I argued with a bhakt and realised why Modi is great

[Satire] 'Don't worry, we'll Photoshop Vikas.'

 |  5-minute read |   26-09-2017
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Exasperated after a severe bout of meaningless dialogue with the omnipresent bhakt, I decided to make peace and went for a drink with him. He took me to the newest pub, which was frequented by his ilk. With loud music and a louder host, it was aptly named the Tree-Public. "Primates evolved from here" was their catch phrase.

We sat at our table and ordered drinks. I opted for the boring Bloody Mary and my new friend went for the very potent Bovine on the Banks.

"So, tell me why do you think Saheb isn't doing a good job?" he asked in a belligerent tone.

"He promised us jobs, but during elections in a northern satrap, he talked of a Shamshan and Kabristan," I reiterated.

"So, what? It's a big hit. You libtards won't understand that it's such a big hit that people are actually dying to go there!"

cows-690_092617080344.jpgMy new friend, now inebriated by the Bovine on the Banks, took offence to what I felt was a harmless joke. Photo: India Today

I didn't know if he really meant it or was just playing with words. With bhakts, it's hard to tell between reality and parody. But I didn't want to argue further because a very menacing looking bouncer had me under his gaze. His reputation preceded him. Many who've locked horns with him simply disappeared. Usually after their morning walks. An accidental glance into his cold eyes sent a shiver down my spine. I looked away and noticed the alligator had just walked in with a swarm of cronies.

The alligator gets his name for his penchant for making blind allegations. Swamigator is so wild with his allegations that people often think he plays mind games with himself. His snout is so long that it is in everyone's business. In sheer boredom, the alligator sometimes bites his own tail. Even the menacing bouncer is petrified of him, lest he become a victim of the alligator's PILs. The alligator is always on some PILs.

The Tree-Public was rife with the vice of every kind and I was choking in the smoke-filled dingy room. Wanting to ease my nerves, I cracked a silly joke. My new friend, now inebriated by the Bovine on the Banks, took offence to what I felt was a harmless joke. After a rant, he cracked the most vile and misogynistic joke my ears have ever heard. I protested and told him that the joke was in poor taste.

"My freedom of speech... You libtards are hypocrites."

"But no lady will ever approve of such jokes..." I tried to reason.

"Wait my friends will come and explain to you," he said.

As I wondered whether his friends were male or female, I noticed a scrawny man and his son sitting on the table next to ours. I recognised them by their yellow shirts. They are from my satrap. The scrawny man was notorious for pushing his old podgy father-in-law off his rickety bicycle and stealing it. These days, he's busy building the capital of my satrap. His son is always flanked by his two best buddies, Shraddha and Anjali. The scrawny man and his clique of yellow journalists have been building the capital of my satrap in their minds. I last heard they are going to make it like a film set. He sells us big dreams. He is delusional.

Frankly, the scrawny man has become capital punishment for us. Meanwhile his son, in a glittering yellow shirt and glowing yellow teeth made merry with Shraddhanjali. Nevertheless, I felt a fraternal connect since we are from the same satrap and inquired about my old friend who was rumoured to have been kidnapped by someone in the pub.

They told me that they suspect the bouncer and Saheb have something to do with his disappearance.

"But my friend Vikas never went for morning walks..." I thought to myself.

As I was lost in thought, I saw a suave, svelte silhouette in stilettos emerge from the smoke-filled room. She was accompanied by another friend of hers.

"Aah here come my friends," shrieked the bhakt.

The woman in stilettos wore a crisp sanskari saree as she always does. She alternates between the six and the whole nine yards. Her friend told me a random tale from Yale. I asked them if the bhakt's joke was offensive. No, they said.

"But it was a joke about rapes...!"

"Freedom of speech," tweeted the queen of drapes.

And then she tweeted that her phone was hacked.

"See I told you, my joke was better," butt in the jubilant bhakt.

I instantly agreed that he was the bigger joker.

The women ordered a fancy mocktail called 50 Shades of Saffron. We ordered some food, which I hoped to eat in silence. Hailing from Guntur, my taste buds are used to more Scoville units. So, I sprinkled some pepper. The trio mocked me for being too foreign in my taste. They said, I have forgotten the humble desi chili. #BMKJ

"But the British came to India looking for pepper. In fact, it was the Europeans who introduced us to chillies. Even tomatoes and potatoes. And much more which we've made our own. The food we eat is as diverse as the people of India..."

I countered them with a hashtag of my own. #VasudaivaKutumbakam

There was a brief, uneasy silence in the Tree-Public as my rant on diversity sank in. And then they all shouted in unanimity:

"What about Dalda? What about Dalda?"

I gave up. I asked if I could see my friend Vikas once, before I left. Perhaps take a picture with him. They kindly agreed.

As we posed for the picture, the alligator bit the host and threw a PIL at him. The host snarled, "India wants to know". They shouted, "Shut up" at each other. The scrawny man clenched his teeth and shouted: "Jai Mahishmati!"

His son continued flirting with Shraddanjali. They were all worse than their caricatures.

Before the cacophony could settle down, I was told the photo-op was over.

"But I've not seen my friend Vikas, I wanted a pic with him," I pleaded.

"Don't worry," said the bhakt, "We'll Photoshop Vikas".

Also read: Leaked! The diary of a proud nationalist and wannabe Modi bhakt

Writer

Rakesh Kotti Rakesh Kotti @rakeshkotti

Rakesh Kotti is an educator, aspiring writer and amateur drummer.

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