You can say NO to hate
Look. I’m angry. I’m so mad, I’d do a Bruce Lee punch up and smash down with the losers who lie about university degrees, talk a load of crap about Muslims and Sikhs, and fake an arrest. (Why not fake an orgasm? So much more fun.) And get real, sunshine, a red bindi between your eyes ain’t no political degree; it just means you’re auditioning for Miss Philibhit Drag, and you’re not getting as far as Bobby Darling. I don’t know what my point is any longer except that the fatty dropout with the bindi and the namashkar isn’t the guy I want to see in office. Aren’t we supposed to be Coffee Day India? The demographic that’s gonna give our old lady — India — a little cappuccino to wake her up and make her samba. So what happened, guys? Didn’t you’ll see that National Conscience Rakyesh Mehra flick whose name I can’t remember right now? Because if you don’t vote you’ll be stuck with one of Hitler’s Angels. They’re the jobless hicks chasing down the guys who ferry the rickshaws and own the factories and run the restaurants, and they want them out cause the state’s in-house baby-making machine didn’t roll them out. If someone from Bihar is a foreigner it makes you wonder if these guys ever took a geography lesson; I mean, what’re they smoking? Vote. You need Better Crazies out there.
It’s good for your sex life
A recent study published by this really reputable university in some small but totally erudite city west of Gurgaon found that folks who vote got a better chance at getting some. The study was verified using a giant pool of facially challenged folks with several chins who were certified virgins. Once this sick pack of virgins voted and they had this little black dot on their finger to prove it, they were suddenly being facebooked by Lindsay Lohan who said she was tired of being a lesbian and now she wanted to get it on with you, a strange, skinny guy with a funny, cornerstore accent and that totally beyond recipe for frappachaino with lemongrass and two cardamoms. I’m not kidding. Lindsay Lohan wants to have your babies.
Vote. You’ll Score.
You might get married
Remember the time when going to a shaadi was a way get shaadi-fied yourself? I mean you're standing at Lata-masi’s son-in-law’s cousin’s wedding (hitched with that skanky dentist found online) when someone asks, “You’re nearly young; are you single?” and you scream, “I am! I’m 25, educated, eligible, and so completely desperate my mother bought me a push-up bra for Diwali!” Before you know it you’re getting it on with this big, blubbery software engineer dude from San Jose, and suddenly you got a KMART wedding band, three kids, and a really cute computer programme named after you. (Immortality! Sigh!) Well, sorry to rain your parade, princess. Because shaadis are no longer the way to get shaadi-fied. Cause I heard all the aunties are chilling at the election booth with their green card docs — interns actually, but in the recession take what you get — and they’re hustling the Chicks who Vote. So if you go out and vote and then someone takes a good look at you and thinks — this is the Girl my Boy has been waiting for — right then, the Just Married sign flashes wildly next to the Just Voted one. Vote. Teri Shaadi ka Saval Hai, Beti.
It’s Indian culture
I was reading this difficult to pronounce but pretty authentic and almost ancient Indian text some guy from the Hindutva brigade gave me for my third wedding anniversary. And it was amazing because it informed me mozzarella was invented in Surat and that Steven Spielberg is actually a Punjabi munda (from Haryana, would ya believe it?) and that voting was such an integral part of Indian culture that if you didn’t vote this year they’d come after you in their bright pink chaadis and give you a big fat smackaroo on all your four cheeks. Yum! Yum! So you got to vote because you dig Indian culture, and it says so in one of our texts; you got to vote, its good karma and then you won’t be reborn a soya McNugget.Vote. It’s a step closer to nirvana.
Because you’re a loser
You have a BCom in Economics from a university so lousy it accepted, well, you. You got a job where photocopying was your Big Responsibility. Suddenly, 2009 strikes, job’s a samosa, no one wants your services. Least of all, your wife. You got pubic hair coming out of your ears, she’s telling her mother. But all that’s going to change. Once you stick your finger where it belongs on April 30th, you’ll be CEO of the company that sacked you and your wife is going to give you one fabulously frisky champi, and when you strut into the A One Dance Bar, all the chamelis will melt with lust when you say, Aati Kya Voting Booth? Vote. Winners do.
This April 30th, go baby go, teri ungli dekha de.
Shanghvi is author of The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay