The Great Political Escape: The Mota Bhai and His Folly

 

The Great Political Escape: The Mota Bhai and His Folly

(satire)

Mota Bhai and His Folly

In a dramatically lit corner of Delhi, where the air is thick with anticipation and the scent of incense from Hanuman Ji's temple, Arvind Kejriwal, newly liberated from the iron bars of imprisonment, makes his divine pit stop. The scene is nothing short of cinematic—a hero's welcome, a public enamored, a nightmare for his political rivals.

Meanwhile, in a dimly-lit war room that's seen better days, "Mota Bhai" and his beleaguered cellmate are glued to their screens, watching the swelling crowds around Kejriwal with the kind of dread reserved for horror movie jump-scares. "Wow, have we botched this up," Mota Bhai mutters, scratching his head as if physical stimulation might spark a political epiphany.

His cellmate, looking equally flustered, adds, "I don’t think we’re snagging a single seat in Delhi this time. And Haryana? Remember the farmer's protest, now along with Kejriwal fiasco Kiss it goodbye."

Just then, the phone rings with the urgency of a doomsday alarm. It's Gautam and Mukesh, the industrialist duo, not thrilled to have their names tossed around like casual banter at a tea stall. "It was just a slip of the tongue," Mota Bhai scrambles to explain, sweat beading on his brow as he envisions the fallout.

"Why did you even show us the black money if you can't handle the heat?" Gautam’s voice crackles through the speaker. "If you lose this election, they're coming after us next!"

"No, no, they won’t," Mota Bhai assures, though his voice lacks its usual commanding boom.

Amidst the back-and-forth, the conversation drifts to the BJP's latest campaign fiascos. "And Modi? Crying on an interview? That was your trump card?" Mukesh's incredulity is palpable even through the phone.

"Crying is the new rallying," the cellmate quips, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Too bad Rahul Gandhi predicted it. Modi played right into his hands."

"How do they always stay one step ahead?" Mota Bhai wonders aloud, the room filling with the echo of their collective frustration.

"Well, you're losing almost 32 seats across the board just in these states —Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, Himachal... Need I go on?" Gautam's list sounds more like a eulogy for their political hopes than a roll call.

"You might want to start packing," Mukesh advises over the hot mic, forgetting it’s still on. "And maybe take a little vacation abroad, preferably somewhere without extradition."

Mota Bhai and his cellmate freeze, the color draining from their faces as they hear Gautam's final nail in the coffin, "These guys are a disaster. It's better to face a smart enemy than to be linked with foolish friends."

As the call ends, the two sit in stunned silence, their political careers flashing before their eyes—a mix of blunders, missteps, and now, utter abandonment.

"Should've stuck to selling tea," Mota Bhai finally sighs, the irony of their situation too bitter to ignore.