Being mean from a bedi
No one will perhaps disagree that it is difficult to be a feminist (sympathetic to a woman's right to her rights) with a person like Mean D. Irabedi using all her harms, sorry charms, to have a jab, futile as it is, on an entire nation that has earned the respect and adoration of almost every other respectable person walking the streets of India and their airports at the dead of night.
Her lopsided mind-set BEFORE the Bangladesh-India match can to some extent be understood given the fact that she was never a cricketer, but someone who chose to make a living by talking incoherently (D is for dumb) about it on TV because other important topics (politics, AIDS, Iraq, nuke power, Lalu Prasad, and so on) were already taken away by other more qualified presenters.
What is totally incomprehensible though is her fixed stance plumb in front of her conscience as, overcome by unpardonable bigotry, she rattles on and on (it's only a game, lady!) on a sports programme, which otherwise attempts to be as neutral as the others can be. So much so that her utterances have often put her co-host Be-charu and celebrity guests in considerable discomfiture. If ever one is in doubt whether beauty and beast can be packaged in one entity, all one needs to do is watch her on this programme.
Under the given circumstances, a World Cup of the best sixteen teams in the world, she reserves her right to be partial particularly when her other faculties (on batting, bowling and fielding) so shallow, and especially when she is perched atop her barren bedi. Hers is not the first head that success has turned.
Before the match, on the night India lost, she kept on continuously minnowing Bangladesh and running a slide show of conceited smirks as pondit after pondit emphasised the weakness of Bangladesh; how Sachin would score, how they had plus 190 centuries and we had less than ten, how many times Bangladesh scored less than 150 in an innings, and so on. According to Miss D, the match was to be a cakewalk for India. Six hours later she was hiding whatever she exposed behind Charu's blushes. As Navjot Sidhu would say, 'The proof, Madam, is in the pudding' or 'don't count your chickens before they are hatched'.
That should remind all of you of the story from Barisal. A gentleman asked a monu how he fared in the prestigious encounter with his opponents in the neighbouring mahalla. Said monu on his return: 'They gave me a slap on my face, but they could not insult me'. Meeow!
While it is fortunate that most people are mostly concentrating on her dress sense, and not the nonsense she utters, if one listens carefully one can decipher the venom she seethes from behind her melting smile. Arrey bhai! The loss of the Indian cricketers to eleven teenage Tigers has been accepted in good stride by 100 crore fanatic fans, who are rightfully blaming their team for the famous defeat, and not passing snide remarks against victorious Bangladesh. So who are you? Where are you from Mean D. Irabedi? Listen to this one then.
Teacher in a classroom somewhere in India asked the children about the profession of their father. One by one the students went on saying that his father was a farmer, and her a banker, and his a shopkeeper, her was a businessman, and so on, until it was Pappu's turn.
'My father is a thief. He goes out every night and steals things from people's houses. He comes home early in the morning. Sometimes he gets arrested and mummy has to bring him home from the police station', said Pappu in one breath in front of the stunned class.
The blushing teacher quickly took Pappu outside and asked him whether it was true what he just said about his father!
'No!' said the child, biting his lips.
'What does he do then?' inquired the flabbergasted teacher.
'Actually he plays cricket for India, but I was too embarrassed to say that in class', said he.
Miss Minu (that's short for Mean, like Monu for Mondira), after your time is over in front of the giant screen, please accept our invitation to visit the land of the Tigers. You will find a nation of cricket lovers and samajdhars, people who have respect for people all around the globe, people who will welcome you and make you feel at home (big enough for supposed giants like you) and make your trip very unforgettable. You will be so overcome by our love that when it will be time for you to leave, you will cry as your bibek will pinch you in the right places.
Your alternate means of shedding tears for your misdemeanour is to go home to your Papa who will give you a right whack on behalf of all of us. Howzzat!
Copyright (R) thedailystar.net 2007