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Dear blood-sucker money-grubber pathetic wanker Sunil Bharti Mittal,
By the time you read this I’ll have switched service providers faster than you can say “Madam main Airtel ki oar se…”. I’m sorry for doing this…oh wait, no I’m not! I’m thrilled to be doing this. So thrilled, in fact that I just dialed 121 and laughed like a maniac at the poor sod at the other end. There might have been some ‘nyaah nyaah! I’m switching networks!’ thrown in, but I’m not confirming or denying that.
I know this might come as a bit of shock to you since you’ve been so busy managing all the IV tubes that directly connect our (and by ‘our’, I mean the zillion gullible fools – myself included – who use the airtel network ) veins to your coffers, but I’ve had enough. I am done with frantically running around my house and leaning at precarious angles just to be able to complete a five-minute conversation. It is frankly embarrassing to have to tell everyone who calls you to ‘just give me a minute while I get to a window’ and have them worry about whether they’re unknowingly fuelling your suppressed exhibitionist fantasies. Especially when it is a potential employer on the line.
But you don’t know what frustration is until you’ve been disconnected five times in the span of two minutes, in a conversation with an automated switchboard, where you had to dial your card number, your T-pin number, your date of birth and the date of your last transaction, three times. Only to have a rather tinny version of Für Elise* played back at you on loop.
I think you’re a slimy bastard with a moral fibre which is more frayed, rotting wisps of thread than fibre swell guy man, but I don’t think we’re right for each other. You think it’s fun to con people into giving you more money by swamping them with marketing calls when they’re on roaming rates, I get all warm and fuzzy when I think of the things I could do to you with a pair of industrial pliers, some copper wire and an electric socket.
Anyway, I want to switch to your immediate competitor, Hutch. But you know what? We had some good times, at least until the marketing calls started coming in and your entire effing network died on me. And look - I won't even make an issue out of the money you conned me out of, or the fact that so many of my days were made hellish by your underpaid call-center executives.
So take care of yourself - (if there is any justice in the world) you need to be strong for your years in prison.
With sheer loathing utter contempt a burning desire for revenge,
Your totally-pissed-off-EX-customer.
* Poor Beethoven's probably got friction burns from spinning in his grave so fast. Such a pity the dead can't sue.
A phone conversation with a friend, with whom I spent all 2 1/2 years of post-grad, just showed me that I am (despite the whole shy, quiet person deal) a frickin’ *brilliant* actress (or is that ‘actor’ now? Man, PC is so not my thing).
She: So I’m going to be in Bombay on Tuesday, and since you’re unemployed (yeah, rub it in, why dontcha? Bitch.) you’re coming out to meet me.
Me: *sigh* Oh alright, but there must be alcohol.
She: Yes, yes, there will be.
Me: Oh wait…you’re with Raymonds…which means, you’re staying in fucking Thane*!!
She: (shocked silence)
Me: (wonders what the hell the ‘shocked silence’ is all about)
Me: (slaps forehead as memory surfaces: this is the friend with whom I spent all of post-grad in Hyderabad)
Post-grad in Hyderabad = 2 1/2 years of not saying ‘fuck’, or c***, or even haraami out loud because the classmates would wince if I said anything stronger than kamina. The word ‘asshole’ would elicit horrified stares and the one day I said ch***** aloud, all the boys in my class - all fuckin’ 28 of them - drew in their breaths collectively and just stopped short of screaming ‘get thee behind me spawn of satan!’ and hiding behind the desks. It was just too tiring to train all of them into accepting that girls occasionally swore too (picking my battles and all of that), so I just switched to doing it in my head.
”Here is the *_______* project, you *_________*, *_________*, excuse for a project partner.”
”Keep your *_________* neanderthal ideas to your *_________* self, won’t you please?”
And I managed for 2 1/2 years. 2 1/2 years of being a ‘good girl’, of being a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth-no-siree girl and a who-needs-their-mouth-washed-out-with-soap?-not-ME girl.
Or alternately, 21/2 years of being the girl who spoke with inexplicable pauses in the middle of her sentences.
*By which I only mean really-really-*far*-from-where-I-live-Thane. I’m not a location snob** or anything.
** I’ve lived in Kandivali and Kalina. The latter, which is guaranteed to elicit looks of ‘Oh you poor thing! However did you *manage*?!’ So no, no location snobbery at all.
