I feel bad. Not because I did not win but because the person I wanted to loose won. I feel lonely. Most Indians are so different from me. Or at least their voting preference makes me think so. I feel embarrassed. Embarrassed of my active, challenging, blatant resistance to #NaMo’s incessant, but now wildly successful, marketing blitz. I feel dwarfed by the scale of #BJP’s win. At the implication of what this margin means. Mr. Modi is no more a man ‘standing on shoulders of giants’. But is a giant created by million black finger stains of hopeful Indians. Pan geography across demography spanning socio-economic stratas. Across Bharat.
He is a dynasty destroying hero. The Jack who slayed the giant ogre. The Sachin who sand-stormed the established cricketing world. The hope of billions. A masterful dream maker. The lead steer of the Dalal street bull-pack. A throwback to an era when determination and hard-work was all that was needed to succeed. And when there was no real need for family connections, education, schooling, English. WTF.
But no more Holy fucks. Hello Gaand Ghapli Behnchod.
India will not be the same ever again. And that can only be good for India and for her new President ‘who-is-known-as-her-new-Prime Minister’. For if India remains the same, Mr. Modi would have delivered the biggest KLPD since Ravanna lit a monkey’s arse.
But what if India does change. If all those pro-Modi activists are proven right. If Mr. Modi delivers. What if.