A fly on the wall takes the Minutes

It is given to only a select few to sit in on meetings involving the most powerful personages of the land, those that guide our destinies and chalk out our futures. We, the hoi polloi, come to learn of these earth-shattering proceedings much later in a carefully orchestrated form. However, the common-or-garden house fly suffers from no such deprivation. It sits inconspicuously on a wall and absorbs everything that is being deliberated upon. The fly’s discretion is legendary. It speaks to no one and disturbs no one, barring the occasional foray over a sugared bun or jalebi, only to be harmlessly swatted away, whereupon it settles back at its appointed place on the wall. All ears, in a manner of speaking. We were extremely fortunate that one such fly, let us call him Lalloo, agreed to write up the Minutes of this high-powered meeting for our delectation.

The Prime Minister was at his wit’s end. He summoned his Lieutenant and, if you will pardon the coinage, Rightenant, for an emergency meeting. It had just gone past midnight and the PM’s two startled henchmen scrambled out of their beds, as did their chauffeurs, and they were at their boss’ residence before you could say Naya Sansad Bhavan. The sudden call from the big man had unforeseen and unfortunate grooming consequences. Hurried and harried as they were at the unexpected call at an unearthly hour, though they should have been accustomed to it by now, the Rightenant’s hair was in complete disarray as he had absent-mindedly failed to run a comb though it prior to rushing out. The Lieutenant, on the other hand, being follicularly challenged, was less conspicuous in this respect, but his understandably crumpled clothes left him in a state of déshabillé.

They were ushered in to the PM’s private chamber, where he entertained only his closest confidantes. One is happy to report that the PM, as is his unfailing wont, was perfectly groomed and looked as fresh as a daisy. However, his brow was furrowed with worry lines as he motioned to his Lieutenant and Rightenant to be seated. The PM was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he paid scant attention to his visitors’ slovenly appearance. Refreshing cups of hot, masala chai materialised out of nowhere as a Jeeves-like khansama, who appeared to float on thin air, placed the steaming cups in front of them.

The PM kicked off the proceedings. ‘Gentlemen, I apologise for dragging you out of bed at this late hour. That said, if I can be staying awake this late with weighty issues to disturb my beauty sleep, I do not see why you two should be snoring peacefully.’

The Lieutenant was the first to give utterance with a few hesitant words. ‘What is it Sir, that is bothering you? You appear distrait. And distraught. Please tell us. We are here to help with anything you need.’

At which point, not to be left out of the proceedings, the Rightenant weighed in with, ‘Oh, absolutely Sir, anything at all. Just say the word, Sir. Your wish is our command.’

The Supreme Leader sat back and absorbed these usual obsequies with an accustomed air and spoke. ‘There is too much talk going on all over the country, particularly through the media channels, that I am beginning to lose my magic touch. And if things continue like this, we might be looking at the wrong end of the result when the General Elections come round in less than a year. Any thoughts?’

The two helpmeets spoke as one. ‘No, no, Sir. That is untrue, Sir. Vicious lies. Perish the thought. Please do not pay any heed to these media wallahs.’

‘Why should I not? After all, I am told they are all supposed to be under our thumb. Or should that be thumbs? Even one or two television news channels which were sitting on the fence have now hopped on to our side. And yet, and yet, there is talk of research on the mood of the nation revealing some disturbing trends. Of course, it goes without saying that I am still cock of the walk as far as popularity goes, but that is not nearly enough. That other upstart of a fellow seems to be catching up merely by walking all over the country and growing an unkempt beard! And how did we allow Karnataka to fall? I burned the candle at both ends there and look what transpired? Very dispiriting. Then there are elections coming up in Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh and Rajasthan, and I ask myself, “what will the harvest be?”’

The Rightenant was on his feet. ‘Sir, I take full responsibility for what happened in that state, but our vote share did not fall. The JDS sank without a trace and the Congress benefitted. We will correct that in 2024. Not sure what you meant by the harvest question, but all indicators point to a normal monsoon. So, we should expect a bountiful harvest all over the country.’

The PM looked exasperated and turned to his Lieutenant. ‘Please explain to our Rightenant in words of not more than two syllables, what the import of my harvest comment was.’

‘Do not worry Sir. I shall do that later. For now, I would like to assure you that all those three states you mentioned, where assembly elections are due, we shall win hands down. As for 2024, the result is a foregone conclusion. All our plans and strategies are in place.’

‘You always say that we shall win hands down. It is the hands-up, palm symbol that I am currently concerned about. They will do anything to win. Freebies being distributed like every day is Christmas, Holi and Ramzan combined. Their young leader always chooses to bad mouth me outside the country, this time in California. First, he claimed God can take tips from me on how the universe works. Then he called me a specimen. What exactly is a specimen?’

The Rightenant was up in a flash. His had taken English as an elective at university. ‘I can answer that, Sir. A specimen is an individual animal, plant, piece of a mineral and so on, used as an example of its species or type for scientific study or display. The term is also used humorously and pejoratively to describe a person.’

The PM was not impressed. ‘Sounds like a great description of the young erstwhile MP! However, I can clearly see that the specimen reference was meant to be an insult. Humorous? I am not laughing. I can choose to ignore all this, but with elections coming up, we need to develop a counter strategy. I am still waiting for you people to come up with something, and believe you me, my patience is running wafer thin.’

The Lieutenant attempted to strike a soothing note. ‘PM Sir, I understand your concern. Rest assured we are wrestling with these challenges and are fully confident we will come up trumps.’

The PM angrily thumped the table, spilling some of the masala chai and staining the polished mahogany. ‘Never, I repeat, never ever use that word again in my presence. I mean it, or there will be consequences.’

‘What word, Sir?’

‘Wrestling. I do not wish to hear that word. All I have been hearing these past few weeks is about these wrestlers who even threatened to steal the thunder from my New Parliament House inauguration. I understand the proper expression is raining on my parade. Right Sirji?’

‘Understood Sir,’ said both the deputies. We shall look for some synonyms to replace the word “wrestling.” Sorry, I had to use the word just now only to demonstrate that we shall not be using that offensive term again.’

The Rightenant made a quick interjection with, ‘That was excellent Sir, “raining on my parade.” I could not have put it better myself.’

‘Thank you. I am flattered. I can take cold comfort from being able to impress my two confidantes at one in the morning. Adding insult to injury, someone likened our beautiful new parliament building to a coffin! The sheer audacity. Yet you wonder why I am worried? And before I forget, what a palaver over this Sengol business. Frankly, until a few months ago, I did not know what a Sengol and its significance was. Then this wonderful Bharatanatyam exponent from Chennai wrote me, explaining all about it. At least, now I know it is not a walking stick, as claimed by some famous people. If it was good enough for Rajaji Ji, Nehru Ji and his buddy Mountbatten, it is good enough for me. End of.’

The PM’s Rightenant was so moved his eyes had misted over. ‘Such a perfect summation, Sir. And again, “palaver.” How many people use beautiful words like that.’ He reached out for a tissue and emotionally blew his nose accompanied by a massive honk.

The PM winced and rose, as did the other two. ‘Gentlemen, I must get some sleep. I take it we can call it a night and reconvene tomorrow, if you have no big-ticket idea to share. Go to bed. You both look like train wrecks.’

The Rightenant nearly jumped out of his skin and urgently stage-whispered into his boss’ ears, ‘Sir please, do not talk about train wrecks either. Like wrestling, very sensitive subject right now.’

‘Oh sorry, how remiss of me. Mea culpa.’

The Lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘PM Sir, we think we have an idea that will change the entire mood of the nation in one master stroke. Your ratings will zoom stratospherically, and you could end up with more than 400 seats in the Lok Sabha come May 2024.’

‘Yes, yes, but what is this big idea of yours. Cat got your tongue? Spell it out, man.’

‘Sir, immediately announce that you are awarding the Bharat Ratna to one of India’s greatest cricketers, and right now, the undisputed darling of the entire nation. I am referring to the one and only Mahendra Singh Dhoni. Strike while the iron is hot. You will be the toast of the nation. Your ratings will go through the roof.’

The PM sat down again and his furrowed brow uncreased itself. He beamed for the first time. He stuck both his hands out to his senior functionaries. ‘What a brilliant idea! Toast of the nation, eh? Lightly buttered, as well. At least, I won’t be toast. And so simple, like all great ideas. They had their Sachin, we will have our Mahi. Of course, we shall make M.S. Dhoni a Bharat Ratna. Why did I not think of it? Please get my staff to prepare all the necessary ground work. We shall announce it on Independence Day. As per time-honoured custom, our President will give away the award, in case anyone starts wondering. Thank you and good night.’

The PM left with a satisfied smile.

Postscript from Lalloo the fly: Meanwhile, the young scion traipses the globe seeking new ways to put down our PM, but ends up only adding more grist to the PM’s mill. His stabs at irony and sarcasm lack punch and fall flat, but he bashes on regardless. Perhaps I need to shift my location to his family HQ to pick up some juicy tidbits. They speak highly of the walls there. Love, Lalloo.