So she sits before the laptop, the insolent Madrasan, exactly a week after her ‘Open Letter to a Delhi Boy’ landed her right into the harsh yet warm cradle of controversy. It shook her, it stirred her, it maligned her and fed her mental carcass to hungry, salivating social network junkies. And at the end of it all, what is it that the Madrasan learnt from this maelstrom of an experience?
“Never EVER put down to paper anything you bitch about with your drunk best friend who calls you at 2 in the morning.” NEVER. EVER.
The past week has left many of the Madrasan’s countrymen and women offended and pissed off, but has left her feeling sleepy and bored, for all she wants to do is take a walk around the GK2 market and get her hair done, but has been told not to, post her death threats. She sits endlessly staring at her computer screen pretending to track responses and look busy when actually she yearns to get to a goddamn mall and devour those new wedge heels at Zara. So she’s been for the past 7 days at the ‘Slooja’ residence and is trying to come to terms with this wave of complete brainlessness and stupidity. And really, all she really wanted to do when it all started was shut down her blog and go on a holiday to Tuscany. But now all that she wants to do is shut down her computer and make her way to Khan market asap.
The Madrasan reached Delhi on a Saturday night, which is always a very hot and happening time at the Slooja home. As she entered and was welcomed by her dear friend Somi, she could hear “Mundey Pangda Paundey” in the basement which houses the ever so famous Slooja bar and is also home to the best whiskey in town. So the Madrasan headed straight downstairs and as she looked around at the animal-print tops and the silver, crystal encrusted heels she started collecting fodder for her next post. Little did she know that in the web world not so far away, what she had released, was a goddamn monster.
So just to let you know, the Madrasan is a retard at technology, so much so that she didn’t even know how to reply to her own blogpost comments. So the next morning when she got an urgent phone call from a friend that went something like “Dude, you’re trending on Twitter, bitch!”, it just left the sleepy Madrasan even more confused. And since the network coverage in Somi’s room is as bad as Gaddaffi’s hideout, the Madrasan replied “What? Trekking? Yeah sure, why not, but it’s raining like mad ya!” Yeah that bad. So it was only after another day and about 800 blog comments later, did the Madrasan have a fair idea of what the hell was going on. Positive or not, the emotions were strong and completely bipolar, ranging from “Baby I am willing to perform Kalaripayattu for you in bed, just MARRY ME” to ones which just oozed with copious amounts of love and affection like “Kutti haraamzaadi, tujhe main zameen mein zindaa gaad doongaa.”
So she finally got on to this whole Twitter thing. She had an account but was hardly active coz she was of the opinion that Twitter people were always on their fancy phones even while in your company, they spoke a different language ( RT, Mention, among others of course) and the Madrasan just thought it was really pansy when hetrosexual men, North or South Indian used the word ‘Tweet’. So well there she was ‘trending’ and was shocked out of her skin when she found out that her letter written in exactly 15 minutes as a complete rant against something that she is not even sure of herself, is one of the most discussed topics for the yuppie urban youth of her country. WOW. The Madrasan would like, for a moment, to turn her head away from the women and solely address Indian men, Punjabi or otherwise…“Are you telling me that you prefer to read some rabid, bullshit rant of some jobless woman in her 20s over gaping and lusting after Scarlett Johansson’s nanga pictures? Are you saying that a fictitious letter is what got your attention over the nude pictures of a woman who when every other woman, the Madrasan included, looks at, wishes they could just magically sprout a penis?”
Bad show boys, very bad show.
3 days and about a thousand blog comments later, none of which the Madrasan had read, the press came calling, obviously. Two major publications wanted to feature her as the woman who they thought lashed out mercilessly at the men of their city. The Madrasan maybe an idiot at technology, but is certainly not one at Duniya-daari. One of the newspapers sent her a questionnaire with the most ludicrous, inane personal enquiries which made her cringe and she immediately realized that the opinion in the said publication has already been formed, so the Madrasan decided to stay away from all media. Afterall , her amma-appa (the madrasi version of ‘mere mom-dad’) were paranoid enough.
What followed of course were the responses and the spoofs, most of which were deleted by the Madrasan’s closest friends, none of whom by the way are Madrasi themselves. The mad mommas and crazy daddies of the world were belting it out like a bunch of Chetan Bhagat books, but for the record, the one spoof, the Madrasan would like to salute, is the ‘open letter to the Mumbai eunuch’. Whoever you are, you amuse her, so here’s Ek ROFL ke saath Ek LOL free, just for you. And of course, a special mention to a certain Mr, Sachu who was one of the first people comment on the post. He venerated the Madrasan by calling her a racist AND said that his English was perfectly fine. He then followed that up by saying how ‘no one is going to want to GO TO SLEEP with you’. And why? Because ‘you are a dirty Tamil’.
The story appeared on the front page anyway. Official quotes or no quotes at all, as journalists you got to put out a story with this kind of profundity and depth ,come what may, right? SO what does a byline-less story do when it does not have a quote from the accused? THAT’S RIGHT! It gets two shrinks to analyse the shit out of something that does not mean anything in the first place. So as the Slooja family sat down for a hearty breakfast of mooli de parathe, Dadi Slooja decided to read the article aloud. She reached the last part of the piece where one shrink used the word ‘egalitarian’. She said, “Egg…..err…eggaaleee…uhhh---saala khotey da puttar, Ande ke baare mein kyu baat kar raha hai? Pagal kahi ka!”
My thoughts exactly.
So now addressing the questions that seem to be of utmost national significance , because obviously, a random blogpost is the stuff that kickass economy building is made of. The questions being, “So has the Madrasan been in love with a Delhi boy? Did he break her heart? Did this letter go out to him? Well, the Madrasan has been in love with a Delhi boy but a very long time ago. After receiving the initial brickbats for this post, the Madrasan did notice that without any ulterior motive, he still stood up for her. But after a while she turned away, lest she ever saw that he had gone against her. The Madrasan wants to believe that while her Fendi wendy Defence Callony contemporaries may have dated Delhi boys, she was certainly different for she had been in love with a Delhi Gentleman.
The week passed like all weeks do, the ups, the downs, you know, press coverage, a public appearance with police protection, ah, the usual.. SO here she is a week later, the impulsive, ‘racist’, insensitive Madrasan, on another Saturday night at the Slooja bar, filling her South Indian belly with Chicken Tikka and sipping on her Patiala peg, as she watches Papa Slooja do his customary jig to Hans Raj Hans’ version of ‘Punjabiyan Di Shaan Vakhri’
Could she be more at home?
I think not.
P.S If you think this is an apology, think againji, by God.