And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird had flown. The Beatles.

Once every so often, we come across some weirdly amusing nuggets of information from our daily newspapers. Not all of them do I find arresting enough to expound upon, but here’s one that aroused my interest. Even if I wasn’t actually rolling in the aisles with helpless mirth, it had my dormant creative juices flowing. A few days ago, I came across a headline in my daily, tucked away in one of the inside pages, which went something like, Police interrogate parrot at crime scene. Swear to God and hope to die. That may not have been the exact wording of the headline, but it comes within a toucher of being accurate. The nub of this apparently true event is that, somewhere in the vast hinterlands or boondocks of our country, a bunch of well-heeled thugs were enjoying a raucous, Rabelaisian party with plenty of booze, illicit drugs along with a bit of raucous sex thrown in on the side. As I am unable to find the said issue of the newspaper, the exact location and date of this wild revelry remains a closed book. You will simply have to take my word for it, though much of what follows is admittedly a product of my imagination.

Getting back to the scene of action, clearly plenty of unwanted ruckus into the small hours was generated causing much disturbance to the neighbours, who decided to invite the long arm of the law to put a stop to the unseemly and, in their eyes, immoral shindig. Somehow, word got round to the party revelers that the cops were on the way to play the role of party poopers, and they had better hightail it to somewhere safe. When the police duly arrived at the shady (as in illegal or immoral) villa or bungalow, there was not a soul to be seen. Plenty of empty liquor bottles and glasses but no sign of human habitation. One of the cops even lamented that the goons could have at least left a few bottles of beer for them. It’s thirsty work, the job of a policeman and one entirely sees his point of view. It was as they were about to dejectedly leave the premises, empty handed, that one of the policemen caught sight of the caged parrot. He was a sharp one, this young cop. ‘Parrots are supposed to be smart aren’t they,’ he told himself. ‘They observe and they can talk, nineteen to the dozen. My smart phone is full of snippets of talking and warbling parrots posted on social media. With a bit of encouragement, they can even sing the national anthem. A bit off key, but still. Well then.’

The earnest, young policeman motioned to his boss to join him in front of the parrot’s cage. The inspector, one suspects that was the boss’ designation, walked across to his junior and looked somewhat bewildered. The young man was staring at the parrot, and the parrot was doing exactly the same at the cop, with a fixed glaze. Unseeing eyes, if you get my meaning. At this point, the inspector gave tongue.

‘What exactly are you trying to do, constable? And why have you called me to stand in front of this bird.’

‘It’s not just any bird, Sir. It is a green parrot.’

‘I can see that. I am not colour blind. So, it is a parrot, green in colour, all present and correct. Well done. What of it?’

‘Parrots talk, Sir. It might have seen something. We can try and engage it in a bit of a chat. No harm in trying. We have nothing to lose.’

The inspector was cynical. In his long career with the police, he had never been called upon to interrogate a parrot as a material witness. In fact, barring humans, he had never spoken to anyone from the animal, vegetable or mineral kingdom. He turned to his young charge.

‘Next you will ask me to hug a cow. Well go on, then. You seem to know all about parrots. Say something and see if it responds. This ought to be fun, should brighten up our evening.’

‘Right ho, Sir. Hullo there, Polly. Can you talk to us?’

There was no answer from the winged one. The boss butted in.

‘Look, the parrot’s eyes are open, which means it is awake. Do you think the bird is deaf.’

‘Sir, there are many birds that sleep with their eyes open. Could be playing possum. Let me try again.’

‘Gosh, we have an avian expert in our midst Who would have guessed! Go ahead and have the time of your life.’

Ignoring his boss’ sarcasm, the young constable raised his voice. ‘Polly, POLLY! How are you?’

The startled bird finally cocked its head up and spoke. ‘I am not Polly. Why does everyone think my name is Polly? If all the parrots in the world were called Polly, imagine the confusion that would create. Next thing you’ll be asking me to put the kettle on. Call me Solly.’

The two cops, after their initial surprise and delight at this sparkling piece of dialogue from Solly, whispered among themselves. The boss spoke. ‘I say, is Solly male or female? Can you check it out? I don’t want to offend our fine, feathered friend in any way. As you said, he or she could be a vital witness.’

‘Sir, how can I check it out? The gender, I mean. They are not like dogs. Things are not immediately apparent with birds. It will be rude to ask. And how does it matter, anyway? Let me continue.’

The inspector resignedly agreed. ‘Make notes.’

‘All right, Solly. So glad to have made your acquaintance. We have some questions for you. Do you mind sparing the time?’

‘Not at all, but no recording. I am just sitting in this cage. It is not even gilded. I have all the time in the world. Do you have a nut?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Nut, you nut. Almond, cashew, walnut, even your common or garden groundnut will do nicely. I am starved. And while you are about it, pour some drinking water into that little bowl, there’s a good chap. Nuts first, then we talk.’

‘Sir, where do I go for nuts at this time of night?’

‘Don’t worry son. You keep talking to Solly. I am sure there’s some nuts in the house. They always keep nuts and small eats when they drink.’

‘Fine, Solly. Nuts and some drinking water coming up. Tell me, why is there no one inside the house. The neighbours were complaining about some awful noise and plenty of boozing and other funny business going on. Frankly, I am not worried about alcohol and the proverbial roll-in-the-hay with the girls, but do you think drugs were involved? You know, snorting and shooting up, that kind of stuff?’

‘Listen brother, some of those who scooted when they got wind of you lot approaching, happen to be my masters. I have been with them for nearly four years. I owe them big time. I am afraid my beaks are sealed.’

‘Look here Solly, my master has gone hunting for nuts and things. Just for you. I expect something in return. Otherwise, your masters will find you lying on your back, legs pointing upwards, stiff as a board. Now what is it going to be? Starvation or cooperation.’

‘Boy, you cops drive a hard bargain, but be warned. You can ruffle my feathers only up to a point. As I am hungry and could, speaking metaphorically, eat a horse, I am willing to part with some information. First let me see the colour of those nuts. Then we will talk turkey. Till then, you can clip my claws.’

‘Sorry Solly, I am not a vet and I do not have a nail-clipper handy. Ah, here comes my boss. Found some nuts, Chief? Solly is really being difficult.’

The inspector whispers to his constable. ‘Look, I just found some dried peas in the freezer. Everything else has been cleaned out. Solly will just have to make do. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? Walnuts and almonds indeed. Even I don’t get that at home.’

Solly squawks angrily. ‘Who told you I was a he, inspector?’

Caught off-guard, the inspector sputters, ‘Well I mean, I have no way of confirming, what with all the feathers covering everything. Lovely feathers, by the way.’

‘Relax inspector, I am a “he.” Just pulling your leg, else you should have been calling me Sally. Ha, ha.’ A parrot with a sense of humour, though laughing at his own jokes.

The inspector, red-faced, turned to his deputy, who was desperately attempting to hide his broad smile. ‘Listen you, I don’t think I can take any more of this parrot. It’s a pity it’s an endangered species and I can’t harm it. For the last time, try and get something out of this blasted Solly.’

In a conciliatory tone, the junior cop turned to Solly, ‘Look, for your own sake, give us something to take back to the station, else our jobs are at stake. I know these frozen peas are not quite up to your exacting standards. Promise I will bring back something really yummy if you can tell me something, anything. Just throw me a crumb.’

Solly seemed somewhat mollified. ‘Look fella, I do feel for you. Your boss is a louse, but I will whisper into your shell-like ear, as you have a nice face. Ask that idiot, your boss, to take a hike. First, push those peas in and pour the drinking water into the bowl. You will need to take the bowl out first. At which point the cop opened the cage door, and ‘whoosh,’ Solly flew clean out of the cage to freedom. The two policemen distinctly heard a squawky version of  Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon, as the bird flew higher and higher, up, up and away into the late night meeting the first light of dawn.

Crestfallen, but recovering fast, the young cop told his senior, ‘Obviously, the renegade gang had a nice collection of CDs, Sir. I mean, Sinatra and everything.’ Before his bilious boss could explode, the young man added helpfully, ‘Not to worry, Sir. I have made copious notes as instructed.’

The two guardians of the law drove wearily off into the bleary sunrise.

Old friends, old friends / Sat on their park bench like bookends. Simon & Garfunkel.

There were these two elderly gentlemen, hang on, what the hell, let’s call a spade a shovel, there were these two old gentlemen taking their early morning constitutional at their nearby park. Early to mid-eighties, if I am any judge. One of them was somewhat bent over with a walking stick for support. The other was relatively sprightly with an easy gait. Then there was me, an elderly denizen, an apt description for one who was giving the two oldies about twelve years, if a day, at an educated guess. The two spavined gents seemed to be involved in an animated conversation, which aroused my curiosity. After a short while, an inviting park bench beckoned and the two senior citizens decided to sit themselves down to continue their chinwag. As there was no other bench in the vicinity, I too parked myself at the edge of the bench, closed my eyes and did some deep breathing, apparently oblivious to any other goings-on. While my pretend posture was yogic, my actual intention was that of an inquisitive fly on the wall. Only, this was a fly sitting on a park bench. The oldies were unmindful of my presence, which was just as well, and my auditory canals were sharply attuned to the slightest chesty cough. Thus, I was privy to this fascinating chit-chat between the two gnarled, self-appointed wiseacres.

‘I say Chandran, what a lovely morning eh? The lark’s on the wing; the snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his heaven – all’s right with the world.’

‘Nice one, Mathew. Is that one of your own, or is it something you lifted from one of the Wodehouse novels?’

‘I wish. You are right about the Wodehouse bit Chandran, but the Master of farce himself took it from Robert Browning’s Pippa’s Song. He was always doing that, Wodehouse. Quite often, deliberately misquoting.’

‘Right, so what you are telling me is that this lark and snail quote is probably a line that can be drawn from Bertie Wooster through Wodehouse and the copyright resting with Browning.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Right, let’s put all this poetry and literary stuff to one side, shall we? Tell me Mathew, what’s your take on this godawful brouhaha about the BBC documentary on our revered PM?’

(Now we were getting somewhere. I was beginning to tire of Browning, Wodehouse, Wooster et al).

‘Look here Chandran, you will need to speak up a bit. You know I am a bit hard of hearing in my left ear. What was that about the BBC?’

‘The problem is your right ear is worse. Not that my ears are in any great shape either. Why don’t you get one of those hearing aids that are so widely advertised these days?’

‘What, and let the whole world know I am deaf as a doorpost? No, thank you! What is more, those hearing aids are pretty useless. They make awful sounds that drive you insane. Let’s get back to the subject, Chandran. What has the BBC gone and done now?’

‘They have produced a documentary film trashing our Prime Minister.’

‘Why did they have to do that? There are enough and more people in our own country doing that on a daily basis.’

(Good point, Mathew. Nicely put.)

‘That’s all very well, Mathew, but no one takes a blind bit of notice when opposition parties make a song and dance about these things in parliament. However, when a foreign news channel, particularly a reputedly hallowed institution like the BBC, takes up the cudgels, then the opposition goes to town making a song and dance about what the BBC said. Get my meaning?’

‘Sort of, but what is BBC’s beef against our PM?’

‘I say old chap, don’t use words like beef when we are discussing the PM. Not done, not cricket. Anyhow, to answer your question, the government will have us believe all this is motivated propaganda, raking up the past when the highest courts in our land have cleared the PM of any wrong doing. They have a point, but the opposition, thanks to this BBC film, have got the bit between the teeth and are going hammer and tongs. State and central elections not far away, see what I mean?’

(This Chandran pensioner is quite something. Follows politics closely and is able to see both sides of the argument. The kind of chap we need as a TV anchor instead of the one-dimensional ghouls we have).

‘It’s a pity, Chandran. I mean, Britain has an Indian at Number 10 and although he makes simpering noises about what a nice bloke our PM is, he just shrugs his shoulders when it comes to telling the BBC where to get off.’

‘Look Mathew, Rishi Sunak is no more Indian than Narendra Modi is an Englishman. So, stop calling him an Indian and his wife, who was an Indian is now totally English, and she has the papers to prove it. As for the BBC, it is a law unto itself and that’s that.’

‘I guess, but I loved those old BBC programmes on their world service radio. My school English teacher would encourage us to listen to their news just to be able to speak “propah” English.’

(By now, I was growing weary of this BBC discussion and hoped the fogeys would turn to something else. And right on cue, Chandran obliged).

‘Listen Mathew, let’s dump the BBC subject, you will hear a lot more of it from our media, social and conventional, every day. My lungs are also protesting having to shout into your left ear. Tell me, what do you think is going on with this Adani fiasco and the Hindenburg report.’

‘Heidelberg? Didn’t they produce those great offset printing machines. I worked at a printing house once upon a time.’

‘No, no. Not Heidelberg, Hindenburg.’

‘Never heard of them. Must have been a small printing outfit.’

‘Negative, nothing to do with printing. Where have you been, Matt? This is a hole-in-the-wall American company that tinkers around with corporate houses’ stocks and makes a lot of money. The owner is a short seller.’

‘What has the owner’s height got to do with anything?’

(By now, my yogic breathing had gone for a six. I was desperately trying to avoid breaking out into raucous laughter).

‘Are you trying to be funny or just being dumb?’

‘All right Chandran, you’re the clever git. What is a short seller?’

‘Ah, now that’s asking. Something to do with buying long and selling short, then selling it again and making pots of money.’

(At this point I burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter and managed to pretend I was coughing).

‘Thanks for that Chandran, now I know everything. But how does all this tie in with Adani?’

‘Look Matt, you must have read that Adani is a big fish with massive interests all over the world. He even owns a port in Israel. So, this Hindenburg chappie found a few, big holes, real or imagined, in Adani’s businesses and splashed it all over the place. Net result, Adani shares came tumbling down like a ton of bricks. The markets exploded, like the Hindenburg zeppelin disaster in 1937 that slayed 36.’

(This Chandran fellow can enter any quiz competition and show all the others a clean pair of heels).

‘And the Heidelberg shark had already bought and sold Adani’s shares short.’

‘Brilliant Matt, at your age, with just one functioning ear, you cracked it straight out of the box. And for the last time, it’s Hindenburg. Don’t sully Heidelberg’s fair name.’

‘Then there’s plenty of stuff in the papers about tax havens, Cayman Islands, shell companies, the role of SBI, LIC, SEBI, RBI, Finance Ministry and so on. With the PM’s benevolent shadow always in the background. And the opposition are again trying to make a hearty meal of it. That really sticks in my craw. How am I doing Chandran?’

(‘Sticks in my craw.’ I like that, must use it sometime).

‘You are really cooking, my friend. And don’t forget, once again the timing is impeccable. Nirmala ji presented what most people thought was a budget for the ages. But the Adani fiasco and the Hindenburg nutter decided to rain heavily on her parade. The government is crying conspiracy and the opposition is crying JPC.’

‘And the common man is crying hoarse. I think I have had as much of this as I can take for one day. Let us get back home. One last thing, if I may, Chandran. Can you email me in about five easy steps how to buy shares, sell them short and make a bit of moolah on the side. My pension, coupled with the present rate of inflation, is killing me.’

‘That makes two of us Matt. We will do this together. It is perfectly legal, by the way. However, we will not throw mud at anyone. I will call my grandson to help us out at my desktop. Much better way to spend our time than worrying about osteoporosis, dental work, prostate, health insurance etc, don’t you think?’

‘You said a mouthful there, Chandran.’

The two of them wended their weary way back home. I watched their receding behinds with unabashed admiration. Shakespeare said ‘sweet are the uses of adversity.’ These two gentlemen, in their sunset years, showed me it is never too late to learn, even from somebody else’s misfortunes.

    

I know there’s nothing to say….I’m just second hand news. Fleetwood Mac.

We are talking about The Great Indian Debate on the idiot box. Every evening, from around 8 o’clock and going on till about the witching hour, our television news channels conduct something they call a debate. We only have their word for it. I was brought up to believe that a debate is a civilized exchange of opposing views on a given proposition, with one set of speakers proposing the motion, or speaking in favour of it, and the other set of speakers opposing the same. Each speaker is allotted a time limit which must needs be strictly adhered to. The Chairperson or Speaker of the House will provide a discretionary extra minute or so for the speaker to wrap up. Failing which the bell will toll, and it tolls for thee. Jokes and jibes at each other’s expense are a commonplace during these debates, as are relevant literary quotes, but they are all kept within the bounds of civility and good taste. A ready wit helps the proceedings to move along swimmingly. At the end of it all, the Speaker will put the motion to vote and the audience, representing the members of the House, will show their approval or dissent by a show of hands, signaling if the motion was carried or rejected. All very parliamentary. Once the debate is over, the speakers retire to the green room to enjoy a convivial cup of tea and biscuits. If blood was spilt, it is left on the stage to be mopped up and no animus remains.

How very different from the ‘debates’ that we now witness on our small screens. In the first place, it is patently unclear to the viewer what precisely is being discussed, or indeed, debated. The word debate is in itself a gross misnomer. There is an unsightly hashtag that precedes the topic, as if to give the subject a degree of graphic authenticity. There are about a dozen or more talking heads on the screen, nearly all of them with strong political affiliations, and the entire tasteless verbal jousting is dominated by mud-slinging and incoherent rambling such that no one is able to follow what each speaker is attempting to convey.

The holier-than-thou anchor, who is supposed to take a neutral, apolitical stance, makes his or her sympathies quite plain and only adds to the confusion and cacophony. Impartiality and lack of bias are conspicuous by their absence. Nothing of what I have just said is new to anyone who is familiar with our purveyors of news on the small screen. I will consequently be unable to add any substantive value to the reader’s already advanced understanding of the news and current affairs debates as brought to you by the likes of Times Now, India Today, CNN IBN, Republic TV (gawdelpus) or for that matter, NDTV. The last named having recently sold their interests, and perhaps their soul, to a recently arrived industrialist with very deep pockets , in which some holes are beginning to allegedly appear.  Rather, as is my wont, I shall seek to share my personal thoughts on some of the more ridiculously risible moments on these channels that our anchors and the participants are prone to unintendedly deliver on a nightly basis.

I did not interfere when you spoke. This is arguably the most oft-repeated line you will hear from our speakers on the debate. Reasons are not far to seek. Whenever a speaker begins to speak on some subject or the other, he or she will be immediately interrupted by one of the other talking heads, breaking with impunity all the known canons of civilized debating. Predictably, no heed is paid to the exhortation resulting in both parties jabbering over each other while chaos reigns supreme. At times a third or even fourth party could join in the melee and we then have a mad free-for-all. The anchor, strangely, makes no attempt to nip this nonsense in the bud until it is almost too late and the viewer decides enough is enough and switches to another channel, where a similar pandemonium is in progress.

I have kept quiet for the last 25 minutes. When you have a situation where the television screen is crammed with so many participants, one or two poor lambs get left out of the conversation. When they finally get their chance and are told by the insensitive anchor that they have 30 seconds to air their views, they are naturally chagrined. Playing the burning martyr to the hilt, they are likely to say something like, ‘I did not interfere when the others were speaking endlessly. Now you give me just 30 seconds to make my point? Why did you even invite me?’ Point well made, even if it does not get across to the anchor, who simply proceeds with his inane summing-up, while we watch stupefied, the audio-less participant continuing to mime silently, frothing at the mouth. My online friend, the former diplomat and master of the elegant put-down, Avay Shukla, once likened regular debater Major General G.D. Bakshi, à la Wodehouse, to ‘an apoplectic walrus,’ which seems just about right. Speaking for myself, the good General has always reminded me of Wodehouse’s irascible Duke of Dunstable, whose own enormous, walrus moustache ‘was rising and falling like seaweed on an ebb-tide.’

You heard it first on this channel. I have referred to this childish piece of breast-beating in a different context in some of my earlier columns, but it is worth repeating here. Since pretty much every news channel makes this ridiculous claim every time there is ‘breaking news,’ the viewer cannot recall and cannot be bothered in the least who broke the news first. What is more, it is not even a provable gloat. It is a matter of complete indifference to viewers, and I am clueless as to why the channels continue to play this silly, childish game of one-upmanship. A totally futile exercise, which is made worse by being frequently indulged in during the so-called debates where such a boast is completely irrelevant. And don’t even get me started on the mythical research figures for viewership which the channels routinely trot out. I suspect this is more for the benefit of the advertisers than the viewers.

One second, one second, one second. Some of our celebrated anchors need to be given a crash course on the physics of time and space. They appear to have no idea of what a second or a minute, or even an hour, constitutes. When three or four of the participants keep putting their hands up, attempting to get a word in edgeways, the obstreperous anchor will invariably scream ‘one second, one second, one second.’ Take my word for it, he is not speaking metaphorically to indicate that one second, in actuality, denotes 20 seconds. I know this because 20 seconds later, he is apt to say ‘one minute, one minute, one minute.’ In casual conversation, we mere mortals are likely to say something like ‘hang on a sec, will you?’ Which we do not mean literally. However, our hyperventilating news anchor is so worked up trying desperately to keep the ‘debate’ under control that he loses all sense of time. To put the lid firmly on it, he will finally announce that he is giving each speaker 10 seconds to sum up, as he is running out of time. Predictably, as the first speaker is just about to blabber something, the anchor will horn in and announce ‘Time’ in the time-honoured fashion of a tennis umpire indicating resumption of play. Only in this case he means the debate is at an end.

One can provide many more such examples of absurdity on our news channels, but I am sure most of you are well aware of what I am ranting on about. On a more serious note, perhaps the most disturbing trend we have observed over the past couple of decades is how our news channels firmly align themselves to one political party or the other, and woe betide the participant who happens to have a point of view not in sync with the channel’s house diktat. Such a person, male or female, will be roundly abused or insulted and in general, not allowed to utter a single, dissonant syllable. At least, that is my take on how the news is purveyed and debated on our television screens. Truth be told, I sometimes watch these programmes more to be entertained with a spot of unintended slapstick than to be informed or enlightened in any way. A word of caution. Take it in small doses lest you take leave of your senses. On the contrary, perhaps it is better to leave your brains behind in the closet. As celebrated actor Morgan Freeman famously said, ‘Maybe if we tell people the brain is an app, they’ll start using it.’

‘It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours.’ Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat.

Every once in a while, say about once in every four or five years, the distaff side of the family decides that it is time to do a spot of spring cleaning in our modest apartment. Now you might be forgiven for harbouring the impression that this involves some general cleaning up, perhaps a bit of polishing of the furniture here and there, and a lick of paint on some of the walls that may have developed a crack or two, owing to the inexorable ravages of time, as I once heard someone describe it. Perhaps a couple of days of minor inconvenience, but well worth the small effort and expense. And before you can say ‘Mansion Floor Polish,’ it’s all done and dusted. Everything back to how it was, only much cleaner and more spic-and-span. With any luck, I should have been lolling back on my cushions, a bag of crisps and a glass of chilled beer at hand, watching Nadal and Djokovic slipping it across their rivals at the Australian Open.

That, of course, was the pious intention as we started out on our getting-the-home-shipshape project, but matters have a way of running a somewhat different course. Man proposes and the wife disposes. My goodness, you won’t believe the amount of stuff there was to dispose, but more of that anon. I was all gung-ho for getting this job done on the quick-and-easy method, but I reckoned without my better half’s cunning plan to lull me into a false sense of security. Now that we are well stricken into our 70s, it was always fully understood that hard manual labour will necessarily have to take a back seat even at the cost of minor compromises on the cleaning up, painting and polishing side of things. There are able-bodied men who can be paid to do the heavy lifting, quite literally. However, as The Beatles once so tunefully put it, I should have known better (with a girl like you).

It’s a funny thing about cracks in walls. I am never able to spot them, however much I squint. ‘Cracks? What cracks? Where?’ Remember that memorable line from Leonard Cohen’s song, There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. That just about sums up my wife’s side of things when it comes to blemishes on walls. Cracks, chips, peels, damp, discoloration – none of these apparent symptoms of degeneration catches my eye. My bad, as today’s generation might inelegantly put it. And yet, there’s my good lady wife, leading me by the nose with a powerful torch-light trained on those very spots which obviously need urgent attention. ‘This will involve scraping the walls in the affected areas, applying putty, and finally painting the walls with two coats. Colour matching is vital and we will have to watch these workers like hawks.’ The Oracle has spoken. Things are only going to get tough from here on in.

The thing of it is that, during my innocent childhood, stuff like wall painting, furniture polishing and redecorating the home never even remotely formed part of my consciousness. If such things did happen, I was blissfully unaware. I led a sheltered life. My wife came from a different background, where work was worship, preferably with hands – an article of faith. Her family members would speak with an easy familiarity about things like spirit levels, sandpapering, paint rollers, drill bits, steel wool, rawl plugs, putty knife and many more such items which were nothing less than Double Dutch to me. I was thrown into this mysterious, arcane world, which now became a part and parcel of our lives. I will leave it at that.

Wall painting (sounds so simple, does it not?) has many allied consequences of the temporary kind in order to enable work to proceed on an even keel. For starters, all the furniture has to be covered with every available bedsheet to avoid paint blotches from falling on the wood. The furniture must needs be moved to a central position in the room to enable the painters to move about without let or hindrance. More bedsheets must be found to cover all the curios and artefacts that we have collected over the years. To say nothing of our TV set, desktop computer, refrigerator and so on. And why on earth did I buy so many CDs, nearly 500 of them! Had I known that Spotify would have every piece of music for me to enjoy for just a small subscription (if I didn’t want the intrusive adverts), I could have avoided all the expense. Then again, Spotify was not even a twinkle in the eye of its discoverers when I first graduated from LPs and cassette tapes to CDs way back when during the early 80s. When we travelled abroad, I would nip off to Oxford Street or Orchard Street, depending on whether we were in London or Singapore, and come back with an armful of CDs, sometimes hidden from my better half. These things tend to accumulate over time. Anyhow, the stacks of CDs needed to be covered as well to prevent dust from slipping through. And I haven’t even started on the books yet.

Then there were the books, on cue. If you thought the CDs were coming apart at the seams, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Every available shelf space in our home is crammed with books. My wife is a student of English Literature, so she started collecting books long before we even got married. From Jane Austen to Kafka, Camus to Blake, Dickens to Chekov, Trollope to D.H. Lawrence and everything else in between. Not to mention the de rigueur, voluminous Complete Works of you-know-who. And given the amount of travel we had done over the decades, light reading in the form of P.D James, Robin Cook, Dick Francis, Robert Ludlum and their ilk as well. To start with, the space allotted to me among the tomes was small. Wodehouse and some books on cricket and tennis were my oeuvre, but as the years passed, I too dived into the reading habit with vigour. With online ordering making things easier, I have been buying more books than I have been reading. I have now cried a temporary halt to this insane buying and decided to start reading some of the books that are still snug as a bug in a rug in their original Amazon packaging. There is Kindle of course, which is cheaper and only takes up data space on your mobile, but somehow it is not quite the same thing. The smell and tactile experience of a printed book can never be matched by anything that comes online. Rather like the look and feel of a brand, new long-playing record as opposed to the instant convenience and gratification of Spotify.

Now that I have taken your breath away with our in-depth love for music and literature, allow me to turn to art and nature through some of the canvasses that adorn our walls and thence, finally on to plants. Seriously though, the idea is to share the physical challenges of moving and protecting these precious possessions while sprucing up our wee home. To start with the paintings, and without dropping names, let me just say they are the works of some of India’s finest artists who ever dipped a brush into a pot of paint. More to the point, in their glass frames, they are heavy. To remove them from their parent walls, place them delicately on an unoccupied bed and cover them with bedsheets is a task that can test the strongest. Once the walls have been given the once (or twice) over, the whole process is to be reversed, which is even tougher. And if we have been able to achieve all this without breaking or damaging any of these master works, we can sit back and take a long draught of iced Coke and heave a huge sigh of relief.

Finally, there’s the plants, which require special attention. Shift them, if you must, but with care. One false move, a snapped twig and there will be hell to pay. They come in all shapes and sizes. Tall plants, ferns, creepers, small potted plants – these are all very much the good wife’s area of competence. What I know about plants can be written on the head of a pin with a pneumatic drill. Oftentimes, she and the domestic staff do all the lugging and heaving, leaving me out of the action altogether. Her charitable explanation being that I have a sore back and should not risk a crick or two amidst the lower vertebrae. She does have a point, but I suspect the real reason is her concern over my tendency to operate on two left feet, and the disastrous results that could follow.

Now to the ultimate challenge, while all the painting and cleaning is being completed. ‘It’s a good time to get rid of some of the rubbish we keep sitting on purely out of silly sentiment. They take up too much space and it will mean nothing to whoever ultimately inherits all this.’ That pearl of wisdom from the wife, naturally. She says that every time we do up the house. While I agree wholeheartedly, the actual process of getting rid of the rubbish is more challenging than we had envisaged. So, what else is new? ‘How about this set of 32 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, gathering dust for 32 years? The local library would love to have them,’ I tentatively suggest. ‘No, we can’t give that away. It was a present from my much-loved aunt.’ ‘Right, how about those two rickety rocking-chairs. Nobody ever sits on them and the termites are feasting on them.’ ‘Yeah, they can go. Only I bought them on a charity sale run by my dearest friend. It will be a wrench. I can have them repainted.’ ‘Surely, that battered HMV record player can be given the heave-ho. It does not work and we don’t play records anymore.’ ‘I agree, but it is a genuine antique, and that dealer down the street said he could crank it up again. Could fetch a decent price at an auction house. What’s more, we still have those old Bach, Satchmo, South Pacific, G.N. Balasubramaniam and M.S. Subbulakshmi vinyls on LPs and 78 rpms.’

Ten days on, our home looks as good as new. And nothing went into the scrap heap. We are sitting on our own scrap heap, greatly treasured.

                           

At the very outset, let me make it plain as a pikestaff that being urinated upon by an inebriated idiot is no laughing matter, even at a light-headed 40,000 feet up in the air, on Air India’s business class service. The 71-year-old lady who was thus obscenely assailed was certainly not amused. Neither is being snuffed out prematurely and chopped into little pieces, a pastime many of our insane murderers seem to be overly partial to. Add to this list of macabre horrors, being trapped under a car full of drunken louts and dragged for miles after which it is only a matter of picking up the pieces. We are left dumbfounded and speechless. Which, of course, is an affliction that garrulous talking heads on our television news channels do not in any way, shape or form suffer from.

Let us examine the Air India incident first. Celebrity anchor, shouter and fist-waver Arnab Goswami on Republic TV went berserk and ballistic (this time with some justification), throwing hashtags around like confetti and repeatedly referring to the ‘drunken creep’ who ‘exposed his private parts’ in order to do his number one business on business class on an elderly lady. Not that the dastardly deed would have carried even an iota of merit had it been perpetrated on a younger person. Without getting too technical about it, I suppose the drunken slob’s pathetically weak defence would have been that exposing one’s private parts inevitably goes hand in hand, as it were, with having to relieve oneself, and that he was not quite himself after several large single malts. Had he been well-read, he might well have paraphrased King Lear and protested his innocence by claiming he was more pissed against than pissing.

 Where this misguided poop went horribly wrong was in supposing that the reclining seat, where the unfortunate victim was enjoying her forty winks, dreaming of home and hearth, was a convenient toilet receptacle for him to unzip his fly and blissfully disgorge the liquid contents of his bloated bladder. Imagine the lady’s shock and horror. She could not have had a ruder awakening than the poor girl who found herself trapped under a swiftly moving car in Delhi.

As if all this was not ridiculous enough, news reports tell us that another similar incident occurred on an Air India international flight of a man mistaking a passenger seat for his private bathroom to aim (not very well), shoot and flush. Is this a nasty habit that one catches, like the flu? This time, mercifully, the passenger was not physically present in the plush, seat urinal. Actually, you can forget about the flushing bit. These sloshed sons of Belial were only interested in drawing and shooting, wherever and whenever it took their urges and fancy. A modern-day Quick Draw McGraw of yesteryear cartoon fame! One of the perpetrators now has a name, but I shan’t demean my column by giving him publicity, even if it is of the extremely cheap variety. Our television, print and social media are doing the honours, with knobs on.

Inevitably, the endless, tasteless jokes must follow on social media. Toilet humour has been with us for centuries and when provided with an opportunity on a plate, such as in the present instance, Facebook and Twitter go to town with puns, cartoons and wisecracks to keep them all rolling in the aisles with helpless mirth.  The Air India fracas is presently enjoying top billing in the media and is, by some distance, the lead story. Keeping close company is the pathetic tale of the girl who was fatally trapped under a car. The girls who were killed and vivisected have, for the nonce, faded into the background, if not complete oblivion. My preoccupation is not with the criminality or otherwise of all these grim tales. The law, if there is one operating in our country, can take care of such matters, even if our dilatory justice system often moves at a snail’s pace to pass sentence and mete out justice. They are far too tied up jousting with the government over appointment of judges and other such weighty matters. I can see where the Supreme Court is coming from. If you don’t have the requisite number of judges, who will do the judging?

My primary focus of attention is on our television media channels. There can be no arguing on the fact that heinous crimes like grisly murders are grist to our channels’ voracious mills. What I am not able to come to grips with is why, for a certain length of time, say a week to ten days, they behave as if nothing else is happening anywhere in the country, or indeed, in the universe that is worthy of even a passing mention. If a lady has been defiled by a drunken passenger on an international flight, by all means report it, give it the due coverage it deserves. Then, for crying out loud, move on to other things. Make Air India, deservedly, the whipping boy. Come back later to the urinary track if things move and you have some important development to convey. Perhaps Arnab’s ‘creep’ had a prostate issue and couldn’t keep it in. Who knows? Who gives a toss?

However, if every channel has nothing better than to, day after dreary day, hour after lurid hour, repeat the same story, raising an almighty stink to high heaven, you have irretrievably lost the plot and the viewer’s interest. As we used to say as school kids, ‘stale news stinks, and so do you.’ And guess what, after a week or so, the story dies a natural death and all the channels grow tired of it and we hear no more on the subject. It is as if nothing ever happened. Once the goons are apprehended, it is pretty much curtains as far as that story is concerned. The viewers have switched off and so have the television channels. Perhaps the Tatas are counting on this familiar pattern. We can now revert to Rahul Gandhi’s Bharat Jodo Yatra, scuffles in parliament, analyses on forthcoming state elections, the Nifty’s erratic behaviour, the never-ending Russia-Ukraine war, India’s decline in world cricket, and so on and so forth.

Let’s face it. There must be innumerable other horrendous happenings taking place all over India and elsewhere in the world that we may not even be aware of. So let us display a sense of proportion in how much coverage we allot to these stories, and not inundate the public with minutiae of these incidents that have no bearing on the overall development of the newsbreak. In assessing the seriousness of a crime, a man urinating on a lady, in-flight, disgusting as it is, cannot compare with the severity of a girl being put to death under the wheels of a car. However, you could be forgiven for feeling otherwise, judging by the way the respective news items are covered. My own sense is that our channels love a high-profile target to lash out at. And who could be more high-profile in India’s corporate ether than the venerated Tatas and their pride and joy, India’s very own flagship airline which they once owned, lost and regained recently. It was too good an opportunity for the media to miss and they are going about it with a vengeance. This will be a supreme test of the Tatas’ resilience and PR skills to see how this highly admired institution will deal with the situation. Thus far, they have maintained a stoic silence, doubtless burning the midnight oil with their PR and advertising agencies to chalk out a suitable response. I am not sure about what the nation wants to know and how our TV channels are responding to this insatiable thirst for knowledge. Speaking for myself, I shan’t be holding my breath.

Finally, as a note of abundant caution, all passengers, if they are finicky about being pissed upon, should make a special request to the airline to provide a seat next to an abstemious teetotaler. An extra charge may apply, but look on the bright side. You will save big on laundry and dry-cleaning charges. On a less flippant note, it is high time airlines placed a cap on how much alcohol a passenger should be allowed to consume during the journey. There ought to be a cap, after which a red sign should flash, ‘THE BAR IS CLOSED.’ This may tempt some hopeless, gone-case lush to tank up before boarding, but that is a chance we are going to have to take. And it lets the airline off the hook.

Postscript: As I put this blog to bed, news is filtering in that the CEO of Air India has expressed regret at the unsavoury incident. This has set the cat among the pigeons, again, as the hyperventilating news channels go yakety-yak over whether an expression of regret constitutes an apology. Or not. I cannot even say ‘watch this space,’ because I have no intention of revisiting the subject again.

The World Cup football jamboree is over. Thank heavens for that, say I. For the best part of the past four weeks, one could scarcely strike up a conversation on anything other than the frenetic happenings in Qatar. Even those who knew next to nothing about football had a point of view, and not afraid to express it. ‘The goalie went the wrong way, else he could have saved that penalty.’ Quite so. ‘Did you see Harry Kane miss that second penalty against France? What was he thinking? England could have been in the final.’ And how about this for a classic from one who knows his human physiology. ‘Messi has a very low centre of gravity, quite like his legendary compatriot Maradona. That is why he is able to twist, turn and shoot, all in one swift motion with three defenders crowding him.’ Personally, I liked this one best from one of my old school mates, ‘Look, the guy was clearly offside, hatching eggs and the linesman was ogling the girls in the stands.’ Beyond my school days, I have never heard the word hatching employed to mean offside in hockey or football.

Then there was the inevitable social media chit-chat. With a mobile in your hands, a Twitter handle or a Facebook / Instagram account to obey your every command, the world cup is your oyster. Bash away on your keypad and let your friends know that you were there in Qatar, in person. Day after tiresome day, we were treated to photographs of ‘Me and Messi with his kids,’ ‘Buying gold for the wife at some shiny souk,’ ‘Me and Ronaldo kicking sand at the beach,’ ‘Look who I ran into at the stadium, tennis superstar Novak Djokovic. He even obliged with a selfie. As to who he fancied will emerge the champions, his reply was a classic. Since Serbia, Spain and Switzerland went out early, I have no fears of Rafa and Roger giving me the third degree. I am here to enjoy the game.’ I wished him well for the upcoming Australian Open, where he can now play, unvaccinated. ‘Nole, Nole,’ yelled his fans. All these attributed statements are to be taken with a liberal pinch of salt. In short, one’s presence in Qatar provided one with a status symbol to be shared only with high-profile celluloid stars, politicos, business tycoons and journalists. And a winsome, charismatic Swamiji as well. And splashing it all over social media.

The next FIFA World Cup is to be played in the United States, Mexico and Canada in 2026. We can safely assume India will not qualify. However, that should not prevent a robust Indian presence during the games. People of Indian origin in the US and Canada are legion and our social media will brim with colourful stories during the games. Not forgetting the bucketloads of well-heeled Indian tourists landing up for the kick-off. Better start your travel plans right this very minute.

In Qatar, India did have an important decorative presence. Bollywood diva and brand ambassador for French luxury brand, Louis Vuitton, Deepika Padukone unveiled the FIFA trophy, along with former Spanish international Iker Casillas, prior to the start of the final. I mention the Spaniard goalkeeper for the record. No one in India had the faintest clue who he was! And his eyes appeared to be fixed on a different kind of trophy, viz., Ms. Padukone. And who can blame him! We know Deepika has a strong badminton bloodline, but can she tell the difference between a free kick and a spot kick? Hmmm. Social media in India promptly took to trolling Ms. Padukone for her strange and outlandish LVMH attire. Couldn’t they have designed a smashing sari with a lotus motif or something? Just asking. That would have got a thin-skinned section of the nation’s dander up and set the cat among the pigeons here in India.

Ah well, there’s no pleasing some people.

Published in the Deccan Herald dt. 24/12/22.

The Defence Ministers of the two warring, neighbouring nations and their top military aides, decided to get together at a picturesque, snowy mountain top of indeterminate location, across a flaky, disputed border, to hold their 100^th peace talk. The 99 previous peace talks had proved infructuous, with neither side willing to yield an inch of territory. These peace talks invariably turned into sabre-rattling war talks. Our media’s feeding frenzy moved into top gear. It was fervently hoped that the centenary of their jawing across a table will finally bear fruit with a degree of statesmanlike compromise on the cards. Hope springs eternal. The meeting was called to order by the English speaking, but not English, Defence Minister while the famously inscrutable Oriental team, led by their Defence honcho, nodded assent in unison. An interpreter each was present to take care of translating each other’s views.

English Speaking Defence Mininster (ESDM) – ‘Gentleman, I welcome you all to this summit meeting of our two defence teams, who have shown more intent on attack thus far. We are holding this conference at some unidentified mountain top, I know not exactly where. We were brought here blindfolded, and I hope we are not being blindsided. I am not even sure which side of the border we are sitting on – yours or ours. The incessant snowfall in these parts keeps obliterating the border line which results in our constant sparring with each other. This has got to stop. This being our 100^th meeting, my Prime Minister is very keen that we should put an end to hostilities and smoke a peace pipe. Speaking metaphorically, of course. We are not all Apache Indians. So, what say you Chief?’

Oriental Defence Minister (ODM) – ‘Agleed, agleed. We totarry aglee. Our mighty Chairman also wishes we smoke many pipes of peace, though I plefer cigalettes myserf. But first, as a show of lespect for 100 talks, we bling speciar cake, baked excrusivery for this occasion. It is vely big cake with 100 candres with battely opelated frames burning blightly. Won’t go off even in the bitterry cord, brustely winds. Olientar technorogy.’

ESDM – ‘That is such a lovely gesture, Minister. Had trouble following you at first, what with all the Ls and Rs getting reversed, but I am beginning to get the drift or rather, dlift in your unique vocab. Sets the right tone, but how do we blow these electronic candles? I think you may have missed a trick there, Sir, though we do appreciate your wonderful techno-led, olive branch initiative.’

ODM – ‘No, no. We do not brow these candres, we use modern technique. At the count of thwee, we sing together, “For he’s a jorry good ferrow, and so say orr of us,” in honour of our mighty Chairman and your gleat Plime Minister. Then I give signar to my obsequious rackey, who after bowing five times, will switch off the candres by lemote contror. Then we all do bottoms up with neat Lussian Storichnaya. After that, we start talks in good mood. So, what say you Chief? Ha ha!’

ESDM – ‘Sounds fun, comrade. Let us go together, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table…. beg your pardon, was getting carried away there. All this preliminary pourparlers, at 11,000 feet above sea level, not to mention the neat shot of Russian Stolichnaya, it’s made me light-headed, might need oxygen and I am talking nonsense.’

ODM – ‘Oh no, my lespected fliend, you are not talking nonsense. I know orr about T.S. Eriot, gleat poet. And that quote by you from The Rove Song of J. Arbelt Pluflock was simpry marverrous. So applopliate.’

ESDM – ‘You think so, Chief? What a lerief. Good God, I am even beginning to talk like you. Tsk, tsk. Let us get down to business, shall we? First off, why are your soldiers and our soldiers fighting with sticks and stones across the border, and shoving and punching each other?’

ODM – ‘Sticks and stones may bleak my bones, but words will never hurt me.’

ESDM – ‘I am impressed by your familiarity with ancient Christian adages, but what has that got to do with anything? Nobody is hurting you with words. Stick to sticks. And stones. Please answer my question. What’s with the dandas?’

ODM – ‘Ho, ho, ha, ha. Dandas, I rike that word. It means sticks in Hindi, yes? I rearn a littre Hindi when I am posted in our Embassy in your countly some years back. But in meetings with your dipromats, we pletend not to understand so we can forrow how you are abusing us with smiring face.’

ESDM – ‘We learned that trick from you, comrade. Ho, ho, ha ha, yourself. Now look. Enough of all this banter and no, I do not wish to have another large Stolichnaya, and neither will my generals. I know they are dying for a drink or two, but they will simply have to wait. Now about this silly skirmish. How do we put a stop to it?’

ODM – ‘Sirry skilmish? Never heard that before, Minister. I am asking my PA to make notes. You speak Engrish so beautifurry.’

ESDM – ‘Yes, thank you. We have had over 150 years of coaching from the best teachers of that language. Now we speak it better than them. But we digress. I cannot return home without hammering out a solution to this bamboo shoots fight with your lot.’

ODM – ‘But your peopres in the media are boasting orr day rong that they have pushed our boys back. Orr lubbish. Plopoganda. First you stop that. Now you ask me why we fight with sticks. What do you want us to do? Bling out our Karashnikovs? There wirr be bodies evelywhere. Your bodies.’

ESDM – ‘I get your point. Not that we will be sitting back and eating your bullets, mind you. We do have sophisticated weapons, you know. Look, again we are getting obstreperous. Try pronouncing that, my slant-eyed friend. But jokes aside, I have a solution in mind. Problem statement – we do not know where the border actually is and we are both playing blind man’s buff. Or bluff, if you prefer. I suggest both sides move 500 metres back from where we are now sitting and pitch our tents there. Put up some white flags on the disputed territory to flag PEACE. That piece of unoccupied land we shall develop into a field to play cricket or football. You can thrash us in football and we will return the compliment in cricket. This shall be treated as a permanent settlement of the dispute – without a shot being fired. Our bosses will be very happy. There, I am done. Can we sign the peace treaty now?’

ODM – ‘Yes, you are so collect. One plobrem. Have we not tlied this before, and did our boys not bleak orr the lures and began pushing and shoving again? How do we stop that?’

ESDM – ‘But my dear ferrow, I mean fellow, that is why we are developing a playing field. A level playing field, ha ha. Given the conditions, we can even play ice-hockey. It will be an example to the rest of the world, wherever there’s bloodshed over border disputes.’

ODM – ‘Ok, you convinced me. We are leady to sign on the dotted rine. And now for some dericious news. We have allanged speciar feast for orr of you. Menu incrudes Duck Brood Soup, Suckring Pigret Dumprings for starters, Stinky Tofu, Snake Mince, Pigeon On a Stick, Pig Blain and Lice for main course, and finarry, the coup de glace, our world famous Fortune Cookies for your good hearth and happiness. Ho, ho, we can’t wait. And you cannot lefuse our hospitarity.’

ESDM – ‘When you say brood, blain, lice, you mean…never mind. So gracious and generous of you, but my general informs me that our entire delegation is down with a terrible stomach churn, after listening to your menu. It has been a long day. Our simple repast of roti and dal chaval, cooked by our brave jawans, awaits us.’

ODM – ‘That is so sad. We have to eat it orr ourserves. One finar question. How do you plopose to deal now with your western neighbours, who are arso our vely good fliends? And they also have the bomb.’

ESDM – ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you? Don’t fret over them. We have the situation under control. We play cricket with them, on neutral ground and thrash them black and blue. Once in a while, we let them win, just to show there’s no ill feeling. Thanks for asking. Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bugs bite.  And don’t forget to practice that bamboozling Chinaman delivery for your next game of cricket with us.’

ODM – ‘If I can find reft-arm list-spinner. Ho, ho, ha ha.’

ESDM – ‘Ha, ha, ho, ho, right back at you.’ 

The 100^th peace talk was thus convivially concluded. Everyone went away tired, but happy to be able to convey glad tiding to their respective heads of state.

All through the day / I me mine, I me mine, I me mine – George Harrison

Harry & Meghan, the new docu-series on the young renegade royal couple, Prince Harry and American actress Meghan Markle, was released by Netflix worldwide last Thursday. Three episodes have been put out at the first time of asking, with a promise of three more to be aired on December 15. As all of us know only too well, anything to do with the British royal family has always attracted plenty of vicarious attention around the globe, barring a dystopian World War III. We have just finished devouring Netflix’s Season 5 of The Crown, a series that generated a phenomenal viewership for reasons not far to seek. It is one thing to produce a film or television series about historical figures long dead and gone, but quite another to portray royal personages very much alive and kicking, at least a handful of them. The travails of the late Princess Diana and her fractious relationship with the royal family of Windsor have been well documented, and to actually see them on screen, portrayed realistically by actors taking the narrative right up to the present day, would have been extremely unnerving for the late Queen Elizabeth II and the current occupier of the throne, King Charles III.

Purely as an example of authentic story-telling on the small screen for home viewing, The Crown was a runaway success, sumptuously produced and splendidly acted in a realistic and understated fashion. I wish I could say the same for Harry & Meghan which, on the evidence of the first three episodes appears to be a ham-fisted effort on the part of the two protagonists, to tell their side of a sordid story. Narrated in the first person, Harry and Meghan talk straight into the camera about the extreme privations they have had to endure from a rapacious paparazzi (paps, in Meghan’s lingo) as well as Harry’s royal relatives at Buckingham Palace. They portray themselves as being under siege, as victims of a cruel fate and a hidebound family that refuses to understand how the world has changed and how the family of Windsor have cocooned themselves in an archaic mindset that will not accept, on their watch, a fifth-in-line prince to marry a coloured girl from the glitz and glamour world of Hollywood. As one reviewer described it, ‘it’s a love letter to themselves.’

Harry & Meghan employs a combination of professional camera work with plenty of home video, candid shots of Harry, Meghan, their offspring and pet Beagle, some of them presumably  selfies. Just an ordinary, everyday couple enjoying their domesticity. Close friends and Meghan’s mother punctuate the film with flattering comments. The grapevine tells us that the high-profile twosome has been paid an enormous sum of money to come out with this television series, which is hardly surprising. Millions around the world would have been only too eager to see what these two had to convey in their ‘tell all’ tale. Even after denuding their bank balance of a pretty hefty sum, Netflix would have been comfortably in the black with the humongous viewership this series is currently generating. Everyone concerned would be laughing all the way to the bank.

It is therefore, extremely disappointing that even at the level of assessing this televisual effort as a potentially racy, gossipy revelatory piece of cinéma vérité, the net result is dreadfully boring. The first three episodes plod along at a desultory pace, and after a point, it gets repetitive and does not even provide a lowly pleasure of schadenfreude. I am taking the risk of putting out this ‘review’ even before the next three episodes are scheduled to air, and that is primarily because I do not expect them to be any different from what we have just witnessed. The next tranche could well contain more revelations and gripes and further evidence of the martyr syndrome that Harry and Meghan appear to have fallen prey to, but that will not be reason enough to invest three more hours in the false hopes of unexpected gasps of pleasurable surprise. Going by what I have just seen, the viewer is being wooed to see things from the young couple’s point of view, and I am afraid the wooing is simply not seducing. If anything, they inadvertently succeed in pushing our sympathies towards Harry’s royal family, doubtless uneasily squirming in their plush sofas at Buckingham Palace. Queen Elizabeth II, still warm in her grave, could be turning uncomfortably.

Furthermore, for a camera-shy couple that apparently shuns intrusions by the ‘paps,’ a situation that allegedly contributed to the tragic demise of Princess Diana in a Paris underpass (the driver of their Merc being allegedly inebriated did not help), Harry and Meghan seem quite happy to engage professional cameramen to capture their every intimate moment at home or on an African safari. If you can work that out, you are a better man than I am, Gunga Din.

I am not venturing into the whys and wherefores, the rights and wrongs of Harry and Meghan deciding to bare their soiled linen to a gleefully waiting world. That is their business and if they are getting richer by the fistfuls as a result, fair play to them. My limited point is that the television series appears to have been put together in an unseemly haste to catch the Christmas / New Year jollifications and perhaps to stave off competition arriving with similar stories, and as a result, does not provide a level of involved viewing that one expects from documentary film-making dealing with the high, mighty and glamorous. Who knows, perhaps the next three episodes will be a thrill-a-minute joy ride and I may have to eat my words. What is more, there are enough people in India and the rest of the world who will watch, agog, anything that has pretty much anything at all to do with the British royals. If that crowd violently disagrees with my somewhat peremptory views on this tame effort, so be it.

Rest assured. Notwithstanding anything I might have said, I shall avidly await the next instalment with bated breath. And no, I shan’t be risking writing another ‘review.’ Suffice it to say that Harry & Meghan at best, is self-serving and at worst, narcissistic.

Published in the Deccan Chronicle dated 11/12/2022.

I keep telling myself that I am not really interested in football. Come to that, even my interest in cricket has been waning, perhaps to wax again at the next World Cup. Grand Slam tennis still keeps me riveted, despite Federer’s last, tearful hurrah. At least, Nadal and Djokovic are still there, mixing it up with the new kids on the block. Chess, in the literal sense, is unwatchable, though one takes vicarious delight in India’s emergence as a world chess power. Badminton, with India’s recent Thomas Cup triumph, has kindled much interest though I have always wondered why such a delicate, artistic sport that demands an incredible level of physical fitness, does not attract the masses. Still on racket games, table-tennis evokes a flutter, momentarily, during the Asian or Olympic events. Anyone for squash?

Let me get back to football. Yes, once in a while I do follow the English Premier League. English only in name, as a majority of the players are from outside the British Isles. Oftentimes, there is more excitement surrounding the obscene transfer fees of the leading lights of the ‘beautiful game’ than there is in the game itself. Why do we common folk take such an inordinate interest in the millions being shelled out to a Ronaldo or a Messi? It is the same phenomenon that we witness during the IPL auctions, though I have not found that level of enthusiasm for the Ambani-fueled, cash rich Indian Super League football. As my wife is fond of saying, not without an element of ironic distaste, ‘All this just for kicking a ball around.’

That said, every time the World Cup jamboree comes around once in four years, like the leap year, even those not particularly interested in the game, wake up to smell the coffee, almost always the heady Brazilian concoction. All of a sudden, young and old in India are suffused with feverish excitement. This, despite the fact that there is no Indian participation involved. From the days of Ferenc Puskás, Stanley Matthews, Bobby Charlton, Pelé, Zico, Maradona and now to Messi and Ronaldo, millions of Indians go gaga over the unfolding World Cup drama. Even difficult-to-pronounce names like Mbappe and Lewandowski flow freely off the tongues of football-crazy street urchins in Calcutta. I recall with amusement a visit to that teeming city by the legendary Pelé some years ago. Pelé came over to play an exhibition match, representing the New York Cosmos at the Eden Gardens against Bengal’s pride and joy, Mohun Bagan FC. During the game, even the opposition players were seen running towards the ‘Black Pearl,’ never mind where the ball was, just to be caught on camera with their hero! I suspect even Bagan’s goalie would have been thrilled to step aside and let Pelé slot the ball into an empty goal! The referee, wisely, threw his whistle into the nearby Hooghly. Similar madness was witnessed when Argentina’s idol and poster boy, the sublime Diego Maradona visited the City of Joy in 2017 which also saw India’s former cricket captain and Calcutta’s darling, Saurav Ganguly don his shorts and boots to play footsie with the ‘hand of God.’

Still on Calcutta, World Cup fever also witnesses street artists decorating all available walls with charcoal or paint brush strokes featuring their favourite footballers, their national flags and at times, incongruously, a Tendulkar or Ganguly amongst them. Not forgetting the ubiquitous Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan. It is as much a carnival in Mamata Didi’s city as it would be in Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Aires. In the inappropriately nick-named garden city of Bangalore, where I now reside, football fever does not have quite the earthy, sweaty, seat-of-the-pants intensity that one experienced in Calcutta. In this brushed-aluminium, tech-capital of India, it is all about pubs and clubs inviting all and sundry, with money to burn, to achieve dangerous levels of inebriation while watching the goings-on in Qatar on a large LED screen. After the sixth beer or fifth large rum and coke, no one quite knows who is playing whom. And no one cares. They will all wake up the next morning with a sore head and groan for black coffee and two aspirins.

The timing of these games at the Qatar World Cup, as the tournament progresses, is another reason to gripe. Most of the big games kick off at 12.30 in the morning IST, and unless you are a die-hard football fanatic prepared to sleep it off the next day, the whole affair is a non-starter. We have to satisfy ourselves with YouTube highlights. Many people I know, who would rather commit hara-kiri than miss a game featuring Brazil or Argentina, apply for leave in advance from their work place. Nowadays, one’s work place is also one’s home, so it may not make much of a difference. But back in the day, when little encouragement was needed to ‘bunk’ office, even the bosses took a lenient view of ‘football absenteeism.’

 I vividly recall, when I was a cub trainee at an advertising agency, there was this proverbial watercooler moment, when I cheekily told my boss he was being a stickler for rules for not giving us a day off after one of these big games. I was given a right, royal telling off in no uncertain terms that he was not running a dharamsala. I was not downcast for long as the big chief relented and graciously granted leave of absence. I think he just wanted to show us all who the boss was. Not to mention that he was planning to watch the game himself overnight and sleep it off the following day. Now that I have retired, I face no such impediment. However, even Messi cannot keep me awake after midnight. Not even once in four years. For the crazies, however, their World Cup runneth over.

Postscript: Let us pause to spare a thought and send up a prayer for the great Pelé, who is in palliative care at a Sao Paulo hospital.

Published in Deccan Chronicle on 7th December 2022.

I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was dreaming. What did I dream that I was dreaming about? I will come to that in just a moment. The moot point is, why could I simply not have had a dream? That is what most normal people have, when they hit the pillows and count to twenty or count sheep, if that is their preference. Just a simple dream. Unless it was a nightmare. Applying the same logic you could also, I suppose, have a nightmare that you were having a nightmare. Why did I have to dream that I was having a dream? All very complex and rather Freudian. Which is hardly surprising because that was exactly what I was dreaming that I was dreaming about – having a conversation with the much-celebrated shrink, Sigmund Freud. When I finally woke up from the dream, I realized that I was still dreaming that I had woken up from the first dream. So, I went back to the land of Nod, when my mobile phone alarm finally woke me up, and I rubbed my eyes, relieved that I was no longer dreaming, or indeed, dreaming that I was dreaming. So complicated.

Let me back up a bit here. As most normal people who sleep and dream know only too well, it is an extremely rare case where one can recall precisely what one was dreaming about. Once the mists of sleep dissolve, you can only have a bare-bones recollection of what your mind-at-rest was going through while you slept fitfully. Sometimes the dream disappears altogether only to play back much later, while you are fully awake, leaving you in a state of torpid unease – a sort of déjà vu that I cannot quite put my finger on. I take a cynical view of people who have a tendency to chunter on endlessly about how they dreamt they had scored 500 not out in a Test Match, won the Wimbledon final thrashing Djokovic in straight sets, played the lead violin to rapturous applause at the New York Philharmonic under the baton of Zubin Mehta, split the atom, found a cure for cancer or had a tête-à-tête with the Prime Minister over tea and dhoklas and what a lovely man he was, contrary to how a handful of cynics perceived him. Some of my mean-spirited friends might aver that being invited to tea by the PM should be classified as a nightmare, but I shall dismiss these ne’er-do-wells with the contempt they deserve. If nothing else, the dhoklas would have been scrumptious. To say nothing of the khandvis.

Let me get back to my dream. Or the dream within a dream. I am not sure which is which. Anyhow, there I was, minding my own business, lying comfortably on a leather couch in a luxuriously fitted-out, oak-paneled room somewhere in the Austrian capital, Vienna. I could vaguely hear a sonorous voice counting down from 10. Ending with 4,3,2,1 and a sharp snap of the fingers. I woke up with a start, eyes wide open, and spoke those three immortal words, ‘Where am I?’ I could have added, ‘And who the devil are you?’ but the bearded visage got ahead of me.

‘Good morning. I am Sigmund Freud, your psycho-analyst. You have just woken up from your second dream. As we speak, you have moved to your first dream, but you do not know that. You are still fast asleep and dreaming that you are being interviewed by the world-famous neurologist and founder of psychoanalysis. I shall be asking you a few questions, after which I shall release you from your first dream and you will be home and dry.’

At this point, I found utterance. ‘Look here, old man. All this is rather Freudian. Ha ha,’ I chuckled at my own weak joke. ‘But seriously, how the heck did I get here, even in a dream, first or second? And clearly Mr. Freud, modesty is not your middle name. World-famous neurologist and founder of psychoanalysis? Even though you say so yourself?’

‘I say so myself because it is what it is. Anyhow, you are not here to talk about me. Tell me about yourself. What seems to be the trouble? Time to unburden.’ The shrink sounded a bit shirty. A shirty shrink!

‘The trouble Sir, is that I went to sleep with nary a care in the world. When I woke up, or thought I had woken up, it appears I was still sleeping and dreaming. That was in my cozy home in Bangalore. India, in case you are not aware. Next thing I know, I have woken up again in a strange room in Vienna, travelled back in time and am being quizzed by an Austrian loony doctor.’

‘Not just any Austrian shrink, I’ll trouble you, and less of the loony doctor stuff, if you please. Let’s have some respect. I am here to help you. Don’t worry your pretty little head over first dreams and second dreams. They are all the same. The function of dreams is to preserve sleep by representing as fulfilled wishes, that which would otherwise awaken the dreamer.’ He might have been Austrian but he was talking double Dutch.

‘Yeah, I follow you completely. Do you think you can call Starbucks and order a skinny latte for me. That’s coffee. I really could do with a pick-me-up. Get one for yourself, if you like.’

The psycho-analyst looked befuddled. ‘My friend, I cannot understand a word of what you are saying.’

‘That makes two of us,’ I retorted.

Freud went on. ‘You are still in a dream state. Once you wake up, your life will return to normal. For now, just imagine you are drinking skinny whatever-it-is and your thirst will be slaked.’

‘Gosh, you speak funny as well. I can’t wait to wake up. By the way Doc, what year is this that I have woken up in but in restful slumber on my second dream, or first dream?’

‘1930, and Hitler and his Nazi Huns are swarming all over Austria. My own life is in peril. I am a Jew, you see.’

‘I am sorry about all that, but why are you filling my head with your troubles? I am supposed to be the patient. Anyway, it was all such a long time ago, and you were rescued and shipped off to England where you died a couple of years later. I am talking to a ghost. In my dreams. God almighty!’

Sigmund looked distraught. Bad memories. ‘I am sorry about that. Shouldn’t have taken you back to my terrible past. Most unprofessional. Bit of a slip.’

‘A Freudian slip, eh?’

He guffawed good-humouredly. ‘Good one. Look, all this has given me a thirst. I am also feeling somewhat pooped. Need some caffeine. Cup of coffee do you nicely?’

‘Good call, Doc. Not too much milk, and don’t spare the sugar. Can you stretch it to a croissant?’ In my dream state, I looked forward to the coffee. ‘Shall we carry on with the session, Sigmund? Hope you don’t mind my calling you Sigmund. We are now practically on first name terms.’

‘No issues, my friend. As time is running out and I have more patients waiting, I have to gradually conclude this session, stimulating though it has been. Now let me wrap this up by asking you again. What is it exactly about your dreams that is troubling you.’

‘It is not the dream itself, or the dreams themselves, that bother me. Like you as I am sure, I have had all kinds of dreams, and I have learnt to live with them. As I told you earlier, it is the fact that I am dreaming that I am having another dream that I am unable to cope with. There I am, telling off the Income Tax johnnies who are crawling all over my apartment, that I have nothing to hide, and just as their chief honcho is about to gyve my wrists and haul me off to an unknown destination, I wake up in a sweat, but immensely relieved. “Thank God it was only a dream,” I tell myself, only to realise that I have lapsed into another dream involving my landing in Bangalore from London and promptly being hauled off by customs officials into the red channel and being administered the third degree. Can’t take it anymore, Doc. One bad dream, theek hai. Par for the course. I can handle that. Two bad dreams is pushing the envelope, and not in a nice way. Capiche?’

‘My, my, Italian and everything. These are anxiety dreams, my friend.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know, Doc,’ I riposted.

‘You may be worrying about something altogether different but it manifests itself allegorically in your dreams as troubling touch points. I know a patient who frequently dreams that he is in the middle of a fancy, stylish party. With no clothes on. Not a stitch.’

‘What, starkers?’

‘Absolutely. In the buff, as we say at our annual psychoanalysts’ ball.’

‘Thank heavens I haven’t reached that stage yet. Maybe if a third dream intrudes on the first two, a fate worse than death may also eventuate.’

‘Now, now. Let us not get melodramatic. Yours is a simple condition. My diagnosis is clear. There are too many things going on in your life. These daily occurrences and thoughts of everyday life is what I have coined as “dream-work,” which are nothing but “secondary-process” thoughts which become subject to the “primary process” of unconscious thought. These, in turn, are governed by the pleasure principle, wish gratification and the repressed sexual scenarios of childhood. In sum, it is all about dream distortion, displacement and condensation of the repressed thoughts to preserve sleep. You have nothing to be concerned about. That’s it for now. The bill’s in the mail by dream post.’

At which point, my alarm went off. Again. Alarm bells, more like, contemplating Freud’s bill in the post. I sat up in my own bed. My wife was fast asleep and everything appeared to be kosher. I let out a stifled yowl of relief. Thus awakened, my wife asked me what the matter was. I skipped the whole Freudian episode and replied that I had just dreamt I had solved The Times Crossword Puzzle inside a world record three minutes.

‘In your dreams,’ she mumbled and turned back to sleep.

Exactly.