Dear Mr Parrikar,
Call me anti-national if you will, but I want to leave this country.
Like the number of Bollywood songs starring Katrina Kaif’s navel, my grievances with India are too damn many. It all began when I was born in Girdhariji’s tabela, almost 10 years ago.
I was barely done tweeting a picture of my first meal on earth, (What is it with Instagram’s nipplephobia, by the way?) when that 50-year-old man called me his maiyya (eww), parted me from the breasts of my maiyya (ouch!), and then proceeded to squeeze the rest of the milk for himself, even while thanking the both of us for our “sacrifice”. (Seriously, fuck you Girdhariji.)
In the many years that I spent at the tabela, I realised that I’m the least revered of all the entities you motherise. It pained me, but it also helped me write Insecurities & Pimples (2011), a heartfelt collection of poems for the teenage soul. Here’s a little ditty for your enjoyment.
Why is it
that Bharat Mata gets songs in her praise
that human matas get yearly FB captions in their name,
whereas all I get
are the sorest of udders to sleep with,
every night, every day?
Today, however, I’m not this bitter.
Girdharji is done milking me, especially after he struck gold with the Patanjali cow ghee campaign that blatantly objectified me on the ghee dabba, chewing photoshopped fucking grass.
Anyway, after he cut me loose, I’ve been living a free life in the streets, away from Girdhariji’s milk lust. I’m a feminist, free-thinking Indian cow with a personality of my own (Hilarious AF| Eat, Chew, Repeat | Winner, CudFest ’16, ’15 | #Vegan4Life). I have it all, and I should be happy.
Yet, the truth is, that I’m terribly lonely, and terribly depressed.
They erupted into chants of Gai Hamari Mata Hai, to which I retorted with a sarcastic Tumko Kuch Nahi Aata Hai.
All respectable animals hate me. They shun me for the immunity I enjoy. Especially the dogs who are honestly tired of being flung off terraces for no reason whatsoever. The only person who talks to me is a woman who thinks it’s a good idea to whisper her prayers into my ears. No aunty, I can’t help Chintu score better in the board exams, and I really can’t make Chintu’s father want less sex, could you PLEASE STOP ASKING?
My former friends, humans like you, Mr Parrikar, who did a lot of your dirty work – the work of burying my sisters who had passed away – were kind to me. Being unfairly ostracised themselves, they understood me. But after that day at Una, it changed.
I can never forget that day. It had started off badly. A jealous chicken had said something particularly mean. Depressed, I was standing in the middle of a busy road, but the humans were carefully zigzagging their vehicles to accomodate me, thereby foiling my attempts at suicide for the gazillionth time. As I sighed and strolled on, searching for a lethal-looking plastic bag to swallow, I spotted them.
They were in trouble and were being roundly abused by my supposed “rakshaks” for apparently having desecrated me. Hello?When? Seething with fury and wishing I hadn’t blunted my horns for the bloody Patanjali ad, I went charging. Unfortunately, the moment I entered the scene, the gaurakshaks went completely berserk. They erupted into chants of Gai Hamari Mata Hai, to which I retorted with a sarcastic Tumko Kuch Nahi Aata Hai. They attempted to hurl garlands at me, to which I reacted with a womanly, “I have a boyfriend.” But no matter what I did, they wouldn’t back off. From above all the clamour, I could see my friends beginning to hate me.
It’s been a lonely, guilty life since then, Mr Parrikar. No friends in this life and now no one to bury me in the afterlife. So isn’t it only reasonable that I want to move out? In the good old days, I would have just proudly given myself up for the noble cause of #BurgerJihad (like regular jihad, but more paradise-friendly, since the only person you murder to wage it is yourself). I’m happy to die for someone’s food, so long as they listen to the wise words of Selena Gomez, and kill me with me kindness.
But since the likes of you have made even that impossible, I hereby announce Operation #Gauxit. Yes, the Indian cow community has filed for their immigration papers. We’re leaving for Canada… Justin always has room for liberals, and the grass quality, we hear, is simply excellent.
Goodbye, Mr Parrikar. Don’t miss us and tell those moron gaurakshaks to get a life. There will be no more cows to protect.