Letter from Jadoo: Why Koi Mil Gaya is a Horror Film

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Letter from Jadoo: Why Koi Mil Gaya is a Horror Film

Illustration: Arati Gujar

F

irst of all, you human abominations, screw you. You’ve ruined my life.

Fifteen years ago, I survived an alien abduction. Back in the year 2003, a strange four-eyed creature and its band of pint-sized accomplices held me in their custody, putting me through a hellish ordeal. I was starved, ridiculed, chased, and abused, and my suffering was filmed to be released in theatres. The story of my painstaking escape, which you humans refer to as Koi Mil Gaya, is my home planet’s Prison Break. My name is Jadoo. This is my story.

My trouble started when my fellow aliens began to receive mysterious audio clips on our communication devices. We thought the bald man sending them was the famous DJ Moby, so we flew to Earth to meet him. Sadly, he turned out to be some scientist with no interest in playing us any sick tunes. Before we could request him to stop with the auto-tuned “Om-Om-Om-Oms”, he drove his car off the road with his pregnant wife in the passenger seat.

Here’s where it begins to get completely out of hand. The movie conveniently pins the blame for the crash on our spaceship’s presence. But what you didn’t see in the film was a young Justin Trudeau learning his first bhangra steps by the side of the road. If we had not diverted the car’s course, who would be the world leader for whom you humans thirst so ravenously?

Were my crew and I ever thanked for our service? Far from it. Instead, we got a few years of peace before the damn “Om-Oms” started up again, this time from the town of Kasauli. We set out once more to ask the culprit to shut up, but things didn’t exactly pan out that way. My crew had confused Kasauli for Kasol, and were deeply disappointed when they realised they wouldn’t be able to sample the famous supercream, so while I was looking for the source of the Oms alone, they snuck off in the ship to score some top-grade hash. It must have been some strong shit, because they forgot all about me and flew away from Earth.

That’s when I fell into the clutches of my abominable, eleven-fingered abductor, Rohit Nehra.

When he found me, he confined me inside an old barrel made mostly of splinters in an outdoor shed where I nearly froze to death. Before visiting, we had learned about your planet’s Geneva Convention, that delineates humane treatment of prisoners of war, but apparently my captor had not. Also, I think he got me mixed up with Dobby the house elf, because he took away my saffron robes (trendy be fore their time), and made me wear a goddamn jute sack of some sort. During this imprisonment, I was in constant fear for my life, because Nehra kept introducing me to new people every day, despite the need for secrecy. From his little friends, his mother, to his girlfriend, Nehra broadcast sensitive information with a reckless abandon not bettered until your TRAI head posted his Aadhaar number on Twitter.

While you remember all the characters’ escapades as wacky hijinks, what you’re actually witnessing is the abuse of a frightened soul, lost far from home…

Let me make it clear that any help I might have seemingly provided to Nehra was done so under extreme duress. For the first few days, I was offered food. Food! I knew enough about of the quality of the kirana stores here, so I sensibly refused to eat and thus avoided being poisoned. Thankfully, my planet is close to Superman’s home planet of Krypton, and like him, I could get some nourishment from your planet’s star, which you call the Sun. I learned your word for its light, “dhoop,” and became a monosyllabic alien protagonist years before Groot made it cool. However, once I realised Nehra had the power of starving me in his shed or feeding me in the fields, I knew I would have to humour him for survival.

You think you’re familiar with what happens next, but you have no clue. While you remember all the characters’ escapades as wacky hijinks, what you’re actually witnessing is the abuse of a frightened soul, lost far from home, suffering from intimidation, and being exploited for Nehra’s personal gain. He used my magic powers to get better marks (cheating) in his Maths class, as well as to make him and his kiddie friends better basketball players (doping) than the Chicago Bulls led by the legendary Michael Jordan. And please, please do not get me started on the excessive dancing.

Eventually, Nehra got drunk on power and thrashed his girlfriend’s ex, but not until there was a high-octane bicycle chase sequence – one which my good friend ET, called me a derivative hack for. In my time with Nehra, I came to the conclusion that outsiders are not welcome in this country. If I, a superpowered alien being, am unable to find safe haven here, what hope is there for the lakhs of citizens left off Assam’s NRC? By the grace of our lord Xenu – yes, Scientology is the state religion of space, get over it – I was able to phone ho- I mean, Om home, and my crew, finally finished with their tolas of Malana cream, came back for me.

On my way out, I held in a wicked fart that had been haunting me since the day Nehra left me outside at three in the afternoon, and in the process accidentally ended up giving my kidnapper unimaginable powers. Years later, my fart would manifest in the turds that were Krissh and Krissh 3 – which, I think, is a fitting revenge.

Om, om, om, om, bitchez.

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