Coolitude rehashed.

Pop culture reared a most unfounded head long ago, where I've come from. Lead, valiantly, by the yuppies of here. Not those in the Webster. Those who live to adore Sweet Child of Mine. And Slash. (Not so much Axl Rose.) And every note in Comfortably Numb. And Bryan Adams on Thursday night. Heaven. No less.

These are the guardians of the Cool. The popular, cool.

Speak no words on Saturday night without the emphatic mention of the Motherfucker. If you are cool, that is. And if this cool seems "lame", find yourself a vague artform, a one-too-many-earring, and, my personal favourite, a hatred for the sport of cricket. But, try, out of respect, to mention the motherfucker anyway.

But I think now, albeit slightly, there is an uprising. Or maybe a cough. But with heart, nonetheless.

Of dinchak music, of flowery shirts and conmen. Of Bluffmaster and Johnny Gaddaar. It's urban but most visceral. And they like the dhol when it isn't played for Karan Johar. They like rust. They like dancing-like-you-mean-it! They like the occasional bhenchod. Because it doesn't mean anything. Except bhenchod. They want rights. They like dhotis and made up words. They like trying, failing even; screaming, love, anger and jumping. They like hope. They like the real.

To these men and women, I raise my glass. Happy new year.