucky, a nudge in the elbow, or both.)
Me: Well I don't know about that because I am usually denied stag entry in the clubs and paying a hefty cover charge is against my second principle. (My first principle is that a beer-night should never go by sober). And I think if I try to flirt with a girl, she will most probably interpret it as the initiation of a possible molestation.
Them: So how would you rate the girls in the two cities?
Me: You are not listening. My policy is that be it Delhi or Bombay, I don't bug the girls and they don't bug me. Until the time for marriage comes, when I will choose exactly one girl to bug for the rest of her life (or mine, whichever is shorter).

Them: Cool man! You live in Delhi. There are a lot of parks and stuff na?
Me: Yes, every house has a lawn, including my first floor flat.
Them: And there are a lot of cars too, right?
Me: Yes, Delhi is trying to beat Los Angeles in the cars per capita metric.
Them: And wide roads too!
Me: Sure that too. All roads in Delhi, including the bylanes and services lanes are twice the width of the Western Express Highway. And all Santros and Zens that are sold in Delhi are as wide as an ATR airplane. We sure have it going on in Delhi.
Them: Yeah yeah! We Bombayites pay 1/3 of the taxes and you Delhites reap the benefits. Not fair!
Me: There are two ways to remove this disparity. Either Delhi pays as much tax as Bombay or vice versa. Which one do you think is more feasible?

In all fairness though, I would never have the guts to say all this, because like everyone, I too would hate to be beaten up. Frankly, for me, both the cities suck and rock equally. The "spirit of Mumbai" provides as much fodder for laughter as "dil waalo ki Delhi". Whats that you say? Bombay is safer for women, including at night? Well we are working towards correcting that pal. Everyday, hundreds of our brethren are descending in Bombay from exotic places like Etawah, Rohtak, Azamgarh, Munger and Darbhanga to cater to the eve-teasing needs of the women in Bombay.

So as far as the Delhi vs Bombay question is concerned, I will answer that as soon as I get my face out of the armpit of my co-passenger and get off this local. It will most probably be that I don't give a rat's behind.

I will leave you with a Bombay FAQ for now:

Q. When does a Bombay-man get an orgasm?
A. When he finds an empty seat on the Churchgate-Virar fast local during rush hour.

Q. How do you know where a particular Mumbai guy hails from?
A. Pick up a fight with him. If he yells at you continuously for 43 minutes, he is a Marathi. If he argues with you for 2 minutes and leaves for his office, he is a Gujju. If he bashes you up and gives you multiple fractures, he is a Sikh cab driver from Sion Koliwada. If he sends goons to beat you up, he is Bal Thackeray (a mutant sample of the Marathi population).

Q. What should I eat when I am in Bombay?
A. The food ordinance permits only Vada Pao and Dhokla. If tea must be partaken, it should be asked for in units of "cutting". Asking for just "ek chai" will make you look like a damn fool from Delhi.

Q. Why are Marathi food portions so small?
A. So that you have room for the main course -- Vada Pao and Dhokla.

Q. Can't I just drive to work everyday in Bombay?
A. Sure, if your office operates only on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Q. REALLY!! Does it take ONE DAY to commute??
A. No. You will reach your office in three hours tops. But it will take you another fifteen to find a parking space.

Q. Where in Bombay, can I get, ummm..., you know, get physical with the ladies?
A. Try entering the ladies compartment of any local during rush hour. You will get more than you bargained for.