When people ask me if I went to film school, I tell them ‘no, I went to films.’ Quentin Tarantino.

As far as one can remember, the cinema has always held us in thrall, young and old alike. The air-conditioned auditorium, the large screen, clutching popcorn and soda pop or ice cream soda as we used to call it, securely in our arms. Way back when. As the lights dimmed and the velvet screens parted, we had this feeling of being enveloped and transported to another world. The commercials would come on first (Beauty beyond compare, Yera glassware), then the trailers and finally, the advertised film would commence. The 5-minute interval witnessed more commercials and trailers before the movie recommenced. This was our prime source of entertainment and excitement, before home theatres and movies on the go, took over our lives. Liberty, Rex, Plaza and BRV in Bangalore. And in Calcutta, Globe, Metro, New Empire, Lighthouse and Tiger. Tiger Rag, the Dixieland standard, was the signature tune that played incessantly in this small, charming theatre on the crossing of Chowringhee and Lindsay Street, back in the day. Those were the two cities where I have spent most of my formative years. I am back in Bangalore for my sunset years, as I have heard it described, but now it’s all shiny, shiny home theatre with Netflix and Amazon Prime leading the way. Popcorn and beer can be arranged.

As I look back over the best part of 70 years, what were the films and who were the actors that made an instant impact on my sponge-like mind and why? The following is a personal list, by no means complete, but landmarks in my cinema watching life that I can never forget. Films that left a lasting, indelible impression. It is significant that my choice of films spans across the period from the early 60s to the mid-70s, which would represent my early teens to late 20s, easily the most impressionable years in one’s life. I do realize that for every film on my list you, dear reader, will have 10 others. Fair enough, I say. Live and let live.

Becket (1964)

I first saw Peter O’Toole as Henry the Second in Becket, alongside the great thespian Richard Burton in the title role. This was not O’Toole’s first film, which of course, was David Lean’s magnum opus, Lawrence of Arabia. However, his essaying of the role of the star-crossed King was so mesmerizing when I first saw it, that even Lawrence paled in comparison. Many will disagree, but that was the kind of impact Becket and O’Toole in particular, had on me. A pluperfect English diction, blue, blue penetrating eyes, the quivering lips, the myriad panoply of emotions – all these to a young teenager was grist to the mill. I must have seen the film on half a dozen occasions on the big screen, and times without number at home on DVD. These characteristics stood O’Toole in good stead in many of his other films, though he did tend to become a bit predictable and typecast in later films. Both Burton and O’Toole were Oscar nominees for Becket, but neither of them won. The Academy has much to answer for. O’Toole had to be satisfied with a consolation Lifetime Achievement award from the Academy a few years before his passing. Favourite quote – ‘Oh Lord, how heavy thy honour is to bear.’

My Fair Lady (1964)

Rex Harrison, in his Oscar winning role as Professor Henry Higgins swept us off our feet in the celebrated musical, My Fair Lady, adapted from George Bernard Shaw’s play, Pygmalion. Close to three hours of wondrous music, scintillating dialogues, a beguiling Audrey Hepburn and an impressive support cast – all made for a package you could watch repeatedly and not get tired of. All this in magnificent 70mm and Technicolor. But it is Harrison, as the querulous professor of phonetics, who ultimately steals the show. He spoke more than he sang, the songs written for him, but it was no less unique and listenable for all that. Many of us in school would reel off these songs from memory, and My Fair Lady, as much as Shakespeare, became a benchmark and contributed to our love of the English language. The opening song, ‘Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?’ was in itself a microcosmic and scathing reflection on the declining values of the language. I won a plastic mug for reciting this at the South India Club in Calcutta!

An interesting footnote. Julie Andrews, who played Eliza Doolittle on the Broadway stage version, was passed over for the more marketable Hepburn, despite the former’s outstanding singing credentials. Word on the street was that the producer Jack Warner felt Hepburn was a more ‘bankable’ proposition, and who is to say he was not right. Hepburn did a brilliant turn as Eliza. However, there is a twist to this tale. Though Hepburn sang all the songs for the shoot, unbeknownst to her, a professional singer, Marnie Nixon actually recorded the playback. Evidently, Hepburn was beside herself on learning the truth. Not long after, Andrews got her own back with the blockbuster, The Sound of Music. Favourite quote – ‘Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?’

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

Winning Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Director for British director, John Schlesinger, Midnight Cowboy will rank among the all-time classics. Featuring Dustin Hoffman as a low life pimp and Jon Voight as a small-town hustler, looking to sell his body to rich and lonely women in the seedy underworld of Lower Manhattan, the film captured the imagination of film goers the world over. Strangely, it was X-rated at the time, though no eyebrows will be raised if you saw it today. It was probably heavily censored here in India. The Oscar nominated performances of Hoffman and Voight are remarkable, and despite its dark theme, the film leaves you alternately in tears of joy and sorrow. Hoffman’s portrayal of the grungy, limping Rizzo ‘Ratso’ has many scene stealing moments, but none more memorable than when crossing a crowded Manhattan street and yelling at an onrushing car, ‘I am walkin’ here! I am walkin’ here!’ Mention must also be made of the movie soundtrack featuring Harry Nilsson’s rendition of Everybody’s Talkin’, which everybody was singing as they left the cinema hall. Favourite quote – ‘The two natural items to sustain life are sunlight and coconut milk. Did you know that?’

The Godfather (1972)

If ever a film was made, that kept you riveted on the edge of your seat for close to three hours, where every scene and sequence was so artfully crafted that you wanted to see it over and over again, The Godfather had to be that film. Under Francis Ford Coppola’s expert baton, this mafia masterpiece tops the list of virtually every all-time great film list in most categories. With Marlon Brando heading the cast, brilliantly supported by James Caan, Al Pacino, Diane Keaton and Robert Duvall amongst others, the epic gangster saga set a unique benchmark for the genre, where even the violent scenes (and there were plenty) were so realistically picturized that you kept asking for more. The inevitable and worthy sequels, The Godfather Part 2 and 3, in themselves were brilliant, but could never quite match the operatic grandeur of the original. Favourite quote – ‘I am gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.’

Dog Day Afternoon (1975)

Although Al Pacino hit the big time with Coppola’s The Godfather, I first saw Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon, based on a true story of a botched-up bank robbery in New York. I was never a great fan of American actors, much preferring the dry wit and understated portrayals of their British counterparts. However, Pacino in Dog Day changed that perception, and in his wake, Dustin Hoffman, Robert De Niro, and Jack Nicholson hove into dramatic view. But it was Al Pacino, as the restless Sonny, caught in a web of his own ineptitude, trying to manage the stupefied bank staff and the New York police at the same time that makes for a film that is at once, comic, tragic and taut. Pacino had to be satisfied with an Oscar nomination, though many felt he should have lifted the statuette. His pathetically comic telephone chat with his gay partner, under the cops’ close supervision, was in itself worth the price of admission. Favourite quote – ‘Wyoming is not a country.’

One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)

Jack Nicholson’s Oscar winning performance as the crazy and rebellious patient, Randle McMurphy in a lunatic asylum, will forever be etched in the minds of those who saw this wonderfully directed film by Milos Forman. Unsurprisingly, the film bagged all the major awards at the Oscars – Best picture, director, actor, actress and screenplay. As much as it was Milos Forman’s direction that lifted the film, it is Jack Nicholson as the crazed, sane but insane mental patient, who attempts to extract revenge on Nurse Ratched (Oscar winning performance by Louise Fletcher) who steals the show. The ending is cruelly sad and touching, but Nicholson’s amazing performance will stay with you forever. Favourite quote – ‘Jesus, I must be crazy to be in a loony-bin like this.’

Taxi Driver (1976)

“You talking to me?” Who can ever forget Robert De Niro’s mirror monologue in Martin Scorsese’s masterpiece, Taxi Driver? A grim, seamy portrayal of New York’s underbelly, through the eyes of a mentally disturbed Vietnam war returnee turned cabbie, who seems frustratingly helpless to fight the evils of the city. The ultimate, bloody climax has the inevitability of a Greek tragedy, but the film is notable for its many tender and gentle moments, notably De Niro’s attempts to rescue an underage prostitute (Jodie Foster in a stellar debut) from the clutches of her procurer boss (Harvey Keitel), and a failed attempt at romance with a political party worker (Cybill Shepherd). But the film is De Niro’s all the way. In turns sensitive and thoughtful and deeply troubled, he single-handedly carries the film on his shoulders. Favourite quote – ‘One of these days, I am gonna get organezized.’

There you go. That is my list of the most impactful films in my life. Others will have their own favourites. There are some who might cavil, ‘Why no Indian films?’ I can only offer a weak response that there’s nothing invidious intended in leaving out Indian films. It’s just that that was the way the cookie crumbled when I was growing up. Maybe, just maybe, another day might see me waxing eloquent about Sivaji Ganesan or Dilip Kumar, but for now you’ll have to make do with this. That said, let me throw you a dare. Dear reader, draw up your own list of seven of the best Hollywood films that stick in your mind. I’ll wager at least three from this list will show up, if not more. As for the youngsters who consider the ‘60s and ‘70s the stone age, get the DVDs, go to YouTube or stream on cable and watch these films. You won’t regret it.

I was reflecting ruefully on things that will keep me entertained over the coming months. Why ruefully, I hear you ask. The thing is, domestic big-ticket cricket is winding its weary way down in India. We have rejoiced in our boys’ stirring performances in Australia (excluding the 36 all out aberration) and we have put it across England in our own backyard without straining a sinew. Just three one day games on the anvil and the smart money is on another Indian triumph. This will be closely followed by the interminably long IPL. Ho hum. It’s all getting a tad predictable and tedious. But that’s just me. ‘Give me excess of it,’ many instant cricket fans cry. Sooner you than me, say I.

Gone are the days when we felt all was for the best in this best of all possible worlds if a Gavaskar or a Viswanath, or better still both, scored hundreds in a Test match. We did not worry too much about who ultimately won the game. We knew an Indian victory was as rare as hen’s teeth. If, however, one of the two little masters played a defining innings or a magical spell by Bedi or Chandra took India over the line, as happened at Port of Spain and the Oval in that magical year 1971, we ran around the streets like boys or men demented and punch-drunk. Joy is unbounded when it occurs once in the proverbial blue moon. Nowadays, when you learn that Kohli has just smashed another ton, you tend to go, ‘Yeah great. Look, I am working on my tax returns, can we keep this for later?’ See what I mean? Blasé is the word that springs to the lips. As the King of the Blues, the late B.B. King said, The Thrill is Gone. Well alright, I am exaggerating here, but most of us who are looking at six decades and more behind us, tend to be that way. Tired and cynical. To set the record straight, I do enjoy watching the modern masters, be they Kohli, Stokes, Federer, Djokovic, Nadal, Ronaldo or Messi. However, the eyes do mist over a bit when I start talking about Kapil Dev, Ian Botham, Ramanathan Krishnan or Rod Laver. That’s nostalgia, with rose-tinted glasses.

If sport has, in a manner of speaking, played itself out for the time being, what do we have to look forward to in order to keep ourselves royally entertained? Particularly when you consider that, thanks to Covid19, Carnatic music lovers in India and the world over have been denied their annual pilgrimage to that Mecca of the art form, Chennai, if you’ll excuse the mixed religious metaphor.  Ah well, there’s nothing to worry about there, me hearties. The cupboard is full to overflowing. We have the upcoming assembly elections in Bengal, Tamil Nadu, Assam, Kerala and the Union Territory of Puducherry (I greatly prefer the romance of Pondicherry, but try telling that to our inveterate name changers). While the actual voting is still to get under way and will go on for several weeks, our television news channels are already buzzing with speculation, panel discussions and general argy-bargy. We expect matters to get hotter and hotter, in tandem with the mercury rising in simpatico with the country’s relentless summer. Beats me why elections in India are always held during our unforgiving summer months. Then we have the post-electoral exit polls to look forward to prior to the results being announced, and if the past is any indicator, the actual results may leave many of our psephologists and electoral pundits red-faced. Notwithstanding all that, keep your beer chilled and popcorn popping in the microwave. Let the madness begin.

If politics is taking top billing on our television screens thanks to the forthcoming elections, a bit of shame and scandal in the family amongst the political top brass can help the TRPs fly northwards, if not actually going through the roof. Our television news anchors, always on the lookout for something seamy and scaly to get their teeth into are having the time of their lives. Some of the anchors have themselves become the news. The current political imbroglio in Maharashtra, with ministers mixed up with the guardians of the law, i.e., the Police and finding themselves in the soup, is providing rich fare for television watchers. ‘Vazegate’ as the scandal has, not very originally, been dubbed, is keeping everyone enthralled. I tell you, Watergate has much to answer for. Officers from the top echelons of the Maharashtra police are being accused of placing bombs and gelatin sticks (with a love letter) in a car near the residence of a top industrialist, the cops in turn are hitting back and pointing accusing fingers at their political masters, opposition parties are licking their chops with an eye to the main chance and so much more. As the late cricketer turned commentator Tony Greig used to intone, ‘It’s all happening.’ Perhaps the original copyright to that phrase belonged to former Aussie skipper, Bill Lawry, but you’ll just have to cut me some slack here. Tony Greig was equally partial to that exclamation.

More unintended hilarity from our political masters. The Chief Minister of the state of Uttarakhand, Tirath Singh Rawat has been dropping enough bricks for him to be able to build a farmhouse to retire in. Which may not be long in coming, given some of his more outrageous statements. His first clanger came when he went after the modern-day casual dress code for girls, deploring their wearing jeans and fulminating against said jeans being deliberately ripped and torn after the modern fashion trend. He tried to partially recover and assuage hurt sentiments by explaining that he had no problem with jeans qua jeans but tearing them and wearing them seemed, in his view, rather pointless, putting a fresh spin on the term ‘wear and tear.’ A view many elders across the country share but have wisely decided to fatalistically shrug their shoulders with a weary and philosophical ‘girls will be girls.’ Or indeed, ‘boys will be boys,’ but the CM specifically had girls in mind. Our parents acted similarly when we wore drainpipes and bell-bottoms. Or grew our hair long. Apropos nothing, the Chief Minister’s comments on torn and ripped jeans put me in mind of yesteryear Hollywood character actor, the late Rip Torn. How on earth did he come by such a name? Forgive me for that irrelevant aside. I’ll save that for another piece.

Not quite finished yet with Tirath Singh Rawat. As if his torn jeans comment had not raised enough hackles among the student community, he dived headlong into yet another faux pas. He pompously announced, in some context not relevant to elaborate, that India was ruled by the United States of America for over 200 years! We know that much of our history, seen as having been deliberately distorted by previous dispensations, is being sought to be rewritten by our present political masters, but this was a bit much. Perhaps the honorable Chief Minister will attempt to wriggle out of this dropped brick by attributing it to a slip of the tongue. He probably meant Britain, but it came out as America, to place a charitable, if ironic, construction on it. It would be wiser if our politicians check their facts out with their secretariat before shooting from the hip. Always assuming, of course, that the babus in the secretariat know their history and their geography and can tell the difference between Great Britain and the United States of America.

Thus, in some way, shape or form we are provided adequate entertainment on a daily basis. While sports, film and music treat us to a genuine celebration of physical, dramatic and artistic skills, it is the daily foibles of our fellow human beings, be they politicians or policemen that often keep us glued to our small screens. The various hues of villainy, stupidity and avarice are played out in full view of an avid audience, who lap it all up and gird their loins for the next instalment. I cannot find a better way to conclude this essay than to quote one of Germany’s greatest literary titans, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe who said, Our foibles are what make us really lovable.

Gut gesagt, Herr Goethe! Or, in everyday parlance, ‘You said a mouthful there, Herr Goethe.’

Splish splash, I was taking a bath / Long about a Saturday night, yeah / A rub dub, just relaxing in the tub / Thinking everything was alright.  Bobby Darin (1958).                                                                 

This piece is about the bathtub. Or more properly, The Bathtub. To put it more plainly, it’s about how we have been fed, over the years by Hollywood and at times Bollywood, an endless diet of scenes depicting the untold ecstasy of luxuriating in a bathtub. Be it Marylin Monroe or Meryl Streep, Robert Redford or Al Pacino, Hema Malini or Zeenat Aman, Shammi Kapoor or Rajesh Khanna – invariably in some movie or the other you would have seen some of them blowing soap bubbles, sipping champagne or even smoking a cigar, and only the bubbling, foaming soapsuds to cover their modesty. Sex and orgies come into it at times (though that is a Hollywood preserve) but seeing as this is a family column, I will spare you the sordid details. Some actors have even concealed deadly weapons under the soapy water and let fly if an unexpected enemy popped in. Witness Eli Wallach in the spaghetti western classic, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (1966), who makes short work of the grimacing villain with his hidden weapon prior to loosing off with a volley of bullets, while the bad guy is giving an extended speech. A fatal error, which our celluloid villains never seem to learn from. Wallach’s famous throwaway line, ‘When you have to shoot, shoot. Don’t talk,’ still rings in our ears.

Who can ever forget the famous or infamous shower scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic-noir suspense-thriller, Psycho (1960). The comely Janet Leigh steps in gingerly and turns the shower tap on, enjoying a refreshing bath, probably humming a cheerful tune as well, as most of us tend to do while under the shower. Then all the unpleasantness starts to happen. Give Hitchcock a bathroom scene and all hell breaks loose. His memorable anti-hero, the literally shadowy Anthony Perkins, draws the curtain and does all the nasty business with a bread knife. The scene ends with Janet Leigh lying prone in her bathtub, looking very dead, while the shower continues to run with force, draining away the blood. Filmed in black and white, the dark deed has a heightened, monochromatic quality about it. Perhaps Hitchcock was throwing in some symbolism here. If so, I missed it. In those days, film makers went in for that kind of thing. They wanted their audience to think. By the way, did I say bathtub? Indeed, I did. You see, despite the fact that the heroine tip-toes delicately into the tub to turn the shower on, she has no plans to fill the tub and wallow à la Eli Wallach. It’s possible she contemplated doing so after the shower, but we shall never know because of Hitchcock’s obsession with the bread knife accompanied by plenty of blood and gore. By the way, my reference to the murder weapon being a bread knife is just poetic license. It could have been any old knife that can inflict deep gashes. Nevertheless, that bathtub shower scene from Psycho is now part of movie folklore.

You want unpleasantness in a bathtub? Let me tell you, it does not get more stomach-churning than that scene in the 1983 edition of Scarface, starring Al Pacino. The director, Brian De Palma decided to take Hitchcock’s shower scene and turn it on its head. Pacino and his lackey turn up at a baddie’s place somewhere in Havana, drugs and money having something to do with it, and before you know it, our hero’s pathetic partner is hand-cuffed to the shower curtain railing, while Pacino is held down by other nasties to watch his pal being given the first degree with a huge, electrical buzz-saw. Blood and gristle all over the place. Putting all that nastiness to one side, I have a question. If the villain had our hero and his partner-in-crime by their short and curlies, why did he not finish Pacino off as well? I think De Palma will have a sound answer to that one. The notorious bathtub scene was very early on in the film, you see, and he could hardly eliminate the highly bankable cast-header Pacino, to whom doubtless, millions would have been paid. Also, letting the hero off gives the director plenty of opportunity for action-packed payback scenes, like the climactic ‘Say hello to my little friend’ sequence, as a frenzied Pacino fires away from his grenade launcher at about a hundred villains, in a coke-and-heroin smothered scene and falls tragically to his own death. Very Shakespearean. Lest we forget, it all started in a bathtub.

On a more pleasant note, the scruffy flower girl, Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn) in the brilliant musical, My Fair Lady (1964) is boisterously welcomed to Professor Henry Higgins’ home with the mother-of-all-baths while she screams and yells from her steaming bathtub during all the soaping and loofah-ing by the housemaids. She vents her spleen later with that great dream sequence song, Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait.

Yes, the bathtub is a well-entrenched part of world cinema and has been used time and again in varying situations. The term ‘wallowing in luxury’ could very well have emanated after the invention of the bathtub. That said, I have a couple of questions that have always bothered me about sitting around in a bathtub full of scented water, at times with flowers strewn about, and the bather, be it a he or a she, breaking into song. I grant you there’s a bathroom singer in all of us, but even a normal shower could be equally inspiring to the Muse.

Apart from the violence and gore, there is something else about bathtub sequences in films I have never quite understood, particularly the Hollywood offerings. More often than not, the actor paddling his pinkies in the tub, literally sinking in soapy foam, will suddenly decide that his ablutions have ended, step out of the tub and towel himself, and that’s that. End of bath. I mean, the bather has been swimming around in a confined space in his or her own sweat and grime, notwithstanding the soap or shampoo, with nary a thought of rinsing it all off with clean water. If I have seen this unhygienic travesty once on film, I have seen it at least 50 times. So, there must be some truth in the way some of our much-vaunted heroes bathe themselves. I cannot recall similar scenes in Indian films, but that could be because of censorship and prudery issues. Doubtless, in response to this, the faithfuls who read this will helpfully shoot off a list of Hindi or Tamil films featuring some of our stars who had a ball in a bathtub.

To round off this light-hearted contemplation on filmy bathtubs, I conclude with what has been widely regarded as one of the definitive bathtub scenes ever shot on film. And that is saying a lot. Glenn Close and Michael Douglas form an incendiary couple in Fatal Attraction (1987). The stunning Glenn Close, who preys on the married Michael Douglas after a brief dalliance, threatens to disrupt his home life. It all ends in a frightening climax with Close and Douglas in a life and death vicious struggle in, you guessed it, the bathtub. Close rises from the dead and flails a kitchen knife at her ex-lover but Douglas’ wife miraculously finds a gun and blam, blam, Glenn is Closed out, her body lying inert in the tub, looking like Caravaggio’s The Death of the Virgin – an inappropriate simile, I grant you, but it is what it is.

So you see, I don’t much care for bathtubs for obvious reasons. Bad things happen there. The only time I actually wallowed in a tub was on a bitterly cold November evening in my hotel room in New York. The hot water was so comforting I almost fell asleep and nearly drowned. Thereafter, I virtually caught my death of cold and suffered untold agonies, including an interminable coughing fit after returning home. Which is why I say, ‘If they want to throw the baby out with the bathwater, that is their problem. An efficient shower or even a bucket of water works just fine for me.’

In a recent case heard in the Delhi High Court, a single-judge bench consisting of the estimable Justice Prathiba M. Singh ruled, inter alia, that the use of phrases like ‘any Tom, Dick and Harry’ constitutes slang and goes against court procedures in the conduct of its weighty affairs. To pretty much put the lid on it, the Honourable Judge gave it as her considered opinion that ‘such language is not permissible in pleadings before the court.’ So saying, she dismissed the petitioner’s plea. At which point, I am assuming the petitioner, suitably chastised, slunk off tail between legs, to redraft his plea.

Now, it is of supreme indifference to me and the purport of this piece to go into the details of the abovementioned case. The merits or otherwise of the petitioner’s plea is of precious little consequence to my area of concern. As my English master in school might have acutely observed, ‘it has nothing to do with the price of fish.’ As a lover of the English language, however, what set my brows furrowing and teeth grinding was the ruling itself and why an everyday, common or garden phrase like ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’ should give rise to a stern rap on the knuckles in judicial corridors and raise the hackles of the sitting judge.

 Purely on a technical point, would our courts find the Indian equivalent, ‘Amar, Akbar and Anthony’ more acceptable? Just curious. Also, I worry about this ruling setting a dodgy precedent, a principle on which jurisprudence the world over has relied on for ages. Let me hasten to add that the principle here qualifies the term ‘precedent’ and not ‘dodgy precedent.’ It is prudent to clarify these things before some judicial beak pounces on me with a tort or malfeasance or some such unintelligible charge.

To put it more lucidly, if the phrase ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’ is considered improper today, will it be something else that irks the judiciary tomorrow? To take a random example, will the expression ‘burying your head in the sand’ be deemed objectionable to some sitting or standing judge, who got out of the wrong side of the bed that morning or is unfavourably disposed towards ostriches? We enter the grey world of subjectivity here, where interpretation and reference to context can determine the outcome of the decision. One man’s meat could be another man’s poison, depending entirely on one’s dietary preference. I guess one should not beef about it. There I go again! Tilting boldly at the windmills of acceptable judicial phraseology.

All this cogitation led me to muse on an imaginary situation in one of our courts where the judge and lawyer concerned appear to be ranged on opposite ends of the linguistic spectrum, leading to unintended or intended gaffes and verbal jousting. While this is being contemplated mainly in jest, it is directly inspired by the recent judgement outlined above, from which it can be speculated upon that such objections to how we employ phrases and epigrams may not be all that far-fetched.

‘Your Honour, my client has been charged with ill-treating his wife. They have been married for six years. Every time he asks her for money, she tells him to go take a flying jump. To add fuel to the fire, she also tells him to get lost. I am translating loosely.’

The judge struck an admonishing tone. ‘This court does not appreciate the use of phrases like “take a flying jump” and “get lost,” even if loosely translated. I consider it an insult to these proceedings. We caution Counsel and ask him to have a care.’

‘But Your Honour, that is what the good wife actually said. How am I to defend my client if am not permitted to quote verbatim the obloquy that his wife hurled at him? For crying out loud! Your Honour.’

‘Counsel, kindly do not use big words like “obloquy,” in my court. I am not impressed. Also, please do not start a sentence with “but.” It is discourteous and not grammatically acceptable. Wren and Martin would have frowned. What is more, I consider employment of the phrase “for crying out loud” inappropriate and bordering on coarse slang. You are skating on thin ice, Counsel.’

Defence Counsel muttered under his breath, ‘Is “obloquy” a big word? It has only three syllables. What about “skating on thin ice,” is that permissible in these hallowed portals?’

Cupping her right ear, the Judge inquired, ‘I did not quite catch that, Counsel. Would you repeat what you just said, please?’

‘It was nothing important, Your Honour. Merely commenting that there are a few thin mice scurrying around on the premises. Please don’t get all hot and bothered about it. Incidentally Your Honour, who are Wren and Martin? Pals of yours?’

‘How dare you suggest that I was getting hot and bothered about anything? I will not allow such off-hand references to my mental state. This is a hard enough job, as it is. My patience has its limits. Anyhow, you are straying from the subject on hand. Your client is accused of slapping his wife around in an inebriated state, simply because she refused to part with Rs.200/- so he can go out and get another bottle of country liquor. What does he have to say for himself for such abominable behaviour? Before you answer that, if you have not heard of the revered grammarians Wren and Martin, you are beyond help. Further, I would advise you to say “friends” rather than the casual and slangy “pals,” and no, they are not. Friends of mine, I mean.’

Matters were getting a bit hot and heavy now. Counsel took a gulp of water and responded. ‘I don’t mean to be flippant, Your Honour, but how could my client have obtained another bottle of country liquor if his own wife did not part with some cash? Stands to reason, does it not? He is sadly unemployed, she is a housemaid, and the man needs his drink. It’s an open and shut case. Tinkerty-tonk.’

‘Open and shut case? Counsel, if you keep opening your mouth to talk nonsense, I will have to shut it for you. Tinkerty-tonk? Tinkerty-tonk? Good heavens, man. Where do you pick up these corny phrases? Enid Blyton? Look, you might fancy Noddy in Toyland for your literary allusions, but you may treat this as a final warning. Any more stupid comments or schoolboy slang and I will find you in contempt. Samjha?’

‘Your honour, with the greatest humility I must strongly object to your suddenly and without notice, introducing the interrogative, ‘Samjha?’ We are not all familiar with Malayalam. I am from Bengal.’

‘Very funny, Counsel. Malayalam eh? I cannot believe you do not even have a working knowledge of our national language. I have a good mind to have you disbarred. I think these proceedings are turning into a farce, and I intend to put a stop to it. For the last time, tell me why this alcoholic husband should not pay damages and be put behind bars for an extended period. That should sober him down and he may come out a contrite and penitent man. And with luck, a better husband. What say you? And don’t say, “That’ll be the day.”’

‘Duly noted. Although you are speaking Your Honour, I clearly sensed that you started a sentence there with the word “and.” Twice. To commit such a solecism once may be regarded a misfortune. Twice seems like carelessness. Forgive me Your Honour, I was merely paraphrasing Oscar Wilde. You were intolerant of my beginning a sentence with “but.” What price “and,” then? Craving your indulgence, perhaps you will allow me to quote Mrs. Susana Centlivre, who coined the phrase “but me no buts” in 1709 in her play The Busie Body. However, as Bernard Woolley, the PM’s Principal Secretary clarified in the celebrated British television comedy series Yes Prime Minister, it was Walter Scott’s employment of the phrase in The Antiquary in 1816 which made it fashionable.’

‘Have you quite finished Counsel, or do you have more such hilariously improving literary references to regale us with? We are not running a lecture here on The History of the English Language. Kindly step on the gas. I haven’t got all day. Why are you smirking?’

‘Sorry, your Honour, merely smiled appreciatively. Liked your “step on the gas.” Begging your pardon. Got carried away by my own eloquence. I was merely making a point to impress upon you that I can, if the mood takes me, string an uninterrupted set of sentences without resorting to, in your memorable phrase, coarse slang.’

‘Very considerate of you, I am sure. If I am ever invited to the Old Bailey, I will make sure you accompany me. Well, we are done for the day, I think. I shall pass sentence tomorrow. The case itself appears to have taken a back seat what with Counsel’s pyrotechnics with the Queen’s English, which has so enlivened these staid proceedings.’

‘Thank you, Your Honour. I am sure no Tom, Dick or Harry could have conducted this case with the ready wit and aplomb that you have exhibited in such stellar fashion.’

‘Touché Counsel. Or for that matter, any Amar, Akbar or Anthony.’

‘Touché right back at you, Your Honour. In conclusion, let us not forget that Harry has been disowned even by the Queen.’

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my terrace garden, minding my own business, getting a bit of wintry sun on my back with a dash of Vitamin D thrown in for good measure, when my mobile phone went off shrilly. I must add that I was at the time reading Pelham ‘Plum’ Wodehouse’s Uncle Fred in the Springtime for the fourteenth time, and enjoying a particularly hilarious passage and I was not overly thrilled with the rude mobile interruption. ‘Gosh, not Amazon or Flipkart at the gates again,’ I expostulated, ‘this time bearing a consignment consisting of two packets of cream crackers and four tubes of Pepsodent G toothpaste.’ I tend to shore up on my brand of toothpaste as they get stocked out frequently on these online portals. In the event, it was neither of those two aggregating giants who were storming the gates while giving me advance telephonic warning, but a voice that sounded like a teenage girl fresh out of college. Again, my antenna was up as were my hackles.

‘Good morning Sir, am I speaking with Mr. Subrahmanyan?’ cooed a bright, young, honey-coated voice. At least, that’s how it sounded.

‘You know you are. Who else would you be speaking to? What is this about?’ As you might have gathered, I was somewhat peremptory. I do not appreciate people interrupting me when I am savouring Wodehouse. Not that I would have felt any different had I been ploughing through Salman Rushdie. When I say ploughing, I am not suggesting Sir Salman’s novels are a tough grind. Merely that his books are usually extremely long and that you have to be prepared for, at the very least, a half-marathon full of unexpected twists and turns. Unlike Sir Pelham’s slim volumes which you can race through in a couple of days, while laughing all the way at the crazy antics of the Master’s aristocrats, landed gentry, well-heeled idlers, butlers and sundry crooks.

‘If you are busy now Sir, I can always call later. I have your number,’ she continued.

‘Yes, indeed you have my number, in more ways than one, and there’s not a lot I can do about it. No, dear lady, I shan’t avidly wait for another call from you. Say what you have to say now, and make it snappy.’ I was hoping she got the message.

‘You have a funny way of talking, Sir. A bit old school, but it’s nice. I am sorry for this disturbance, but I will take only a few minutes of your valuable time.’ I must say she did not lose her composure despite my rather brusque manner. I continued in the same brusque m.

‘Listen young lady, flattery will get you nowhere unless you are damning me with faint praise. Anyhow, get this. I do not wish to invest in mutual funds, I am quite happy with my current internet service provider, I have already given my feedback to the garage that serviced my car, that they robbed me blind, I have donated liberally to associations catering to the blind and the hard-of-hearing, gave away some of my finest shirts, shoes and trousers to orphanages and more donations to a variety of disadvantaged groups and my love for dogs has been amply demonstrated by my frequently extending a helping hand to CUPA and similar animal shelters. So, I don’t think there’s much you can touch me for, seeing as I have covered most bases. By the way, on a matter of principle I am not very charitable towards religious organizations and political parties. More often than not, they are one and the same thing.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I can see you are a very generous man. And since you have taken so much time to explain all the noble works that you have been involved in, as well as your bêtes noires, I would like to trouble you for just a few more minutes. What I wish to talk to you about has nothing to do with any of the things you have so meticulously listed.’ She was gently persistent, this girl, and her vocabulary was better than most people who pester me with sales talk over my mobile phone.

‘I must concede, young lady, that you have a gentle persistence with a surprisingly wide vocabulary. Most people in your line of work won’t know what “meticulously” means, much less slip it into casual conversation. Are you reading off from a prepared text?’

‘Thank you for your compliments, Sir. No, I am not reading from a script. I am a student of English Literature and can handle myself comfortably with the language. May I come to the point now Sir, as I am sure you are a busy man and I have no wish to detain you longer than necessary.’

She was clearly oblivious of my deliciously lazy lifestyle. Still, it was good to know she thought I was a busy man. ‘By all means. Go ahead, young lady, I appear to have misjudged you. English Literature eh? What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? Sorry, that was just my light-hearted way of putting you at ease. I say, you are not by any chance, trying to sell me bound volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, are you? Or the complete works of Shakespeare? I mean, student of English Lit and all that?’

‘Not at all, Sir. I am sure someone of your erudition will already have adorned his bookshelves with those impressive volumes. My purpose in calling you is something entirely different. If you must know, I am not representing any charitable organization and this is not a sales pitch of any kind. Since you have already spent nearly 8 minutes on the phone with me, I crave your indulgence for a further 5 minutes.’

Anyone who ‘craves my indulgence’ gets a receptive ear from me. I relaxed a tad. Truth to tell, she had also aroused my curiosity. No sales talk, nothing commercial? What did she want? ‘Go ahead, young lady. I am all ears. By the way, do you have a name?’

‘Thank you, Sir. The name is Shanta. I have come to know through sources that you are a senior citizen, probably retired but quite active otherwise. I have also come across many of your blogs, which are in the public domain, and arising from those blogs that you are of a humorous disposition. Am I going well, Sir?’

‘Extremely well, Shanta. In fact, I am getting just a wee bit alarmed. What else do you know about me?’ I was now beginning to wonder if this smooth-talking Eng. Lit. babe was not some kind of polished blackmailer trying her luck with whoever might fall neatly into her deceitful web.

‘Now, now Sir, there is no cause for alarm. As long as you have not been involved in any wrongdoing.’

She now had my complete and undivided attention. ‘Who said anything about being alarmed? And what wrongdoing? What are you getting at? I have a good mind to disconnect. I am not sure I like the direction in which this conversation is heading.’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Sir. Disconnect, I mean. I can always call you back again. I have all your coordinates. This conversation is being recorded and I can make a case out that you were flirting with me. You wouldn’t want that, would you now, Sir?’

‘Coordinates? What kind of language is this? And you accuse me of flirting? We were talking about the Encyclopaedia Britannica and Shakespeare, for crying out loud. I don’t see anything flirtatious in that.’

‘Hmm Shakespeare,’ mused this modern-day Jezebel. ‘He wrote some pretty hot stuff in his time. Try these on for size. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate – this from one of his sonnets. Here are a couple more. I have immortal longings in me – Anthony and Cleopatra. Thou art a flesh monger, a fool and a coward – Measure for Measure. I can turn all that round to my advantage. What’s more, even EB has some blue passages in it, Sir.’

I was now completely lost, and perspiring freely. Uncle Fred in the Springtime fell to the floor from my nerveless fingers. For the life of me, I could not imagine what awful truths about me this teenager was hiding. ‘What awful truths about me are you hiding, you, you…’ For a man with a wide vocabulary, I was stumped for words.

I could hear peals of laughter from the other end. Not just from this Shanta Gawdelpus but joined by a gaggle of other females. ‘My sincere apologies, Mr. Subrahmanyan. I work for the Income Tax Department, and we found from your assessment files, that you owe the Government a sum of Rs.23.50 p after all calculations and statutory deductions were taken into account. Even this I am authorized to write off because of your unblemished past record and our new policy of ‘friendly and prompt service.’ Sorry to have needlessly worried you. My colleague and I just decided we will have some fun with a few assessees, selected purely on a random basis. Our lives are deadly dull otherwise.’

I was not sure whether to be hugely relieved at this candid and brazen confession or be deeply offended. As a Wodehouse aficionado, I felt I must show that I can take a joke and decided to brush it off. I spoke to her in a bluff, hearty manner I did not feel.

‘Ha, ha very funny. Please do not try this again, Ms. Shanta, if that is indeed your name. You might be responsible for sending someone or the other with a weak heart to an early grave with your pranks. How come the Income Tax department employs giggling teenagers like you? There ought to be a law.’

‘Sir, who said anything about teenagers, giggling or otherwise? That is your own imagination running wild. I trust you are not one of those Shakespearean characters secretly nursing ‘immortal longings.’ I am 54 years old and plan to retire next year. I felt I had to sign off by doing something crazy and reckless after nearly thirty years of mind-numbing, paper-pushing drudgery, trying to catch people out on some tax dodge or the other. Just so you know, I am happily married with two grown up children. Good day Sir, and you have my word, you will not be troubled again.’

So saying, the not-so-young lady, alias Shanta, disconnected. The joke was clearly on me and I took it on the chin. Whether it was a hoax call or not, I could not say. On the whole I was relieved and if it was not a hoax, I developed a grudging admiration for the caller knowing that we have people slaving away in staid, old government offices who are not above some harmless leg-pulling. Not to mention their knowledge of Shakespeare.

My nagging doubts about the authenticity of that call were cleared a week later, when I received an official letter in a buff envelope from the I.T.O. informing me that my tax dues of Rs.23.50p had been written off as a gesture of goodwill. Clearly, this is one Government department that not only works, but has a good laugh while doing it. Would that there were more such.

As a general rule, people who enter their late sixties or early seventies begin to entertain intimations of mortality. This does not necessarily presage a mindset devoted to gloom, doom and despondency. Unless, of course, one is an unfortunate victim of some crippling affliction. Such is not my saturnine state of mind. I am, by nature, a sunny optimist who believes in taking things as they come. Rather, I am speaking of people who start preparing a bucket list of things one must accomplish before one’s legs start wobbling, or one is unable to climb a single flight of stairs without puffing and panting. We all know that life expectancy the world over has increased manifold, and oftentimes, it is hard to tell a sixty-year-old from a seventy-year-old. Even those well into their eighties and nineties can generally be seen bouncing around in sprightly fashion. As some smart aleck said, ‘age is only a number.’ There’s even a strong rumour doing the rounds that medical research is on the cusp of finding an answer to achieving immortality – cross my heart and hope to die! Or, in the small-talk argot of my school days, ‘Put it in the Ripley’s Believe it or Not.’ Whether that is good news or bad news I am in no position to hazard an opinion. Not unlike the Cumaean Sibyl of Greek legend, who wished for eternal life without specifying eternal youth. Apparently, she lived and aged miserably for a thousand years!

The standard view amongst the elderly, for whom the bell tolls at some foreseeable future, as regards ‘things they must do before they meet their maker,’ could range from visits to global tourist spots like Venice, Florence or Paris, Wimbledon or Lord’s, the Grand Canyon (gorgeous, as one visitor punned) and other well-advertised wonders of the world. Many of us in India have not even seen half of our own country, if that. In that context there are those who pine for a visit to Varanasi, Kashi Vishwanath, Madurai Meenakshi temple and, of course, the Taj Mahal (if the Uttar Pradesh administration hasn’t derecognized it) and many other such alluring spots right here in Bharat Mata. Religious shrines are an obvious choice for salvation seekers. Still others detail their bucket list, not in terms of places to see but things to do. ‘I’ve always wanted to write a book but never got round to it,’ ‘I’ve always wanted to keep a Golden Retriever, high time I did it,’ ‘I’ve always wanted to sing all the compositions of The Beatles at home, even if my voice and I are about to croak.’ Etcetera. Dear reader, you can add your own list of items, be they places of interest to visit or creative things you always wanted to do but were too indolent to attempt.

That said, those are not the kind of dreamy, cliché-ridden objectives that I am talking about. My better half and I have had the good fortune to have travelled to most of the ‘places to see’ around the globe and in India, so I shan’t give up the ghost with regrets on that score. Having just entered my seventies, there are some pretty mundane things that I have been dying to do but have not been able to. Mark you, I am not saying I was not, for whatever reason, able to get round to doing these things. It’s more to do with the fact that I have not been actually, physically able to do them owing to some inherent lack on my part. This has been highly frustrating. Here is my strange list of things I would dearly like to do before I get the call. I also have grave doubts, grave being the operative word, if I will be able to get round to them. Nonetheless, here are ten things I would like to accomplish before the Pearly Gates open wide and invite me in as a life member.

Whistle with fingers in my mouth. You see these boisterous types at sports venues and rock concerts. When they get really excited about something, a brilliant passing shot or a helicopter swish for six or a diving goalmouth save, or for that matter, a mind-blowing guitar or drum solo, several raucous members in the audience can be seen inserting their thumbs and forefingers into the undersides of their tongues and letting fly with piercing, ear-splitting whistles. Others employ two forefingers with both their hands to achieve the same result. How on earth do they do this? It’s enviable. I have tried it more than a hundred times with nothing to show for it, but a pathetic wind exhalation. No sound and no fury, signifying nothing. Mind you, I can do the normal whistling with my lips O-shaped. Like Deborah Kerr in The King and I, I can ‘whistle a happy tune.’ Meanwhile I seek in vain to achieve the finger-and-tongue version of the rowdy whistle while my lungs are still in shipshape.

Raising just one eyebrow. ‘Holmes raised his left eyebrow, deeply suspicious, turned to his trusted aide and said, “There’s more to this than meets the eye, Watson.”’ Just to clarify, that quote is my own as I could not readily find a Sherlock Holmes novel with a reference to eyebrow-raising, but that is precisely the sort of thing Holmes would have done, as I have observed in many of the film adaptations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels on the sleuth extraordinaire. That said, I have stood in front of a mirror innumerable times in a vain attempt to raise either my left or right eyebrow. Only for the mirror to mock from side to side with a ‘No way, José.’ The eyebrow raisers hide their secrets well. Every time I attempt this seemingly simple procedure, both my eyebrows shoot up at the same time, rendering the whole exercise null and void. It cramps my style, this disability, particularly when I elect to essay a cynical sneer and rubbish some idiot’s tall claim about his cricketing or some other prowess. It counts for nothing if those eyebrows remain a flatline. This is one instance where practice does not make perfect. Not by a long chalk. You are either a single eyebrow-raiser, or you are not. That’s all there is to it.

Touching your toes. With advancing age, stiff limbs and sudden muscle cramps go hand in hand, if not leg in leg if you get my drift. Your friendly physio prescribes a number of calisthenics, most of which I manage with a high degree of difficulty consistent with my age. However, the one exercise I simply have not been able to get a grip on, and this has nothing to do with age, is to touch my toes without flexing my knees. I could not manage it when I was a 7-year-old and I can’t at 70. The hands kind of go as far as the knee roll, and there they lodge a loud protest and refuse to travel any further. If you have watched Mr. Bean on screen, you will know what I mean. My physio urges me on. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, full of encouragement. ‘Keep stretching bit by bit and before you know it, you will touch your big toe.’ I have tried this for 63 years and success continues to elude me. Guess I will just look on the bright side. My sunset years could produce a minor triumph. As the poet had it, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’ So long as I am mindful of vertigo and a possible slipped disc.

Moving your neck from side to side. In case some of you are going, ‘What’s so difficult about that?’ let me hasten to add I am not referring to merely shaking your head sideways in order to indicate a refusal or a negative response. Here, I exclude the many Indians who have this strange habit of moving their heads sideways even when they think they are nodding in the affirmative. I am talking about what Indian classical dancers, Bharatanatyam exponents in particular, do so effortlessly. The head and the neck move from side to side independent of the rest of the body, which remains stock-still. The dancers pull off this complex physical manoeuvre quite effortlessly, like those hand-painted dancing dolls. Whenever I have attempted this in the privacy of my room, I end up looking like a man nursing a stiff neck and trying in vain to address the problem. This is due to the fact that I actually do develop a stiff neck thanks to my ill-advised misadventure. Another item on my bucket list that goes up the spout.

Climbing a rope. During my school days, compulsory visits to the gym involved, among other things, climbing a thick, long rope all the way up to the high ceiling. Many of my classmates did this effortlessly. My feeble attempts were the subject of much derision. Our Physical Training master, ‘Vincy’ Vincent, was scathing in his tongue-lashing. ‘What’s this you pipsqueak, my grandmother can climb that rope faster than you can fall off it. This is what comes of eating grass and not red meat. Go run round the field ten times.’ His crude reference to my vegetarianism was uncharitable, but I ran round the field. Three times, after which I needed attention. Why running round the field ten times would make me a better rope climber, I was unable to comprehend. This inability to climb a rope would have instantly disqualified me from joining the Army. Not that I ever applied, but I still have wistful regrets about not being able to climb that gym rope.

Catch a lizard and throw it out of the window. My wife and I suffer from a lizard phobia. Which is not a helpful thing to have in a tropical country. When we do come across one during the summer months, we perforce need to resort to third degree methods involving a repellant spray and a broomstick. Most unpleasant – for the lizard and for us. I mean, a cockroach you can just stamp on and that’s that – end of. Lizards are devious and possessed of an amazing survival instinct. When they sense danger, they actually detach their tail from the parent body – to trick us! What I have always wished for is to be able to just pick the little reptile up with my thumb and forefinger and throw it out of the nearest window. Clean, no fuss, the lizard will land safely on its remarkably adhesive feet, to infest somebody else’s home, and my conscience is clear. However, this will remain an unfulfilled wish. We are now, under expert mumbo-jumbo advice, placing empty eggshells in different corners of the house. Apparently, for unfathomable reasons, the lizzies can’t stand the sight or smell of eggshells. All I can say is, ‘watch this space.’

Read War and Peace from cover to cover. War and Peace is not the longest novel ever written, but clocking in at close to 1300 pages, it is long enough for me. I am a slow reader. My ambition to read this book in toto has invariably come a cropper. After about 250 pages, Tolstoy has lost me completely. All that stuff about Napoleon trudging through snow and ice during his ill-advised Russian campaign runs to hundreds of pages, when I decide to throw in the towel (like Napoleon) less than half way through. One of these days I’ll grit my teeth and get right down to it. If someone finds me in a moribund state with War and Peace lying half opened on my chest, kindly note down the page number for posterity and a clever epitaph. A quick afterthought. Experts say Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past is thelongest novel on record, boasting over 4200 pages. Even if it was serialized, it would take me three lifetimes to complete, and I am unlikely to ‘remembrance’ anything ‘of things past.’ I am giving it a miss.

Run the 100 metres inside 40 seconds. Forget about Usain Bolt, who breasted the tape at 9.58 seconds, creating a world record for the short sprint that still stands. ‘What’s the big hurry, Usain?’ that’s what I’d like to know. I mean, did he have a plane to catch? Were his creditors chasing him? Was he worried that he would miss the opening sequence of The Godfather Part 4? By the way, what’s with the triumphant bow and arrow pose, Usain? (even small-time Indian cricket heroes like Hardik Pandya are copying you). It’s this unseemly haste to do things in the proverbial blink of an eye that I am at a loss to fathom. Bolt by name – he certainly bolted, ahead of everyone else. Me, I am practicing hard to complete the 100 metres sprint at a leisurely clip of around 40 seconds, give or take, at the next veterans’ athletic meet in our neighborhood. And my warning shot to all my septuagenarian rivals is, ‘Just marvel at my clean pair of heels.’

Pressing my own shirt. The dhobi outside my gates does it, my driver does it, and my wife does it better than both of them. Why does ironing a shirt present so many problems for me? The buttons get in the way, the collar never quite sits the way I want it, the pocket acquires more creases than I had intended, and in the end, my shirt looks like something the cat reluctantly brought in. And don’t even get me started on folding the ironed shirt. At which point the good lady wife snatches it away from me to undo the damage. Provided I haven’t already burned a nice, round hole at the back. Should I persist or give it up as a lost cause? That is the question.

Remembering that third point. I don’t know about you, but whenever I have been called upon to make an impromptu speech at some informal gathering, I usually start off by saying, ‘I have three points to make.’ I have no earthly idea why I say this. I think it is some kind of reflex action. I’ve seen many practiced speakers do the exact same thing. The problem is, I can never remember the third point, if indeed there was a third point. Somehow just two points seem weak, so I get stuck with having to make three points, which involves making something up on the spur of the moment, which is dashed difficult. I have therefore resolved to commit to memory, irrespective of the subject on which I may be called upon to hold forth, some inconsequential third point, a catch-all joke perhaps, which will save me the blushes. Not exactly an earth-shattering item for a bucket list, but the problem was I had headlined this piece, ‘Ten things to do before I snuff it,’ and I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember the tenth thing. So there!

I have also entertained fleeting thoughts of winning a Grand Slam title, not fussy about which one but Wimbledon would have been nice. However, since The Big Three show no signs of letting up, I have had second thoughts and dunked the idea – discretion being the better part of valour.

Echoing Hamlet’s sentiments, these are consummations devoutly to be wished. As a parting shot, if you haven’t already, watch Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman in The Bucket List. If it’s the last thing you do!

A place of worship, correction, let’s call a spade a temple, located somewhere in the heartlands of south India. Ramu, a mendicant, sits in a long line of beggars outside the temple walls with a pock-marked, pitted aluminium begging bowl, seeking alms from the daily flow of worshippers who throng this holy abode of the presiding deity.  A ragged length of dirty white cloth covers his head to keep the unforgiving sun from dealing him a heat stroke. The power of the temple’s deity is said to be formidable, and though it is almost seemingly inaccessible to normal travellers, visitors flock in great profusion every day for darshan and to   pay obeisance to the almighty. They come by car, truck, van, two-wheeler, bicycle and bullock-cart, juddering through the unmade, stone-strewn paths that pass for roads leading to this village shrine. Those that live within a two-mile radius trudge to the temple with intent, avoiding stray dogs and skeletal cows sure-footedly, familiar with the rough terrain.  The coins drop in dribs and drabs into Ramu’s bowl, but over the course of a long day, they add up.

Vikram is a brilliant software engineer, based out of Bangalore. At the relatively young age of 28, he is already worth several crores in stock options and dynamic investments. His wife, Shanta, spends her time running a highly successful creche and a kindergarten in a tony area of the garden city. On Sundays and public holidays, she puts in a few hours with an NGO involved in helping mentally challenged children. However, one dark cloud looms over their idyllic life. They have not been blessed with a child after three years of wedded bliss. And that is the reason Vikram has sought out this place of worship in a remote hamlet as he has heard tell that the presiding deity can make good any lack if the proper rituals are performed. Unbeknownst to Shanta, Vikram has been a regular monthly visitor to this shrine for the past six months. He has been following all the liturgies and ablutions as directed by the resident priest, who has assured him that the local deity is fully seized of his issue, or rather the lack of it, and the patter of little feet at his bide-a-wee home is not far away.

How do we know all this? We know this because Vikram has struck up a warm friendship with the supplicant Ramu. Which then begs the question, rather like Ramu, how these two unlikely individuals come to enjoy such a close camaraderie. All rather strange and mysterious. Apparently, it started like this. On his first visit to the temple, Vikram decided he must do the decent thing and donate some of his loose change to these beggars squatting outside the temple premises. Any good deed to please the gods. As he chanted some private mantra while doling out the change to these unfortunates, he came to Ramu’s plate. On dropping a five-rupee coin into the battered receptacle, he thought he heard the beggar saying, in perfectly accented English, ‘You are most generous Sir, that must have made an awful dent in your bank balance, even if not in my dented bowl.’ A hint of sarcasm as well. Vikram felt his mind was playing tricks and that he was hearing voices. A disturbing thought. Then the beggar spoke again. ‘Take no notice of my prattle, kind Sir. I am given to making off-the-cuff comments, tinged with irony. You go about your business, Sir.’

Vikram made no response. He dropped more coins into the other beggars’ bowls and pretended he heard nothing. He found the recent exchange unsettling. His drive back to Bangalore was not comfortable. Not because of the pathetic condition of the roads, till he got to the highway, that was rattling his bones up something awful, but because of the beggar Ramu’s astonishing conversational methods. ‘Prattle,’ ‘off-the-cuff,’ ‘tinged with irony,’ ‘awful dent,’ ‘go about your business,’ – who spoke like that these days, even among the educated classes, leave alone the poorest of the poor? What’s more, his accent was quite polished. There’s more in this than meets the eye, thought Vikram to himself. Vikram’s drive back home was buffeted by a maelstrom of strange emotions. He could not get Ramu out of his head. That night he slept fitfully.

Next morning, he told Shanta he was motoring to Chennai on a personal errand and would be back by nightfall. Instead, he decided to drive back to the village housing the holy of the holies, having put in for a day’s leave of absence. Prior to his leaving, Shanta ran and fetched a thermometer and inserted it into her husband’s mouth before he could protest. This man, a confirmed workaholic, had never taken a day’s leave in his entire working life, and now this. She feared the worst. He wants to drive back to Chennai? On a personal errand? Sounded distinctly dubious. Dementia and high fever, possibly Covid, were her biggest worries. She placed her hand on his forehead but could feel no abnormality. Overwork, that was the trouble. The thermometer said Vikram’s temperature was sub-normal. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just something I came across at a kovil on the outskirts of Chennai that I need to sort out. Will tell you all about it when I return. Trust me.’ Shanta was flummoxed. She was not even aware that her husband was visiting a temple or indeed, why. In his dashing personality as a successful IT professional, she never smelt the incense of religion in his make-up. Why, they did not even design the de rigueur prayer room in their state-of-the-art apartment.  However, she decided not to press but to await his return.

Arriving at the village, Vikram parked the car under the shade of a spreading banyan tree and proceeded to confront the eloquent Ramu, who was sitting cross-legged at his appointed place, apparently in deep contemplation.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ opened Vikram, stirring Ramu mildly out of his reverie, ‘Caught you by surprise, didn’t I? What is it exactly that you are doing here? I can see that you are well-bred and well spoken, so what’s with the indigent costume and grand deception?’

Ramu was equal to the occasion. ‘I fully expected your sudden return this morning, brother. I could see that my highfalutin garrulity yesterday took you unawares and you have been thinking of nothing else ever since.’

‘You’re doing it again, “highfalutin garrulity” indeed! That’s awfully clever of you, but I need to know what your real game is,’ replied Vikram, ‘I distinctly smell a rat. Something fishy. Go on, out with it.’

‘Make up your mind. Rat or fish? Don’t mix your smelly metaphors. Nothing fishy, my friend. Or ratty, come to that. We are strictly vegetarian here. Tell you what, why don’t we go and stand under that banyan tree where your swank car is parked and we can have a chinwag,’ said Ramu.

‘Fair enough,’ said Vikram and the two of them walked towards the shade of the banyan’s cooling branches, ‘now reveal to me why you move in this strange, cloak-and-dagger way, keeping me guessing. And don’t think you can fob me off with some lame, hard-luck story about losing all your ill-gotten gains at the bourses or the race courses. We are standing on sacred land. I want the truth.’

‘Got a fag?’ queried Ramu.

‘What? No, I don’t smoke,’ replied Vikram, clearly taken aback by this startling request and plainly irritated. ‘Filthy habit.’

Ramu drew himself up to his full height. ‘All right, don’t get all hoity-toity with me. It’s just that these hand-rolled bidis are killing me. I’ll get straight to the point. Your name is Vikram, right? You work in a software company, you are well paid, your wife Shanta is doing noble community work – a happily married couple, except for one, solitary sorrow in your young lives. You don’t have a child. And that’s why you keep coming here.’

Vikram was aghast. ‘Who are you? Where did you come from and how do you know all this?’

‘Peace be with you, bro. Don’t get so hot under the collar. Things will soon sort themselves out and your wishes will be taken care of.’ Ramu sported a broad smile.

‘I still don’t get it,’ cried Vikram. ‘What are you, a godman, a shaman? And I am not your brother. And don’t call me bro, either. I hate that new wave corruption. And you, with your mumbo-jumbo black magic.’

‘Says the guy who, for all his cynicism, comes here monthly to talk to his god. Let’s just say I know things. I can’t reveal more. Why don’t you just go home and let nature take its own, majestic course?’ Ramu was clearly in high spirits, revelling in the techie’s discomfiture.

Vikram was getting quite irritable and fidgety. ‘And how come you talk like this? A poor, starving beggar in rags, looks like you haven’t had a shower in months, stinking to high heaven and you converse like Professor Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. And now you’re advising me to let nature take its own course.’

‘Majestic course,’ interjected Ramu, imparting plenty of topspin. ‘Great movie, My Fair Lady. Saw it six times.’ At which point, he started singing Get me to the church on time, under his breath. Was this guy for real?

Vikram was now at his wit’s end. A Broadway hit song, on top of everything else. ‘All right. Majestic course. I am going home now, Your Majesty. And if what you say turns out to be true, I will return and break a hundred coconuts in your name. What is your name, by the way?’

‘My name is of little consequence, my friend. Just go home to your wife,’ replied Ramu darkly. ‘I will bid you farewell for now. You sure I can’t bum a fag off you? Dying for a proper smoke.’ So saying, Ramu wandered off towards the line of beggars, leaving a puzzled and disturbed Vikram revving up his car.

Vikram returned home early. Shanta was still out. He helped himself to a cold beer from the fridge and switched the television set on to watch one of the many sports channels. India 36 all out? What is the world coming to? The TV was supposed to soothe the savage breast. He turned to another channel showing some soporific golf and fell soundly asleep, his beer only half consumed.

He woke up to Shanta’s urging voice asking him to go and sleep in the bedroom. Vikram was wide awake now. ‘Listen Shanta. I have something strange and dramatic to tell you. Why don’t you sit yourself down?’

‘I know all about the 36 all out Vikram, but first I have to take something for my stomach. I was violently sick at the creche and am still feeling woozy. Could be that five-day old custard in the fridge I ate this morning. Must have been off, what with all the power cuts.’ While she was narrating this, she heaved sickeningly and ran to the bathroom, and came out in a few minutes looking pale, white as a sheet. ‘I think we should call the doctor,’ said Shanta weakly.

Vikram was wreathed in smiles. He could not believe what he was hearing. Can this be actually happening? He had seen too many Hindi and Tamil films not to recognize the tell-tale signs. Only the rousing background music was missing. This tale does not need any more telling. Dear reader, you can surely guess what the beaming doctor or rather, the gynecologist said.

Tailpiece: Next morning, first crack out of the box, Vikram was speeding away to the village temple to meet Ramu and thank him brokenly. En route, he picked up a carton of India Kings cigarettes for his benefactor. That was the least he could do. On arrival, he parked his car under the ancient banyan and ran towards the temple. He searched high and low amongst the long line of squatting beggars, but Ramu was nowhere to be found. Was he ill? He ran into the temple and asked the head priest if he was aware of Ramu’s whereabouts. The priest knew every single beggar by name. He merely gave Vikram a knowing look, turned back and gazed reverently at the resplendent deity, and said, ‘Ramu was His plaything. You are a Tamilian aren’t you? Have you seen that old classic Sivaji Ganesan film Tiruvilaiyaadal?  Where the Almighty descends on earth and plays the common man in different disguises? You have? Five times? And you doubtless recall the Hollywood film, Oh God! where George Burns, who plays God, tells the judge in the final scene, “If it pleases the court, and even if it doesn’t please the court, I’m God, your honour.” Then you will understand what transpired here. Go home and be with your wife.’

Vikram was dumbstruck. A die-hard film buff, this temple priest but he was moved by what he said. Vikram merely reached out and offered the carton of India Kings to the appalled priest. ‘Believe me your Holiness, He would appreciate this gift much more than the hundred coconuts I was planning to break.’

As he drove away from the temple, Vikram thought he heard a disembodied voice call after him, ‘Brother Vikram, where’s my fag?’ He peered into his rear-view mirror, saw nothing, smiled to himself and pressed on the accelerator, a thick cloud of dust rising in the vehicle’s wake.

Until very recently, my idea of a toolkit was a somewhat rusty old metal box in my late father-in-law’s workshop consisting of a variety of implements like hammer, chisel, pliers, screws, rawlplugs, drill bits, industrial glue, sandpaper, lengths of wire and a few sundry items, names of which I cannot readily recall. He was very good with his hands, my father-in-law. Whether it was the undersole of your shoe that had come undone and gaped embarrassingly, or your watch strap that had detached itself from its parent chronometer or even your precious blackened, oxidized silver medal you won at school for excelling at elocution which needed polishing, the old man could attend to these tasks with great expertise and pride. Dexterity was his middle name. All he needed was his magic box of tricks containing his toolkit. Take his toolkit away from him and he was a spent force – Samson without his locks. By locks, I mean Samson’s curly hair and not the kind of locks you might have chanced upon in my father-in-law’s toolkit. Come to think of it, good old Samson wouldn’t have known what to do with a Yale lock if you handed it to him on a silver platter. And Delilah wouldn’t have been of much use either.

So much for locks, my father-in-law and Samson. My current preoccupation with the term ‘toolkit’ is from an entirely different connotation ascribed to this everyday item. At first it just passed me by. The word toolkit was being uttered on television news channels and referred to in newspapers so frequently that I paid scant attention to it. If anything, without my being aware of it, the word was being embedded into the recesses of my brain. The advertising gurus have a word for it – subliminal. Then there were references being made to pop star Rihanna’s toolkit (the mind boggles) and teenage activist Greta Thunberg’s toolkit, all of which were apparently proving extremely helpful to farmer Rakesh Tikait’s toolkit. A billionaire pop diva, a teenage Swedish activist and a battle-hardened agriculturist – all coming together under one toolkit roof to find common cause. A more unlikely trio you will be hard pressed to find. Incidentally, Greta Thunberg’s Twitter account claims 4.9 million followers. That’s a lot of twits. Guess you can double or treble that for Rihanna. Bit much, I thought. Here was a simple, common or garden, quotidian word, ‘toolkit,’ which brought to mind my father-in-law’s hammer and chisel, and all of a sudden, before you can say MSP it takes on a completely new, political dimension. From Arnab Goswami and Rahul Srivastava to Rahul Gandhi and Amit Shah, they were all talking about toolkits. The bombastic Shashi Tharoor does not appear to be in the mix, possibly because the term toolkit has just two syllables!

At which point I felt it was time to ferret around a couple of search engines to arrive at the modern definition of a toolkit, and this is what I unearthed – ‘A toolkit is a collection of authoritative and adaptable resources for frontline staff that enables them to learn about an issue and identify approaches for addressing them. Toolkits can help translate theory into practice, and typically target one issue or one audience.’ So, there we have it. A toolkit explained lucidly and graspable to the meanest intelligence. Not the faintest mention of rawlplugs, drill bits or screw drivers. It was then the work of a moment for me to get my teeth into that involved definition, parse every sentence down to its component parts and describe their syntactic roles. After all that, if I still cannot make any sense out of it, I will simply have to hurl the blasted toolkit, drill bits and all, out of the window. As Rihanna and Greta Thunberg were not readily available for a quick online interview, my emails to them eliciting an ‘address unknown’ response, I had no option but to seek out their agents, who promised to take my questions and revert with their replies as soon as feasible. Lo and behold, I received email responses from both of them. I cannot swear to the veracity of these mails and their contents. They may or may not be fake, but I thought it would be interesting and instructive to share them with my readers. For the record, I posed one identical question to both these luminaries.

‘Can you explain precisely why you have put out tweets condemning India’s new farm laws, and while you are about it, what is your understanding of MSP and APMC?’

Rihanna – ‘See Bro, I was born in Barbados in the West Indies. I am guessing my ancestors were farmers in sugarcane plantations which that region was famous for. So, I have a lot of time and sympathy for farmers. I love cricket. Sir Garry Sobers, a Barbadian, is like God to me. I also love reggae music, Bob Marley being another God. Also, Harry Belafonte who sang about banana farms. Let me sing a snatch. Work all night on a drink of rum / Daylight come and we want go home / Stack banana ’til the morning come / Daylight come and we want go home / Day-o, day-o.’

‘That is why I know so much about farming.  I owe all these millions I now earn to these inspirational characters. Some people say I am being paid a few million smackeroos to put out this tweet that has created a big controversy, but I don’t know nothin’ about that. Whenever I want a new luxury yacht, I just ask for it. So you see, I have great sympathy for these farmers from Ceylon, Burma, Indiana or wherever. MSP, APMC? I don’t need to know all that. It’s the farmers my heart bleeds for. I can also sing that old Lead Belly song my Gramps used to sing. I’ll sing it for you. When I was a little bitty baby / My mama would rock me in the cradle / In them old cotton fields back home. I know that was in Louisiana, but you get the sense of our closeness to the farming community. You can also check out my hit song videos on YouTube, Bitch Better Have My Money and Loveeeeeee Song. I would recommend parental guidance and even they might need guidance.’

Greta Thunberg – ‘You know, just because I am barely 18 years old people think they can treat me like a child. It’s freezing cold right now in Sweden but I am still fighting against global warming, though here in Stockholm and other cities, we could all do with a bit of warming. Just shows, I don’t just think about myself. Climate change is my favourite topic. I got 98% for my thesis on this subject, and my Mom gave me two helpings of Kladdkaka, our yummy Swedish sticky chocolate cake as a reward. My Dad joined the party and said since I am 18, technically an adult and eligible to drive our Saab, I could have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon red wine. I thought it tasted like cough mixture, but they say it’s always like that the first time. Sorry, I am digressing. About this farmers’ agitation in India, I am very upset at all these pictures I am seeing. Tractors running over people, others climbing poles at some big fort to escape tear gas firing and the government insisting they will not repeal the farm laws. Do I know what MSP is? Does that matter? I am told if the new laws are repealed all the problems will be solved, so what’s all the fuss about? Why should these shivering farmers sit on the streets, get foot massages, cook their food and do all their other business there? Very bad for the climate. I am sending them a toolkit which should be strictly followed.  By the way, did I hear that farmers are in favour of stubble burning? That’s a tricky one as I have been rooting for clean air. Stubble means trouble. I have to give it some thought. Oops, its 6 pm already. It gets very dark here in Sweden. Time for beddy-byes, or Mom will scold. Good night.’

Finally, I posed this question to the man of the hour, the never-say-die farmer who is looking to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for spearheading the longest protest movement known to man, the irrepressible Rakesh Tikait from Uttar Pradesh. This English translation loses a bit of the bite from Rakeshji’s down-to-earth Hindi.

‘Rakeshji, the Government is willing to consider all your demands and settle matters amicably. You have already met Tomarji and Goyalji 11 times. There has to be some give and take, but you are only saying ‘Repeal, Repeal, Repeal.’ How will this end?’

‘Arre Bhai, please understand. Modiji may cry in Rajya Sabha, but I also cried. Many times. Nobody is listening. And now they are accusing me of this toolkit tamasha. Who is this Rehana Shehana and Geeta Tungabhadra? Why are they sending toolkits and confusing every one? We have our own toolkits in India. I can screw anything or anyone with our own screwdrivers. Government can put nails on roads, but I will remove them with my pliers and plant flowers instead. I am a man of peace. I have only this to say to the Government, ‘Repeal, Repeal, Repeal.’

Moral of the story – You can take a toolkit to a Tikait, but you cannot make him use it.

Convicted Criminal: As God is my judge I am innocent.
Judge Norman Birkett: He isn’t, I am and you’re not!

After all the ongoing brouhaha over the never-ending farmers’ agitation in the capital, followed by even more heated debates and discussions on the Union Budget, to say nothing of the all-pervading Covid19 situation which kind of sits over all of us like a frozen suet pudding, it was good to turn my attention to something completely different in our newspapers. Well, good is not a good word because the news item in question that grabbed my notice was both disturbing and ridiculous. I am talking about the Supreme Court, very properly, coming down with a heavy hand over a recent Bombay High Court decision which had held that ‘pressing the breast of a 12 year-old child without removing her top will not fall within the definition of “sexual assault” under Section 7 of the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act (POCSO).’

This really set the cat among the pigeons in my head. They were fluttering, the pigeons that is, like nobody’s business while I tried to wrap my challenged intellect around this verdict. I am talking about the Bombay High Court’s (Nagpur Bench) verdict, and not the Supreme Court’s quashing of the same. The stay was ordered by India’s Chief Justice, S.A. Bobde, and this may well have been one of the easier decisions he has had to make since taking the oath of office. What were these boffins at the Bombay High Court thinking, specifically Justice Pushpa Ganediwala who was at the controls? Apparently, the person who has been accused of some species of molestation can go scot free, as long as his victim was wearing clothes, and there is no ‘skin-to-skin’ contact. One lives and learns as judicial terminology keeps reinventing itself. In short, if the girl is fully clothed and someone touched her improperly, he was only ‘outraging her modesty,’ under Section 354 of the Indian Penal Code, and through derivative logic, no punishment is called for. If our illiterate, oversexed offenders were aware of this loophole in the law, they would go berserk with their breast pressing, bum pinching and much else besides. It’s all very well to go on about sowing your wild oats, but there are limits.

 To revert to the subject on hand, here’s how I view this sleazy scenario. We have this lecherous lout who squeezes himself into a crowded bus or wherever and, ‘accidentally on purpose,’ presses himself against the embonpoint of a nubile youngster in a sexually offensive manner and quietly hops off at the next stop, leaving the poor victim red faced and helpless. ‘Sorry, young lady, nothing much you can do about it because you were wearing clothes.’ At least, that’s what the asinine verdict appears to be telling the young victim. How about getting some able-bodied men to apprehend the perpetrator and bash his thick skull in? If the law is going to take its own majestic course, then somebody else had better step in. You might scoff at vigilantism, but it has its uses. Her Ladyship at the Bombay High Court, Nagpur Bench, contended that Section 8 (yes, there is even a section for this) of POCSO exonerates the desperado on the grounds that the accused had no sexual intent to commit offence because there was no skin-to-skin contact. And how, pray, do you divine that, Your Honour? Telepathy? ESP? Dear, oh dear! One of the most celebrated judges, Lord Denning, quoting Mr. Bumble from Oliver Twist, provided gravitas and credence to the expression, ‘The law is an ass.’ He certainly knew what he was talking about.

As if all that was not absurd enough, the next day’s papers had more small print of a similar nature. Again, it was the reverberating Nagpur Bench of the Bombay High Court that went a step further. Undeterred by the Supreme Court’s rap on its knobby knuckles, the High Court now ruled that holding the hand of a minor while unzipping his pants cannot be termed a sexual assault. The accused offender in question was a 50 year-old man, who was attempting to exhibit his manhood to a 5 year-old girl! Surely, there is such a thing as assaulting the senses. One is rendered speechless. All I can say is that if any of you, who happen to be reading this, is planning a short family holiday in Nagpur (I know the city is famed for its oranges), and you plan to take along your teenaged daughters with you, cease and desist. All that profusion of succulent oranges in the city seems to be putting libidinous ideas into the sex-starved male of the species. You are much better off going to the hills or some seaside resort, where the judicial system comes down mercilessly on unzippers of pants, unbuttoners of flies and gropers of mammary glands. If you don’t heed my advice, on your heads be it, or rather, on your breasts.

This sordid story should have ended hereabouts, but my morning daily just will not give up on Justice Ganediwala and her strange enthusiasm for cases involving deviant sex offenders. The honourable lady may soon, with justice, earn the dubious sobriquet of ‘serial acquitter of paedophiles.’ Try this on for size.  Her Ladyship, reportedly gave it as her considered view that a man, who had already been incarcerated, cannot be accused of committing a sexual act ‘without any scuffle.’ I suppose there is some crude logic to this argument that if the man had forced himself on the girl who was reluctant to engage with him, a scuffle would have ensued involving torn clothes and sundry injuries, none of which was evident. Ergo, the vile act was not vile but consensual. On the face of it, one might have to (purely on technical grounds) hand the benefit of the doubt to the acquitted accused. It’s just that given the court’s previous judgements of a somewhat similar nature, I am filled with doubts and misgivings and from the alleged victim’s point of view, I am not sure that there is no case to answer.

In this rapidly evolving story, the finishing touches have now been given by the Bombay High Court which has, in the light of Justice Ganediwala’s quirky pronouncements, recommended to the Supreme Court that her elevation to the position of a permanent judge of the Bombay High Court, be stayed. A decision that would be welcomed by all right-thinking citizens, particularly those with teenage and minor daughters in their families.

I was about to put this piece to bed when, lo and behold, Justice Ganediwala struck again. This time she ruled that a 27-year old man cannot be convicted of multiple rape of a 17 year-old girl simply on the alleged victim’s say-so, as the prosecution failed to provide substantive evidence of the crime. Perhaps, just perhaps, she got it right this time round. The young lady might have been crying wolf, but I am not holding my breath. One way or the other, this particular judge appears to have cornered the market on cases pertaining to child sex offenders.

Doubtless inspired by the goings-on at the Bombay High Court, the Madras High Court has decided that it can’t be left behind. Pronouncing that a man, in this case a police constable, and a woman locked inside a room for long hours does not prima facie suggest that there was any funny business involved. Or in the ringing words of Justice R. Suresh Kumar, that it ‘need not necessarily lead to a presumption that they were in an immoral relationship.’ Exactly my thoughts, but you know judges. They like to spin it out a bit. Circumlocutory is the word that springs to the lips. Be that as it may, I am willing to take the locked-up couple’s word at face value, so long as they did not come out of the room in a state of déshabillé. You know, torn clothes, unzipped flies and the like.

In conclusion, this left-field obsession with ‘skin to skin,’ ‘improper touching,’ and ‘provocative unzipping’ reminded me of a hilarious exchange between a young couple out on a date, which was featured in British comedian and celebrity-interviewer par excellence, David Frost’s show, That Was The Week That Was in the 1960s. Here is an extract from ‘Fly Buttons,’ not verbatim, as I am paraphrasing it from the deep recesses of my foggy memory but you’ll get the general idea.

(At a small café somewhere in England)

She (whispering) – ‘Listen, your fly is open.’
He – ‘What?’
She – ‘I said your fly is open.’
He – ‘It’s not.’
She – ‘It is.’
He – ‘How far?’
She – ‘What do you mean, how far?’
He – ‘How far is it open?’
She – ‘More than half way. Zip it up.’
He – ‘I can’t.’
She – ‘Why not?’
He – ‘It buttons.’
She – ‘Then button it up.’
He – ‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? My fly buttons. War, disease, famine, crime, corruption, cataclysms, nothing matters to you. Absolutely nothing. So long as we button our flipping flies. I wouldn’t button my fly if it was open all the way.’
She – ‘It is.’

(After a bit more argument)

She – ‘Look, we can’t stop here all evening discussing your gaping fly buttons. We’ll be late for the movie. Shouldn’t we move?’
He – ‘All right, all right. Just wait till I button my fly.’

I am not sure about Justice Ganediwala, but I rest my case.

Ms. Nirmala Sitharaman
Union Finance Minister
Cabinet Secretariat
Raisina Hill
New Delhi.                                                                          January 27, 2021.

Dear Ms. Sitharaman,

On the first of February, you will rise to present the Union Budget to the nation from the Lok Sabha – an event, I venture to suggest, that captures more attention than most programmes barring the Prime Minister’s periodic updates to the nation on Mann ki Baat, the Election results or an India – Australia Test match. You will doubtless already have received representations from all manner of interested groups to take care of their specific requirements. Industry and the Farm Lobby, to name just two denominations will be asking for the moon. Not to speak of the poorest of the poor for whom you will unfailingly announce a slew of relief measures. The rich and the super-rich will be soaked, along with the sinful tobacco lobby which is only right and proper. The middle-class, or muddled class, will be loftily ignored. It is a taxing task, in every sense of the term.

That is how I anticipate your speech will go, based on decades of historical data analysis of our finance ministers’ budget speeches since Independence. You will also be fully aware that, no matter what you propose, the opposition will condemn it outright as anti-people, anti-farmer and pro-rich. Or more precisely, pro Ambani / Adani, the suit-boot ki sarkar. (The farmers’ protest took a violent turn for the worse on Republic Day, but since no one is owning the blame for the fracas that ensued, we will just have to wait for the plot to thicken and unravel). The middle-class will moan and groan, and the rich will sigh resignedly – a few hundred crores here or there will make little difference to their bank balance. There will be much heckling, wailing and gnashing of teeth, flailing of fists and banging on the benches. Some MPs may even barge into the well of the House and attempt to grab the Speaker’s microphones, waving a tattered copy of the Constitution the while, but you are fully seized of all this and will surely be adequately prepared to present a dead defensive bat.

As one who represents R.K. Laxman’s fabled Common Man, I can freely confess to not following much of what the budget speech is all about. Or the Finance Bill, come to that. Truth to tell, pretty much most of it. All those provisions, exemptions, tax impositions, tax breaks, sections from various acts being quoted left, right and centre. And don’t even get me started on ‘vote-on-account.’ They tend to go over my head for the most part. My usual practice is to call up my tax consultant and get the low down on whether I will be paying more tax or less, as a result of your lengthy spiel and closing peroration. The fact that my tax consultant may himself have been gasping for breath is another matter altogether. I appreciate that the television channels invite a host of business and finance experts to provide an elucidating running commentary even while you are making your announcements, but that only serves to create more confusion. Add to that the live, racing figures of the Sensex and the Nifty, yo-yoing up and down after every announcement from you, keeps us all enthralled. Only the fine print in the next morning’s newspapers will tell the real story, provided I can follow a word.

Under the circumstances, I am eschewing any attempt to make silly requests to you to increase this or decrease that. You are going to ignore my pleas anyway, as the idle wind. Notwithstanding, kindly don’t be predictable and impose a ‘pandemic tax.’ We have suffered enough with Covid19. Hope I am not putting ideas into your head! You may treat what has just preceded as the preamble to what now follows, which is a step-by-step guide for a few simple rules you should adhere to in order to make your budget presentation more decorous and appealing on television. Since the majority of folks watching your ‘great moment’ are clueless, the following tips may endear you to them, make you more beguiling. What is more, it will keep their minds blissfully away from all those complicated numbers you will be spewing, which will be a blessing in disguise. After all, the next general election is not too far away.

Dress code: As the second lady Finance Minister of the nation (PM /FM Indira Gandhi was the first in 1970-71), though this is your third budget presentation, what you wear becomes vital, bearing in mind your viewers. As befits your conservative background, a white or cream-coloured silk sari, with a bright saffron border would present a dignified presence. The blouse can either be of the same colour as the sari, or match the saffron border to provide a stark contrast. You may, if you wish, completely reverse the colour scheme, making saffron the dominant colour and cream providing subtle support. Personally, I would stick to the former combo. This will portray you on screen as a person of quiet authority coupled with elegant dignity. Elegant dignity goes down well with the masses, particularly for a lady. Our late Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, had elegant dignity down to a nicety, even if she did a lot of not very nice things. A word of caution. Whatever you do, please do not approach a fashion consultant for advice. That way lies disaster. You are addressing the nation from a pristine podium, not sashaying on a ramp.

Opening quotation: It has now become standard practice for our finance ministers to open their budget preamble with a quotation. From Ghalib to Tiruvalluvar, a wide range has been covered depending on which part of India the minister hails from. I understand Ms. Sitharaman, you are fluent both in Tamil and in Telugu. You have a wide choice, from some of the great Tamil poets like Subramania Bharati, to the likes of Saint Tyagaraja who composed his immortal songs in Telugu. May I suggest, however, that you break with tradition and opt for the great Chinese philosopher, Confucius. The Chinese government, whom we treat with kid gloves, will be pleased as punch and much goodwill could be garnered. I would even suggest the following quote – ‘Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall / It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.’ The quote must necessarily be preceded by the words, ‘Confucius say,’ which sounds grammatically incorrect, but it is what it is. With the help of a coach, you could even attempt to first read the quotation in Mandarin, but I would advise against it. Your reach might exceed your grasp.

Praising the Prime Minister: After your first budget presentation, some smart aleck journalist who had nothing better to do, kept a tab on the number of times you mentioned the Prime Minister in your speech. In glowing terms, of course. He counted thirteen occasions when, in his considered, if ill-advised opinion, you took the PM’s name in vain. I disagree with this petty scribe. I think your invoking the name of the country’s tallest leader was entirely in keeping with the tenor of your speech. That being the case Madam, for your forthcoming budget please talk about our PM as and when the fancy takes you. Only don’t stop at thirteen mentions. Unlucky for some, as they say. Go on to achieving higher goals. Don’t scrimp. Make it fourteen, fifteen or even twenty. Don’t spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar, as my English master in school used to tell us. The words of the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson will come in handy. In his poem Ulysses he waxes lyrical, ‘Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.’ Should some literary, journalist wag cavil that you are quoting Tennyson out of context, put him in his place and take away his Lok Sabha entry pass. That’ll teach him!

Spectacles: I fully understand that at your age, 61 I am reliably informed, a pair of reading glasses is a pre-requisite. All those reams of pages with statistics and graphs are enough to give anyone blurred vision. The thing is successive finance ministers, and you are no exception, have found it necessary to keep removing their glasses and putting them back on again in mid-speech. This is as much due to a nervous habit, as it is to wipe one’s eyes and the bridge of one’s nose to dry out accumulated moisture and, at times, just for effect – waving your glasses at the opposition benches while making a telling point. I would also caution against a chain or strap cord attached to your glasses. It can get caught in your hair and generally get in the way, causing needless awkward moments. Remember you are on television. Contact lenses can be considered, but it’s a big risk if one or, horror of horrors, both of them fall off. The press will go bonkers with tasteless barbs about ‘the blind leading the blind.’

While on the subject of glasses, the glass of water placed at the podium for you to frequently take sips from (the Budget speech is thirsty work), could do with a change. Instead of the standard, quotidian glass, why not look at a sparkling silver tumbler with some ornate filigree work of your party symbol? The lotus suggests itself. In marketing we call it subliminal advertising. The cameras will lovingly pick it up, the journos will have a field day commenting on it and the opposition will go ballistic. That’s three birds with one stone!

Deportment: You should try and maintain a smiling visage throughout your speech and particularly during the climactic peroration, post which you can end with another quote, this time reverting to your mother tongue. You could even consider singing a line, which will be a real first for a budget speech! I seem to recall your gracing the Music Academy Madras a few years ago at their annual festival, when your love for Carnatic music was amply evident. I emphasise the smile because I have observed during interviews that you tend to maintain a consistently grim visage. I have also heard tell that you have a bit of a temper on you. In the words of 17^th century English playwright William Congreve, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ I would strongly suggest you treat all provocation from the opposition members with a cold hauteur. It’s a proven winner, cold hauteur, leaving your foes looking silly and abashed. To remind you again, the television cameras are on you. As Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits said in one of his songs, ‘close ups can get rough.’ Further, we cannot rule out the possibility of a leading member of the opposition crossing the floor unannounced, to hug the Prime Minister. At this point you can purse your lips and sneer contemptuously, something you affect so well, but no more. All this will come to nought if you wear a mask, even if cunningly colour coded. Avoid the mask at all costs, so long as you are socially distanced. What is more your speech will be muffled. Restrained subtlety and understated emotion. Poise is the name of the game.

The bag (bahi khata), you displayed last time round, specially designed by your aunt, for you to carry those vital budget papers, was an absolute winner. Ethnic chic is the term that springs to the lips, reflecting an amalgam of the traditional with the modern – the India of today. Such powerful symbolism compared to those staid, old briefcases other finance ministers carried. A variant on the same would be welcome this time round, perhaps designed in the shape of, what else, but the lotus. The cameras would feast on it. And the pièce de résistance? The sacred bindi on your forehead, could be in the shape of your party’s lotus symbol, in the traditional saffron colour. The optics will zoom stratospherically. Cynics will carp and snipe. To which I can only paraphrase Kipling, ‘What do they know of India, who only India know?’

Finally, on the subject of deportment, I observe that you have greyed gracefully since your last budget speech. Understandable, given the inevitable pressures of your high calling and the inexorable passage of time. Forget about Indira Gandhi’s coiffured grey streak. Nevertheless, I think you should do absolutely nothing about this. Grey hair represents experience, wisdom and maturity. Qualities that all of us cherish in our senior ministers. Lest we forget, the budget speech can be quite hair-raising at times.

Medical aid: On an earlier occasion, your budget presentation was so lengthy that you were beginning to feel faint and required some tablets to keep your BP from plummeting. I expect your speech this year to be even longer. It goes with the territory and I would therefore strongly advise you to keep handy a clutch of tablets for any eventuality. And do keep yourself hydrated every 10 or 15 minutes, Madam. Long speeches tend to parch one’s throat easily, and I have personally found hot water mixed with lemon and honey to be most efficacious for a dry throat. And without wishing to sound alarmist, a doctor in the house, purely as a sensible precaution, may not be entirely out of place. I say this out  of concern for your well-being on this momentous occasion when the eyes of the world (India, at any rate) will be on you and you can ill afford a slip-up.

In conclusion, you may consider telling a joke, which has never been attempted before. It will reduce the tension and leave people with a smile on their lips. You will be lauded as someone with a sense of humour, generally not considered a strong suit of finance ministers. This needs careful thought as things can go awry if the joke falls flat. However, try this one on for size. You first preface the joke with a remark that you would like to end on a light note, and boldly dedicate the joke to your Prime Minister who has been most vocal in wishing to root out corruption in our country. It goes like this. “A teacher reads this sentence to the class, ‘One day our country will be corruption free.’ And asks the class, ‘Which tense is it?’ One bright spark puts his hand up and goes, ‘Future Impossible tense.’” The Lok Sabha collapses with mirth. You will then tell the house that your government is dedicated to proving that impertinent, too-clever-by-half student, wrong. This will earn you the double bonus of ending your speech amidst raucous, thigh-slapping laughter and tumultuous applause from the Treasury and Opposition benches, and will show your vast audience that you have the ability to laugh at yourself – a quality as rare as hen’s teeth.

I thank you for your time and patience, Madam Finance Minister. One must also thank your government for changing the timing of the budget presentation (from evening to morning), moving it forward by a month, and doing away with a separate Railway Budget some years ago, to suit India’s requirements and not to cater to British needs, as was absurdly the case for many decades after Independence. Big Ben is no longer timekeeper to our nation. While you’re at it, you may consider changing our financial year to follow the calendar year, as is the practice worldwide.

Finally, do forgive my extended, circumlocutory style. I was greatly inspired by another loquacious Chinese philosopher, On Too Long. I wish you the very best as you prepare to present India’s Union Budget for the financial year 2021-22.

With warm personal regards.

Sincerely yours,

Suresh Subrahmanyan.