What place is this where the educated and the rich can't make walls stand straight for few years, where its advanced people can't keep a new highway free of potholes for a year? They say they are an old civilisation. Every one hollers they are proud of their language yet nothing wise and beautiful has been said in the last many decade. They claim they are the only people in the region to have their own script, but they write foreign words which the natives like to gabber. You mention colonialism to them, you will find millions of them screaming 'Go back India' or 'Go back Indians.' But they are the very people who are happy to marry off their sisters and daughters to Indians, while few men, branded as RK Singh, John Clinton, etc., married to Indian ladies, walk with their chins thrust upward and their chest puffed up. When you find them in hordes belittled in dusty cities like Delhi, you will hear them say," Oh, we are an oppressed people, but in our society the status of women is unlike here." Flip the local dailies printed on the cheapest papers with erasable ink, women are raped and slaughtered everyday, and it is also the place where bribes can be kidnapped, and yet people talk about it jokingly, as though it is civilised.
Though they are passionate in blocking goods carriers, they have enormous respect for free flow of drugs, for they cast their eyes at the SUVs and the big structures of the dealers in their localities wrapped in smog. When the respected drug dealer tells them," It's Indian pill processed in Burma, sold by the Indian army and I am the sub contractor. I feed my kids everyday. Why don't you try? We need to make our place better." They gather, even the armed comrades who had long been in silence, to demand the messiah to point out the direction.
The invisible converter tells them, the very indigenous them, they should come to him in their ethnic costume to give him century-long blowjobs, the young ones blowjobs and the old ones to lick boots. The excited them show up in shalwar kameez, sherwani and Pathani suits mouths stuffed with betel-nut. So, the giggling converter asked what happened to theirs, the most educated and fashionable among them stepped forward to explain," That's not fashionable anymore, you see bheiyah." Whatever he said was right, for the man was the civil servant-i10 man married to a snob doctor and recently garlanded by drug dealers with the speculation on how actively he would be involved in their traditional rampant corruption.
To dissect these recent fashionable trends you pull up a KEGEY intellect, a man of the English language with a post doctoral degree which has ensured him a thick cushion, a hatchback car and a standing. He is supposed to be positive though his parents had lived in a swamp, and he was born in dirt and grew up in excrement and now migrated and his children without the knowledge that his discarded language still exists.
Behind the scene is a well-maintained friendship of the drug dealer, with properties scattered the world, the converter, satisfactorily assisting him to shake hands with the intellect. Together they have to orchestrate everything for the blowjob-givers and boot-lickers who are almost bred out. A land of dust, guns sticking up, educated and rich trampling Meiteilon, everybody enjoying the smog mixed with terror while they walk towards the Marwari-run shops in their Pathani suits to practise their recently-acquired language.
Though they are passionate in blocking goods carriers, they have enormous respect for free flow of drugs, for they cast their eyes at the SUVs and the big structures of the dealers in their localities wrapped in smog. When the respected drug dealer tells them," It's Indian pill processed in Burma, sold by the Indian army and I am the sub contractor. I feed my kids everyday. Why don't you try? We need to make our place better." They gather, even the armed comrades who had long been in silence, to demand the messiah to point out the direction.
The invisible converter tells them, the very indigenous them, they should come to him in their ethnic costume to give him century-long blowjobs, the young ones blowjobs and the old ones to lick boots. The excited them show up in shalwar kameez, sherwani and Pathani suits mouths stuffed with betel-nut. So, the giggling converter asked what happened to theirs, the most educated and fashionable among them stepped forward to explain," That's not fashionable anymore, you see bheiyah." Whatever he said was right, for the man was the civil servant-i10 man married to a snob doctor and recently garlanded by drug dealers with the speculation on how actively he would be involved in their traditional rampant corruption.
To dissect these recent fashionable trends you pull up a KEGEY intellect, a man of the English language with a post doctoral degree which has ensured him a thick cushion, a hatchback car and a standing. He is supposed to be positive though his parents had lived in a swamp, and he was born in dirt and grew up in excrement and now migrated and his children without the knowledge that his discarded language still exists.
Behind the scene is a well-maintained friendship of the drug dealer, with properties scattered the world, the converter, satisfactorily assisting him to shake hands with the intellect. Together they have to orchestrate everything for the blowjob-givers and boot-lickers who are almost bred out. A land of dust, guns sticking up, educated and rich trampling Meiteilon, everybody enjoying the smog mixed with terror while they walk towards the Marwari-run shops in their Pathani suits to practise their recently-acquired language.
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