I Want To be A South Indian
I returned home from work today feeling quite happy about Friday and the lack of traffic jams en-route. I then logged on to Twitter like all normal people do these days as soon as they reach home.
People were discussing this article by some Aakar Patel. The guy was on top of Twitter trends for the day. Needless to say, i had to read it to stay in sync with the happening crowd.
Three minutes and twenty five seconds later, i was feeling ashamed of my life. The guy made me realize just how pathetic an existence we North Indians live.
There’s hardly anything going for us northerners.
We can’t appreciate Carnatic music. I didn’t even know who MS Subbalakshmi was and had to resort to Wikipedia to find out. We are uncouth. We flaunt our Honda Cities. We are not tolerant of others. Just look at how the North Indian BJP treats our good PM. Even my pretty face suddenly felt like a burden. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I suddenly had flashes of all the smart Tamil kids who always scored higher than me in the FIITJEE test-series. Now i knew why.
Why god, why couldn’t i have been born into a nice Brahmin family of dosa-eaters?
I was appalled. I went outside, got into the Honda City and turned on the radio (factory-fitted, Bose speakers), determined to listen to some quality Carnatic music. Red FM was playing that Pungi song. Super addictive. Then Chikni Chameli. Half an hour later, just as i was busy picking my nose, the wife came out of the house pissed at me about wasting my time and not helping out with dinner. Another example of our north Indian intolerance.
Aakar Patel suddenly appeared in my head and said, with a slight smile, “Hence Proved”.
The radio was useless. They only played those awesome but meaningless Bollywood songs. I figured Youtube must have something. Did a quick search, and found an MS Subbalakshmi track with a few million hits from knowledgeable, cultured Madrasis. This should be good. I was ready to get some culture.
5 minutes later, i was in tears. Not because it was awesome and i was making ‘little clicking sounds by striking the tongue against the back of the front teeth, gently shaking his head from side to side in mock helplessness‘ like people who can appreciate good music.
Not quite. To my primitive ears, it didn’t make any sense. I just couldn’t understand why the woman was so sad. I heard the track five times. Nothing. I felt bad for her though. Going by how much her voice trembled, i guessed she must be really old.
But something had to be done.
I formulated a quick plan. Going forward, Roadies will be followed up everyday by 15 minutes each of Sun TV, Gemini TV and DD Kairali to increase my culture quotient, and soon i should be able to understand multiple languages like the good people from the south. Junior will learn Tamil as a third language, and call me Appa. Sundays will be started with a breakfast of Idli (no giving up the rajma chawal lunch for now.). Henceforth, i shall go to work with a head soaked in at least 200 ml of Coconut oil. The wife shall wear those nice smelling flowers in her hair.
I am not kidding. Not going to stop till my fellow North-Indians start making fun of me and call me a Madrasi.
Like Lord Ayappa must have told his disciples, man creates his destiny, even if he is born in North India. I will create my own South India right here in the land of Yadavs and Jat Boys.
If Michael Jackson could go from black to white, surely going from wheatish to a couple of shades darker must be a relative cakewalk?
Thank you Aakar Patel, for my life will never be the same again.