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Dear Tarar,
While I am writing this
letter my heart is bleeding. From nariyal ka pani to lupus to tweets of a morning
bird, everything scares me. There is
TV-phobia because of mike-holding devils running after me and there is twitter
phobia as well. As you know I used to find happiness interacting with the
cattle class every single minute. Call it a fatal fall of a born-tweeter, today,
I am a tweet-free man. (They say
discretion is better than valour)
Jab we met, the first thing you told me was that
I have a huge heart. Though my heart is big enough to accommodate as many as
beautiful people, Miss Pashkaar’s entry was like a googly. And I was clean bowled. Like a 20-20 match, everything ended in
a fast spell. I was the media’s darling when I landed in Delhi to try a khadi
kurta for the first time in my life. All said it looked nice on my handsome
body. There was some itching though, and those who have been wearing it for
decades without even washing, told me, “You will make it big in politics if you
turn a blind eye towards all kinds of itching, mudslinging and horse-riding.” Huh! Whenever the political itching was
unbearable, I flew to Dubai.
You remember the sunny
morning when we found an ant drowning in my coffee cup. How much time I stole
from you to save the poor ant’s life! “Susi darling, you can’t even kill an ant,”
you pecked me on my cheek. And now these
media moguls bark at me: “Murderer”. If
wife dies, they say catch the husband. When will they start believing poor
husbands of dead wives? Country fellows…When
will they start believe the existence of coconut theories? You know, I get
nightmares of people offering me coconut water even in bars. My constituency is
full of coconuts and I got a chance to visit there during the election. Country
Mallus, they wanted development, drinking water, blablabla…I gifted them a
cricket team. Still they call me ‘imported Delhi Nair’. Media say I am an agent
of ugly looking Dawood Ibrahim. Only you know I hate men wearing cooling glasses
and holding guns.
I should blame the fatso
businessman for dragging me into this IPL muck. I did play not a single stroke,
but everybody starting throwing yorkers at me. A marriage of convenience, they
say. But Pashkaar lady was such a love! We visited this temple, that temple, this Guruji, that Guruji and many
desi English-speaking business morons… And
honestly, I couldn’t breathe a moment ever after. What a haunting end to a love saga! . A poisoned FIR, unending question hours and
media trial…
The bugging man of
all, Subbu Swamy knows everything. Given a chance, I will deport him to Siberia;
damn sure the mommyji and her papuji (no pun intended! Sigh…) will pat me on
the back. Ouch...My back hurts.
Now, this is a secret.
To wade through all this bad phase, I went to a saffron swamiji. After taking
the vibhuthi and chanting NaMo mantra, you don’t believe what happened! A broom appeared from nowhere, and I was told
to keep cleaning. My party spies---they know nothing---allege that this was Moditva.
I swear I do not know what it is.
Muck still stops here. I am fed up. When I went to UN, they
said I was meant for big. When I came to politics, they said I am meant for
something else. Each wife told me I have only the lover boy material. Since
this world is not grown enough to encompass a person of my stature, I am
contemplating shifting to Mars. Sorry
Tarar, Mom entertains no Pak collaboration. My mission is to find some
inter-stellar love there.
Goodbye.
With Love
Susi Tarur
(Characters may appear
real, but it’s not my fault. An invisible hand helped me decode these secrets)
(Photo for representation purpose only)
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