The QSM Magazine - Issue #1 ~ Humor, Satire, and Parodies

Issue#1

Nov’15

AN INDIAN HILLARY’S

CampaignHighlights

KILLER MOM VS.THRILLER MOM

H U M O R P A R O D I E S D R A M A

INDIAN HUMOR MAKES THE WORLD GO ROFL!WHOSE BED IS IT ANYWAY?

VC-FUNDING forGharAyaMeraMochi.com

A TRIP TO THE MOON

AN INDIANWRITER’SDESK

GRAMMY GOTFLANGIPROPPED

Kneading Customer

ExpectationsMr. Trump

vs.Lalu ji

QUIRKY SNARKY MALARKEYQSM ~ Issue #1, Nov’152

The DROLL MALL

Mrs. Chaddha Elopes with Wifey’s Favorite! She breaks wifey’s trust, steals her sleep, and snores

away.5

Ten Things I wish I were A car, a mirror, a computer...because inanimate

objects see more than we do. 16If Hillary were an Indian Politician… She would do things differently! Abki baar, Hillary Sarkar (This time, it’s Hillary’s time!)

20Grammy got Flangipropped! Is flangipropping really the holy grail of marital happiness?24

Programmer vs. Artist – Small Shame vs. Big Shame What happens when a mother’s only son decides to become an artist…or even a programmer?

8

An Open Letter to Donald Trump – because

He is Him! Trump’s Interview with a wigged and Trumped Fallon

forces Anand to pen this letter.13

Indrani Mukherjea supplies Mom with Fresh Ammunition Mom uses the killer-mom illustration to make me real-ize how blessed I am.

26

31Just-in Trudeau

12Furry

Bed-Usurpers!

Ar tFlowsInMyVeins.wordpress.com3

Hair is the Winner (Cover-feature)

Donald Trump finds his match in an Indian politi-

cian – Shri Lalu ji of Patna, Bihar.28

GharAyaMeraMochi.com gets the Biggest VC Funding yet! The QSM Magazine interviews Mrs. Diwaniya to discover the one reason why this hot new startup is already making money for her.

34

Take me to the Moon – Trump, Branson,

Wifey, and Me! Ready for a trip to the moon? There’s someone who

can take you there – for a consideration, of course.38

What the Customer Wanted and What the Customer Got! Exceeding customer’s expectations –

The Dough-kneading Project. 40

An Indian Writer’s Writing Space The desk of an Indian writer lacks just one thing - writing space!

36

Ten Indian Relatives are worth Ten

Thousand! You can’t choose them, barter them, or auction them

off, but you wish you could!32

19The Dress Circle

30Nukkadwala

IIT


Welcome to this edition of QSM.

Before I don my cloak of malarkey, I want to thank everyone who has subscribed to the QSM Magazine or read it on ISSUU.com. You are the reason why I was motivated to put together the second edition of the magazine. Thank you for egging me on, for telling me that the you wish the magazine was a monthly instead of a bimonthly, and for making me realize that malarkey matters.

The feeling of gratitude wants to linger on, but I push it aside to talk about the current issue of QSM. This issue is bigger and better in more ways than one. It has more stories, it brings you humor from two new authors, it introduces “The Dress Circle” with the readers’ views, and is loaded with photographs.

A few words about the photographs. Some extremely persuasive international readers prevailed upon me to add photographs (and not just illustrations,) to my stories. I bowed to their better judgment, slung my camera around my neck, and went around snapping pictures of every beauty that I laid eyes upon: my neighbor’s car, the auto-driver, and the cobbler being the highlights of my quest. While this might have been a disguised slight aimed at my illustration capabilities, I hope you enjoy the new additions.

Now about the next issue. Please continue patronizing The QSM Magazine through your readership. It’s a free magazine, so please subscribe to get the PDF of the next issue in your inbox. You can also read all the previous issues on ISSUU.com.

Following are the things you can do to keep The QSM Magazine afloat:

• Subscribe to the QSM Magazine.• Send the QSM Subscription Link to

your friends.• Send the link of the magazine on

ISSUU.com to your friends.• Ask me questions or send me short

hilarious messages – those that match the funky spirit of QSM will be published in the magazine.

• Follow my blog.• Like the Facebook page of QSM.• Follow my tweets on Twitter.

Just help me get the word out, whichever way you can, and I’ll never stop being Anandhotep, the guy who works after work to bring The QSM Magazine to you.

I wish you all a Happy Halloween and a Happy Diwali. May you be blessed with health and happiness.

Thank you once again,

(Anand)

The Prompt Corner


Mrs. Chaddha Elopes with Wifey’s FavoriteOur next-floor neighbor Mrs. Chaddha breaks wifey’s trust and steals away her sleep.

“Mrs. Chaddha is our next-floor neighbor. She lives in the floor below ours,

and so we share a layer of concrete and our view of the park with her. Had we not…correction, had wifey not gone overboard when Mrs. Chaddha had moved into our neighborhood, had she not showered Mrs. Chaddha with affection disguised as food, wifey wouldn’t be lying awake in the nights.

I don’t normally rake up the past, but I must remind you that Mrs. Chaddha is the same lady who was responsible for the Cardamom tea fiasco, when my innocent request for a cup of tea, was twisted into… oh, well. If you’ve read it, you have; if you haven’t, you can pick the first Issue (Issue #0) and read about it. In a nutshell, Mrs. Chaddha had been a pain in neck from her first day as our neighbor.

This is why I wasn’t really surprised

to learn about the plate-fiasco. I learned about the plate and its

connection with covetous Mrs. Chaddha last night, when I woke up to the ruckus made by wifey as she tossed, turned, and made unhappy noises that sounded like tut-tut and harrumph.

“What?” I asked, flipping the switch of the side-lamp.

“Nothing. Sorry to wake you up. Go back to sleep,” she said in her softest voice. I couldn’t detect the tiniest trace of regret in her voice – a satisfied hint of purring perhaps, but no regret. I was now wide-awake and curious as a cat. Wifey can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, and once asleep, even Arnab Goswami’s voice cannot shake her out of her slumber. Why then, was she awake at this hour, and why she wanted me awake too?

“What?” I asked again. “She’s not returned my plate,”

she said, twisting a lock of her hair


around her index finger.“Who hasn’t?” I asked, still

wondering how a plate could pack more rousing power than Arnab’s voice.

“Mrs. Chaddha,” she said, releasing her lock and jabbing her index finger downward. I visualized Mrs. Chaddha happily snoring away about ten feet below us, totally oblivious to the hubbub ten feet above her.

“She took the plate, and never bothered to return it!”

Gradually it all tumbled out, mostly without any prodding from my end. A couple of weeks ago, when wifey had made chicken biryani (rice cooked with chicken and spices), she had, in her good samaritan avatar, taken some of it for Mrs. Chaddha. Now after two weeks, the plate was still in Mrs. Chaddha’s possession.

“Forget it. It’s just a plate,” I said.“Just a plate?” she exclaimed. “It

was my favorite plate!”I was flabbergasted. Until that

moment, I had no idea that she had a favorite among plates!

“I made a mistake. I should never have given that plate to her. It was

such a lovely plate.”“Which one?” “Remember the two plates that I

bought last month?” she looked at me as if her life depended on my answer. I tried recalling, but drew a blank.

Wifey jumped off the bed and reappeared with the twin of the missing plate.

“Remember this one,” she waved it under my nose.

I didn’t recognize it, but saying so could’ve had fatal consequences, so I nodded.

“OK. So why don’t you ask her to return it to you? ”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” she said, tossing the plate on her side-table. Without its twin, the other plate

too had lost its glamor.

“Why?” I asked, wondering why she wouldn’t do the obvious thing!

She launched into an explanation.“That cheap woman isn’t going to

return it. I think she’s taken fancy to my plate. Yesterday, she was standing outside and eating upma in it. And if I ask her to return it, she might even say that she has already returned mine and that the plate that she was eating in, was actually hers. What do


you think?”I checked the clock surreptitiously.

It was a little past midnight – not a time to engage into a discussion. I had to use the Brahmastra – the weapon that never fails.

I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her.

“You are right. She’s a nasty piece of work. In fact, I never liked her either.

She’s a rapacious, selfish, grabby hog, who doesn’t deserve your lovely cooking. Don’t send anything over to her ever again.”

It worked like a charm. Five minutes later she was deep asleep, while I was sitting up in the bed, still trying to figure how a plate can steal someone’s sleep away!

Translations And Introductions

Arnab Goswami: He is a fire-breathing dragon who hosts a show called “Newshour with Arnab Goswami.” His voice drowns the voices of his guests, who happen to be on his show because their best efforts of wiggling out of the show had failed.

Upma: A South-Indian dish made of Semolina. (If you want the recipe, we’ll have to petition wifey; or you can do it the easier way – find it on the web.)


The Problem:

I am a programmer, and I am glad that I am. Because if I were an artist instead, mom would throw me into a cauldron, add some mint, coriander, and a gallon of water, set the flame to high, and boil me until I was soup for cannibals.

She already hates the fact that her son has gone to the darkside. According to her, she can’t look her kitty-party friends in the eye anymore, because wifey took a shiny glossy Engineer-MBA and changed him into a…what do you call that thing….a programmer?! Her son who was once eyed by all her kitty-party friends as a prize catch for their convent-educated daughters, is now a buggy-eyed computer-nerd!

The Situation:

Yesterday mom got a call from one of her kitty-party friends. I guess they are starting to miss mom’s dahi-bhalle, her biggest contribution to their monthly get-

togethers. When mom’s cellphone

rang, wifey was sniffling through pages of “Not Without my Daughter“, Dad was devouring the glamor section of The Delhi Times, and I was

Programmer vs. Artist – Small Shame vs. Big ShameEver got measured up against a Doctor or an Engineer and come up short? Programmers and Artists may well be lying on the floor.


doodling on my sketchpad.

The Conversation:

Mom took the call. After exchanging loud virtual hugs with the caller, She suddenly became very quiet. We could hear only her end of the conversation, which I am faithfully reproducing here.

“Tut-tut.”…“Poor Mrs. Mehra.”…“No, no. I

understand.”…“Poor thing.”…“And her son

was so bright as a child.”

…“How sad.”…“What is she

going to do now?”…“No no, but it’s really sad.”…“Now what can I say? One can’t

stand in the way of fate.”…“Poor Mrs. Mehra.”The call ended but for the next

whole minute, she continued to make sympathetic clucking sounds with her tongue.

We were curious as hell, but none of us wanted to be the first to ask. Wifey caved in first.

“What happened Mummy Ji?” she said, marking her place in the book with a 3D-bookmark that she had bamboozled me into buying for her.

The Aftermath:

The moment wifey pressed the trigger, Mom shot off like

a bullet.“You remember

Mrs. Mehra – the fat one?” she

asked, helping us visualize Mrs.

Mehra’s girth by spreading her hands

a lot wider than what was warranted. (I think

I must’ve gotten the genes of exaggeration

from Mom.)Dad neatly folded the

newspaper and tossed it upon the center-table. Now

all of us were waiting to hear the unfortunate story of a corpulent but poor Mrs. Mehra.

Mom dropped the bombshell. “Her son has told her that he wants to be an artist.”

Dad raised his right brow and allowed a sarcastic smile to play on his lips.

Wifey got bored, mumbled “Khoda


pahad nikli chuhiya,” (You dig a mountain and find a female mouse,) and opened her novel again.

I revolted.

The Bloodbath:

“Mom, what’s wrong with being an artist?” I asked, smoldering inside.

“Puttar (Son,) it’s worse than being a programmer,” she said, with a smug smile. Now, on the Successful Moms ladder someone stood a few rungs lower than her.

“What’s so bad about being a programmer?” I asked, trying to keep a lid on my anger that was about to boil over.

“Everyone is a programmer these days. Even our maid’s son is a programmer.” She bristled. The fact that even her maid’s son was a programmer, cut and bruised her heart like nothing else could.

Wifey signaled me to stop.Dad signaled mom to stop.Neither of us took the cues.“Our Prime Minister Narendra Modi

is the son of a maid, Mom,” I said, my voice rising.

“He is an exception, not a rule. Programmers are the rule these days! And you….my son, MY SON”, she jabbed a finger into her chest, “…an Engineer and an MBA – he finds nothing better to do than programming?!!!” She was now a Punjabin in her element, spewing

fire from her mouth, fuming from her ears and her nostrils!

Wifey got up and murmured, “I’ll make us some tea.”

Dad picked up the newspaper and said, “Pressure aya hai,” and locked himself in the toilet. (Dad’s dialog translates to “Pressure has arrived” – an Indian Euphemism for the need to go potty.)

Mom and I were left sitting, glaring at each other, across the table.

Then mom’s angry face morphed into a smiling one. She reached across the table, tapped my cheek and said, “Puttar, I am grateful that you decided to be a programmer and not an artist. Or I wouldn’t have been able to show my face anywhere. If nothing else, you at least work hard…what does Sonu do? Sits alone and draws. How shameful!” (You might’ve guessed this – Sonu is Mrs. Mehra’s son.)

Conclusion:

I wouldn’t dare to tell her that once in a while I get paid to make funny pictures for a journal or a website, nor that some people pay me for pushing and pulling their features to make them look comical, because she might get a heart-attack wondering how will she ever face her kitty-party friends again – For what greater shame could be there for an Indian mom than to accept that her son has


become…an artist.

Dahi-bhalle: A mouthwatering dish of lentil-balls swimming in oodles of yogurt. If you’d like a recipe from Mom, you can snail-mail her; else you can punch it into

the Google search box, and find it via Google Guru.

Punjabins: Punjabi women, who incidentally, pack twice the punch Punjabi men do.


In other words, how to let your dog share the bed that was once yours, with you.

It’s complicated, but if you master the following three steps, there’s hope for you yet.

1. At all costs make sure you are far from comfortable. What you lack in comfort your dog gains towards their glorious night’s sleep. That’s what matters. Apparently.

2. That pain in your back caused by your contorted body, trying ever so hard not to disturb the sleeping beauty wedged behind your knees, is for a good cause. (What that good cause is will come to me eventually. I blame poor quality sleep for the state of my brain.)

3. If you need to roll over or change position, make completely sure not to awaken your furry companion. They only sleep 15 hours on an aver-age day making their night time rest essential. How else are they supposed to cope with a demanding day that comprises barking, pooping, licking and eating? Seriously, it takes some earth shattering concentration and effort to pull that off day after day. (So the good cause for which I sacrifice my sleep has finally come to me!)

Once you achieve all of the above and accept your correct position in the hierarchy, which obviously is lower than your dog’s, you will have a content and happy furbaby. A disgruntled spouse and a broken back are a couple of minor fallouts that you must learn to ignore.

How to Share your Dog’s Bed – 3 Simple Steps!

By Kyly Sheldon

Kyly Sheldon is Mom to Roxy (human, 1.5yrs) and Chewbacca (Maltese, 3yrs). She uses humorous writing and drawing as a means towards sanity and creativity. Author’s Website: www.kokkewietblog.com.

http://www.kokkewietblog.com


To:Mr. Donald Trump,Any of the Trump Towers,Any of the Major Cities of the US,United States, The World (which is obviously too small for you.)

From:Anand the Parodist,His Cluttered Desk,Somewhere near Delhi,India, The World (which is obviously too large for this small fish.)

An Open Letter to Donald Trump – Because He is Him!When Fallon fell on his head and decided to interview Donald Trump as himself – thisletter became inevitable!


Dear Mr. Trump,

After wishing you another fun-filled, green-tinted, dollar-sequined day, I’d like to come straight to the reason that brought about this letter.

What prompted me to write this letter, is your recent appearance on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon – specifically the part where Fallon tried to ape your affectations with little success. Following are my observations along with their analyses. I present them to you with a hope that in future, you will allow no one, repeat no one to imitate your glorious self, unless they can really portray the real you – because yyooouuuu are you!

Here are some reasons why Jimmy Fallon’s imitation of your sparkling-self fell revealingly short of my expectations.

His pout looked like a tear in a piece of paper, while yours looks like a portal between two parallel universes – yours and mine. Mine, where I must write these letters to you in a hope to earn a few smiles, and yours, where you can decide to spend a billion dollars trying to get the American people to vote for you.

His thatch of dirty-blond mop, looked nothing, repeat nothing like yours. I have a feeling that when Bobby Jindal talked about the squirrel squatting on your head, he had your hair confused with Fallon’s wig. Your silken dome of golden hair glows from the inside. I presume it’s the glow of your faaantaastic, repeat faaantaastic mind that escapes through the pores of your scalp and lights it up. Fallon’s wig, on the other hand, could’ve been made from the fur that my dog sheds every summer. There was no inner glow, no Trump-energy. Because yyooouuuu are you!

His imitation of your gestures was, in one word, a travesty of the grandiosity that is Trump. They lacked your energy, your charisma, your strength, and your purpose. Your gestures have all of these, and the viewers I am sure realize that with every twin-jab of your index fingers, you make double the point, with every palm-down gesture, you pat the point down in the heads of the bewildered American voter – the point being, Donald Trump is the guy who can actually “Make America Great Again.” At this point, I’d like to mention that the only gentleman who can come close to you in gesturing is India’s


home minister, Mr. Rajnath Singh.Mr. Trump, I am writing to you with the hope that in future, if at all you

decide to appear on the Tonight Show, you will dedicate a tiny part of your $1 billion election budget to get Fallon a good makeup artist. That will take care of the hair-issue. The gesturing and pouting could be trickier to handle – perhaps, you could coach him personally – and I know you can do it – because yyooouuuu are you!

I hope that you will take cognizance of the issues I’ve raised in this letter, and ensure that your next appearance on the Tonight Show is with someone who is really you.

I would also like to extend an invitation from wifey, mom, dad, and the dog; and from me of course. Be our guest when you visit India. We would love to host the man whose ability to make people laugh exceeds that of Kapil’s.

Wishing you the best for your election campaign.Anand and Family(Signed: Anand, Wifey, Mom, Dad, and the Family Dog.)

Behind the scenes:Mom: Puttar (Son,) you’ve added your wife’s name between yours and mine!

I knew sooner or later, she would come between us!

“

”

I’ve always liked older men. They’re just more attractive to me. Of course, at my age there aren’t that many left!

-BETTY WHITE (93 and in love with life)


Ten Things I wish I were…If wishes were bikes, we would ride. But they aren’t, so we dream.

I wish I were:

My Neighbor’s Car, because then I’d be pampered no end. Every morning, Mr. Jindal dusts it, wipes it, makes it shine so much that some of us have bought goggles only to step out of our homes without running the risk of going blind. Every weekend, he gives

it a bath and uses car-shampoos, car-facewashes, car-skinsoftners, car-glosses on it. Mr Goyal calls the car, Mr. Jindal’s dulhan (bride,) but those of us who live on the first-floor, can see that their relationship is platonic.

Wifey’s HP Mini, because then she’d

be looking at me the whole day, she’d make sure that I am never out of her sight, she would handle me with care, forever with a soft touch. But more

than all this, she’d allow me some rest! She would not drag me along on her shopping trips, because when we go shopping, she always leaves her HP Mini behind.

A crumpled and old ten-rupee note, because then I would have gone places and seen things, that would make me appreciate life a lot more. I would have been in the sweaty


palms of a hardworking laborer, in the silk-lined purse of a rich lady, in the government offices, in the lone

teashop on a snow-clad mountaintop! I would’ve traveled everywhere, and seen everything!

Aishwarya Rai‘s Vanity Mirror, because then I could see one of the most beautiful women of the world in close-up. I’d be with her in her most intimate moments; I’d know the secrets that nobody else would ever learn. Being Aishwarya’s vanity

mirror would ensure that I get more smiles from her than anyone else in the world, because a woman always smiles at her reflection in the mirror.

Mom’s Box of Spices, because she loves it more than her jewelry, her collection of silk-saris, dad, sis, and

me combined. At least it appears so. She brings it along when she visits,

she doesn’t allow anyone, repeat anyone, to touch it. In fact, there’s already something common between mom’s spice-box and me. Mom growls at wifey when she touches either of us in front of Mom.

Dad’s Newspaper, because if there’s anyone that Dad really trusts, it is his newspaper. He spends a good 25% of his waking hours in the company of the newspaper, and when the newspaper-boy happens to be late, he works himself up into a real frenzy.

When the poor kid eventually comes along, he experiences the full wrath of a retired military officer.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi‘s Pen, because then I’d be writing history. I’d be the one signing those


zillion international trade deals and political accords, that our globetrotting PM Modi entering into with various countries. In other

words, Mom’s dream that her son should be somebody important would come true. I want to be Mr. Modi’s pen for Mom.

Google.com, because then I’ll be the answer to all your questions; in fact, I’d then be the answer to everyone’s questions. It must be awesome to let anyone ask any question, and then guide them toward the answer. I can’t

imagine being without a physical presence, but I guess I’ll get used to it.

The cyanide pill that killed Hitler, because that’s the kind of killer who in my books is a saint, and being that pill could possibly be my only chance

of becoming a saint.

The genie in Alladin’s Lamp, because he’s got a nice little fully furnished pad to call his own. Granted, it’s a studio apartment, and might be a little cramped for wifey and the dog, but think about it – no

rent to pay, no worries of eviction ever – and if the plumbing works for the genie, it would work for us. But on a serious note, I could ask wifey to rub the lamp and ask for three wishes.


The Dress Circle

YOUR TURN!

On Anand’s Mad Malarkey:

Your writings assure me that no matter

where we live in the world our lives are

very similar. I so wish other people would

understand this. Thanks always Anand for

sharing!

Cathy

(cathylynnbrooks.wordpress.com)

On the family drama:

Yeh ghar ghar ki kahani hai...:)

On Anand’s existence as a Pressure-cooker:

Hahaha….seeetiii bajaaaaaa :):)

On the QSM Magazine:

Btw I was showing your work to my

hubby n he was quite impressed by your

writings… Congrats! :)

Shilpa (shiparya.wordpress.com)

On the QSM Magazine and wifey!

Just read your conversation with Mr.

and Mrs. Goyal, and many pages of

your QSM magazine. My daughter and

husband laughed when I read it all aloud.

Daughter says, “I love the magazine. Any

more? I love the way he says, “wifey!”

Vijaya

(magicsurrealist2013.wordpress.com)

On the QSM Magazine and Anand’s Malarkey:

I have always admired people who write

humour and do it with such ease and

elan. You, my friend, have the gift and it

shows in your illustrations too.

Shailaja V

(shailajav.wordpress.com)

On the Snarkiest bit of Malarkey in QSM:Dear Snarkey :) Your words are like sparkling gemstones. Thank you very much.

On Anand & Wifey:Wifey must receive a bouquet of flowers for helping to straighten your clogged hard drive. Of course coders matter! We need them to write the nonsense that nobody understands :)

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha (acookingpotandtwistedtales.wordpress.com)

On Anand’s Quirky Family:Being an Indian and upon that being a married Indian woman :) I can understand everything so much better :P But I like the way you made whole thing so much funny :)

Neerja (ametalk.wordpress.com)


If Hillary were an Indian Politician…

Abki Baar,

Hillary Sarkar!

(This time, let Hillary

form the

Government.)

Hillary Clinton,

Zindabad!

(Long live,

Hillary Clinton!)


Abki Baar,

Hillary Sarkar!

(This time, let Hillary

form the

Government.)

Here are two clear indications that Hillary’s genes have an Indian connection. First, she accepted Bill’s fling with Monica - the starry-eyed, ready-to-please White House intern, with the equanimity of an Indian pati-vrata, sati-saadhvi naari, forgiving her husband for his roving eye and slippery zipper; and now she is into the 2016 elections with a trail of scandals, quite like most of our Indian politicians.

With such obvious Indian connections, it was only a matter of time that I began visualizing Hillary Clinton as an Indian politician.

When I close my eyes and recite the Hillary-Chalisa, I see Hillary as you see her here.

First, the facts.• Everyone knows Hillary Clinton,• Everyone has seen the feathers in her cap,

But not everyone knows that Hillary is more Indian than she is American.

But this picture marks just the beginning of my wild dreams!

If Hillary Clinton were an Indian Politician, she’d secure her victory in the 2016 elections by doing all of the following, and more:

1. She’d burn her pantsuits and buy three-dozen plain cotton saris with traditional borders. She’d sell her ostentatious platinum jewelry and buy a simple gold chain and two gold bangles. She must look like the embodiment of simplicity, if she’d like to win the hearts, nay, the votes of Indians.

2. She’d go to Vaishno Devi, Ajmer


Sharif, and Harmandir Sahib, wearing exactly what each of these places of worship would require her to wear. A Church may not figure high on her list, because Christians are a micro-minority in India, and their votes won’t really make or break her.

3. She’d organize a mata ka jagrata followed by a bhandara, and also host an iftaar party. She would know that religious leaders pack quite a punch in Indian politics, and she’d want to be on the right side of everyone.

4. She’d declare assets worth $20K, and yet, she’d be one of the richest women in the country. She’d achieve this through Indian haath-ki-safaai (sleight of hand.) This will ensure that her real earnings end-up elsewhere, outside the reach of the Indian taxmen – never to be talked about in front of the Indian voting public.

5. She’d also be making speeches – in Hindi. She might find an ally in Sonia Gandhi, India’s Italian daughter-in-law, who still hasn’t been able to master the nuances of this beautifully complex language replete with gender and age differentiating vocabulary.

6. She’d organize a Swachh Bharat (Clean India) photo-op, where she’d be wielding a brand new, disinfected broom, and clearing dry autumn leaves, strewn by her party workers earlier in the day.

The Indian voters will connect with Hillary with equal if not greater fervor.

Everyone from her village, and from every village in the circumference of a hundred-mile-radius would be telling everyone they know, that they were related to Hillary – and that Hillary was their door-ki (distant) Chachi, Tayi, Mami, Mausi (all translate to aunts of different kinds,) or dadi, nani (grand-mother – paternal, maternal,) or even Didi, Bhabi (Sister, Sister-in-Law)!

And then there would be a group of nonagenarians with a sprinkling of octogenarians, sitting under a tree or in a park, boasting about how Hillary had a crush on each of them, and how Bill got her because he didn’t demand a dowry.

All in all, if Hillary were an Indian politician, fighting elections in India, she’d be in her true element.

And although Mom would vote for her favorite Donald Drum (Trump,


for others,) I have a feeling that wifey and Dad will vote for Hillary…if for no

other reason, just to spite Mom.

Translations for International Audience

• Pati-vrata, sati-saadhvi naari: A woman who is loyal to her husband and who is an obedient wife, both in actions and in thoughts. (I am not sure if there’s an English-equivalent of this particular being – but this was my best attempt. Requesting the feminists, including wifey, not to bash me up.)

• The Hillary-Chalisa: A Chalisa is a collection of forty couplets that can be sung in the praise of a deity. Some Indian politicians can brag about their own Chalisas, and I have a feeling that Hillary would want one for herself.

• Vaishno Devi: A Hindu Religious Place in the Himalayas

• Ajmer Sharif: A Muslim Religious Place in Rajasthan

• Harmandir Sahib: The Golden Temple in Punjab

• Mata ka Jagrata: A Stay-awake-the-whole-night to sing the praises of Devi Mata (a female Hindu deity.)

• Bhandara: A donation camp giving out free food to everyone who stops by - organized in the name of a Hindu God or Goddess.

• Iftaar: A Party organized at the time of breaking the month-long Ramazan fast by Muslims.

If men are natural numbers, women are quadratic equations.

-Anand “

”


Grammy Got Flangipropped!

Flangipropping is the key to marital suc-cess – but does Papa Rymiller realize this?

(Flangi -one’s spirit or fortitude; Propped – support, egged on. Flangipropped = to life one’s spirit, spur on, motivate.)

Grammy Rymiller was mad. Papa Rymiller had told her he was watering her flowers

every day she was gone taking care of emergency family matters. Granted he had had a lot to do while she was gone, but her flowers deserved priority and he said he was doing it! Then what does she find? A flower pot all hard and dried up. She was going to show him what a lousy job he had done. Carrying the pot, she started inside to give him a good flangipropping—telling him to get his flanges off that couch and help her do the watering.

She had to think how to be a bit subtle with her flangipropping because an outright flangipropping

would never work. Grammy’s focus was on the pot and the flangipropping she would administer, when suddenly she tripped over the crack in the walk; the pot went sailing and Grammy, arms out with hands gripping nothing, sprawled mostly right side down on the walk. Glasses thrown off, skinned knee and shoulder, she hurt but the hurt was minor compared to the mad. Screaming for help accomplished nothing; she found that if she just screamed without trying to say a word, she would be louder. But still it accomplished nothing.

She lay there realizing a cell phone or medic alert button might be a good thing to look into now that she was in her eighties. Maybe the kids would think to buy something sometime before she got old. She calmed down, checked her wounds, picked

By Oneta Hayes


up her glasses, fitted the lens back into the frame, pushed herself up on her knees, said, “Thank you, Jesus, for no broken bones,” and repented for having gotten so mad in the first place. After all, she knew that was the reason she fell so carelessly. So feeling humbled, she hobbled to the door. It was locked. After pounding a sufficient time to bruise her fists, Papa Rymiller got off the couch and let her in.

“Do you need something?” He asked.

“I needed my flangi propped up,” she wailed. “I screamed and screamed, but you didn’t hear.”

“Oh, I heard you,” he replied, “I just thought you would come in if you needed something.”

Now both hurt and mad, she exerted a mammoth amount of strength to march to the bedroom, slam the door, sit in her corner, and wail loudly between her moans and groans. After a time…listen, the TV is still on, he’s back on the couch. Oh, how that man needs a good flangipropping! But Grammy was tired. She decided to lie down and rest a bit. A bit of sleep might do

some good.Well, all’s well that ends well! You

know how it goes:

”Sorry, honey.” “That’s okay.” “Sorry I failed to

help.” “That’s okay.” “I really should

have come to check.”

“That’s okay” “Sorry I didn’t pay

attention.” “That’s okay.” “Love you,

Sweetheart.” “Love you too,

Sugar!”

It wasn’t until later that Grammy realized she had been flangipropped by that man again!

Moral of the story: Long marriages are due to one partner being so good at flangipropping, and the other never getting around to it!

Oneta Hayes was born in 1934, in the southeastern plains of Colorado. Married with two sons, six grandchildren and ten great grandchildren. Education: Bachelors, Masters, Reading Specialist, Doctorate of Ministry. Career: 7 years secretarial work; 21 years public school teacher; 8 years adjunct college remedial reading and English; 5 years college registrar; six years on church staff Home Bound program. Present interests: Family, Church, and Blogging.. Author’s Website: www.onetahayes.com

http://www.onetahayes.com


Indrani Mukherjea Supplies Mom with Fresh Ammunition!And why my Mom is still the best!

To appreciate my mom’s exquisite talent and unparalleled skill at building

bombs and grenades from the weeklong media coverage of Indrani Mukherjea’s crime, you must first be introduced to Mukherjea and her crime, which the Indian media is calling MOM or the Mother of all Murders!

In the beginning of September 2015, Indrani Mukherjea, a rich socialite of 47-years or so had blocked the Indian news pipelines for more than a week. Even Modi ver 1.0 and Rahul ver 2.0 weren’t able to push her

out of the limelight. Her week-long fame was the result of a crime she had commited a few years ago. She strangulated her daughter, kept her in the boot of her car for the night, then carefully made up her face, sprayed her with perfume, sat her daughter’s corpse between herself and her ex-husband

in the rear-seat of her car, then disposed off the body by setting fire to it.

So, what kind of mother does this to her own flesh and blood?

This is the question that mom had been

asking all through that fateful week. Each time Indrani’s face popped up on our television screen,


mom propped her glasses on her nose, and lapped up every little detail of the crime.

It was the day before Janamashtami (the festival that celebrates the birth of Lord Krishna,) and we were watching the news – mostly watching, because listening becomes difficult when Mom starts commenting. That evening she was feeling a lot more garrulous than usual.

“What sort of woman is she? She killed her own daughter!” she mused.

“Even if she was troublesome – killing her wasn’t the right thing to do. Puttar (Son,) you and your sister made my life hell for years, I suffered in silence,” she complained.

“Sometimes you would really drive me up the wall. There were times when I wanted to throw you off a cliff, but did I? I didn’t, ” she recalled.

Then she turned to me and asked, “Do you know why?”

“Because there were no cliffs around the place we lived?” I ventured.

“Silly boy. I didn’t, because mothers don’t kill their babies,” she said. Then as an afterthought, she added, “but you are right, there were no cliffs around the place we lived.”

So I learned that mom did want to throw me off a cliff.

“Puttar, think about it. You could’ve been born to a mother like Indrani. What then?” She quizzed me.

“What then?” I quizzed her back.

“Learn to appreciate the fact,” she said, looking into my eyes, pinning me down with her unwavering gaze.

“Oh, I totally do,” I replied, my voice turning somewhat squeaky as I imagined being throttled by a mother randomly picked from the barrel that contained child-murdering moms.

“You could’ve been her son,” she jabbed her index finger at the image of Indrani flickering on the screen.

Indrani was paying her son to keep his mouth shut; Mom was bamboozling me into keeping my mouth shut.

Indrani may have killed me through strangulation; mom usually tries to kill me with her effusive pampering that leaves me breathless!

“You are lucky,” mom said, now in a matter-of-fact, even voice.

I nodded. While probabilistically, being born to anyone of the 999 of 1000 non-killer moms may just be a normal statistical outcome; if mom says I am lucky, then to stay lucky, I must accept her evaluation and judgment.

I’m banking on the fact that mom’s being near-sighted would prevent her from reading the small font of this article. So here’s the conclusion in a bigger font-size – exclusively for her benefit.

My Mom is the Best!


Hair is the Winner!(Mr. Trump vs. Lalu ji)


Donald Trump Finds his Match and Loses the Battle.

I’ve always been a fan of Donald Trump, and his hair isn’t the only reason I like him. I like his

charisma, his chutzpah, and the fact that his mere presence is sufficient to make the media go yappy and drooly.

Mr. Trump has a presence that you can caricature, satirize, and criticize, but you can’t ignore. There’s only one Indian politician who can be considered equally if not more charismatic, than Mr. Trump. He is Shri Lalu Prasad Yadav.

Four quick rounds of investigation would reveal how these two gentlemen fare on different measures of success.

Round 1:Mr. Trump is brand-new politician,

who has just dipped his toes into the American political waters. Shri Lalu Yadav, on the other hand, has about 40 glorious years worth of political experience tucked neatly in his vest-pocket.

Round 1 Winner: Lalu Ji!

Round 2:Mr. Trump’s net worth by his own

admission is $10 Billion, while the latest Internet round-up of Lalu Ji’s wealth places it in the vicinity of 50L Rupees ($75K,) which is waaaay lower than Mr. Trump’s.

Round 2 Winner: Mr. Trump!

Round 3:Mr. Trump has been married three-

times, while Lalu Ji has married only once, and yet, Lalu Ji triumphs over Mr. Trump on the parameter of marriage-effectiveness – not just in terms of durability of marriage, but also in the number of children each produced. Lalu Ji’s single marriage resulted in nine children vs. Mr. Trump’s five through his three marriages.

Round 3 Winner: Lalu Ji!

Round 4:The final and the most important

round would gauge the popularity of the most important aspect of their


personalities. Their hair!

A Google Search for Donald Trump gives 19,10,00,000 results (that’s 191 Million.) Incidentally, a good 6 Million of these results relate to his hair.

By contrast, Lalu Ji can boast of only about 61,60,000 results (that is 6.1 Million,) but 4,49,000 (0.45 Million)

of these results relate to his hair.A quick calculation reveals that in

Trump’s Internet success, his hair has contributed only to the extent of 3.1%, while in the case of Lalu ji, his hair has contributed 7.3%! And so…

Hair is the Winner!! Shri Lalu Prasad Yadav of Patna, Bihar truimphs over Mr. Trump.

The Indian Institutes of Technology (The IITs) are autonomous public institutions of higher education in science and technology.

In the last decade, the number of IITs has grown from the initial six to seventeen, and its autonomy has been diluted through governmental interference. The transformed entrance test JEE too has raised eyebrows with negative cut-off marks for admission. With the recent changes in the administrative policies, franchises of the Institute may soon become commonplace.


India & Pakistan both love Justin Trudeau

So who is this gentleman who has won the hearts of these two separated-at-birth countries who are usually found snarling and snapping at each other’s heals?Trudeau is the just-in Prime Minister of Canada who can dance the Bhangra and who looks like a Punjabi in churidar-kurta or salwar-kameez.In Indian eyes Trudeau is the stark opposite of Bobby Jindal, who in our opinion should’ve been proudly wearing his Indian roots on his sleeve, instead of disowning them and breaking Indian hearts. Trudeau, despite not having a trace of Punjabi blood in his ancestry, acts the part and in the process has won our hearts.

Translations for the confused Non-Indian IndophileChudidar-Kurta: A comfortable dress worn by North-Indian men. It pairs a long tunic with a pair of ultra-long pajamas that are so long that they must be bunched up at the ankle.

Salwar-Kameez: An even more comfortable dress worn by the men of the Hindu-kush region, that has a collared tunic paired with a pair of extra-wide pajamas so wide that you could actually get two made out of them, but then Punjabis have a penchant for big.

Desi is a term that the Non-resident Indians use to refer to anything Indian. The term originates from the word “des”, which is a bucolic version of the word “desh”, which means “country.”

The Punjabi community around the world is right now in a euphoric

state, abuzz with conversations about Justin Trudeau’s Punjabi-ness.• There must be something special about being Punjabi then, hain ji? • Or why would such a handsome hunk of a Prime Minister get into desi dresses and dance to the desi tune of hadippa, hain ji?• The votes of a mere 3.6 percent of the Canadian population

cannot be the reason, hain ji? And then the conversations would end to conclude:Kuch to baat hai, humari culture mein! (There’s something special about our culture!) Hain ji? (Isn’t it?)


“One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives” - Euripides

Euripides’ insightful observation that he made 2500 years ago, tells us that in all these centuries, relatives haven’t evolved one bit.

Euripides, I read, was a writer of plays, mainly of tragedies. In my modern opinion, a man who boasted of an experience of comparing ten thousand relatives with one loyal friend would automatically begin to specialize in tragedies. After all, his life would have been one big tragedy.

Twice every year a North-Indian man has to meet his relatives. Come hail or high water, he must brave the hail and swim the high waters to meet his relatives on the festivals of Diwali and Holi. Following are the tasks that must be checked off on his To-Do list before he arrives at their door-steps.

1. Buy a dozen boxes of sweets or dried fruits (almonds, pistachios,

Ten Indian Relatives are worth Ten Thousand!You can’t choose them, barter them, or auction them off, but you wish you could!

cashews etc.)2. Refresh the list of the names of

all his newborn relatives (If seven of your dad’s eleven siblings live in the same city as you do, this list grows at an alarming rate.)

3. Draw up a mental roadmap connecting the dots that are his relatives’ houses. The prioritization is often done on the basis of a relative’s seniority in the family. For instance, you must first visit the Taya Jis (Dad’s elder brothers) and then the Chacha Jis (Dad’s younger brothers.)

4. He must visit each of their houses with his own little family in tow. (For the writer of this post, it’s two-third of his family, as canine-family-members aren’t welcome in his relatives’ houses.)

And yet, when we return, with barely enough energy to drag ourselves up the steps that lead to our main door, we are epitomes of such tragic expression that Euripides would have loved to cast us in one of


his tragedies.Why?Snappy snapshots will help you see

the picture.At my Aunt’s:“Beta (son), now it’s time to have

kids.”“Bua Ji, we will.”“When beta? Is

there a problem? I know a Guru ji who can help. You can tell me, beta. You need not hide anything from your Aunt. I’ve seen you in diapers, beta.”

At my Uncle’s:“Oye puttar, hun

navi car le le. (Son, you must now buy a new car.) You’ve been driving that bucket of bolts for what, some 8 years now!”

“Taya ji, I will – the budget is a little tight this year.”

“Oho, look at your cousin (he points to his son,) he is on his third car in just 5 years!”

Then his wife, my Tayi ji, pips in.“And why isn’t your wife wearing

jewelry, puttar? Naked wrists don’t look good.”

At my other Uncle’s:“Are you still staying on rent? Buy a

house now.”

“Chacha Ji, I can’t right now, but yes it’s on the cards.”

“Oho, look at Pinki (he points to his daughter,) her husband has bought an apartment in Gurgaon. It cost him 1.2 Crores ($200K)!

Then he lowers his voice and says, “You are earning well, aren’t you?”

• Twice every year we go through the same harrowing experience, for no reason at all!

• Twice every year we leave our house filled with trepidation that we try to overcome with a

hope that things would be different this year.

• Twice every year we return from our journey, exhausted, tired, and drained!

2500 years ago, Euripides too must have gone through a similar experience, or why would he proclaim that “One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives.”

TRANSLATIONSBua Ji: Dad’s sister.Taya Ji: Dad’s elder brother.Tayi Ji: Dad’s elder brother’s wife.Chacha Ji: Dad’s younger brother.Guru Ji: A self-proclaimed god-man.


GharAyaMeraMochi.com gets the biggest VC Funding yet! Mrs. Nutan Diwaniya, divulges to The QSM Magazine, the one factor that makes GharAyaMeraMochi.com a viable proposition?

The newest kid on eCommerce Startup block, GharAyaMeraMochi.com, has

received the biggest venture capital funding for startups yet. With $50 million, it is now set to become the choicest destination for those who want to shop for the best and the cheapest shoe-repair service right from the comfort of their homes.

In a recent interview, when asked about what sets

GharAyaMeraMochi.com apart from other eCommerce Startups, Founder and CEO Nutan Diwaniya replied, “It’s different from other eCom sites in that it fulfills one of the basic needs of

an Indian woman. Most Indian women select their footwear on the basis of its aesthetics and not quality. After wearing a new pair of sandals just once or twice, most of them experience a separated heel or a severed strap.

Dumping a new pair of sandals in the bin isn’t


really an option for any thrifty Indian woman and so she goes out looking for a Mochi (cobbler.) The process of getting her sandals repaired is fraught with difficulties such as time-management and price-haggling, and its outcome is usually uncertain.”

But how did Nutan Diwaniya get this 50 Million Dollar Idea?

“I am a woman, you see?” She said.We saw and nodded.“I have 38 pairs of sandals in my

shoe-cupboard, and at any given moment, at least two are in need of repair. I’ve known the agony and the pain of the buy-wear-repair-wear-repair cycle, firsthand.”

For Diwaniya, the idea occurred quite serendipitously. She had just returned from the market, having gotten her newest pair of sandals repaired, when her neighbor popped her head out of the door and they started talking. The conversation obviously gravitated toward Mrs. Diwaniya’s repaired sandals, and her neighbor then did what neighbors usually do. She made Mrs. Diwaniya experience the sick feeling that Marketing Gurus call, the Post-Purchase Dissonance or Buyer’s Remorse. According to her neighbor,

Mrs. Diwaniya could’ve got it done for just a third of what she paid, had she gone to her neighbor’s favorite Mochi instead.

According to Nutan Diwaniya, at GharAyaMeraMochi.com, a lady with broken sandals could use a map-based application to find the cobblers in her vicinity, compare their prices and determine if any of them is offering any discount, view the ratings left by previous customers, and then have their chosen Mochi pay a house-visit, at a convenient time. There is also a 24×7 Express

Response Service (ERS), which could be availed of by paying just 25% extra. If an order was placed through their app, the customer would automatically spend 10% less on her total order value.

When asked if she thought that her venture had a future, or whether it was part of the eCom Startup bubble that some say could implode soon, she quirked

her eyebrow and said, “the $50M is in, isn’t it? And it’s all Equity!”

Then, almost abruptly, Mrs. Diwaniya left.

We heard a leather-strap snap somewhere.

A mother goes to school twice. First, when she was a child; then when has a child.

-Anand “

”


An Indian Writer’s Writing Space.On an Indian Writer’s desk, you can find everything except space.

“Did you say space?A real, physical place?!A place where a writer

could sit in peace, contemplate, then spin a yarn that binds his readers?!!

I have a writing desk with a computer and a comfortable chair, so I have a writing space you see. And yet, this space is seldom mine.

It belongs to wifey‘s hair clips, her diary that I am not allowed to touch, and to a wobbly stack of novels that she so voraciously devours.

When Mom and Dad come visiting, it also belongs to their reading-glasses, mom’s Shiv-Chalisa and Hanuman-Chalisa, and Dad’s dentures.

Of late, the dog has begun to demand her rights as a family-member – she wants a 6″ x 9″ space for her chew-toy.

If this has made you wonder if mine

is the only table in the house, I’d like to submit that on my last count our house boasted of 8 tables of different heights and sizes. And then there’s a lot of storage space in form of cupboards too. In fact, wifey has her own desk that’s twice the size of mine. And yet, my writing table can always be found groaning under the weight of my entire family’s possessions!

Why?I had dared to ask the question

once.Wifey was hurt.“I am always picking up after you –

and this is how you treat my things?!”Mom was flabbergasted.“I spent years carrying your diapers

and your milk bottle in my bag! And you grudge me a little space on your desk! Puttar, yahi din dekhna reh gaya


tha!” (“Son, why did I live to see this day!”)

Dad couldn’t care less.“Keep them somewhere else. And

wash the dentures before you put them away. Aur beta, jagah dil mein honi chahiye!” (“And son, remember that it’s the space in your heart that

matters!”)

The dog listened to all this, then she wagged her tail, licked my face, picked her drool-soaked chew-toy and dropped it in my lap, then signaled me to pick it up and put it on the table.

TRANSLATIONSPuttar (Punjabi) = Beta (Hindi) = Son (English.)Shiv Chalisa: A booklet containing 40 couplets sung in praise of Lord Shiva.Hanuman Chalisa: Another booklet of similar kind, containing another 40 couplets sung in praise of Lord Hanuman.


1.Melaina Trump, the current wife of “I am Very Rich!” Donald Trump, wraps her

arms around him and says, “Take me to the moon…”

“Anything, my dear! You see… I am rrrriiiicchh. verrrrryyy rrrriiicchhhh!” he says. “I will build a great spaceship — and nobody will ever build a better spaceship,

Take me to the Moon – Trump, Branson, Wifey, and Me!The only person willing to take you there – is someone you never thought could.

believe me —and I’ll build it very inexpensively. I will build a great, great spaceship using cheap Mexican immigrant labor, and I will make Mexico pay for that spaceship. Mark my words.”

2. The naked model clinging to his back while the “Screw it, let’s do it!”-Richard Branson went kite surfing, climbs upon his shoulders and shouts


in his ear, “Take me to the moon…”

“Of course,” he replies. “It’s just a matter of time. Meanwhile, join Virgin Galactic‘s first trip. It’s $250K per seat and still it’s dirt-cheap! We do everything with class. Space-hostesses dressed in Santa-suits, body-massages on the cruise, and don’t forget our offer of 12 delicious handcrafted wines!”

3. While I am writing this, a steaming cup of tea appears on my desk, and wifey coos into my ear, “Take me to the moon…”

“Right after my current project is done.” I say. “Why don’t you research the hotels in the area and make the bookings?”

(The cup, the voice, and wifey all vanish!)

4. Later in the day, I go out, hail an auto-rickshaw (an Indian minimalist cab with three-wheels,) look into the auto-driver’s eyes, and say to him, “Take me to the moon…”

“500 Rupees lagenge,” (“It will cost you $10,”) he says. “Raasta bata dena aap!” (“You tell me the route!”)


What the Client wanted…and what the Client Got!The Dough-Kneading Project.

This is a series of true events, which transpired between 7 PM and 8 PM on

September 28, 2015. These events were triggered by yet another event that happened the night before, when wifey had cut her finger while preparing salad for dinner.

The cut in her finger automatically resulted in my becoming the dough-kneader until the cut healed.

Let me start at the beginning.I discovered that she needed dough

for three chapattis. She measured the flour out for me, and warned me to start kneading by using just a little water. I told her that if I could program complex applications, I could very well knead some dough for her – so I sent her out of the kitchen and got down to work. After all, it was something that I had seen being done all my life.

I hummed a little tune as I added

some water to the flour and kneaded it. Then I checked it for the bounce. There was none. The dough was hard.

A little more water would do the trick, I thought, and added some – likely nothing more than a few drops, but the dough suddenly changed form and turned into slurry.

“Everything OK? Do you need help?” wifey’s voice floated in from the living room.

My ego bristled. Help? For a task this simple?

“No, you relax. I’m about done,” I replied, looking for the flour canister. It was in a cabinet – what’s the point of putting a lidded-container in closed cabinet, I wondered while I opened it and added a fist full of flour to the slurry. That should do the trick, I thought smugly, as I kneaded it again.

After I was done, I poked it with my finger. Still no bounce – hard as clay! So I added some more water, then


some more flour, then some more water – it took me eight iterations, and when I was satisfied, I called wifey in.

She looked at it and screamed. “What am I going to do with all that dough?” she pointed a shaking finger at the mound of dough that sat there. You may say that I was hallucinating, but I swear that I felt that the huge blob of dough was rolling on the plate, laughing.

“It’s a little extra, and that’s good in a way.” I said, trying to salvage the situation.

“In which way it it good?” she asked, standing akimbo in the middle of the kitchen.

“Well, some of it can be used tomorrow…”

“And some the day after, and the day after that,” she smirked. Then she remembered the quality test. As

she approached the dough with her finger pointing toward it, my heart lurched into my throat.

And then, in a blink of an eye, it was done. Her finger was in the belly of the dough-beast and the verdict was out.

“It should be softer,” she said.My shoulders drooped, my feet

gave way, the kitchen swam before my eyes, and I had nearly sunk to my knees when my eyes found her face. She looked victorious and happy!

“Don’t worry. We’ll make pooris from it – they require harder dough.”

I still haven’t figured out her victorious smile. The client hadn’t got what she wanted, and yet she was happy.

Women!

Poori: A round deep-fried variation of chapatti - less healthy but a lot tastier!


Copyright © 2015. All Rights Reserved.

The content in the magazine may not be reproduced in any form partly or fully, in print or online, except as a quote or a mention, without explicit written permission of the publisher. All the content of the magazine, except where the creator/author of the content is specifically mentioned, is copyrighted to Ranjeet Anand, the creator and publisher of the QSM Magazine. For quotes of less than 50 words, please attribute them by mentioning the article’s title and the QSM Issue No. For larger quotes or for reproduc-ing an entire article, write to the publisher at: [email protected]

The QSM Magazine presents one man’s world-view seen through a lens that distorts and caricatures everything. This collection of parodies, caricatures, cartoons, and other humorous and satirical content is compiled with the sole intention of making people smile and laugh. The magazine is a work of fiction and the intention of putting this collection together is not to hurt the sentiments of any person, organ-ization, or community. No animal, bird, insect, or human (with the sole exception of the author,) was harmed in the process of producing this magazine.

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The QSM Magazine - Issue #1 ~ Humor, Satire, and Parodies

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