Reality Bites: The reason why I like the Indian but hate the international media

Covid Diary: I was having such fun during lockdown with photo shoots with peacocks and mocking rivals in rallies. But now I have to put on dull, sober masks and pretend I am solving nation’s problems

Representative Image (Photo Courtesy: Social Media)
Representative Image (Photo Courtesy: Social Media)

Rupa Gulab

Dear Diary, I hate international media. Hate them! Hate them! Hate them! They have revealed that I am fudging Covid numbers and have reported on our crematoria operating 24x7, and bodies being burnt on pavements and car parks. They have also publicly shamed me for holding election rallies in West Bengal and called me reckless, irresponsible, and a super-spreader—just a little more polite than the bad things my party louts called the Tablighi Jamaat in 2020.

Thanks to them, I had to cancel my rallies where I was having so much fun cat-calling the chief minister of West Bengal—it reminded me of my carefree Bal Narendra days. Those mean international mediawallahs also criticised me for exulting at the size of the crowd that was purchased for one of my rallies.

I have now briefed my party louts to spy on international journalists and discover their dirty secrets so I can fix them. That’s how I tamed Indian mediawallahs—I have ensured that I matter more to them than their mummies and daddies. See how they’re still defending me although their families and friends are dying of Covid, lack of oxygen and lack of drugs?

Some of them are blaming bureaucrats (even though they know that bureaucrats are not even allowed to take restroom breaks without my consent, ha ha), some are blaming protesting farmers (hee hee), and some are blaming Nehru. I am their lord, their god and they will blindly support me or else AS will do his thing.

I now have to pretend that I am working hard to fix the Covid crisis with boring meetings that produce only gas (not the useful kind like oxygen). I even have to hide my lovely face and wear masks for those online meetings because those international mediawallahs tattled to the world that AS and I didn’t wear masks at rallies and roadshows. Oh, how I long to make them cry! I have selected my masks carefully this time—they are dull surgical masks to show that I am serious, instead of my usual flamboyant ones that make me look like a GQ Cover Boy (Nagpur edition, mind it).

My PMO has already begun to fix the damage to my god-like image. Their strict instructions are out. Godi Media is holding debates on whether there is an evil international plot to defame me. Like media owners, hospital owners too have been warned to say only good things about me. Oh, the usual.

My Crony Capitalist buddies have, as always, jumped to my defence. I made a few phone calls after my tepid address to the nation. Within hours, a couple of them contacted the media, gushed about how my speech brought tears to their eyes and inspired them to help me help India. Note the nuance please: I have trained them to put me ahead of India. One of them even got a publication to remove a story about how I allowed India to export double the amount of oxygen despite the Covid crisis, hurrah!

All my PR agencies in India and abroad are working hard to make me look like Mother Teresa devotedly tending to leprosy patients. Chances are, the world will soon see touching photographs of me holding a frail old lady’s hand as she gasps into an oxygen mask (an actress, of course—there’s no way I’m ever getting close to people with diseases, chee).

I asked Mummy if she would play the Covid patient, but she turned me down and reminded me that the people of Gujarat have become even more backward after 13 years of my lousy governance, and will treat her like a social outcast. Mummy sternly added that I must not use any old woman and pretend it is her either—the old bat can be a mind-reader! I blushed guiltily and promised her I would never do that, but she reminded me that I was born a liar, and taunted me about the 15 lakhs I had promised every Indian in 2014. Bah. I have now hired a party lout to stand outside her house and shout “Mummeee, oh Mummeee!” for a few days. That ought to fix her.

Back to online meetings where I pretend to help fight Covid, yawn. Must get AS to organise one of his infamous national distractions asap!

(Any resemblance to real people or events is a coincidence)

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