Power breakfast with Fred the Fly

An allegory

It has been widely rumoured that the two chief honchos who carry the enormous burden of running one of our country’s most important and prosperous states, let us dub them Number 1 and Number 2, have had differences to iron out and scores to settle. As a common citizen, I am not privy to the precise nature of this alleged contretemps, though Chinese whispers suggest that it has something to do with an unwritten, unverified understanding that Number 1 will graciously make way for Number 2 to acquire the numero uno slot during their term of office. Being Chinese in origin, the veracity of the whispers will bear close scrutiny. That said, the present incumbent of the Number 1 chair has made it plain he has no intention of vacating it for the benefit of Number 2. Wild horses will not shake his resolve and unseat him. His seat is coated with Araldite. Is Number 2 sulking? The photos in the newspapers suggest that his smile is somewhat strained, but he insists we should not read too much into it.

On persistent questioning by the inquisitive and intrusive media, each of the two Big Chiefs has repeatedly said that it is the coterie at the High Command that they will answer to and on their instructions alone will movement, if any, take place. All this while proclaiming undying fealty to their party. Persistent gossip that one or the other of the two is imminently catching a flight to the country’s Capital have thus far proved infructuous. Of course, it is entirely possible that the notoriously inclement weather at this time of the year around the environs of the Capital has made flying at short notice a hazardous proposition, particularly if Indigo was the carrier of choice. The all-knowing media reckons that that explanation is somewhat facile and that there is more to this imbroglio than meets the eye. It must be added that the high-profile visit of the Russian President to New Delhi could have been a further dampener to lesser mortals flying into the capital to address their own agendas.

Meanwhile, the august members of the High Command have expressed their wish that the two chief protagonists running this critical state should sit down and sort out their own issues and not attempt to run to Mummy and her brood at every turn with a request to pour oil over troubled waters. If indeed the waters are troubled requiring the injection of some elbow grease. Mummy can do without cry-babies. She has problems of her own to grapple with when leaders with genuine ability are thin on the ground. We ordinary citizens are in the dark on this matter, relying entirely on unreliable media sources for enlightenment.

Subsequently, it has come to light that Number 1 and Number 2 have decided to have a series of breakfast meetings to iron out their differences, discuss weighty matters of state in pitiless detail and not put undue pressure on their bosses to intervene. This could also effectively squash any creeping aspirations of sundry, wannabe bit players, waiting in the wings to try and step in and usurp power when the Captain and Vice-Captain have taken their collective eye off the ball. One can never be too careful in politics, what with all manner of inquiries swirling round their heads.

These breakfast tête-à-têtes have consequently assumed immense importance and the much-reviled media, the chattering classes and the general populace are waiting with bated breath. Shades of historical international summits such as the Yalta Conference in 1945 starring Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin to put the kybosh on Hitler’s ambitions for world domination. They too must have had quite a few hearty breakfasts, not to mention long, liquid lunches and dinners. The lavish conference halls at this beautiful Crimean resort were, doubtless, redolent of Romeo y Julieta and Trichinopoly cigars, to say nothing of the finest cognac money can buy.

Anyhow, not to put too fine a point on it, our very own Number 1 and Number 2, more modestly inclined, agreed that desi breakfast was the way to go, and let Delhi or the devil take the hindmost. As these meetings were to be held in the strictest confidence, no one was allowed to be present in the dining hall of either of the two leaders, during the petit-déjeuners, barring the statutory photo-ops for the media. Lensmen had their fill of the VIPs drooling over the impending repast and had to scram immediately thereafter, leaving the leaders to tuck in. Taking no chances, stone-deaf waiters  were recruited to attend to the gastronomical needs of the leaders. A cunning, fool-proof plan.

One therefore had little choice but to rely on our old friend Fred the Fly, sitting unobtrusively on the table, largely unnoticed, pricking up his ears and picking up on the conversation. An added bonus for our household fly (Musca domestica) was that every now and then he could alight on one of the toothsome dishes and partake to his little heart’s desire. If he is swatted away, he could land on the broad shoulders of one of the two main heroes at the table. Fred attended as many as four such breakfast summits and finally shared his findings with the media. The details may be somewhat sketchy, but finally, we had our very own Deep Throat – Fred the Fly.

The local daily correspondent opened proceedings. ‘Fred, can you tell us how the meeting went?’

Fred smacked his lips, fluttered his little wings and said, ‘It went swell. It started with a plate of steaming idlis, accompanied by coconut chutney and piping hot, onion sambar.’

A stringer piped in. ‘That’s great Fred, but what did they actually say to each other?’

Fred leaned back on his black wings. ‘As this meal was at Number 2’s residence, Number 1 was gracious. He praised his colleague for keeping a good table. Adding that the idlis were really soft and fluffy but the sambar could have done with a bit more salt.’

‘And what happened next, Fred? I have to file this important story in an hour’s time. Please spill the beans.’

‘Ah, beans rings a bell,’ cut in Fred. ‘The beans poriyal, an unusual item for breakfast, went down a treat. It paired well with the next item on the menu, the rava masala dosa. Yum, yum. I was really buzzing.’

A young lady from one of the leading TV channels was getting impatient. ‘That is great to know Fred, but really, what did Number 1 say to Number 2 about vacating his seat?’

‘There was no question of vacating seats. Both of them were perfectly happy sitting where they were, expectantly waiting for the piece de resistance, the native country chicken dish, Nati Koli, though No.1 did mutter something about the leg-piece being a bit tough. Boy, did they attack that with gusto! I managed to find a greasy morsel on No.2’s hand-woven gamcha. Lip-smacking!’

An elderly correspondent from a leading local daily was beside himself. ‘Arre Freddie, are you going to give us some real news or what? All you have managed is to whet my appetite. At least, ask them to share some of the breakfast. We are famished.’

Fred smiled. ‘Don’t be so impatient, Sir. I haven’t even started on the dessert. Kesari halwa, with some outstanding Mysore filter coffee to die for, served in silver tumblers, to wash it all down. These things take time, Sir. As for sharing some breakfast with you lot, let me see if there are any leftovers.’

At this point, the press meet broke up, feeling badly let down, while Fred the Fly winged his way back to the dining room to attack the remains of the day. The two leaders had left to attend to matters of state after this hearty feast. Whether there was a feast of reason and flow of soul, we are not in the know. In the distance, Fred the Fly could distinctly hear the satisfied belches of the two leaders.