Subtitling Gunda

The heathens, or rather, the non-Hindi speaking population have watched (or shall) watch Gunda at some point of time. Though the magnum opus has lines that are almost non-translable, here is my humble effort for future generations of firangs. Mind you, no single mortal can subtitle the epic completely. However, I am trying to jot down as many "highlights" as I can.

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Disclaimer: I am not aware of mysterious words like "rhythm".

Disclaimer 2: If you do not know the original Hindi lines, don't bother.

Disclaimer 3: If you hate this post, go and blame Diptakirti. I had merely sent him a trailer. It was his idea to make this into a blog post.

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Bulla is the name.
I keep things open - hence the fame.

Chutiya is how I was made.
The best of the lot - I erect their bed.
(the rest is beyond my scope)

The name is Pote, if you must.
In me not even my father lays trust.
They've started the Armageddon.
The gangs are ready to go head-on.
Corpses will fall in a big heap.
The way little boys urinate: drip, drip, drip.

Ibu Hatela is the name I maintain.
My mother was a witch-born, The Satan has my father sworn.
Want a plantain?
Lamboo Aata has ruptured our kerchief;
His trousers will now we let rip.
Of course, we will do it from behind,
And in the entire act, our thumbs you will find.

Haven't you really seen Loha?
The masterpiece by Kanti Shah?
In which it says to no end -
Umbrellas are to be opened,
Sheets are to be wrapped around, flaunted,
And women are to be teased and taunted.

Munni? My sister Munni? You're toast?
Lamboo Aata has turned you into a ghost?
He has turned a matchstick to a lamp-post?

Bulla, My Lord, don't go for the kill:
Make me your pimp, if you really will.
I will supply you with the most virile of maids,
I will turn into a condom to protect you from AIDS.
Or, if you want, I'd turn to fluffy towels,
Which you can accordingly wrap around your bowels.
And even if that isn't enough for this muck,
Castrate me and make me an eunuch.
I'd drape a saree, and sing, oh so meek,
"My Lord, how fair art thy cheek!"

Looks like it's Bulla's spit you've taken in.
You haven't tasted his urine.

I hail from Delhi.
With cat milk in my belly.

Oh yeah, my brother is a man now.
The broken arrow is a cannon somehow.

Whether you're the emperor's sister,
Or the daughter of a pauper,
You have to get beneath a man,
And blow the whistle, proper.

He does nothing, the geriatric.
Just juts out his finger, and asks to suck and lick.

The moment you get yourself into the trade,
It doesn't matter any more, when he was made.
It doesn't matter whether he's ancient or a hunk,
It doesn't matter whether he's upright or sunk.

Four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty.
Plenty. (the Americans prefer things large-scale, you see)

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Not all posts deserve a dedication. This one does. To Greatbong. For this post.