gogoi (in lower case), your ejaculation was premature.
You screwed no one but generally sprayed in the air in glee. It has its psychological roots in history, and I quote thus: Darwinians argued that men who suffer this, are more likely to father children to whom they will pass on the same genes of Premature Ejaculation. And that is what worries me, gogoi with a small ‘g’. Who you got these military-premature-ejaculatory genes from, and who you are going to pass them to. In the course of this mild discourse, guggu gogoi, the answer to both will be found.
Otherwise what you did on that jeep was simple Bullying.
And Bullying is invariably returned with a force that leaves its ‘manly’ perpetrator with untimely menstruation from all pores. I hope you’ve left the valley, He-man. Along with your pads. As I suspect you must have.
The milk you sprayed, goonda gogoi, came from no holy cow.
And it had no Kashmiri badams in it to improve its taste. It came from your professional upbringing, from your ragouted DNA that is cooked in what was once a coveted institution but is now—given the ‘talent’ it is attracting and producing—prone to the real danger of being called National Dud Academy. Of late it doesn’t seem to teach the basics – something called ‘officer-like behaviour’, a stringent code that the services once carried as a pip on wide and broad shoulders. But then you didn’t even go to NDA. You weren’t always an officer were you, so the challenge of seeing you as a gentleman is in any case, steeper. You came from the ranks, which is fair, but these ranks are quite often notorious (the poor truth must sometimes be squeezed through momentry gaps in hyperpatriotic, robotic and dowright silly sloganeering) for being vagrant dicks coming as they do from a countryside that is famed as a rapists’ paradise (rapes otherwise, minus olive green under are zero in Kashmir). You come from the ranks, that are unfortunately schooled and beaten into sahayak servility. Armies must choose what they want. Servants or soldiers. And this army has made its choice. To top it, you’ve had a fair share of role models. First you had a general with a dubious date of birth like his sanghi parentage. Then you had that oafish bladder face Gen Dilbagh, who thought his remit was to hide from the Chinese by organizing yoga functions for Narendra Draameybaaz Modi, whose 56 inches falsies are the toast of the town. And now you have this fellow who gave you a medal to put on your 5 point six inches tits—a medal for bullying a poor unarmed muslim weaver who made the mistake of voting in hope, a medal that is bound to earn the wrath of Indians like me, who will respond to your physical abuse with verbal profanities, no less no more. That is what happens resplendent olive green transfigures into the now familiar gobar green of Cowdi Arabia. First you bely hope, then deny hope. So that there’s no confusion. And now there’s no hope. And then, there’s your background for which again, you can’t be fully faulted. You are from the Army Services Corps, which has its own epics. This ration-paani corps, certainly a legitimate and useful arm, was but in the best of times corrupt through the length of its cord, taking chillar kickbacks from civilian contractors, a gaping orifice in otherwise insulated cantonments through which civilians moneybags came wheeling dealing. Any honest ASC officer and there are quite a few, will admit it. But that it has continued to be so proves that other corps only saw this one as a role model. Given half an opportunity, they would do twice as much. That’s because (the truth my dear gogoi, better be told before its impossibly late) you are degenerating fast into an army of freeloaders. From soldiers as servants, to selling gas, to smuggling stuff via dhulabaari and using fauji vehicles to do so, to compromising Siachin equipment, to the more mundane using of staff cars for shopping, to the assumed entitlement of family vacations in army messes in the same Kashmir which you love to criticize—a Kashmir that fills you with a deep inferiority complex, a Kashmir where every picture of you shows you as striking misshapen aliens. Do you know why? You treat Kashmiris as outsiders and enemy, and in the process look like aliens, in a land that confounds you far more than you confound the people of the land itself. They genuinely don’t get the cause of your hatred. It is that Kashmir, without which you don’t have a job, without which you can tee off on your nuts. ‘Cause the other job of fighting China makes your olive-green—going gobar green pants soak up in bright vitamin yellow. And so you turn all your attention to Kashmir – INSIDE Kashmir. On Kashmiri women and children, on farmers and peasants. And on even carpet weavers. Because you have even lost territory to Pakistan and your dubious surgical strike (dubious because of your spielberg 56 inches, not because of you) is supposedly in a terrority that is India’s. Or is it? You decide, but please decide on one.
So baby. Before you tie another carpet weaver to a jeep, get that territory back.
At least take an inch forward towards the akhand bharat your master wants, like good sahayaks. And at least say for godsake that you will one day get back the territory under chinese occupation. Do you have a date plan. Of what use is a nationalist government which can’t even put a deadline on getting ‘our’ territory back? And if you can’t even dream of getting it back, then do me a favour.
Just shut the fuck up.
Don’t mind my talking down to you. But I am far better read and that is not a boast. And so from my educated mind—sanghis can hate me for just this—I want to tell you something. That Symbolism is a powerful thing, bugger. But it is used by both god and devil. What you did on that jeep you hun, was at the behest of a devil who has more blood singularly on his hands than your entire army in Kashmir.
So here’s the symbolism you can do at the behest of god.
gogoi, you chuff, pick up your shivering twosome and go back into Kashmir if you have balls.
And walk unarmed with a megaphone to Lal Chowk if you have the spirit. And apologise to Dar, the poor weaver, his poor family and the beautiful people of Kashmir, if you have the heart. You’ll be surprized, it takes a second for innocents to forgive rapacious armies. And then you vandal, you walk to Hazratbal and pray that the Babri Masjid pulled down by numbskulls, is restored. And stick your chest out at that and cock a snook at the Delhi despot. Prove you really are a soldier. And then pray that a solution is found for the Ram Temple somewhere nearby as well. And prove you are a human and not a beast. And pray hard you muttonhead, that the masterminds of that act have their nuts roasted by the supreme court and the barbecue party aired live on Republic TV. Give some of us a reason to finally watch it. Pray then, that they are hanged for the genocide they caused. For nothing may deserve the death penalty but communal rioting surely does. Then baby, as you stand there, your wilting dork redeemed at Hazratbal, praying for deep redemption, you will see tears of joy and of forgiveness flood the eyes of those incredibly pretty Kashmiri children, who are nowadays even battling severe psychiatric ailments. Did you get a lump in your throat reading this? No? Then imagine Burhan Wani’s brother who was tortured and killed was your brother; imagine the girl blinded by pellets was your daughter. That your father is still looking for you in the fog of Kashmir after you disappeared one night, dragged away by some men in gobar green.
Even for rogue like you, I wouldn’t wish these things.
Still I’m angry. Yes I am angry. And no one can take that freedom to be angry, the freedom to protest and agitate.
See goonda gogai, no part is ever an integral part. If you don’t believe me, read history in the time you get between buying rations and pilfering them. You know a country is like an amoeba, you putz. It is the nation’s responsibilty to keep its flock together. Bugger, its actually like betrothal. You charm her, you court her, you shower her with flowers and gifts, you win her over. And then you marry her. Then you let her blossom, make her happy and be proud of your children. But Master Chappan can’t be expected to understand this. But now if you abuse her, brutalize her, rape her, she will kick your ass all the way to Assam. This is how the world sees the army in Kashmir.
And Kashmir owes you nothing. Nothing. You’re the squatter there and a murderous one at that. To the world at large, Kashmir sits at the head like a crown on India, a spectacular Himalayan region in an altitude worshipping land, brimming with sufi intellect, replete with goodness that is seen in every strain of its culture. From language to food and dare I say, those carpets that Dar makes, and which your fauji families go shopping for in armed sarkari jeeps.
So your role knucklehead, is to protect this beautiful treasure at the border, not plunder within and choose the smaller guy to bully like an olive green rapscallion. So go back to the drawing board of whatever religion you came from and speak to your god and not to his machinating interpreters. And he will tell you exactly what I am saying. Not because I am god you duh, but because every humanist is. And you could be too. Even after entering human history like a donkey like you did. Surprise us gogoi. Do something good in Kashmir. We genuinely want to be proud of you. Right now we are ashamed.
And then baby I will tell you what you do.
Then you leave the jannat again. Cross the chicken’s neck of India at Tawi and head to disgraceful Delhi as it must now be called. Then drive to AHQ and get a Republic TV crew to accompany you. These days they can even sit under you, when you decide to poop. Then you enter aspiring minister Rawat’s office. Salute him smartly (one thing you guys still do well) and then look him in the eye (he blinks a lot nowadays, after meeting Modi) with the effortless calm of a humanist. Then reach for the medal in your back pocket on which you have been farting all the way to AHQ. And then you return the medal to minister-in-waiting-chief-of-asswiping-sangh. Watch him blink self consciously, knowingly, somewhat helplessly. Then salute smartly once more and turn on your heel. On the way back fella, grab the Republic TV guy Aditya Raj Kaul by his collar (this also, you guys do well) and tie him to your jeep. Now this is the Kashmiri you should have tied in the first place, but it’s better late than never. And then you drive through Delhi to savour the difference this time. See how much Indians love the nationalist—militarist right wing funded TV channel. Now take the jeep through jat land and imagine jats pelting stones. Though those fellows are different. They pelt jeeps on stones, not stones on jeeps. And then you will know fella, the difference between Kashmir and the crap you represent. No one stoned the jeep that carried Dar. What does that tell you fella? That Kashmiris are together, and Kashmir is the least of hopelessly divided India’s problems. So what are you doing by focussing on Kashmir, the least of your problems? Standing naked in a party trying to perfect your tie knot?
Are you bloody daft gogoi.
First make Delhi an integral part, the Jats an integral part, the patels an integral part, the dalits an integral part, then worry about Kashmir. And have you noticed another thing fella? That butcher has even polarised your army. There are many more deserving people on your jeep, than poor Dar. Tie them and we will even give you a bloody Filmfare award.
That was on politicians and so it made you smile, no?
But what about your army? Remember the mutiny by the sikhs in the army after you guys stormed the golden temple, when you could have easily sealed it instead. And you know (at least military events you fellows should know) who paid the price. Gen Vaidya, COAS was assasinated by sikh terrorists. So what did you do? Did you occupy Punjab? Why not? Because it isn’t muslim like Kashmir?
But I am willing to grant that the army was following political orders on Golden temple and so cannot be blamed. But what about you gogoi? You are a national disgrace, a rougue, a colt and a ruffian. Goonda gogoi, nobody ordered you to do the war crime you did. You acted disgracefully on your own. Because you have grown in a culture that has now degraded beyond redemption. Because you know your masters are sucking sanghis. Because you are not an honorable soldier.
Even I don’t have words for you. The day you did what you did, you left us old fauji fans sad.
There was no political pressure on you to do what you did. Just as there was no political pressure on your generals who sold army land in Sukha. There was no political intercourse that gave birth to VK Singh, or Dilbag who organized yoga for that double fault Sri. There was no political pressure on Rawat to say he will fell stone pelters (college girls and minors) with bullets. There is no political pressure to keep soldiers as sahayaks, in 2017 for heavensake and give them a a smaller diet than officers while they toil more! There is no political pressure on you guys to be freeloaders all your life, is there? Hate me all you will, but you know it’s the fucking truth. And yes I know it is unfair to expect that in the middle of Kali Yug, when every institution has been bastardized by politicos, that you guys will still carry Manekshaw’s and Cariappa’s can. But you could have at least stayed put at the General Raina level. He was a Kashmiri pandit too, though not of the pickled-in-the-brine-of-opportunity and paid-to-speak breed that appears on TV panels nowadays.
Which is why I don’t subscribe to the fashionable and populist refrain that the army is all good and only politicos are fingering it. As in the real world, a twat needn’t get fingered, else it will soon be fucked. You guys are not really buggered by politics. You are rotting from within. Venereal diseases have struck you uniquely. In the head. The expiry date of you being a great army arrived not when you, like a spectacular klutz tied Dar on the jeep, but when the asswiping chief of staff (all in lower case) dedicated to the service of drameybaaz Modi gave you that beggarly katori of nationalism in the garb of a medal, instead of having you sit on top, with the Qutb Minar inside you, croaking cuckoo every five minutes in the voice of Ashoke Pandit. Fuck. Another Kashmiri!
Kashmir is your nightmare baby, what to do.
At one level, nothing is wrong with you. And you’ve even got good guns. It is balls that you don’t have. Outside Kashmir, people don’t know that you guys drive around shit scared in civilian vehicles. And that you are not allowed outside camp after 7pm, after which you take a bottle of milk and suck the nipple in panic till sleep catches you and nightmares of guilt fuck your brains in fear. And it is not even your fault. For one, self motivation always beats the paid motivation of armies. That explains why they never win over an insurgency. And two, you are in the wrong place fighting a land you don’t understand, surrounded by people who hate the very sight of you. Now wait. This part was and is in your hands. This is where you went wrong. You made people hate you. If they didn’t hate you, they’d support you. Then you’d win. The police did that in Punjab and no one abused Punjabis in general like you do to Kashmiris. You gogoi, instead have even insulted them. And for what? Just to keep Modi Spielberg’s nationalism spiel alive. But you gogoi, did what you did on your own.
See fella, don’t mind my talking down to you. I am also older and brighter.
And I can’t blame you for that. How can you help your age. And as regards understanding the politics of it, that too is not an army man’s cup of chai. You and your ilk are fucking going out of syllabus. You’re looking like bristly monkeys on TV channels, speaking in a pitch meant for parade grounds, and making as much sense as a parade ground needs and no more. But you gogoi at least, have no such pretensions. You deal only with ration—pani and jeeps and ropes. But you’re carrying a burden baby. That medal fella! Come let’s sell it in raddi and go watch Hindi Medium or even go eat a gujju thaali. That’s what it is worth.
Now I don’t know about you, you caitiff, but I am a peaceloving man who falls asleep easily. And now I am sleepy.
So sweet dreams fella. I love you. I love olive green too. I really do. It is gobar green I don’t like. Sleep tight groggy gogoi. If you see fairies in your dreams, they must be Kashmiri. If you see jannat in your dreams, it will be Kashmir. It’s all about how you see. If you see food, it will be the wazwan (god forbid you see Chinese brrrr!). And if you see carpets . . . Shit! Let’s not go there. Goodnight gogoi.
This time I really mean it. HAPPY NEW YEAR.
May 2016 never return. In any form. May its impact also vanish miraculously.
I pray for a 2017 where the Judiciary rules and rules fast, where the Executive governs and governs fast, where the legislature vanishes and vanishes fast.
I pray that the fourth estate doesn’t become like real estate. And real estate like fourth estate.
I am not so visionary as to pray for ANY growth in GDP. I am practical. I only want my money back. From the ATM. Only what I earned in the past.
I don’t want any endearments. Don’t call us Mitron. Call us by that word that rhymes with it, which we confirmed while voting in 2014 – at least 31℅ of us.
In 2017, I don’t want to equate Bharat with my Mata. Because my Mata either gave me pocket money or didn’t. But never did she snatch my pocket money and give it to her wealthy friend. Who certainly neither needed it nor deserved it.
I don’t mind singing the national anthem before during and after a movie, especially if the movie is about third rate rulers, but in 2017, I pray the words of the anthem come at least somewhere close to the truth.
I am so backward that I am still praying for a 2017 modelled on Gandhi and Nehru’s India, not digital India.
And I am so backward that this little piece is not a forward. It’s from me. Genuinely.
Happy new year to you and your loved ones. Be good and don’t switch on the TV at 7.30pm tonight.
Lots of love.