For want of a Twit

(In a remote village of Karnataka where the only connectivity is through an MRI machine…)
ST: May this glorious dawnspring be graced by the iridiscent grace of Your Royal Kingship’s joie de vivre.
RG: Mr Tarapore! I mean Thakur. I mean… Pushkar.
ST: Yes, Sir. Shashi… erm, Pushkar here. Perhaps you, Sir, might be able to find among your beatific compadres the apt accompaniment to juxtapose upon my vicissitudes of this dawn their benevolent assistance.
RG: Yes… Um… No? Un momento, let me talk to my CA here. (Whispers heard. Then the rustle of a paper as it slides out of a mobile printer. RG looks at in puzzlement. A CA agent appears at his elbow and explains the words on the sheet in chaste Hindi. Or Italian. Doesn’t matter, they sound the same anyway to a Madrasi) Pushkar, you want help?
ST: May the deities that dot the skies above increase manifold your munificence for all the world to behold.
RG: (waits for next printout. Paper just says: Yes). What you want? I am on my way to dinner.
ST: If it may please the rigorous application of will and thought that drives your esteemed being, I would like nothing more than a few hours of help with the bunch of talented technocrats and imaginative wordsmiths who populate the digital world of your glowing presence with the pellets of wisdom that drip from your otherworldly intellect.
RG: (after CA explains it all to him) Sorry, Pushkar. I need the Ramya on the my twitter team. Living. You no marry her.
ST: No! I mean, with all due respect to the suggestion from you that cannot be matched by the barbarian hordes that rule Delhi now, I do not wish to enter into a state of holy matrimony with Ms Ramya. At least not until… I mean, of course, not now. My usual tweeter has retired temporarily to his abode as a protest against non-reconciliation of dues that are perchance due to him on account of services rendered above and below the call of duty.
RG: The game?
ST: (it takes ST a moment to figure out what RG is talking about) No, your Highness. He is on strike.
RG: Oh, strike. You are Pushkar from Keral, now I remember. You are that fancy chap with false accent, no?
ST: if that is your wish, Sire, then I am but a humple Mallu with simble tastes.
RG: ok, ok. Siddu mama is here to take me to a Dalit home for food. You talk to Ramya. No marry, only talk. She help.
ST: May the blessings of a thousand elephants trample the evil eyes of the saffron terrorists who plague your every footstep, oh great, kind lord. I simply require her services post a congratulatory communique for Mahavir Jayanthi.
RG: oh, I just remembered. Ramya here in Kannadaka. You talk to that dabbawalla.
ST: Poonawalla?
RG: Yes, Pooballa. I mean, Woonawaala. I mean… (Abruptly, connection is lost)
(ST reaches out to Tehseen Poonawala to put up a commemorative post on Mahavir Jayanthi. P outsources it to Rana Ayub. The result is this.)