I for one wouldnt. Think about it rationally. I got to pluck out chin hair. It is not something that can be done on national television. Seriously though, I happened to catch part of an episode the other day, occasioned by the child wanting to eat a meal while seated in the drawing room, where the mother in law had ursurped complete viewing rights and control to the remote control. This is why middle aged men have that crisis. The men folk wander around the homes feeling totally useless and emasculated since the women are hanging on grimly to remote controls to all the television sets in the house, all set to different weepy serials and aren’t concerned if the men folk are falling around having heart attacks and dying, as long as they catch the end to each episode. The men, they need some outlet for all that aggression which bottles up within them since they cant get to watch the 20/20 final since it coincides with Balika Vadhu, or Oprah or Desperate Housewives, and so they say to themselves in the mirror, hey, I have to prove I exist, I have to do something big and dramatic to prove my existence and get a rise out of my wife. So they go out and buy red convertible two seater sports cars with all their combined joint account plus loan amount life savings, and come back, smirking, look what I got myself baby. And now I’m going to pick me some hot arm candy. You dont worry, you just sit right there in front of your television set. Not that the women are registering these cries for attention. They’re too busy weeping that Anandi has been chucked out of the house by Dadisa, which undoubtedly according to me, she had been asking for with her infernal oversmartness and over efficiency. Not to mention the constant whiney voice.
Anyway, I digress. What I caught was Vindoo Dara Singh with a hair piece. Rohit Verma with a hair piece. And the rest of the folk looked like they had regular hair. Of the folk I recognised Poonam Dhillon seemed to be the sanest one in. God save her sanity. And I think she was doing her eyebrows. On national television. Maybe I could still get in there and pluck out chin hair. But first I have to be infamous. I wouldnt qualify. I lead a squeaky clean life. I need some scandal first. The height of my scandalous life is the days I bunked college lectures to hang out at the canteen and make sheep’s eyes at assorted fellow underage male eye candy, who promptly fled the premises shivering in horror of the thought of being accosted by me in a dark alley and being forced at knifepoint to committing themselves to being my date for the next college social.
The folks have to sleep in a dorm situation. Which means I will never be able to sleep at peace in deep REM given my propensity to snore like a propeller. It wouldnt do to be the cause of deprived sleep in a home of folks already deprived of food. I might just open my eyes in the dark of the night and find folks standing around my bed with cricket bats poised to knock me cold. And yes, I cant cook to save my life. Nor clean. Which means I need to be waited on hand and foot. I’m guessing the inmates will truss me up and dump me into a deep dank wardrobe before the first day is done.
Then is the politics. And the absolute horror of living with folk you wouldnt acknowledge with a nod when you pass them on the street. Ah well, I do so now too, so that might not be too difficult to do. The gossiping. I am a nose in the book girl. I tune out when gossip is happening. Therefore any gossip to me goes much like the alien invader’s story of how his planet was destroyed in Monsters V/s Aliens, with me being Ginormica, with the fab figure and the height of course. Which might make me the fall guy everytime. The good folks on the show would gossip gossip gossip. And I would smile placidly nose buried in Dave Barry turns 50, snorting occasionally in inelegant manner, and then get up and saunter across and do the very same thing they had just bitched out another house inmate for.
Also, constantly being surrounded by folk is very very disorienting. I need some privacy. What do I do if I need to dig my nose? Or have an itch down my back just needs to be scratched? Or suddenly regret the overingestion of gassy items of food? I cant always find a soft sofa handy to plonk myself down on for muffle the sound purposes. Knowing my luck, I will get myself stuck in an echo chamber when such moments come on me. Reminds me of the husband watching CNBC TV 18 when an analyst was seriously discussing something earthshatteringly relevant to Nifty when a sudden unmistakeable sound ripped the audio. Unruffled he sailed right on. The spouse and I looked at each other, “Did you hear that?” “Yes, was it what I thought it is?” “Yes, Yes, yes,” I squealed excitedly. As you might have guessed, I never grew out of my five year old potty humour phase. I can even do slanging of scatalogical insults with the six year old at the best of times. That skill might come in handy in the Bigg Boss house. And I must take to throwing water bottles randomly at folk. And practise doing this while wearing a badly made wig. I must also learn to spin tall tales about how wealthy I am even though a casual look at me proves that at best I’m vermin droppings. With a badly placed wig.
Maybe I might just be able to live in the Bigg Boss house. If all the inmates practise Vipassana. That would make for sky rocketing TRPs.