Jio God for giving me only some-small-room-kitchen; can't imagine how they do "Diwali ki safai" in the 27-storey Ant-Qilla in South Bombay, yet stay there for a mere 8 hours per annum. Fun intended. Anyway, I heard of an ongoing clean-up drive in an Indian prison. What's fascinating about Indian prisons is that anyone can escape them; from the inside, as well as from outside.

I am blessed, God. A loving family, good health, timely meals, earnings, a Home to call my own, a sense of direction to differentiate the right from wrong, and the wisdom to remain firmly grounded and humble at all times. You've given me more than I deserve or wished for. You care. You love. You never let me fall. Shortcomings, any and all, are solely mine. There are millions out there, God. They look up to you, the harbinger of hope, to bring cheer, lights, happiness and so much more in their lives! This day, evening and time, I pray for their well-being, happiness and prosperity. Bless them like you’ve blessed me. May the spread of lights and cheer be contagious!

Yaar, check karo. Please check the syllabus at Wharton, Stanford, MIT and LSE. Earlier, two bhai-bhai having studied at prestigious Universities separated, and now a global Indian icon and a local yeh-kaun are infuriated. Politically speaking my mann-ki-baat, why spend money to obtain a global degree when the end-goal is you-come-you-go-nothing’s-bigger-than-ego? And, do rich people in plush 85,000-per-sq-ft South Bombay offices and highrises also quarrel like their counterparts in Chakala, Kurla, Malad, Thane and Bhiwandi? By the way, does the global syllabus end with an Indian adage that sounds something like, “bajaate raho”?! Huh?

I built this. I am building that. I own this. I own that. I bought this. I bought that. I can afford anything. I know everything. I did this for him. I helped him. I recommended him. I promoted him. I do charity. I donated. I am the reason. I, this. I, that. Sahi hai yaar, sahi bole Gandhi Bapu about that I for an I. Par, yeh I ke namoone kahaan se aaye? Kya short-sighted hain yaar, jo sirf I ka hi chashmah lagaaye?

What’s the Cyrus Mystery? He did away with loss-making entities? Or so I hear. Which means, now his decisions will be reversed? Which means, more Nanos on the road? Which means, Jaguar will be Safari? Which means, no gratuity for him? Which means, PR will cover up his departure, and FIIs the stock price? Tata, buy-buy? Tata, sell-sell? Arre Shapoorji bhai, tameh bolo ne bhai, Kem Ratan Ban Aayo?!

Hey Shiv, say na, what’s the Raj that despite a lurking urge within, none has the protein, vitamin, carbohydrates nor fat to openly hurl abuses at you or protest against you? Is it their lack of courage? The North Indian language? Your image? Or is it the rage of the young age in your highly-secured entourage? And then, what’s so special about your histrionics? The wielding sword? The Dassera rally? Dilli-daily? Anyway, somewhere down South, jahaan Jaya hai, there’s a game played Polo; arre bhai, zara darwaza toh kholo. Itni police aur kitne hi Doctor; er, zara bill toh bolo, Apollo?

Age: 38 years. Daily working: 11 hours. Daily traveling: 4 hours. Daily sleep at Home: 5 hours. Aggregate hours of sleep in the 8.43 am CST fast and 7.43 pm Thane slow: 2 hours. Adept at sleeping in all positions: standing, lying down, leaning, being leaned upon and wanting to lean upon. Exercise: daily, cut-to-size. Daily meal: Thank God. Wake-up hours: erratic. Sleeping time: sporadic. Precious assets owned: fan, fridge, TV, photoframes, sofa, mobile and furniture; mere paas Maa bhi hai. Frequency of taxes paid: daily. Product wish-list: affordable dal-chawal-roti-sabzi and a makaan without leakage. Favorite shopping destination: can’t say, it's a Big Bizarre. Commuting records created every day: crossing 16 platforms, changing 4 buses, 3 trains, and battling 5,000 people each time while boarding and alighting a train. Annual sick leave: boss thinks, one. Paid leave: gone. Kya yaar, itna struggle, phir bhi mujhe koi legend nahin bolta?! Modiji? Rahulji? Manmohanji? Kejriji? Bolo ji? Aap sab legends milein hue hain ji? Ain ji?

I asked Mom today if she is confident that Dad loved her. They were married for about 23 years, before my 6-footer-well-built Dad bid farewell without a party. Mom looked at me with condescension in response to my question, as though I was talking like Mark Shutterbug. Agreed, there was no Facebook those days where both could publicly exhibit, declare and display love, and exchange “mwahs” (to whomsoever it may concern) with each other, just like a lot of couples do these days during their long stints of 23 months, 23 days, 23 hours, AND/OR 23 seconds. Mom informs me that they never had the urge to let the whole world know what they felt and did last summer, winter, monsoon and during all seasonal cycles. She wonders though, when Mausi became maus? Bhabhi became bhabhz. Touching feet with both hands changed to touching thighs with 2 fingers (ouch!). Girl became gal (dono gal zara aage toh karo?) Happy birthday, HBD. Thank you, TY. Good Night, GN. Good morning, GM. Good Evening, GE. Happy New Year, HNY. Anyway, to me, at 3.23 pm, what matters most is that I Still Know What They Did Last Summer (_evil grin!_) #Facebookwalapyaar

Trump, you don’ wanna appease Indian diaspora, eh? Let me tell ya, the Indian in me loves America more than I love my mother, motherland, father, father’s grand, sister and sister's hairband. And there are many like me, mate! Every day, every hour, you’d see Visa power. I am going to America. I returned from America. I slept in America. I woke up in America. I brushed my teeth in America. I used toilet paper in America. I bought my first ever Indian flag from America. I recently married an American in America. Before that, I married an Indian in India who was earlier married to an American in America. They don’t litter in America (only in Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq). I miss India; solely in America. They lead some life in America. They also have a few wives in America. The boy is an NRI educated and settled in America. He takes dowry only outside America. Anyway, Trump how can you now hope, when you thought you could just grope? Swatch your crotch; Hillary knows your life’s Wiki, Donald!

Hey Dipa, why are you returning the BMW gifted by “Bharat Durghatna” who parks more cars than he drives? And, Agartala is backward? Huh, really? I mean, just look at Dilli and Bambai. Jumbo jets fitted with *Rolls-Royce* engines hover in the skies for hours just waiting for a signal to land. German, Italian, American, Japanese, Korean and boring Indian cars with extravagant cc engines lag behind rickshaw and “saikil” during peak and non-peak hours. Every time one car wants to move a metre forward, 8 cars have to move 6-metres backward; please calculate the forward-to-backward ratio yourself. By the way, do they drive on footpaths in Agartala? Are there chinkaras, too? No? Good. I asked, because jo toofani hote hain, unhe chahiye hamdardi ka tonic, chinkara!

I went for Darshan today. And boy, what a divine experience it was! The grandeur of decoration and lights, fancy stage, yummy food, unwashed red-carpet, expensive clothing stalls, bank loans, insurance policies, vacuum cleaners, Pepsi and Coke in the same stall, average men (barring a few handsome ones like me!) and gorgeous women. There were queues: 100-rupee, 500-rupee, free queue and “no Q”; the last one was only for VIPs and the likes of officials who arrived in their official cars with tinted windows on a late Sunday evening. And there was God, too. I wonder how God categorizes and processes applications. Anyway, I have a very compelling question for Him: how does someone, who stood 1000 steps behind me, jump 2000 steps ahead of me in a matter of seconds? Kya God, fate hai, late hai, par woh seth hai, toh kya aap se bhi great hai?!

The bearded old man holding pan masala in his hand. Kaun hai? Seen him somewhere. On TV, for sure; cinema is darn expensive, I tell ya. Aah, the famous Bond, James Bond! But wait, is America in such dire straits that 007 has to sell Pan Masala in India? Obama? By the way, did Bond go to Smriti's Photo Studio for a click? Just see the effects; even with Irani's Photoshop skills, he looks like a dilapidated agent with token wealth, devoid of any stealth and in extremely injurious health!

Obama Uncle, God promise, Kashmir is mine. No uncle, Hafiz ki saugandh, Kashmir is mine, all landmines are not made to shine and Azhar is doing fine. No uncle, Nawaz is lying, we paid stamp duty and registration for PoK that he is occupying; why is he jhoot-jhoot crying? No uncle, ask He, ask Xi, both will tell that Naren is lying; he created a MHADA scandal when I was applying. Please uncle, don’t listen to Nawaz; Sushma, staring off her chashma, won elocution at the UN where none participated and empty chairs were drying. Ok! Ok! Naren I will call you Gandhi, and Nawaz you take billions and my weaponry goldmine. Please stop the danga-Fawad, ye kids. I am very concerned with Donald’s Trump on cloud nine, while Aye Bill Hai Mushkil, since Hillary is falling behind the line. Get my Airforce One ready ya mate, I need to jet set flying! #NawazNarenObamaUncle

But of course, strikes took place! Else, how does one explain the 8.43 am Churchgate slow to be overcrowded; hai na, shaayad the motormen are on strike. Rickshaw drivers decline to ply short and long distances with tenacity; possibly, transport buses are on strike. Well-paved roads are riddled with gaping holes; maybe, the “daambarwala” and road contractors are on strike. Prices of dal hover around the 200-rupee level; perhaps, truck drivers are on strike. The likes of Subroto Mallya and Vijay Sahara siphon off crores; hmm, the taxman is on a holiday strike. Chinkara and human killers roam Nirbhaya; what, the lawman is on strike. Global prices of fuel drop in USD, while those in India decline in paise; are Saddam and Osama on strike? Anyway, notwithstanding numerous internal strikes, the jawan remains on a high alert at the border; definitely, terror from across the fence is waiting to strike. And then, hope Nar grows up to become Man and learns from Mohan who never spoke; after all, “strike” bolo toh problem, “no strike” bolo toh bhi problem! By the way, sach mein, Sirji kal strike? Huh?