OPEN LETTER TO A MUMBAI EUNUCH

Dear Mumbai Eunuch,

Salaam from the North of Mumbai, or as you may know it as, the fuckking suburbs that nobody cares about. I came to your city 2 years ago with a brand new job and a bucketload of underwear. My friends and family here thought I was completely insane to choose Mumbai over more alcohol conducive cities like Goa or even Bangalore. I am very sad to report that your reputation of being scary, irritating freaks with the clapping strength of overzealous devotees on crack precedes you and it hurts me even more to admit to this rather accurate description.

Your reputation has travelled far and wide, to countries outside India as well. And believe me man/woman/whatever you are, it is not a pretty situation. I understand that your dirty saaree, ripped abs, your V-neck blouse showing stuff that reveals to the world that you have inherited your fathers vomit inducing shaved bosom, are what you think maketh a woman, but it does not. I write to you as a man who has been brought up in a society free of any discrimination towards men stuck  in auto rickshaws at traffic signals, so thanks to you, my living in Mumbai is as safe as Woody Allen living in WWII Germany.

You meet me at a red signal, talk to me about giving you a fiver, and when I look like I don’t give a fuck, you think I have an attitude problem?  I understand this completely. But let me remind you that I am from Goa and not Goregaon, so no ,I am not scrawny, I am not fair, I don’t have straight long hair and my topics of conversation go beyond the Ranndi I saw in last night. I am olive-skinned, have lower –back-pain that sometimes makes me feel like I fell out Jim Morrison’s tour bus. Got a problem with that? Well just suck it up coz I was born into a society where a man can travel by rickshaws and trains without the fear of bumping into one of your type. Could you ever, my chunky handsome, cash begging  pig, imagine this kind of power in your society? So stop telling me that straight men are treated with respect where you come from. Just shut up and admit to it. It’s just easier that way.

And your Hindi. Good Lord, what in the world is up with that? I don’t want you to ‘Eh Raaaju… De Reyyyyy..Dey Naaaa…’  me anything. It’s like you need to go to primary school all over again. And call them your implants, not your ‘impleeeents’ or what your cooler, more happening brethren call them—‘Mere Mummmey’. Like what are they? Conjoined twins? Are they joined at the hip? Your goan counterparts may not have your looks, but are way more mentally stimulating, a quality that eludes you obviously, but has been the single most sexy factor for us since the age of five. I mean once again, who can blame you? You were brought up on Devang Patel  and the heroic deeds of  Karan Johar and the ever so fair concepts such as Bobby Darling , while we mere ‘black-colour waale’ mortals had to make do with Drinking glasses, S & M and Cheese. Shame no? And yes, if by a slight chance, you do find my big dancer thighs attractive enough for you to prolong our conversations and meetings at the traffic signal and if by an even slighter chance you fall in love with my thighs while stroking them when im stranded and shit scared sitting inside an auto at a red signal, you will have to deny being a “Munda” and you will have to lie about your prostrate. A small price to pay for all the genuine independence I am giving up for you. And that’s the real thing, not what you see the Goan guys at Xaviers and Stephen’s doing during their fake as hell protest marches coz ultimately they’re going home to a family who’re putting together money for Bobby darlings boobs coz he just decided to change his sex, by mistake of course.

For someone who is so confident of their physical abilities you really suck at coaxing an intelligent man. Don’t stroke my leg in a way that implies ‘happy endings’, you freakshow and if you want to be cute with your ever so charming (not) eunuch advances, then don’t say stuff  like “De Dey….Warna khol duungi ”! NO. It’s just not cool man. I may have have missed on a lot in this letter, but that’s ok because you’ll forget to read it and even if you do , you’ll get your cousin from Saki Naka signal  to translate it for you. And this letter can’t go on forever like your persistence to get some money out of me.

Yours
Raaaaaaaaaju
(Only I can call myself that. If you EVER call me by this name, I will shove so many coins down your system that every time you sit down to take a shit , it will sound like Uncle Scrooge’s money bin.  )