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The India Menace - Street shitting, unsanitary practices, scams, Hindu extremism & other things
Hopefully they are though. It's all the bullshit like "social justice" and a fear of being "called out" as "racist" (read: dissenting) which has led to situations like this:
That's called the skidmark, also known as the poo trail. It hankers back to ancient Indian times when the ancient pajeets created their alphabet by smearing their shit on cave walls in a horizontal line.
I decided to Google this, the AI seems to give a pretty good answer:
The distinctive horizontal line that connects characters and runs across the top of words in written Hindi is called the Shirorekha (or shirorēkha). [1, 2]
Originating from ancient scripts like Brahmi, this top line serves several important functions in the Devanagari script: [1, 2, 3, 4]
Word Grouping: It physically binds individual letters and their attached vowel signs into a single, unified word.
Anchor for Matras: It acts as a hanging baseline for vowel symbols, known as matras.
Legibility: It helps create a clear distinction between the base consonants and the vowel marks written above, below, or to the side of the text. [1, 2, 3, 4]
I submit this video as additional evidence to support my argument that all Pajeets are inherently gay and that India is the gayest place on earth (per capita)
Interesting jeet history read featuring the way to smack down an uppity currywog, on this week in 1857
On this day, 25 June 1857, nine hundred trapped and dying men, women and children were offered a way out — and had to decide whether to trust the enemy who had spent three weeks trying to kill them. They were the British garrison of Cawnpore, in the midst of the great Indian Rebellion, penned into a shallow mud entrenchment on open ground under the furnace of the Indian summer. For three weeks they had been shelled by day and night, dying of their wounds, of cholera, of sunstroke, of thirst — the only well within reach swept by enemy fire, so that fetching water cost a life each time. Now the rebel leader, Nana Sahib, sent in a signed promise: lay down their arms, and every survivor would be given safe passage by boat down the Ganges to safety. They had almost nothing left to hold out with. They took the offer. Two days later, at the river, it became one of the most infamous episodes in the whole history of the British Empire — and there are no clean hands anywhere in it.
To understand Cawnpore, you have to understand the storm it sat inside. In the spring of 1857 the British hold on India — exercised not by the Crown but by the East India Company, a private corporation with its own vast army of Indian soldiers, the sepoys — was shaken to its foundations by a rebellion that had been building for years. The causes ran deep. The Company had annexed kingdom after kingdom under a ruthless policy that let it swallow any state whose ruler died without a natural heir; it had pushed its own customs and its missionaries on a proud and ancient society; and it had stripped princes of their lands and pensions, among them Nana Sahib, the adopted heir of the last Maratha Peshwa, who nursed a bitter grievance against the men who had denied him his inheritance. The spark, when it came, was a rumour — that the cartridges for the army's new rifles, which a soldier had to bite open, were greased with the fat of cows and pigs, an outrage to the faith of Hindu and Muslim sepoys alike. From that spark the fire ran across northern India, and in June it reached Cawnpore.
The British commander there was an old soldier named Sir Hugh Wheeler, a man who had spent his life in India, spoke its languages, and was married to an Indian wife. He trusted the sepoys he had served with for decades — and when the rising began he made a fateful choice. Rather than fortify the strong stone magazine by the river, he gathered the Europeans into a feeble entrenchment of mud walls around a couple of barracks on bare, flat, open ground, and waited for a relief that he was sure would come. Around nine hundred souls crowded into it: some three hundred soldiers and officers, and behind them three hundred women and children and a few hundred civilians. The siege closed around them on the sixth of June.
What those people endured over the next three weeks is almost beyond imagining. It was high summer on the north Indian plain, the temperature climbing past anything a British body was built for, and there was no shade. Round shot and musket fire came in day and night. The single well inside the perimeter was the only water, and it stood in full view of the enemy guns, so that every bucket drawn was paid for in lives; men went out for water in the dark and did not come back. Cholera and dysentery spread through the filth and the heat. The building serving as a hospital caught fire and burned, taking the medicines and the wounded with it. Children died of sunstroke in their mothers' arms. By the fourth week perhaps a quarter of them were dead, the food was nearly gone, the ammunition was nearly gone, and still no relief had come.
And then, on the twenty-fifth of June, came the offer. Nana Sahib sent a note, carried into the entrenchment by an elderly Englishwoman he held prisoner, promising that if the garrison surrendered, all of them — the soldiers, the women, the children — would be allowed to march to the river and take boats down the Ganges to the British stronghold at Allahabad. Wheeler had refused an earlier, unsigned version of the offer. This one bore Nana Sahib's own name. The garrison argued it among themselves — some wanted to fight on to the last, trusting nothing the enemy said; others looked at the dying children and the empty magazine and could not justify another day of it. In the end they accepted. There was, in truth, almost nothing left to decide.
At dawn on the twenty-seventh of June they marched out — the survivors, the wounded carried on litters, the women and children — down to the riverside landing place called Satichaura Ghat, where the boats were waiting. What happened next has been argued over ever since, and may have begun in confusion as much as design. But as the British climbed aboard, firing broke out from the banks, the boatmen leapt into the water and fled, and the crowded boats became a killing ground. Almost all the men were cut down at the river. The surviving women and children — around a hundred and twenty of them — were taken back into captivity. Only four men of the whole garrison escaped down the river alive.
The worst was still to come, and it is the part that turned a tragedy into a byword for horror. The captive women and children were held in a small house called the Bibighar, where over the following weeks they were joined by other British prisoners — survivors of Wheeler's own boat, and a group of refugees from Fatehgarh — until around two hundred women and children were crowded into it. A few weeks later, as a British relief column fought its way toward Cawnpore, the order was given to kill them all. They were murdered there — the figure of around two hundred is uncertain, and the uncertainty hardly softens it — and their bodies thrown down a well. When the British soldiers reached the town a day or two later and found that house and that well, something broke in them.
What they did in answer must be told with the same unflinching honesty, because Cawnpore is not a story with one set of villains. The vengeance the British took was deliberate, systematic, and savage. Captured rebels — and many men who were merely suspected, or merely Indian — were forced to defile themselves against their faith before they were hanged; others were tied across the mouths of cannon and blown apart, a death chosen precisely to deny them the rites their religion required. Villages were burned and their people killed without trial. The cruelty was so extreme that it sickened some of the British officers who witnessed it. "Remember Cawnpore" became the war cry of the British Army in India — and under that cry, the suppression of the rebellion became a thing of terrible, indiscriminate brutality.
That is the truth of Cawnpore: an atrocity answered by an atrocity, with the innocent of both peoples ground between them. It broke whatever trust had survived between Britain and India, and it changed everything. Within a year the East India Company was abolished and the British Crown took direct control of India — the beginning of the Raj that would last until 1947. The rebellion was crushed. Nana Sahib vanished and was never found. And on the bank of the Ganges, the memory of what was promised on the twenty-fifth of June, and broken on the twenty-seventh, hardened into one of the bitterest wounds the British Empire ever carried.
The British commander there was an old soldier named Sir Hugh Wheeler, a man who had spent his life in India, spoke its languages, and was married to an Indian wife. He trusted the sepoys he had served with for decades — and when the rising began he made a fateful choice. Rather than fortify the strong stone magazine by the river, he gathered the Europeans into a feeble entrenchment of mud walls around a couple of barracks on bare, flat, open ground, and waited for a relief that he was sure would come. Around nine hundred souls crowded into it: some three hundred soldiers and officers, and behind them three hundred women and children and a few hundred civilians. The siege closed around them on the sixth of June.
If all that survived was Indians, then I can't blame Cat-lon at all.
"Have you tried looking after [Indians]? They're monsters! As they grow in number, so does their capacity for evil, and they won't even notice as they do it. I was not the monster."
"*Autistic war screeching*"
(But Kenshi can't be India. Latrines exist in Kenshi.)
Hinduphobia" and "Islamophobia" are such a nonsense. All ideologies and beliefs should be criticised and mocked, if they're good ideas then they'll endure it and their adherents can just say "well we have this evidence for it and these results from it so obviously it's a good thing", but Hinduism and Islam can't even do that. It's one thing to hate people for immutable characteristics, hating beliefs is completely different
I genuinely fail to understand how did westoid retards fall for that.
When was the big muslim declaration that condemned all terrorism done in the name of islam after 9/11? When did the muslim progressive reform happen that no longer allowed gay people to be killed? or outlawed child marriages? Or condemned fucking slavery?
Fun fact: There are many Christian abolitionists, but there hasn't been a single Muslim abolitionist in all of islamic history. Mohammed not only owned slaves, he sold them, bought them, and gifted them. and there are at least four quran verses sorry, not verses, but "Suras" or CHAPTERS that explicitly allow the sexual exploitation of slaves. Have they condemned that? Of course fucking not. It's their god's word. why would even they?
But would it matter? Their death cult allows them to lie, cheat and deceive the infidels, so nothing they say to you can ever be trusted. What matters is how they speak about you, and they genuinely despise you.
Islam is so obviously incompatible with western values that the only reason I can think of to let them into western countries is simple, retarded contrarianism. Not even sympathy, because do they even care about muslim women and children any more than they care about the male rapists and pedophiles that victimize them? Of course fucking not. To them, the brown plagues are just a way to say "fuck you" to everything that you value.
Hell, maybe if rightoids make the effort to embrace Islam, their knee-jerk reaction would be to universally condemn it as the ass-backwards, genocidal, terrorist cult that it actually is.
Fuck Islam and fuck Mohammed. And fuck Vishnu too. And fuck the Talmud, Israel, and gas the kikes just in case.
But the difference now is that the left is losing their grip on the levers of power because people are so sick of being subjected to leftist gaslighting and lectures. And the Jeet is the cruelest flavor of reality that even the left have to balk at because their choice is between following the dogma and sucking Jeet shit, bad smells and rape included... or break away and face reality.
Believe me, a lot of them would gladly have a murderous jeet slicing their necks open with a rusty knife before ever admitting that you were right and they were wrong.
Not to mention anyone with an inkling of a brain and enough planning and dedication can oust the power system and carve out something for themselves in such a savage island.
Jeets will simply get consumed by the Fogmen and cannibals and that is that.
Believe me, a lot of them would gladly have a murderous jeet slicing their necks open with a rusty knife before ever admitting that you were right and they were wrong.
And that's the problem we have in current year. We are ruled by suicidal and egotistical people on par with the nobles of the French aristocracy prior to the French revolution, and they're dragging us with them to Jonestown and wants us to drink the Kool-Aid like they did.
Hence why its essential to oust them from power be it by election, delegitimizing their rule (California is effectively an anarchy in certain towns and cities), or make a parallel system ala convicts in prison where even if they managed to get you debanked, you're not fucked. We're stuck with a cold war with these retards and they're amping up the crazy because they're this desperate to bring in a government that ends up with them getting butchered en masse. (A key feature in Communism as destabilizers face the wall immediately)
You know, I've been thinking a lot about 40K. Specifically fantasy. And no, they are not Skaven. They're the closest related to the Beast Men. Basically a horde of mutated. Cumins. With beast like characteristics who do nothing but. Great hoids. And rape and pillage.
Skaven society is at least somewhat meritocratic, simply due to the fact that if you're incompetent, you would be stab stabbed.
And in Warhammer 40K, The closest equivalent would be someone who worships chaos on United. But really bad at it. Indians are basically the. Mass amounts of cultists who get thrown at the Imperial Guard and planetary defense forces to soften them up. To better prepare them so the war bands can take out. The exhausted Guidesman.
But not even be getting the decency of being called Death Guard.
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