The Best Parody on Ms. Roy from Greatbong, since Beld’s on Toran Adarsh…

This is *a parody* and does not purport to be written by Ms. Roy. It is also considerably shorter than her 25-page rantings.

Dhoni, the small-town ticket-checker and now the dashing national captain with more zeroes in his bank account than villagers displaced by the Narmada Dam, the poster-boy for the post-liberalization “Indian dream”, thumping an enormous six to win the tournament, the sound of the ball striking the willow reverberating with the hollow pride of a heartless nation. Then there was Yuvraj Singh, the man of the tournament, with his girth representative of the lard of Indian civil society and his double chin, its two-facedness and Sreesanth, his scalp as verdantly vegetative as the hills before the logging mafia denuded them, symbolic of the Indian idiocracy. He is lucky to be in the team though unlike Rahul Dravid, who has been left behind because he is a Dravidian.

The green-shirted Pakistanis, enervated by an illegal war forced on them by the Americans and the proxy battle carried by India, isolated from international cricket for years, were the slaves marked for death, set onto battle with but a trident and a cape.

I wanted to tell Suhas that people do not bleed blue. They bleed red. They bleed red in Kashmir, where courageous youths flying green flags and calling for religious purification, go up against garrisons of Indian oppressors. They bleed red in the forests of Dantewada where innocent Naxals butcher policemen.

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