Poonam Pandey is a sunflower. If she doesn’t get attention, she shrivels up. She and her diabolic team of marketing monsters, who sit and plot new methods to keep her visible in the public gaze — it is becoming difficult, I know, as younger, more audacious and scheming poseurs arrive on the scene — must have mulled over her latest strategy before going ahead with it.
I believe Poonam even read the fine print in all the legal documents pertaining to the dos and don'ts of marketing before taking the plunge. Apparently, it is legally permissible to fake your own death, unless you are doing it to spare yourself from debt or other financial obligations.
Pandey seems to have no financial obligations, or emotional ones. Her family has more or less washed its hands of her. She once told me as much, admitting that her parents and family don’t approve of her attention-getting antics on social media. “I am on my own and I am answerable only to myself,” she told me.
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Later she was married, and I no longer found her constant need for attention bearable. She was apparently making her spouse privy to her publicity antics. Like Rakhi Sawant, Poonam Pandey scripts pulpy narratives about her existence in her own mind, and then proceeds to implement them, regardless of the hurt, offence or annoyance she causes.
The high moral ground that she has taken over a serious life-threatening illness is so laughably bogus, and her concern for societal welfare so misbegotten and belated, that it is almost like a mockery of women who fall prey to the ailment.
Cervical cancer will never be the same again.
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