Let me push straight off the starting blocks, to employ an athletic aphorism, seeing as we are all still wallowing in the warm afterglow of the Olympic Games just concluded in Tokyo. A word of caution. I may step on sensitive toes while offering my personal take on how the country has reacted to what our boys and girls have achieved in the land of the rising sun. I shall not be treading warily on eggshells. With special reference to the Indian context and the gallant show displayed by our sports heroes who have come away with one gold, a brace of silvers and four bronze medals, making seven in all. This is not an earth-shattering collective performance for a country the humongous size of India, but it is a more than encouraging start, and our medal tally represents the highest ever for the country in four decades of the Olympic Games. So, congratulations and salutations to all our sports warriors who have acquitted themselves with great passion, panache and pride.

Yes, we would have been overjoyed if shuttler P.V. Sindhu had bagged the gold medal (walloping a few Chinese along the way), ditto with wrestler Bajrang Punia and weightlifter Mirabai Chanu, boxer Lovlina Borgohain (love the name), and our gallant hockey teams – men and women, but we rejoice at whatever colour of metal their mettle delivered. One does not look at Olympic medals in the mouth, particularly when they have been hard won. (Even the mighty Djokovic went medal-less). Then again, Neeraj Chopra did the near impossible, winning India’s first ever gold in a track and field event – the javelin throw. The way in which he expressed, retrospectively, that he was absolutely certain of out-throwing his rivals, reflected a certain insouciant charm and confidence rather than braggadocio. Chopra also showed that he was politically savvy in stating that he would have liked to have shared the podium with fifth placed Pakistani, Arshad Nadeem, bringing more glory to Asia. Not just a handsome face, our Neeraj! The resultant euphoria that erupted across the length and breadth of the nation was perfectly understandable, in contrast to the level-headed calm with which the young athlete responded to all the adulation that deservedly came his way. To say nothing of the moolah. This was manna from heaven.

While commending the medal winners, let us spare a thought for the likes of our women’s hockey team, golfer Aditi Ashok, discus hurler Kamalpreet Kaur and grappler Deepak Punia (shared surname with Bajrang a happy serendipity), all of whom fell within a whisker of bagging a bronze. In sum, India was placed 48^th in the medals table, its highest ranking in 40 years. I am still trying to get my head round how we were ranked 23^rd in the 1980 Moscow games with just one solitary medal – the men’s hockey gold.

That said, it would be entirely appropriate to mention another Indian javelin thrower, Padma Shri Devendra Jhajaria. ‘Devendra who?’ I hear you ask. He was the only Indian to win two gold medals at any Olympic or Paralympic games – one at the Athens Paralympics in 2004 and another in 2016 at the Rio Paralympics. When you consider that he achieved this with just one arm, the mind boggles. Sadly, Jhajaria already joins the swelling ranks of India’s unsung and forgotten heroes. He wings his way to Tokyo once again where the latest edition of the Paralympics gets under way shortly.

We now move to the not very pleasant side of India’s heart-warming Olympic story. This is where the eggshells and sensitive toes come in. If I were pushed to give it a working title it would be something on the lines of ‘Clambering on to the bandwagon.’ I fancy you know where I am going with this, dear reader. Your agile brain would have leapt to the conclusion, correctly, that I am about to express considerable angst over the manner in which pretty much anyone who was anyone in our country – the news media channels (both print and television) and through them, ministers and their minions, aka petty babudom, sportspersons, past and present, from all disciplines, columnists and authors, well-known personalities from the world of arts and entertainment, going all the way up to the top of the social and political tree, the PM and the President included. The forums became thinly-veiled excuses for opposing factions from the political spectrum slinging mud at each other, praising our sports heroes’ remarkable feats in the service of the nation while we had to endure venom-spewing antagonists every day preventing the passage of normal business in parliament. While political parties from every hue were united in showering unstinted encomiums on the athletes, they did not lose a moment to extol their own virtues in the process.

State government bosses announced handsome rewards to the winning athletes, which was fine and dandy, then spoilt it all by taking credit for the winners’ honours. Depending on which party was ruling that particular state, the opposition went hammer and tongs in their trenchant criticism of this tasteless self-aggrandisement, forgetting momentarily that a mirror image fiasco was taking place in their own state elsewhere in the country. As for the media, television in particular, it looked as if nothing else was happening in the country. The pandemic was forgotten as was Pegasus, petrol prices and a temperamental monsoon. Every television anchor and correspondent was hyperventilating with overweening pride, some even shedding a crocodile tear or two, the emotions threatening to overflow the banks. Many of them were full of personal anecdotes about ‘how I advised Sindhu on her footwork,’ or ‘how a young Aditi would come running to me seeking advice on the long putt.’ It is refreshing to note that Aditi herself took a more hard-nosed view of her performance. ‘To finish fourth in the Olympics is the worst feeling, but I hope to do better.’ A sensible head on young shoulders.

One correspondent even went to the extent of saying that he will be in Tokyo and should the Indian girls win a hockey medal, he will cry his eyes out while singing Jana Gana Mana at the podium ceremony. Sadly, our girls narrowly failed to make the cut for the bronze medal, thus leaving our correspondent alternately dry-eyed and lachrymose. If we sought balance and a sense of proportion in the way in which the nation ought to have responded, expressing quiet pride in what a handful of our athletes achieved coupled with a steely determination to better ourselves next time round, it was not forthcoming. The way the nation responded, it looked as if we had bagged 100 medals. Prakash Padukone, former All-England badminton champion and co-founder of Olympic Gold quest, a not-for-profit organisation promoting sports excellence, had this to say, ‘What concerns me is the complacency which is likely to have crept in after all the adulation and publicity once the bronze medal was within our athletes’ grasp. An overdone celebration is always a distraction. It does more harm than good. It is premature and makes it seem that the event is over. Players are confused, there is no incentive to go for gold as recognition and appreciation reach saturation point.’

Nowhere was the obsession with India’s Olympic performance more tellingly demonstrated than during a panel discussion on one of our English television news channels. Mr.Virendra Sharma, Labour MP in the United Kingdom, when queried on why his government was imposing needless quarantine regulations on Indians coming into the UK with a valid double-dose Covishield certificate, replied with a complete non sequitur. He held forth at length on the brilliant performance of the Indian athletes at the Tokyo Olympics, and how the Indian diaspora in the UK is over the moon with pride and joy. He finally, almost reluctantly, managed a few words on the quarantine imbroglio, promising to take the matter up with the Boris Johnson administration.

Enough said, methinks. Let me reiterate once again that we as a nation have every reason to be massively chuffed at how the ‘Seven Samurai,’ as one newspaper colourfully described them (Hockey counts as one unit), brought pride and glory to the nation. However, we must have the maturity and reflect that seven is not the greatest return for an investment on the largest ever 124 strong contingent that went to Tokyo for the 2020 Games. It is a time for sober reflection, particularly for all those who have had precious little to do with the performances but wish to bask in the limelight that does not shine on them. One can only recall the stirring words of the founder of the Olympics, Pierre de Coubertin – The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not winning but taking part; the essential thing in life is not conquering but fighting well.

For now, those words should serve us in good stead and perhaps, provide cold comfort.

Postscript: The title of this piece, Citius, Altius, Fortius, the Olympic motto translates from Latin into English as Faster, Higher, Stronger. Mottos always sound so much grander in Latin. Now here’s my beef. On 20 July 2021, the Session of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) approved a change in the Olympic motto ‘that recognizes the unifying power of sport and the importance of solidarity.’ They decided to add the word ‘Together’. So now the Olympic motto will officially read ‘Faster, Higher, Stronger – Together’ or in Latin, ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius – Communiter.’ Which adds nothing and ruins everything. Why can’t people leave well enough alone? The motto was doing just fine all these decades with just three words and now the IOC had to go tinkering around and add a completely superfluous fourth. Committees!

The former Indian business tycoon, Vijay Mallya, after protracted legal proceedings in the United Kingdom, has now been officially declared bankrupt, paving the way for a consortium of Indian banks to pursue a worldwide freezing order to seek repayment of debt owed by the now defunct Kingfisher Airlines. News reports.

A good friend of mine who lives in London and is well-versed with the Indian business and corporate scene had this piquant tale to relate. Now that the Covid restrictions have been all but lifted in the UK, this friend, let’s just call him Dilip, was wandering around Piccadilly Circus and the adjoining Soho area. Taking the air, as it were, and enjoying the new-found, post-pandemic freedom. There were the usual crowds milling around the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, more popularly known as the Eros statue, furiously clicking photographs and taking selfies. The British football fans had planned to celebrate raucously at this very spot in their thousands (as they did in 1966), anticipating an England victory at the recently concluded Euro Cup against Italy, but their hopes were cruelly dashed as the Azzurri lifted the Cup on penalties, and the predictable wailing and gnashing of teeth all over England followed. To revert to my story, Dilip, accompanied by his English wife Sarah and their ten-year old son Danny, were looking for a nice place to enjoy a quiet meal, something they had not done for the best part of two years.

All of a sudden Dilip spotted this pony-tailed, bearded, burly figure standing in front of the famous Lillywhites sports goods store, a cigar butt dangling from his lips, his hat lying upturned next to his feet on the pavement. A few coins could be seen inside and outside the hat, but barely enough to rub together, and certainly not enough to buy a cheeseburger without extra toppings from the Burger King across the street. His tie, sporting the logo of a bird, possibly a kingfisher, was hanging loose from his unbuttoned shirt collar. His torn blazer was badly patched up at both the elbows. The man appeared to be pre-occupied with something weighty on his mind. Other than mechanically repeating the words, ‘Top of the morning to you Sir, can you spare a quid to see me through lunchtime?’ his mind was clearly on other things. His heart did not seem to be quite in it. Every now and then he would break into a vaguely familiar tune with some unintelligible syllables that sounded like Oolalallalla layo.

I will let Dilip take up the story.

That’s when, like a bolt from the blue, it struck me. Right between the eyes. I could have sworn this was none other than Vijay Malady, one of India’s most flamboyant businessmen, who has been taking shelter in the UK for the last few years, staying far away from the banks and his employees to whom he allegedly owes untold sums of money. I was pretty certain that’s who this scruffy, straggly-bearded street corner busker was, but I needed to be sure. I decided to approach him gingerly. My wife Sarah upbraided me and told me to mind my own business and that she and Danny were famished. I told both of them to proceed to the nearby Angus Steakhouse, the famous steak joint, a repast I was dearly looking forward to. ‘Both of you make tracks to Angus. I’ll join you in a jiffy. You can order a Waldorf salad and a filet mignon, medium rare, for me.’ Having sent them on their way, I proceeded to buttonhole the man they called ‘The King of Good Times’ in India. I was still not absolutely certain this was the man I thought it was.

‘Er, excuse me,’ I started hesitantly. ‘Are you not Vijay Malady, the Indian tycoon who has been in the business pages of our dailies here in London in the recent past? Is it true what they say, that you are skint?’

‘Perhaps in London, I just made the business pages and not more than half a column at that. Back home in India, I am front page news and headlining the TV news channels as well. They simply can’t get enough of me. Only the Prime Minister garners more eyeballs.’ He then took a listless drag on his half-smoked cigar. ‘Have you got a light?’ he asked. He had run out of matches, and his Ronson lighter had run out of fuel. He was skint.

‘I am sorry, but I don’t smoke,’ I added ruefully.

He did not seem to absorb what I said and instead, carried on feverishly, puffing away at his extinguished cigar butt. ‘I meant what I said about the Indian media being obsessed with me. Don’t get taken in by all this porn stuff this Johnny-come-lately Raj Kundra is peddling. He is just a glory hunter and will do anything to get the media’s attention. I heard he is planning a short film titled ‘Porn Free,’ involving lions and lionesses frolicking in their natural habitat, but it could just be a wild rumour. The Joy Adamson estate might have had something to say about it.’

‘Gosh, so you are Vijay Malady. The playboy of the Indian corporate world. Richard Branson’s mirror image. You were a great admirer of Branson, were you not? You pretty much built yourself in his image. Have you met him recently in London?’ I was getting quite involved by now.

Malady seemed put out by my line of questioning. ‘Look, I did look up to Branson many years ago. You might say I even followed in his footsteps. You know, the airlines, the fashion models, the catwalks, the race horses, the glamour. Yes, I kind of hero worshipped him. Who knows where he is now! Probably hurtling in space with Bezos.’ He sounded wistful, like he should have been among those hurtling. He was, of course, but his journey seemed to be hurtling down to the centre of the earth.

I was fascinated and felt rather sorry. ‘But Mr. Malady, how has it all come down to this? You busking outside Lillywhites, singing Oolalallalla layo just to be able to buy yourself a hamburger. Such a precipitous fall. Explain that to me.’

He chuckled cynically. ‘I don’t know any tune other than the Kingfisher jingle, so I keep on yodelling that. I am a bit tone deaf. There was a time, you know, if I asked someone to jump, which was often, he would ask “how high?”, and here you are, a jumped-up migrant Indian in London asking me to explain myself. Some cheek. My friend, it is the British courts. They have declared me bankrupt and overnight things have come to a pretty pass. Only last week I was dining at The Ritz, just round the corner from here, with Lewis Hamilton. Now he doesn’t even want to know me.’

I was blown. ‘Wow, that’s impressive. Not your going broke, but you fine dining with Lewis Hamilton. At The Ritz, no less. Hai, hai as we say back home. So what happens now? Where do you go from here?’

‘Chokey? But not in India, if I can help it. Tell you what, if you can spare me a couple of quid, a temporary bridging loan, I’ll grab myself a bite at Burger King and then go down to the Piccadilly Underground to get a quick forty winks. Haven’t slept properly for days. Much obliged.’ He seemed to be in dire straits.

My heart bled. ‘Tell you what, Mr. Malady. Here’s ten pounds. I can’t bear to see you like this. You get yourself a hearty pub lunch. You know, shepherd’s pie and mashed potatoes with a tankard of beer to wash it down. You do that. Meanwhile, let me see if I can arrange some cheap digs for you somewhere in the suburbs. A bedsitter. I’ll take care of the expenses till you sort things out.’

 Malady’s eyes misted over. ‘You are truly generous my friend, whatever your name is. Not a skinflint, like all these other passers-by. Thanks for everything. I am touched, and so are you to the tune of ten pounds. If you can come round at 5 pm and wake me up, on the passage way to platform 3 on the Underground, just below the Phantom of the Opera poster, that will suit me down to the ground. I must have my afternoon nap, what with the beer and everything. I hope they serve Kingfisher.’

I felt so happy for the rich little poor man. As I was taking leave of him, he grabbed me by my coat tails and hissed, ‘Pssst, don’t look now, but there’s a small, baldish guy waving at me, big scrounger. No doubt he is trying to get into my ribs for a quid. He seems to be pushing somebody in a wheelchair. Good God! Surely not. Let’s make a run for it.’

‘But who are these chaps you are running away from?’ I was non-plussed.

Vijay Malady dragged me away from the spot and stage-whispered, ‘Don’t you know anything? That small chap is the diamantaire now pauper, Nirav Modi, and the guy he is pushing in the wheelchair is his uncle, Mehul Choksi. Once fat cats, now fugitives down on their luck.’ Like someone else who was doing all the talking! I was sure the former was in jail in Britain and the latter was hiding somewhere in the Caribbean, but I let it go. Obviously, Malady’s fevered brain was seeing things. At which point, the once, big-time liquor baron detached himself from my arm and ran hell for leather. I never saw him again.

Alas, poor Malady!

Just over a decade ago, 2010 to be precise, an extremely important development took place in India. The WhatsApp messaging application was launched, barely a year after two bright sparks, Brian Acton and Jan Koum, flagged it off in the United States. Those of us who happen to own a smartphone, which is practically the entire universe, have become craven slaves to this brilliant technological advance, enabling the human species to communicate with one another, across villages, towns, cities, countries and continents with a degree of ease that was unthinkable barely 20 years ago. The convenience, the utility value, the mere fact that your message can get across to your contact even before you’ve been able to marshal your own thoughts (‘blink of an eye’ doesn’t even begin to describe it), has given us a boon that some may consider a mixed blessing. To be perfectly blunt, many consider it a bane – with good reason. Of course, the WhatsApp bouquet is but one of a plethora of very clever things that your internet-enabled smartphone allows you to perform. Like ordering groceries, net banking, watching films, live sports and so on and so forth. Whether an utopian day will arrive when we can order food and have it delivered piping hot straight off our mobile screens instanter, I am not sure at this point in time. That said, I won’t count anything out, given that snooping devices are being embedded without our knowledge on our mobiles, even as I am tapping these letters on my keyboard. All in all, rapidly advancing technology, like so many other things that advance rapidly, have their good points, though you must perforce take the warts in your stride.

However, the main purpose of this contemplation is to reflect on the WhatsApp app, which incorporates an extra ‘app’ that is redundant, surplus to requirements and sounds corny, but it is what it is. If the application becomes part of the brand name, you have to expect convoluted sentences like that. The WhatsApp app (there I go again) has as many critics as it has supporters. Of one thing, nevertheless, I am convinced. Polarised though the WhatsApp world may be, both those in favour and against are avid users of the app. The carpers against WhatsApp, who find themselves unable to live without the app, can be accused of being part of the ‘pot-calling-the-kettle-black’ brigade. As a moderate user of the app, I can vouch for its ills and its benefits, but I would much rather take the broad view. I would like to look on WhatsApp’s positive attributes. The negatives are too many and can take care of themselves. The benefits that have been conferred on an unsuspecting public through WhatsApp have been plentiful and varied, too long to enumerate, but here’s a brief sampler. From residents of apartment blocks, old school associations, general do-gooders who get together to do good to the society at large, music lovers, book lovers, dog lovers, which in turn can be broken up into specific musicians, authors and dog breeds – they all form groups on WhatsApp and keep chatting (often violently) all the livelong day on subjects as diverse as the ‘Gone with the Wind’ controversy, rubbishing the archaic building society regulations, what to do when your adopted pie-dog contracts distemper, and much else besides. Why all this must be done on WhatsApp when you already have other online platforms like Facebook is a question for the ages. If you detect a touch of irony in my analysis, I assure you it is entirely intentional.

Among those who have benefitted greatly from people’s addiction to incessantly be on WhatsApp messaging or telephone calls, the latter being free and often much clearer than regular calls, the orthopaedic wing of the medical profession must surely top the list. In order to obtain a better insight on the subject, I called up an orthopaedic doctor friend of mine, whose knowledge and experience on the subject of bones and joints is second to none. What he does not know about spondylitis or spondylosis (I can never tell the difference), cervical or lumbar, can be written on the head of a pin with a pneumatic drill, as I have heard it described. To this good doctor friend, therefore, I placed a call.

‘Hi Doc, what gives? What with the pandemic and everything, I guess business must be pretty dull. In your line of work, you need patients to be placed on metal beds, x-rays taken, backs and necks pummelled till they leave your clinic feeling much worse than when they entered, and the neck pain shooting skywards when they see your bill. All in a profitable day’s work, it used to be. Now with masked patients hobbling into your clinic in trickles, how do you make ends meet?’

I could see my bone specialist pal was not best pleased with my airy-fairy, tongue-in-cheek conversational gambit. ‘Look, it’s all very well you cracking tasteless jokes. However, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, my friend. If you must know, business is booming.’

‘Really,’ I responded with a touch of sarcasm. ‘Pray, do enlighten me.’

‘For one thing, this talking and messaging on WhatsApp virtually 24 x 7, has resulted in more and more people of all age groups coming down with cervical problems. Even before the pandemic struck, neck related complaints had increased manifold, thanks to WhatsApp. Now, Covid19 has ensured that the use of WhatsApp on smartphones has gone through the roof, and along with that so has my online consultancy. If you must know, my systems manager tells me that the number of patients consulting me with neck issues has gone up by a staggering 66% over the last two years. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

As I don’t smoke, I let the boastful metaphor pass. I pressed on. ‘Surely then, you should be advising your patients to use their mobiles in moderation and not indulge in useless chit chat about what they are wearing this evening for someone’s birthday which they will celebrate online through what else, but WhatsApp. By the way, with regard to developing neck problems, is there a difference between texting and video calls? What I am getting at is, is one of those two activities less likely to create a crick in the neck?’

The doc was not impressed. ‘What kind of a damn fool question is that? Whether you talk over video or you type in text, you are still hunched over your mobile, are you not? Your neck is still prone to the same level of stress. Capeesh?’

I was beginning to feel the strain myself. My neck muscles were knotted up. ‘Capeesh? What is that, Swahili? Alright, don’t get so stressed yourself? Just seeking an opinion, that’s all. In sum, what you are striving to tell me is that this obscene pre-occupation with WhatsApp has resulted in pretty much massive swathes of the population being unable to keep their heads straight thanks to the neck pain. This in turn has hugely increased calls being made to you, also on WhatsApp, and you are laughing all the way to the bank. Would that be a correct summation of the situation?’

‘Got it in one, even if you expressed it crudely. You are not quite as thick as a brick. The point is, my friend, I cannot be seen to be profiting from other people’s ailments, but that is what all medical practitioners do. It’s not our fault that people fall ill. I was only making the limited point that one thing leads to another. The pandemic has forced people to stay at home. This has compelled more people to conduct all their business, personal and professional, through their smartphones. At that, WhatsApp has come out on top as the communication tool of choice. Which has naturally led to more people coming down with neck trouble. Simple logic. Savvy?’

‘Savvy is better than capeesh, I guess,’ I replied drily. ‘That’s great. Good for you, Doc. Why don’t you close shop and come over to my place? Let’s have a drink. We’ll smoke a peace pipe. Ha ha.’

He looked pained, rubbing his neck vigourously. ‘Sorry, no can do. I have an appointment with my orthopaedist.’

I went ramrod straight. ‘What! But you are one yourself. Orthopaedist, I mean. And why, for crying out loud?’

‘That is the irony of it.  All this constant talking and video conferencing with my patients on WhatsApp has put my neck clean out of joint. Quite literally. I have been on WhatsApp with you for the last 20 minutes! And you know the cardinal rule in the medical profession. Doctors should never treat themselves or self-medicate. They always get a second, objective opinion.’

I guess that made sense. Doctors should also help each other out to keep the home fires burning. I ended the call with a consoling, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’

When all is said and done, Messrs Acton and Koum have much to answer for.

They sway’d about upon a rocking horse / And thought it Pegasus. John Keats, Sleep and Poetry.

The three wise Gods of Asgard, in the Kingdom of Norse decided to get together at Valhalla to discuss a matter of great pith and moment. They were all double-masked to keep away a strange and unknown pestilence, christened Covidicus, that was threatening to decimate the entire populace of Norse. Though all three of them had gulped down two silver goblets each, at the recommended twelve-week interval, of the Astracus  Zenecus Covaxicus potions, which the medicine men of the Apothecary had promised would provide full protection against the dreaded Covidicus, including the wretched Deltalus variant. Had the magic nectar failed to do its stuff, heads would have rolled down Valhalla’s majestic, winding marble stairway. Not quite the Stairway to Heaven of legend and song, but almost half way there. Divinity’s winsome threesome was huddled together at an emergency meeting. At the head of the table sat the wisest of them all, he with the long, flowing white beard, Modicum the Mighty. He was joined by two of his most trusted lieutenants, Shahftus the Handyman and Naddalus the Everyman, their blank, polished, granite tablets and sharpened stone writing implements at the ready, to inscribe every precious commandment of their leader. Imagine, if you will, Moses (or Charlton Heston) on top of Mount Sinai hugging a tablet of commandments on each arm.

Having taken the Chair, Modicum the Mighty called the meeting to order. ‘Order, order,’ he cried, in the time-honoured fashion, which is the sole preserve and copyright of high court and supreme court judges across the land, and in particular, their honourable wig-wearing justices from the celluloid world.

‘First off, may I suggest we remove our masks right this minute. We have all been twice dosed. Shahftus and Naddalus, both of you are rotund and well-endowed in shape and size and of similar build and complexion. It is virtually impossible to tell you apart. Which makes it difficult for me to address you by your proper names if you insist on wearing the masks, in the absence of any recognition software. I am, of course, easily spotted owing to the fact that my long, flowing, white beard extends well below my mask, the luscious outcrop fully obscuring the determined jut of my chin. As a courtesy to both of you, however, I shall also take off my mask and you need have no qualms about dealing with an impostor. I am the head of Asgard, the venerable Odin, better known as Modicum to my friends. The Mighty is optional.’

Shahftus and Naddalus were both sitting at a precise 45-degree angle to the right and left of Modicum respectively. There was an attractive and precise symmetry to this disciplined triangulation. Modicum was extremely partial to symmetry in everything he did. Whichever hand he stuck out, the two heavyweights were at hand, in a manner of speaking. He liked to be even handed. The twosome nodded vigorously in assent after Modicum’s brief introductory remarks.

Shahftus, being the senior of the two lieutenants, was the first to respond. ‘We are waiting to hear from you with bated breath, Modicumji. To what do we owe the honour of this sudden meeting at the witching hour of midnight? Is our land under attack? Has Covidicus mutated out of control? Has Rahulus the Gandalf developed mumps? What is it? Do tell, Modicumji. I am bursting with anticipation.’

Modicum smiled benignly wagging his long forefinger avuncularly. ‘That is the last thing you want, Shahftus. Bursting, I mean. I’ve had occasion to chastise you about your weight before. Your brain is overly exercised, perhaps your body too should take inspiration from your grey cells. There is, however, a grain of truth in some of your well-founded questions. We are under attack, but not from Covidicus which we have, for now at any rate, brought under control in most parts of our kingdom, barring a few errant states. If we behave ourselves, and consume more potions, we can ward off any wave that tries to engulf us. Speaking for myself, I am more concerned about the ever-present threat of a wave from our western borders, rather than this bug that bugs us. As you know, they are led by a man, Imodium Khan, who once played a strange game called cricket, and this leader could swing a red cherry wickedly, much like a banana. As for Rahulus the Gandalf coming down with mumps; no such luck, I am afraid. As far as Rahulus is concerned, Mum’s the word, ha ha. Geddit? And you won’t get much change from his sister Priyantarantulus, either. No. no, it’s something else. What do either of you know about this Pegasus?’

After a hearty chuckle at the Imodium and Rahulus’ mumps crack, both Shahftus and Naddalus looked blank. ‘Sorry?’ they said in chorus.

‘Don’t apologize, just answer the question,’ retorted Modicum.

‘When we said sorry, we didn’t mean sorry, we meant sorry? As in, beg your pardon?’

‘You are pardoned for now, but if you carry on like this, you could be trying my patience.’ Modicum was not amused. ‘Now tell me about this Pegasus.’

‘Pegasus? Pegasus?’ they intoned in chorus. Naddalus added respectfully, ‘If you could elaborate, Modicumji.’

Modicum looked left and right symmetrically, at both of them. ‘You are beginning to sound like an Abbott and Costello double act. I expected better from my lieutenant. And my rightenant. I ask again. What do either of you know about Pegasus? Are you keeping something from me? And before you answer, look carefully under the table, your chairs and your tablets in case there are strange listening devices implanted.’

Shahftus butted in quickly. ‘Modicumji, the room has been swept for any such device. You have nothing to worry about. So, what is this Pegasus?’

‘I am asking you, Shahftus,’ returned the Mighty One, archly.

Naddalus, who was up-to-date with the latest technological developments, had a ready explanation. ‘I did a quick Googlinctus search on my Itablet. It’s a horse, Modicumji. A white horse with wings. My friends tell me it has mystical powers. Like being able to listen and see things over very long distances.’

‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse, eh? I always thought White Horse was the name of a whisky brand, though I do not touch the stuff myself. It is banned where I come from,’ chimed Modicum, ‘but I am still confused. Why is everybody in the land chanting the name of Pegasus, as if it’s a crippling disease like Covidicus and giving all of us dirty looks? Shahftus, you usually have an ear to the ground. What are your men telling you, and what are you not telling me?’

Shahftus shifted uneasily in his chair. Took a few chips off his tablet with his stone writing implement. ‘Word on the street, Modicumji, is that someone from our ruling elite has been hiring some foreign body to plant listening and viewing devices onto our country’s people, the better to figure out what mischief they are up to.’

‘Is that not a desirable thing? Surely, that is standard practice?’ roared Modicum rhetorically. ‘Should we not be kept in the loop, as I have heard our media friends and enemies describe it? And anyway, why have I not been told about this? Our opposition parties are clamouring for some joint committee to probe this matter, and I am still clueless. Naddalus, what say you?’

After scratching something furiously on his tablet with his stone stylus, Naddalus responded. ‘Modicumji, you will still be clueless and so will Shahftusji and myself when you learn who will spearhead this joint committee. It is that puffed-up poltroon, Shashticus Thoroughbred, who speaks a form of English only he and the Bard of Avon can even remotely follow. He also uses words like Snoopgate, Spyware and Watergate. To say nothing of acronyms like NSO. And quite recently, ‘pogonotrophy,’ with a not-so-veiled reference, Modicumji, to your glorious beard.’

When Naddalus saw that Modicum had blanched deathly pale, he rushed furiously to clarify, ‘Pogonotrophy Modicumji, not pornography.’ The colour quickly rushed back to Modicum’s face as he took a long draught of coconut water and continued.

‘By all the Gods of Norse and all the ancestors of Odin, surely not Shashticus. I will need all the 5000 marble tablets of the God Roget and his Thesaurus by my side to refer to while this fellow is holding forth. And fifth. What was that again Naddalus? Puffed-up poltroon? Very good. Perhaps you can take this Thoroughbred head-on. I’ll give him a pogonotrophy he won’t forget.’ So saying, Modicum let out a bellow of raucous laughter.

The two underlings laughed in unison. When the Boss laughs, the world laughs with Him. At this point, Shahftus struck a conspiratorial note. ‘Modicumji, evidently a foreign power has financed this entire Pegasus project worldwide. It is feared that anyone with a talking device could be subjected to being heard and seen at all hours of the day or night. This has made many of our women folk extremely nervous, lest they should be sighted in a state of déshabillé if you get my meaning.’

‘You are not doing too badly yourself, Shahftus. Déshabillé eh? Meaning what, exactly? Naddalus, what does your Googlinctus say?’

Naddalus looked distinctly uneasy. He knew exactly what déshabillé meant but he was taken aback that his colleague Shahftus had heard of the word, though he murdered the pronunciation, what with the French and everything. He cleared his throat and attempted an explanation. ‘Modicumji, the word is French in origin, like many fancy English words, and it means when someone, particularly a woman, is in a state of, um, how I shall I put it, in the privacy of her boudoir, not modestly clothed.’ Naddalus let out a huge sigh of relief, mopping up the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

Modicum broke into a smile. ‘That was not so difficult, was it Naddalus? I am equally surprised that Shahftus knew this word, when I would have thought it was more in the vocabulary range of our erstwhile friend, Shashticus Thoroughbred. Déshabillé indeed! Utter nonsense. We have full respect for our women and men, and while I am at the helm, which will be till our holy cows come home, there will be no deshabilling. Go and tell that to the people.’

As it appeared that the meeting was winding down to a close, Shahftus wanted to know what exactly should be done about this Pegasus issue. Modicum replied firmly. ‘Look my friend, I still don’t know what Pegasus means other than that it is a white horse with wings, which might or might not be a brand of whisky. I suggest we just ride this one out, and the horse will just fly away. It has wings, has it not? We have survived far more tricky issues. So why worry about something no one seems to know the meaning of.’

‘Yes Modicumji, thank you Modicumji,’ the two strong men spoke in practiced unison. Far off, a winged white horse neighed, as it took flight.

It was just another day at the office.

During the early 70s, when I was fortunate enough to land a job as an executive trainee in one of Calcutta’s leading advertising agencies, I had precious little idea of what I was letting myself in for. The hurly-burly, non-stop excitement of working shoulder to shoulder with bright-as-buttons creative copywriters and art directors; tough-as-nails, smooth-talking bosses, some of whom grandly toted cigars and if I allowed my imagination to run wild, a snifter glass of Hennessy cognac swirling about in their free hand. Not to be outdone, pretty much all your colleagues, men or women, smoked a variety of cigarette brands like chimneys. I meant they smoked liked chimneys, not that the cigarette brands were like chimneys, if you get my meaning. These transferred epithets are a pain to the unwary writer. Forgive the digression. Smoking was not merely a habit, a bad one, but a fashion-statement, an equally bad one. If you didn’t smoke, you were not quite ‘with it.’ Incidentally, if you were game for extremes, then the humble ‘bidi,’ favoured by rickshaw-wallahs and their ilk, took you to the top of the pecking order – inverted snobbery! This was before the spoilsports from the health ministry started insisting that all cigarette packets must carry dire warnings stating that the inhalation of noxious fumes from tobacco could lead to an early grave. Not being copywriters, they adopted the more prosaic line, ‘Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.’ Some of the packs, not taking chances, even had a skull and crossbones graphic alongside. Not that anyone took a blind bit of notice.

Anyhow, it was the done thing those days, walking around looking pensive, with a Wills Filter or Charms dangling from your lips. Think: Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. And if the midnight oil had to be burned, which was often, to meet client presentation deadlines, you could count on a never-ending supply of Old Monk rum on tap. Hardly the sort of atmosphere my strictly conservative parents would have envisaged or desired for their quiet, obedient son. I have had occasion to touch upon this licentious aspect of my early days in advertising in some of my other missives, so I shan’t go over that well-trodden path again. Except, perhaps, to add gratuitously that I was a total disgrace to this accepted template of the rising ad man. One small rum I could just about manage. The second, forced down my glass (if not my throat), invariably watered the nearest potted plant when my colleagues were looking the other way. They were too sozzled to notice, anyway. As for cigarettes, my father thought them sinful, and I had visions of Purgatory whenever I took a tentative puff. It came as no surprise when my boss angrily exclaimed, ‘You don’t smoke, you can’t drink, what the hell are you doing in an advertising agency?’ Touché. That said, it wasn’t all smoke and mirrors at the agency. Merely the preliminary pourparlers preceding a more elevating aspect of those early days of my advertising career.

The wonderful thing about our agency was that it had a well-stocked library. Apart from the classics and many of the more modern authors of that period (Salinger, Kerouac et al), the agency also subscribed to a number of Indian and foreign magazines. The idea was that reading books would never be a waste of time in a profession where the English language was deemed a primary sine qua non for success. In later years, books and periodicals in some of India’s major vernaculars were also added to the subscription list, as language advertising became a prime requirement.

One of the many magazines that adorned our library was the British humour and satire weekly, Punch. This venerable magazine, which was founded in 1841, and sadly downed its shutters some 151 years later in 1992, was one of the most sought-after publications in our library. Even if you were not amongst the first to ‘get at it’ as soon as it was delivered, there were plenty of back issues to go through. However, a word in season with the librarian, along with a packet of fags always helped to receive that early tip-off. Apart from the wondrous content, both written articles as well as rib-tickling cartoons and illustrations, the magazine gave us an insight into high class advertising in Britain during the vibrant 70s. Tobacco, liquor and top-of-the-line automobiles were the primary categories heavily advertised in Punch, reflecting the exalted target group that constituted the magazine’s core readership. My little cubicle was refulgent with colourful adverts, stunningly photographed (and airbrushed) cut out from the magazine’s pages – an inspiration to any aspiring advertising executive. The librarian was none too pleased with my vandalizing the magazines thus, but he took the broad view and looked the other way – the fags doing their stuff!

More than the advertising, I was hooked on to the legendary columnists who regaled me week after week with their ability to bring down politicians and venerable institutions with extraordinary style and elan, such that you could hardly take offence. America’s mirror image magazine, MAD, crude by comparison, could scarcely hold a candle to Punch. Editors and contributors to Punch were legends in their own right.  Basil Boothroyd, Alan Coren, E.S. Turner and Miles Kington were among the regulars that kept me entertained over an idle hour. Some of my senior colleagues and bosses would pop round to my ‘cabin’ on hearing my uncontrolled chortling, wanting to know if I was having an apoplectic fit. And if not, what the dickens was I doing reading magazines when I should have been working on that Dunlop truck tyre presentation. Well, it was a small price to pay, earning my bosses’ indulgent wrath against the literary enjoyment I derived from Punch. Incidentally, occasional celebrated contributors to Punch, historically, have included the likes of P.G. Wodehouse, Kingsley Amis, Keith Waterhouse, A.A. Milne, Somerset Maugham and Sylvia Plath. The last named took me by surprise. The celebrated poet and author of the classic roman-à-clef, The Bell Jar and the poetic Ariel, Sylvia Plath suffered from severe depression and tragically took her own life. Wouldn’t have thought she was the right fit for the happy-go-lucky Punch, but I will need to read her contributions, if I can source them, before arriving at any definitive conclusion.  Although the magazine no longer exists, the works of many of its brilliant contributors, most of them no longer with us, are available in book form. Now in the relaxed evening of my life, I have been ordering some of these wonderful collection volumes online, ecstatically poring over them all the livelong day. I was also fortunate to get my grubby hands on some of the Punch annuals at select second-hand book shops in places like Portobello Road in London during some of my memorable visits to the UK. You can’t get these now for love or money. And to anyone reading this who is entertaining ideas of borrowing some of these treasures from me, let me put you straight. You are most welcome to come home and spend a few hours leafing through them, as you would at the British Council library, but the books shall not leave my premises. So there. You have been duly cautioned.

In conclusion, I would like to share an interesting personal experience I had with Punch. During my callow advertising agency days, I would spend some of my spare time attempting to write articles of a humorous nature, inspired by Punch. I would submit these to some of the local newspapers in Calcutta for favour of publication. They did me no favours! More often than not, I would not hear from them. On the rare occasion when I did, it would be a bland pre-printed rejection slip without even the courtesy of a signature. I then decided that I would go the whole hog and try my luck with Punch. In for a penny, in for a pound. Remember, these were pre-email days. I slaved for weeks, carefully typing and retyping the draft, checking for misplaced apostrophes and errant punctuations, and wrote a thoughtfully worded covering letter to the Editor and bunged it off Par Avion to London. Set me back a pretty penny in postage stamps, I can tell you. I expected nothing, and nothing happened for close to a month. Just when I had given up the ghost, a buff envelope arrived with my name and address neatly typed and the Punch rubber stamp proudly displayed along with the Queen’s philatelic mug shot. My pulse raced. I felt like the poet Wordsworth; ‘My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky.’ ‘Can it be?’ I asked myself, holding my breath. I did not dare open the envelope for a good fifteen minutes. Finally, with the aid of a kitchen knife, I carefully slit the envelope and fished out the letter. It was from Miles Kington from the editorial board of Punch. Clearly handwritten with a biro it said, ‘Nice idea, but it could do with a bit of reworking. Keep writing. Best wishes. Miles.’

It was the nicest and most treasured reject letter I have ever received. If only I can find the blessed thing! A few days ago, I ordered from Amazon and received ‘The best of Miles,’ a collection of Kington’s finest columns, along with another volume of his distinguished colleague, Alan Coren’s choicest pieces. My cup runneth over. Pleased as Punch, in fact.

I’ll make my stand like a buffalo, / Make my way to higher ground. Ted Nugent.

In one of my recent missives, I had occasion to bemoan the fact that our media, be it print or television, generally tends to provide us with an overdose of ‘same old, same old.’ You know what I am talking about. Politics and everything else like Elections, Covid or Cricket generously peppered with political overtones. Or even undertones, come to that. Not that I can tell the difference. I had also been at pains to dig out information of a more interesting and entertaining nature that abounds in a brilliantly variegated country like ours, but goes largely unnoticed under the media’s selective glare. Some of the human-interest tidbits, now and then come to light much to our delight, in spite of our communication channels’ reluctance to air them. As indeed was the case when I was riffling through my daily a few days ago.

It was a strange tale of what happened at a suburb of Ahmedabad recently. Alcohol, as anyone who has tried to get a drink in Ahmedabad (or anywhere else in Gujarat) will tell you, is banned in that state. Home of Gandhiji, Modiji and all that. Which is the surest way of ensuring that a flourishing underground industry for the banned product grows by leaps and bounds. I am also advised that some establishments may offer alcoholic refreshment in Gujarat if you can produce a doctor’s certificate prescribing the intake of said libation for medical reasons. Incredible as that may sound, it is true. Cross my heart and hope to die. Brandy, from time immemorial, has been a highly recommended specific for those feeling a bit under the weather. As you would expect, the topers take undue advantage of this liberating license, often feigning sickness. ‘May I have another large brandy please, preferably neat,’ groans the malingering patient weakly from his sick bed. For the most part, however, those sorely in need of a quick one, can be seen loitering about the towns and cities of this prosperous (some might even say preposterous) state, their tongues hanging out wondering where the next large peg or cold beer is coming from. It is precisely to cater to such misguided nirvana seekers that the more enterprising and savvy operators obtain all kinds of liquor from sources of a very dubious nature. The black or red label might say Johnnie Walker, but the brown liquid in the bottle could be anything from locally produced arrack or something even more spurious like denatured spirit or methyl alcohol. ‘10 die of liquor poisoning in remote village’ is a headline we have become quite accustomed to.

To get back to our story, a bunch of entrepreneurial and well-heeled brothers who were throwing a party at their cottage somewhere on the outskirts of bone-dry Ahmedabad, had stashed away hundreds of bottles of the stuff sunk in a small pond just outside their home, away from the prying eyes of the law. It is conjectured that many of these bottles, which were probably hurled into the pond in a hurry to evade the approaching police vehicles, were broken and the flowing liquor got nicely mixed in with the natural water, giving this watering hole a yellowish hue, to say nothing of the heady odour that emanated from it and wafted for quite a few metres around the vicinity.

As it happened, a small family of three buffaloes and a calf happened to be grazing close to the pond, ‘lowing here and there’ as the poet had it, unmindful of the fabulous treat that awaited them nearby. The steady intake of dried grass had given the bovine creatures a right, royal thirst as they ambled up in a gentle gait to slake their parched throats. As they got closer to the pool of water, a strange odour assailed their olfactory senses. The buffaloes found the smell not entirely unattractive. ‘What ho, what ho,’ exclaimed the senior male buffalo. ‘Looks like our thirst-quenching pond is offering us something more than just H2O. Let us investigate further, shall we?’ So saying, the adult buffaloes avidly lowered their heads to the refreshing liquid and slurped as never before. Not to be outdone, the little calf joined the party with gusto. All they needed was a few plates of cocktail canapes and spongy dhoklas (a speciality of Gujarati cuisine) and the animals’ cup of joy would have been overflowing.

Having generously partaken of what was pleasantly offered in their ‘poisoned well,’ the buffaloes began to feel quite happily drowsy. Before you could say moo to a cow, the buffaloes were all horizontal on the ground, dead to the world but still in the land of the living. If that was all it was, things might have been all right. They would have woken up after a few hours, wondering why they seem to be afflicted by a sore head, hunted around for an empty foil strip of Alka Seltzer or Gelusil, and contentedly gone about their favourite pastime of chewing grass (or foil), their tails swishing this way and that. However, the dumb chums had to learn their lesson the hard way.

When the domestic staff of the manor awoke the next morning, doubtless in search of the buffaloes to milk for the household’s morning cuppa, they were greeted by a bewildering sight. The three adult bovines and the little one were found jumping up and down making strange noises, not consistent with the standard ‘moo’ that one knows and loves, if one is a bovine fancier. Clearly something was amiss. The local vet was sent for. When the good cow doctor turned up, astonished to see the buffaloes performing Salome’s ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’, he could make nothing of it. Muttering to himself that now he has seen everything, he proceeded to approach the extremely difficult task of administering anesthetic injections to the inebriated animals. It is never an easy task to plunge a needle on to the rump of a dancing buffalo, but the vet managed it. Soon the animals were all sleeping peacefully, and he was able to conduct his examination. After about twenty minutes, he was ready to pronounce his verdict.

The brothers who were responsible for this tragi-comedy of errors were called in and the vet grandly announced that the household cattle family had gone on a massive binge, having imbibed more alcohol than is normally recommended for your average adult buffalo, to say nothing of the calf. Naturally, the siblings correctly jumped to the conclusion that the hidden alcoholic treasure at the bottom of the pond was at the bottom of all this. Not wishing to bother the vet with needless incriminating information, they paid him handsomely and sent him on his way. The domestic staff, who knew exactly what had transpired, were told to seal their lips on pain of flogging. The pond was cleaned immediately, the bottles destroyed and no more was heard on the subject, leaving the local gendarmes deeply suspicious but clueless.

The buffaloes took a few days to recover and get back to their normal routine. There is however a twist to this strange tail, or rather, tale. During the following days, the animals were taken to the pond but flatly refused to drink the clean, clear water. The leader of this small pack, if buffaloes do hunt in packs, was heard murmuring to his fellow bulls, ‘I demand that we be provided with the same water we drank a few days ago from this pond. This water is tasteless, colourless and odourless. Let them come for their milk early morning, and our ladies will show them what’s what. They want a bullfight, I’ll give it to them.’ So saying, he shook his head in an aggressive fashion, showing off his horns like his Spanish counterparts do to their matadors. The staff tried telling the bulls that’s how clean, drinking water is meant to be, but the bulls went on an indefinite strike. ‘If you give us odourless water, we shall remain udder-less,’ they seemed to be saying.

Moral of the story – if you are told buffaloes don’t like a stiff drink, that’s a lot of bull.

There’s news. And then there’s news. In India, our television channels and newspapers are presently overrun with subjects on the following lines – Covid, The Prime Minister’s views on Covid, The Health Minister’s views on the Prime Minister’s views on Covid, Rahul Gandhi’s views on the Health Minister’s views on the Prime Minister’s views on Covid, Vaccination statistics, Infections, Recoveries and Deaths statistics, Rahul Gandhi’s views on said statistics, all the bigwigs from the Indian Council of Medical Research and the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences – their views on Covid, sundry doctors’ and nattily dressed surgeons’ views on Covid and the World Health Organization’s Secretary General, who can always be counted upon to pour some very sticky oil on Covid’s troubled waters. Then there’s Mamata Banerjee who all but blames the BJP for bringing Covid to India, and Yogi Adityanath who feels his state has set the finest example on how to manage the pandemic. While the numbers endorse the Yogi’s claim somewhat, his boast flies in the face of all the human carcasses, post Covid, that were seen floating on India’s most sacred river. To all this we add the disjointed ramblings of godman Baba Ramdev, who first pooh-poohed the efficacy of our vaccines, aggressively pushing his ayurvedic concoctions instead to combat Covid, did another about turn (as yoga practitioners are so adept at doing) claiming he was misunderstood. If you ask me, the Baba has turned the whole subject of Covid on its head. Last heard, he himself was standing on his head, refusing to speak to the media. More recently, the media has been droning on about some unidentified flying drones from across the border, but I will put that to one side for now.

 I think that pretty much covers the ground, unless you wish to include the resurgent and fully resurrected Arnab Goswami and his Tower of Babel channel, the ominous Rajdeep Sardesai, who is always looking for tidbits of information to push the government on the backfoot, India’s men of letters like Chetan Bhagat and Suhel Seth, who can be counted upon to air their silver-tongued oratorical skills on television, their primary focus on being flamboyantly eloquent and giving the less literary folks who misplace their apostrophes or split their infinitives, an inferiority complex. Shashi Tharoor, where have you been hiding? You are being upstaged, my good parliamentarian from Thiruvananthapuram. To be fair to Tharoor, he gained a few brownie points by referring to the Prime Minister’s ‘pogonotrophy,’ which had all of us reaching out for our Oxford or Cambridge tomes. (I tell a lie. It’s Google). The ‘p word’ denoting the PM’s meticulous styling and cultivation of his flowing white beard. Well done, Shashi! Your reputation as India’s wordsmith nonpareil, survives. Meanwhile, Congress-blackballed Sanjay ‘end-of-day’ Jha who is forever prevaricating on his stated position vis a vis his former party and the ruling dispensation, holds forth and fifth every evening on national television. One has to wonder if it is the end of days for Jha’s political career.

Now and then, the indefatigable Subramanian Swamy will shoot his mouth off on just about anything that glides into his field of vision, never mind if it is the ruling party which he represents or just about anyone else. They are all grist to his insatiable, garrulous mill. I believe the ruling party reckons it is wiser to have a loose cannon within its fold than outside it. Of course, the Swamy is constantly emboldened by the fact that he has taken just about anyone and everyone in the country to court, demanding justice, real or imagined. That being the case, I am always in a state of bafflement as to why anyone should take a blind bit of notice of this veteran, ageless politician’s minatory finger-wagging.

I seek your indulgence, dear reader, for that unforgivably orotund introduction. I can only plead, in extenuation, that needs must. The purpose of highlighting matters that headline our newspapers and television news channels on a regular basis is to lead me into areas our worthy vendors of news rarely foray. I have therefore taken it upon myself to seek out what I believe to be little ‘human interest’ stories that reveal eloquently that India is more than just about politicians, news anchors, doctors and Covid. Not to mention, cricket. And how do I come by these stories? The internet is a good place to start for unravelling strange goings-on in our country. Sometimes, a little column tucked away on page 16 of your newspaper will carry a gem or two. Equally, word of mouth pearls of wisdom from everyday people like domestic staff and sundry visitors to the old homestead, add to our storehouse of recherché and lightweight knowledge.

Take this brief news item I came across just a couple of days ago. Somewhere in north India, in one of our remote villages, a marriage had been arranged, and was slated to take place a couple of weeks down the road, when all the planetary signs were perfectly aligned. Just a few days prior to the big day, the bride’s father had visited the groom’s home, doubtless to put the finishing touches to the dowry and wedding arrangements. On entering the groom’s house, he was shocked and taken aback to find the young groom-in-waiting, hands outstretched, head shaking this way and that like Stevie Wonder, trying to feel his way around the home, periodically bumping into chairs, pillars and so on. If the bride’s father did not know any better, he would have jumped to the conclusion that his impending bridegroom was blind as a bat. ‘My good man, my son-in-law-to-be, you are as blind as a bat,’ exclaimed the stricken father of the bride. ‘Why were we kept in the dark, like you?’ Shocked to the core, the groom replied, ‘No, no Sir, I am not blind at all. And who told you bats are blind? Not true, check with the National Geographic channel. It’s just that I misplaced my high-powered spectacles and I’ve got soap in my eyes owing to coming out of the bath suddenly on hearing the doorbell, so I am floundering a bit.’

This did not wash with the bride’s family, any more than the soap did. On being told that her beau has four eyes, the bride-to-be screamed ‘Nahin, nahin,’ in the accepted and time-honoured Bollywood fashion. ‘Yeh shaadi nahin hogi. This marriage is off. You can go look for another girl wearing powerful bifocals. You can both dance around the house, arms outstretched, soaped to the gills and have the time of your lives.’ At which point, in high dudgeon, the bride’s old man demanded the generous dowry of one scooter, two kilos of gold jewellery and two buffaloes to be duly returned, on pain of terrible vengeance to be wrought. The groom’s father told them to whistle. At the time of going to press, the village elders were still haranguing over the affair under a banyan tree, but the bride-to-be was firm. ‘I had my suspicions during the engagement ceremony when he cozied up and whispered into my mother’s shell-like ear that she was sexy and beautiful and could they sneak off and take in lamboo Bachchan’s latest hit, but I had put that down to his strange sense of humour. Many grooms flatter their mothers-in-law. Now that I know he can’t see beyond the end of his bulbous nose, I quit. Let him look for someone else with a better than 20 / 200 vision.’ All this may sound far more colourful in her native patois, as we lose a bit in translation, but you get the picture.

Now that is the kind of story I would like to read more of in our newspapers, and view on our television sets. While I keep whining on about television and print, we must rejoice in our PM’s attempt to revive the joys of a long forgotten medium – the radio. His monthly address to the nation under the banner of Mann ki Baat, has that homely, grandma-story-telling, fireside-chat feel to it which all Indians who understand Hindi will warmly welcome. Whether a dubbing or sub-titling arrangement is in place in regions where Hindi is foreign, I do not know. Given the PM’s shrewd instincts to reach out to the masses, I should be vastly surprised if that minor, though important detail, has not been addressed. The ironic thing is, for the PM’s weighty words to scatter to the four corners of the nation, the radio broadcast is also played on television (that’s where the sub-titling comes in), with a static picture of a transistor radio and the PM’s cherubic visage, flowing white beard and all. Pogonotrophy personified! As Sigmund Freud said, and he said a lot, ‘Words have a magical power. They can either bring the greatest happiness or the deepest despair.’

Right now, my money is on despair.

Postscript: As I am about to put this piece to bed, news filters through that some startled and terrified citizens in certain parts of Bangalore, a few days ago, were seen scurrying hither and thither on hearing a loud bang, or boom or blast. Or whatever. The source of the bang (or boom) is still unexplained and unaccounted for. Deepavali is well behind us and we have not won an international cricket match recently. Elections have also come and gone. It’s a mystery. The best explanation some scientists from this garden city, also considered the home of scientific temper, are able to provide us with is that it has something to do with the Big Bang Theory. As the hypothesis behind BBT goes back some 14 million years, I have no wish to plumb the depths of its arcane mysteries. If you ask me, the boom (or bang) was due to several rear wheel truck tyres from a large fleet somewhere in Bangalore bursting at the same time. Heat can do that to tyres. I am a firm believer in the maxim of reductionism – when all else fails, always go for the simplest explanation. You will sleep the better for it. As I do.

So, we lost a cricket match. Big deal. The earth did not cave in. Armageddon did not strike us. We are still battling Covid. Can we get some sense of proportion, please? ‘But it was against New Zealand,’ I hear you wail, as if New Zealand is some Johnny-come-lately, pushover outfit. And before you go on to cry that the mere notion of a country of barely 5 million people putting it across a humongous nation of 1.4 billion gives you severe dyspepsia, indigestion and the creeps, kindly put a sock in it. I have heard it all before. All right, this was not any old Test match, I’ll grant you. This was the biggie, the first-time final played in weepy, wet Southampton when two of the best met in a one-off, winner-takes-all to decide who will hold the stunning mace symbolizing ‘Test Cricket Supremo.’ Sadly, for Indian fans it was the estimable Kiwi skipper, Kane Williamson who triumphantly held aloft the glittering mace along with his joyous Black Caps teammates. The normally, almost unbearably effervescent Virat Kohli was left holding the baby, having to fend off awkward questions from his Indian media wolf pack, baying for blood and possibly, for the baby to be chucked out with the bathwater. The game barely lasted three and a half playing days, with two days washed out and a prudent reserve 6^th day enabling a result.

‘Why, of all places, Southampton? Why not Chennai where we could have boiled and melted them down to abject defeat?’ Look, I am aware that you are terribly upset, but frankly, you are beginning to get on my nerves. The Indian cricket bosses may be the world’s wealthiest fat cats, but they cannot decide everything. Some give and take is called for. We take too much. Too much for granted. If you ask me, I think it’s a good thing we lost. We were getting too big for our boots anyway. Fair enough, we beat the Aussies in their own backyard Down Under with a second-string side. This in spite of skipper Virat Kohli’s absence, who had flown back to India to hold his baby, taking leave of absence from the remaining three Tests. Else Anushka would have been very cross. Tough being an Indian cricket captain. How many babies can a man be reasonably expected to hold? That was rhetorical, so please don’t answer.

Parenthetically, let me add that some years earlier, when he was leading the Indian team in Australia, M.S. Dhoni’s wife delivered herself of a bonny, wee lassie. The great man, however, did not wing back home to do some coochy cooing with his baby and radiant wife, Sakshi. The BCCI would have gladly bank rolled his first-class trip. He stayed back with his boys, watching Instagram videos of the new arrival late into the wee hours in his hotel room in Melbourne, Sydney, Wooloongabba or wherever. Which partly explains why Mahi could not sight the ball very well the next day. Sleep deprivation through long-distance remote parenting!

Still on babies, a little-known cricketer who made a strong impression in Australia last year was rookie Thangarasu Natarajan, who was originally among the reserves. ‘Natarajan who?’  I hear you ask. Go and do your own Google search, you lazy sods. I only brought his name up to highlight the fact that he too received the ‘good news’ about the patter of little feet in his homestead somewhere in Tamil Nadu, just prior to winging his way to Australia with the Indian team last year. Can’t these chaps time these things more prudently? To the best of my knowledge, however, no one from the team management asked Natarajan if he wished to fly economy to India to see his baby. All right, fair’s fair. Dhoni, Kohli, they’ve earned their stripes. Natty, you’ll have to wait a tad longer. Provided you are still in the team. And provided you have taken 300 international wickets by then. And provided you have another baby while you are on tour. That’s a lot of provisions and imponderables. So much for cricketers and babies.

I realize I have been flitting hither and thither while musing on India’s recent defeat, but it’s all in a good cause. Virat Kohli and his boys now have a three- week break before the long Test series against England gets under way. For starters, they will be praying for much more sunshine, so that their batsmen can move their feet with greater assurance against England’s quicks. Putting runs on the board is the cricketing equivalent of putting food on the table. An absolute sine qua non. The bowlers can then go to work against an England batting line-up that has looked distinctly shaky and vulnerable during their recent defeat against New Zealand. There you are, the Kiwis are not quite the minnows many Indians seem to think they are. All to play for then and Kohli’s passion and pride will need to be reflected more in his performance than in his vaunted hyper aggressive body language. Difficult for Kohli, but he could try to be just a tad understated? One or two tips from MSD might help. The champion batsman should also be aware of where his off-stump is, else Anderson, Broad and company will be all over him like a rash. Happened before. No déjà vu please. That said, Kohli has not been the world’s best batsman, across formats, for nothing. He needs to make it count over five Test matches. Others in the team are also short on form and confidence but that is coach Ravi Shastri’s job to earn his not inconsiderable pay check.

My call to all those twits on Twitter (under plenty of heat themselves in India) and other social media platforms, baying for Kohli’s blood is to leave well enough alone, as the skipper himself should be doing outside the off stump. ‘Off with his head’ may have been a popular cry in England once upon a medieval  time, but untimely and inappropriate right now. Failures may be stepping stones to success, but our cricket mad countrymen want our boys to win every single match we play. Failure is not an option. Evidently, barring Test series (as if that does not count), we have not won a limited overs or knock out championship tourney since 2014. And here’s the hilarious bit. It was in the year 2014 that the BJP came to power in India with much fanfare, led by the indefatigable Narendra Modi. Those who are opposed to the BJP style of politics and who worship the game of cricket, have found a ready whipping boy in our Prime Minister, claiming he has brought bad luck to our team as we have not won anything of note since he took over the reins of government! Last I heard, Ravi Shastri is still India’s coach and not the Prime Minister. Let me repeat, we have won a number of Test series during this period, but highlighting that won’t suit the politics of those opposed to the Modi dispensation. Selective amnesia is the name of the game. Twit is such a supremely apposite word for so many of our social media pundits.

Tell you what. I am happy we are getting a long break from India-specific international cricket for a few weeks. I’ve had it up to here with all the carping, cavilling and moaning over our losing a cricket match. I realize cricket is our religion and we are all children of a lesser god, so I am pleased to see the back of cricket for a while. Apart from anything else, I can turn my undivided attention to Wimbledon starting Monday week. Oh, what undiluted joy! And even if the weather gods turn their dark and baleful glare on the All-England Lawn Tennis Championships at London SW19, the show courts – Centre Court and Court No.1 – have been provided with roof coverings that are technological marvels. What’s more, Federer, Djokovic, Serena and Barty closely hotfooted by the rising brat pack will play uninterrupted for our viewing delectation. And no tension about any Indian player getting past the third round, if that. Which gives us Indian tennis fans the full license to be as promiscuous as we like in supporting our favourite stars. We tennis buffs will lap it all up on our giant television screens from the comfort of our homes to enjoy grass court tennis at its pristine best. Some cold beer and junk food will not go amiss.

Who wants cricket? Anyone for tennis?

‘The quality is remembered long after the price is forgotten.’ Sir Henry Royce on the value proposition of the Rolls-Royce automobile.

A very good friend of mine texted (is that even a word?) me the other day, all the way from Toronto, to tell me about a new car he is about to become the proud owner of. I could sense by the tone of his message that he was quite chuffed about the prospect. Although one could not actually see him, one had little doubt that he was preening. Given that he is a self-confessed ‘absolute automotive car nut,’ that he has never missed a ‘serious auto show’ in London, Europe and the United States, his bubbling anticipation came as no surprise. To round off this little true tale, my friend was about to trade in his Audi S6 in exchange for an Alfa Romeo, model name Quadrifoglio (four-leaf clover). If that sounds distinctly Italian, that’s because the famous Alfa Romeo brand is made in Italy. Any Ayrton Senna or Lewis Hamilton can tell you that. It should come as no surprise that the Alfa Romeo has been a popular choice with Hollywood movies. Depending on the vintage, the brand has appeared, amongst others, famously in The Graduate, The Godfather and a brief cameo with James Bond in Octopussy. James Bond’s car brand of choice, of course, was the British made Aston Martin. Naturally, old fruit. My pal from Toronto described his new acquisition as ‘a real beauty with the sweetest V6 turbo-charged and fuel-injected engine you’ll ever see.’ Well I mean, he was head over heels. What can you say after that?

I felt absolutely delighted for this car buff. Anything that makes him happy is kosher with me, was the way I saw it. If cars are what he gets his jollies from, who am I to cavil? The only problem was I knew very little about cars. Although I don’t hold with libertine, genius footballer of yesteryear, the mercurial and sadly late George Best who famously said, ‘I spent a lot of money on booze, women and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.’ By implication and a process of elimination, that would suggest money spent on booze, women and fast cars is money well spent! Manchester United’s pride and joy, the brilliant midfielder’s stunning good looks and heady lifestyle earned him the sobriquet, ‘El Beatle.’ The Beatles even composed a hit song, ‘Baby you can drive my car, yes I’m gonna be a star.’ There was the inevitability of a Greek tragedy in George Best’s untimely demise.

Speaking for myself, I see the motor car as a utilitarian vehicle that should safely transport you from point A to point B. Particularly in the Indian context, any car that can achieve this modest goal negotiating impossible traffic conditions, while providing you with decent mileage for your unconscionable spend on a litre of petrol. Nearly one hundred rupees, last time I checked. And rising. Something to do with whatever is happening in the Middle East, unless I am much mistaken. Failing which, blame it on Covid. That said, my own ambition has always been to own a car that is fuel-efficient at a steady 40 kmph and unlikely to break down without warning. Which was often the case in the 60s and 70s in India, and never mind which town or city you happened to be happily tooling along in. My father always maintained that anybody driving slower than him is an idiot and anyone going faster than him is a maniac. I have seen him wave on bullock carts to overtake him! In your sturdy Ambassador, Standard Herald or Fiat as you chuntered along in stately fashion, your car can and did, without so much as a by-your-leave, down tools and screech to a grinding halt. At which point, two or three grimy faced urchins miraculously turned up and promised to set your car straight for a nominal consideration. There are conspiracy theories behind the altruistic machinations of these roadside ‘mechanics,’ but that is another story.

In more recent times in India, we have moved away from those antediluvian days. Today, if your Skoda, Ford or Hyundai should give up the ghost at the dead of night in the middle of the highway, no spotty-faced kids will rush up to help with spanner and sundry tools. Even if they did, you would do well to shoo them away. Unless you wish to bung a spanner in the works! No, no. Nowadays, you call the helpline of your car brand’s dealer franchise and their service chappies will rush to your aid. In about four hours. I am being uncharitable here. Sometimes they make it in less that two hours. Fair’s fair. They know their onions and usually solve your problem. In a worst-case scenario, they will tow away your car to their well-appointed garage to attend to its ailment. Depending on the terms of your service contract they may even provide you with a badli vehicle till your car is ready. You will also be served with an invoice that will give you severe indigestion and peptic ulcers needing urgent medical attention, but then, you can’t expect everything. You want your fluffy omelette? You had better be prepared to break some eggs. Serves you right for driving at that time of night.

Anyhow, to get back to our original subject of cars and the pride of ownership, let me narrate my own experience when I went to look at some swank dealer showrooms to get a feel for contemporary models. I did, of course, speak to some of my friends who are quite au fait with the automobile world, to seek their opinion. The trouble with that is that if you ask ten people about their preferred choice of car model, you will get ten different views. ‘If your budget is modest, get a mid-range Maruti. Excellent value for money and wide service network.’ ‘Why go for a Skoda when you can get a Volkswagen. Same company, same car, only more expensive. But you can flaunt the VW brand!’ Enough to confuse even the most knowledgeable, leave alone a novice like me.

Sure enough, I walked into this luxury showroom of a well-known car brand and all their models (to suit every pocket) were brilliantly displayed, shining in multi-coloured resplendence. Before I could say Alfa Romeo, a young lad proffered a tray of orange juice which I hesitantly accepted, making it clear that this committed me to nothing. Soon enough, a bright young sales person, dressed smartly in house colours and sporting the dealer franchise’s logo, sidled up and spoke in a confident tone.

‘Looking for a car, Sir?’ was his opening gambit. I could not say I was just browsing as it was not a book shop, but I still came up with a good riposte.

‘No, I am actually in the market for a high-end mobile phone but now that I am here, I may as well look for a car.’ I thought I’d cut him dead, but he was made of sterner stuff. They train them well, these car dealerships. Whether he caught my ironic shaft or not I can’t say, but he bashed on regardless.

‘Ha ha, Sir. Nice one. Now this particular model you happen to be looking at is an absolute peach.’

‘If you say so,’ I replied guardedly. ‘Anything else you wish to tell me, other than that it’s a peach or a plum, or whichever fruit takes your fancy?’

‘I can see you are in good form, Sir. Everything from the middle of the bat, if you’ll forgive my cricketing analogy. This is a mid-range car, Sir. The petrol engine is 999 cc. It is available with the manual and automatic transmission. Depending upon the variant and fuel type this model has a mileage of 16.47 to 18.24 kmpl. It is a comfortable 5-seater and has a length of 3971mm, width of 1682mm, a wheelbase of 2470mm with matching state-of-the-art radial tyres. Air conditioning is efficient and is not a drag on petrol consumption. Wi-fi and GPS enabled, excellent sound system for radio and music, hands free mobile phone facility, you will lack for nothing. All this for just Rs.7.50 lakhs, all inclusive.’ You could see from his spiel, he had mugged up the sales manual by heart.

‘Gosh, just seven and half lakhs, eh? At this price you’re practically giving it away. Looks like Diwali has arrived early for me. As for all the technical gobbledegook, you could easily have saved your breath. I followed not a single word. Went clean over my head. Nevertheless, there was something sincere about your sales pitch. I will consider your proposition seriously.’

‘That’s great to know, Sir. When can I call you to follow-up? If you can confirm by tomorrow, we can even throw in a free Bose surround sound system for this car. Plus a 5% cash back.’

‘And if I confirm right this minute, will I get a 25% cash back? Don’t answer that. Just pulling your leg. Look, I’ll have to bring the good lady wife to give it the once over. She too drives you know. I’ll bring her along, and if she gives us the thumbs up, we are in business. So please, no follow-up calls.’

I left the showroom, leaving the sales chap looking hopefully, and somewhat dubiously, after my retreating back. As for me, I was already on my way to a rival car showroom not two kilometres away.

In a recent suo moto case hearing on the vexed subject of the Government of India’s handling, or rather, alleged mishandling of the Covid19 pandemic, the honorable justices of the Supreme Court came down heavily on the central government for the manner in which the dreaded disease and its trail of continuing destruction has, in its judicial and judicious opinion, been handled. ‘We have a strong arm to come down on this,’ one of the judges admonished, threatening strong-arm methods. Be it the vaccine dual pricing or procurement policy, oxygen management, health infrastructure, the alarming escalation of mortalities, the apex court did not appear awfully impressed by the way in which the disease and its aftermath has been tackled. If one were to suggest that the court took a dim view of the whole affair, one would be understating the case. Among several scathing remarks, the Bench exhorted the Solicitor General (SG) representing the government, who the Court felt was divorced from the grim reality of the crisis, to ‘wake up and smell the coffee.’ This caused quite a stir in legal circles. Not least because many of them did not quite get the meaning of the aphorism employed. The SG and his able assistants were unable to grasp what the senior judge was trying to convey. While I cannot confirm this, I understand they sought a 30-minute recess to consider their position. The judge settled for 15 minutes and told them to get on with it. Quite right, too.

Our television news channels were quick to pick up on this. Before you could say ‘What’s happened to Arnab Goswami?’, anchors were falling over themselves asking their panelists to ‘wake up and smell the coffee.’ I kid you not. I distinctly heard at least three well-known anchors saying precisely that to a puzzled set of invited speakers from various political affiliations. ‘What coffee, what smell? I am sitting at home sipping fresh lime soda. Kindly explain yourself, Madam.’ See what I mean? The Supreme Court has started something and it’s catching like Covid19.

This chronicler cannot swear as to what exactly passed between the SG and his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed colleagues during the brief recess, but a smart fly on the wall, blessed with an excellent sense of hearing passed around a scrap of paper with some hurriedly scribbled notes. Some of the writing was indecipherable, probably in Pitman’s shorthand, but we tried our best to fill in the blanks.

‘Smell the coffee? Smell the coffee? What could he possible mean?’ wailed the agitated SG. ‘Any of you have a clue?’

One of the bright sparks piped up. ‘Perhaps he was inviting you to his home, Boss, to have an offline discussion on the subject, and a steaming cup of delicious coffee was on the menu. Filter coffee, mmm. I can smell it even now. Redolent of MTR Bangalore! Could be his way of offering you a peace pipe, to make up for his peremptory remarks without conceding too much ground. And perhaps to ensure that the discussion is maintained at an even keel and not allowed to spiral out of control. I mean, it is the highest court in the land taking on the powerful central government. Decencies of debate and a level of decorum need to be observed.’

Riposted the SG, ‘In your dreams, my fine-feathered friend. You are getting carried away. Judges don’t invite you into their homes, not for all the coffee beans in Brazil. They may invite other judges, but not the likes of us. No, no. There is more to this than meets the eye. I am thinking coded message.’

‘You lost me there, Sir. Coded message? Are you speaking in code, Sir, or do we take your word at face value?’ The junior assistant looked bemused.

‘Look, surely you know what coded messages are. Haven’t you seen any spy films? You have to read between the lines, juggle around with the letters, equate numerals to the position of each letter, hold it up in front of a mirror, then read it in reverse, some of the letters or numerals may even represent morse codes. You know. Dot, dash, dash, dot, dot, dash, dot, that sort of thing. I thought they trained you chaps on all this. Come on fellows, let’s have you.’

‘Wow, Sir. All this was not part of our syllabus. Carlill vs Carbolic Smoke Ball, yes. Morse code, no. Perhaps you could solve this mystery, Sir. What with all your in-depth knowledge of dots and dashes.’

The SG was miffed. ‘Go ahead and laugh at my expense. You’ll be laughing out of the other side of your mouth when your life depended on decoding “how now brown cow.” Now let’s get serious. We have to face this relentless judge in five minutes. And I need to anticipate what more strange words or expressions he is likely to throw at us. I need to be sharpish. Right now, I am at my wit’s end. I refuse to be caught off-guard again. Not another sarcastic, smirky “smell the coffee” with plenty of top spin on it.’

One of the SG’s smart, young lady assistants, fresh out of law school, put forward the interesting and plausible theory that the good judge was probably suggesting that if you can’t smell the coffee, you could be a ripe candidate for Covid, and that you should go and get tested immediately. ‘Deadening of the olfactory senses is one of the symptoms, Sir,’ she added helpfully.

‘Thank you very much, doctor. I am fully aware of what the symptoms of Covid are. I am up to my eyeballs on Covid symptoms. Even our good judge was down with Covid but thankfully, fully recovered. As is clearly evident. Look team, this is taking us nowhere. We are up the creek without a paddle.’

‘Brilliant Sir. You should use that in court. Up the creek without a paddle. Their lordships or justices or whoever, will be foxed. You will have won a psychological blow. The judge who asked you to smell the coffee will be stymied. He will be clearly on the backfoot. He might switch to drinking weak tea.’

‘God, give me strength. Backfoot eh? Now I have to put up with your cricketing similes. This meeting has been about as useful as a one-legged, blindfolded man with severe astigmatism attempting to break the 100 meters world record. The judge will have me for breakfast.’

‘Perfect. It will then be your turn, to ask his lordship to smell the coffee.’ The young assistant was beside himself with his own, corny cleverness.

‘You carry on like this, young man, and the judge will send you down to a place where you will have to smell extremely unpleasant things. You may almost wish you had Covid to deaden your olfactory senses. Ha ha! Right, end of this nonsense. Thanks for nothing. Let’s make tracks to the court where the beaks are awaiting us with their knives out.’

‘Another good one, Sir. Almost Wodehousean. You can hold your own with these “beaks.”’

Back in court, one of the judges addressed the SG. ‘I trust you have had adequate time to consider your position, as you so delicately put it. How soon can we expect the Government to submit to us its detailed nationwide vaccine rollout plan?’

‘With respect your lordship, “adequate time” is a relative concept. I asked for 30 minutes and you gave us a quarter of an hour. How long is a piece of string? It is a metaphysical question worth pondering on. I am sure your lordship will recall Albert Einstein’s quip on time and relativity, “When you are courting a nice girl an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder a second seems like an hour. That’s relativity.” What a man!

The judge interrupted the SG sharply. ‘Do you plan to come to the point any time soon, Sir?’

‘Sorry judge, if you are put out by my meandering style. Meaning no disrespect, I am sure you are accustomed to long speeches by prosecution and defence counsels. In fact, I well remember on one occasion, 1979 I think it was, when you yourself, Sir, full of youthful energy and enthusiasm, went on for an interminably long…’

‘And now you are getting personal.’ The judge was livid. ‘For the last time, if you continue in this vein, I might have to find you in contempt. Get to the point.’

‘My profuse apologies. But you see, your lordship, I can’t get to the point because, right at this point, I don’t have a point. Can you not find it in your large heart to give us a week and we will come up with a plan to your satisfaction?’

‘The country is in the throes of a monumental medical emergency. I cannot give you a week. I’ll make it four days. That’s it.’

The Solicitor General bowed obsequiously. ‘Take it or leave it? Thank you, your lordship for small mercies. I can see where you’re coming from. Never give a sucker an even break. I can live with that. My philosophy is, what you lose on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts, if you get my drift your lordship. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, as it says in the Good Book. We shall revert with a subtle but effective plan that should satisfy the courts, the government and above all, the people of India. Speaking of subtle plans, your lordship, I am sure you will indulge me if I shared this quote by that fictional curmudgeon Edmund Blackadder, in that side-splittingly hilarious television series starring Rowan Atkinson. Edmund responds to his goofy, congenital idiot of an assistant Baldrick’s offer to come up with a subtle plan, “Baldrick, you wouldn’t recognise a subtle plan if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a harpsicord singing ‘subtle plans are here again’.” Forgive me judges, these are tears of unrestrained joy. Just wished to end on a light-hearted note. Once again, thank you kindly your lordships, and enjoy the aromatic smell of fresh coffee at home.’

As the judges trooped out of the court, our resident, inquisitive fly on the wall distinctly heard one of them muttering under his breath,‘If I never see this man again, it will be too soon.’

Note: This piece is entirely a work of fiction barring the initial premise based on the Supreme Court’s observations.