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.

The more observant and eagle-eyed amongst you, dear readers, would be asking yourselves why the innocuous headline to this essay is bookended by single quotation marks. The simple answer to that is because it is a quotation, the provenance of which is shrouded in some doubt. The best explanation I was able to glean from my assiduous research was that this expression, apparently, is claimed to be a translation of a traditional Chinese curse (nowadays we can blithely blame the Chinese for anything with impunity). Even allowing for learned scholars who attribute the epithet to the Chinese as possibly being apocryphal, the subtle meaning of the same is worth understanding. By all accounts this traditional malediction is normally used ironically, ergo, that life is better in ‘uninteresting times’ of peace and tranquility than in ‘interesting times,’ which are usually times of strife. Imagine life without war, conflict, disease, crime, chicanery and betrayal. Our news channels would be deadly dull. As the fellow facing the gallows and being given a royal reprieve at the last minute said, ‘No noose is good news.’ The fact that no actual Chinese source has been produced to prove this contention is neither here nor there. Our friends from the ‘forbidden city,’ the land that gave us Wuhan and its environs, are now fair game. Truth to tell, the origin of our headline quote predates the Wuhan fiasco by some distance. Still and all, we don’t have to be too picky about ‘being fair’ when it comes to a nation that has become a perennial pain in the posterior.

So much for that brief historical reflection. It occurs to me that by the irrefutable force of the argument just placed on the table, we appear to be living in extremely interesting times. Not a day passes when something or the other does not happen somewhere in the world that makes us sit up and take notice, usually with great concern. That being the case, I felt it would be a good idea to go through some of these events that have so enriched our lives in recent times contributing to its deserved nomenclature of being dubbed interesting. This is by no means a comprehensive list. Just a few issues that struck me off the top of my head, in a manner of speaking. I am sure you can add freely to this roster from your own varied experiences.

The continuing saga of the Coronavirus pandemic, its treatment in sickness and in health, the long and arduous wait for that magic bullet, namely the cure-all vaccine, the tragedy of millions dying around the world, the relentless fight by the medical fraternity under extreme conditions – all these have collectively dominated our consciousness for the best of part of the past twelve months. Now that the vaccine is at our doorstep, more or less, it is not all unbounded joy. Doubts are raised as to the relative merits and demerits of the different brands of vaccine on offer. There will always be Doubting Thomases. Even worse, particularly here in India, political parties could not have chosen a more inopportune moment to cast slurs and innuendoes on the soundness of the vaccine development programme, attempting to score cheap brownie points, succeeding only in leaving the populace in a state of confused ambivalence. One of the typically immature statements, one of many, that we have heard goes, ‘Why can’t the Prime Minister and all his senior cabinet colleagues take the vaccine if it was so safe?’ Asinine comments like this queer the pitch in what is otherwise being lauded, even by the World Health Organization as a job well done by India in handling the Covid19 pandemic. And word has just filtered through that the PM and his team will be putting their best arms forward, eftsoons. That should shut the Cassandras up good and proper. As the vaccination drive is well and truly launched, let us leave it there in hopes of a happy ending to this sordid chapter in human history.

Another event that has worldwide ramifications, is the result of the elections in the United States of America. Historically, these elections to choose the man or woman who would grace the Oval Office in The White House, draws billions of eyeballs around the world. Not without reason. If America catches a cold, the rest of the world usually contracts double pneumonia. They are definitely suffering big time thanks to Covid19, but the Biden – Trump confrontation has managed to hog the headlines for some months now. It was a close and acrimonious election. Biden is the popular winner while Trump comes out of it looking like a very sore loser. More so as he ungraciously decided to absent himself from the swearing-in ceremony. Newspapers are full of pun filled headlines like, ‘Don leaves. Welcome a new Dawn.’ As this missive goes to press Biden, along with Kamala, have been sworn in. Doubtless Trump will be sworn at. The Democrats ought to be celebrating, but the pandemic and Trump’s shenanigans have left little time for quiet reflection, leave alone boisterous celebrations. The latest shocking invasion of the Capitol by Trump’s supporters, leaving several dead and injured, is a shameful blot on America’s hollow claim of being the most developed nation in the world. All that excessive beef consumption might be good for muscularity, but the brain cells take a severe beating. They should eat more fish, as advocated by Jeeves. Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will have their hands full repairing the damage done to their country’s image. Lest we forget, Trump’s huge voter base will continue to cast a long shadow over the new administration in the years to come.

China, apart from its seminal role in donating to the rest of the world something the world wanted like a hole in the head, continues to be a right royal pest on India’s borders. In cohorts with its faithful pet, Pakistan, nary a day passes without some skirmish or the other taking place. India is having to expend massive human and financial resources along its huge, uncontrollable and very porous borders to keep the Chinese at bay. In turn, China keeps playing hot and cold, their strength coming from their power as a trading powerhouse. Many nations, who threatened to break ties with them, continue to consort with them on the quiet. Talk about sleeping with the enemy! India finds itself between and betwixt when it comes to bilateral issues with China. Some might say, a rock and a hard place. We keep hearing about diplomatic dialogue being kept alive, like it’s on a ventilator, but aggressive postures are more than evident across the Line of Control. Once the freezing winter thaws, we could expect more action of an eyeball-to eyeball and fisticuffs nature. We will keep watching this space for more interesting news.

Other developments of interest in the country include constant bickering between political parties with important state elections just a few months away, the farm lobby not giving an inch on the Farm Laws and the Government appearing to back off from a full frontal, the hyperventilating media’s perennially angry young man Arnab Goswami’s troubles with alleged Television Rating Points manipulation and his non-stop tilting at the Maharashtra Government’s windmills, child rape and murder being reported with alarming frequency – yes, you might not be far off in saying that we are living in extremely interesting times. The stock market keeps rising so steeply and no one seems to know why. Is this a mirage or a bubble that would suddenly burst and come crashing down like a ton of bricks? That would make life unbearably interesting, as there is nowhere else to park our meagre funds to stay afloat and ahead of inflation, what with plummeting interest rates. The forthcoming Union Budget is eagerly awaited and should provide a few interesting clues.

That said, I would like to end this grim contemplation with some really good, read uninteresting, news. India’s stupendous victory in the just concluded Test series against Australia was such soothing balm for a deeply wounded and divided nation. To beat the Aussies in their own backyard, against insuperable odds, including racist taunts, which are all too well documented for me to detail or repeat here gave us so much pleasure and pride. For just one, brief, shining moment, we basked vicariously in the brilliant spotlight with this young team of cavalier and courageous colts. After Rishabh Pant’s heroics at the Gabba, the newspapers (as is their wont) went into overdrive with puns. ‘The Rishabh Pantomime,’ ‘Aussies left Panting,’ ‘Oz Pants taken off,’ ‘Blood and gore at the Gabbatoir,’ to give just four underwhelming samples. A salutary warning to those, like me, who cringe at excessive punning. Expect more. In the midst of it all, skipper Ajinkya Rahane’s wonderful gesture after the game, to present Aussie off-spinner Nathan Lyon with an Indian shirt for completing 100 Tests, was a standout moment of pure class. The spirit of the gentleman’s game was restored. All we need now is for a mischief monger to suggest that some fat cat Indian business tycoon had paid off the Aussies to tank the game. Now that would make it really interesting.

To round off, I can only say that if the mysterious Chinese wag who construed the term ‘interesting times’ is viewed as being a blight on our lives, I am all for a life of ‘uninteresting times.’ Or as Shakespeare might have put it, ‘Give me excess of it.’

The on-going cricket Test series between India and Australia, being played Down Under has reached its apogee. The series stands at one all, one match heroically drawn and the deciding Test to be played at Brisbane over the coming weekend. Unlike match-ups between these two proud cricketing nations over several decades, when the Aussies ruled the roost and the Indian cricketers merely turned up on the morning to show that there’s no ill feeling, more recent encounters have been fraught with tension, neither side giving an inch, waiting to see who blinks first. In short, plenty of needle when they meet across the sacred 22 yards. It’s been hard to pick a winner. Further there’s no great ‘home’ and ‘away’ advantage or handicap. Players from all countries have become quite accustomed to playing in varying conditions around the globe.

In more recent times, India taking on Australia has always been the series to savour. Once upon a time, it was India vs Pakistan or Australia vs England vying for the Ashes, that caught the public’s imagination. The West Indies are in terminal decline. Apart from the deadly intent and the ‘take no prisoners’ approach of both these sides, the quality of cricket has been of the highest order. The likes of Dravid, Tendulkar, Ganguly and Laxman going head-to-head against Ponting, Gilchrist, McGrath and Warne have been mouth watering prospects. Add to that Sehwag, Kumble, Dhoni and Kohli squaring up against Smith, Warner, Starc and Lyon and you have a recipe fit for kings. It therefore comes as no surprise that post the T20 and ODI encounters this Australian summer, it is the gripping Test series that is avidly engaging cricket fans, making it an Indian summer Down Under.

As always, it is not just matters purely cricket that are contributing to the heat and dust being generated. On a previous tour, we had the ‘Monkey-gate’ scandal involving Andrew Symonds and Harbhajan Singh. This time round, Australia’s premier batsman and habitual offender Steve Smith, who seems to possess an uncanny knack of getting into hot water, casually erased Rishabh Pant’s batting guard at the crease. Though in itself not a serious infringement, it was childish and needless and Smith’s captain Tim Paine’s ‘explanation’ that Smith was just indulging in some harmless visualization or shadow play, as is his wont, simply did not wash. Not good enough, Tim. It is your defence of Smith that smacks of immaturity. The captain, for his part, did not cover himself with glory, when he engaged Ravichandran Ashwin in an endless, irrelevant banter to distract the batsman who, along with the stubborn and injured Hanuma Vihari, was denying Australia even a sniff of victory with impregnable, heroic defence. It is small consolation that Paine finally admitted that his conduct was unbecoming of an Australian captain and that he would like to put the incident behind him. With the final game eagerly awaited, let’s hope he is as good as his word.

In the midst of all this drama, the Indian team is fighting its own demons in a completely different area. Namely, the fitness of its players, which is now becoming a matter of considerable concern. The injury list grows longer by the day. Try this on for size. Mohammed Shami bowed out with a fractured arm during the first Test, Umesh Yadav pulled up with a muscle cramp while bowling during the third Test, ditto Hanuma Vihari while taking a quick single, Ravindra Jadeja takes a lethal one for the team on his thumb, Cheteshwar Pujara is playing with pain killers after a finger injury, Rishabh Pant gets painfully hit on the elbow but the blow was thankfully not too serious, K.L. Rahul declares himself hors de combat at net practice, Ashwin wakes up with a back strain but battles on, Mayank Agarwal gets bonked on the arm, again during nets and horror of horrors, our bowling spearhead and lethal weapon, Jasprit Bumrah has an abdominal tear and will most likely sit out the final Test in Brisbane. At this rate, the head coach, Ravi Shastri might have to pad up and be ready for action! Let’s hope he does not bend down to pick up a dropped napkin at breakfast. At his age and fitness level, that will be another one for the stretcher. One can only hope that the rest of the team’s players, including its stand-in skipper, Ajinkya Rahane, are being preserved in moth balls, lest more harm should visit them.

Now here’s the thing. I can understand players sustaining injuries during actual play. Even then, given the number of batsmen who get rapped on the knuckles or arms, our medicine men and physios should be able to provide better protection in terms of quality of gloves or arm guards. Perhaps they should be given a rap over the knuckles. This is the 21^st century, for heaven’s sake. Gavaskar’s home-made skull cap is a thing of the past. That said, I simply cannot understand why our players should consistently find themselves copping serious injuries during net practice. What is more, cricketers playing football as a means of keeping fit is another disaster waiting to happen. A contact sport, for crying out loud. That’s simply asking for trouble. I would strongly recommend chess as a viable alternative for our cricketers. What they might lose by way of physical fitness, they can compensate by sharpening their grey cells and besting the enemy on strategy. Man for man, the Aussies are all taller, more muscular and would weigh-in as heavyweights, whereas our players would all classify as somewhere between lightweight and welterweight. However, we possess more grey matter. Brain must prevail over brawn. Physical confrontation would be a no brainer.

To add to all our woes, the final nail in the coffin (an unfortunate metaphor), is the constant reminder that no visiting team has ever beaten Australia at Wooloongabba (the Gabba to its friends) in Brisbane, the venue for the 4^th and final Test, since 1988. We are being constantly reminded of this both by Indian and Australian media channels. At least the Indian media should look for more positive portents from Brisbane’s cricketing folklore to give our boys some cheer. Chances are the wicket is tailor-made for fast bowlers and the big, strapping Aussie quicks will be hoping to make early inroads into our depleted batting line-up. At least, that is how the Australian cheerleaders, many of them abusive, would like to write the script. Adding insult to injury, the Indian team was checked into a hotel in Brisbane which did not provide room service! Sacré bleu!  Whatever next? This is carrying mind games to ridiculous extremes.

Not to worry. The present Indian side, led by the unassuming Rahane, is made of sterner stuff. In spite of all the doom and gloom, we should be of good cheer. Our boys have more than held their own during the last three Tests on this tour, barring that one nightmare innings at Adelaide which we would all like to forget. Injuries or not, our lads have shown fighting qualities above and beyond the norm. Ashwin and Vihari have been the embodiment of courage, Pujara and Pant have met fire with fire, Gill and Rohit have given us good starts and the bowlers have readily come to the aid of the party. If only we accept the catches that come our way. This is no time for butter fingers. Rahane has led the side with maturity and sagacity in the absence of superstar, super dad Kohli. Come to think of it, now that the baby and mother are well, why can’t Kohli fly back for the Friday Test? After all, Dhoni stayed back in Australia when his baby was born. Finally, barring Steve Smith and Marnus Labuschagne, the Aussie batting has not been all that it is cracked up to be. If only we have the bowling strength to exploit those cracks. And that’s the rub.

Yes, my friends, the odds are against us. That should not deter us. I would ask our eloquent coach Ravi Shastri, to recite these lines from Shakespeare’s Henry V, as the King’s troops ready themselves for battle.

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company

Frankly, if that doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

A few days ago, on New Year’s day to be exact, we were greeted with the news that India had launched two vaccines to combat our close friend, Covid19, known generically as the Coronavirus. We have been living with CV19 for almost a year now and the virus seems almost like one of the family pets – canine, feline or avian. Part of the furniture. Just when we were beginning to think no power on earth is going to shift this stubborn pestilence out of our lives, along comes this dramatic announcement, to coincide with the dawn of 2021. The present dispensation in New Delhi have an uncanny sense of timing and what better time to unveil these two ‘magic bullets’ than to coincide with the new year heralding bright new beginnings. Happy days are here again, in the words of a long-forgotten soft-drink commercial.

At least, that was the way the script should have played out. Only, it didn’t. One of the two vaccines, Covishield, produced by the Serum Institute of India, in collaboration with Oxford-AstraZeneca of the United Kingdom had evidently ticked all the right boxes and everything was hunky-dory with this brand. More or less. The problem was with the other vaccine, Covaxin, produced indigenously by Bharat Biotech. Apparently, and this is what we were being told, this vaccine is still in the trial stage and it was premature to announce its state of readiness. Naturally, a flaming row erupted. Political parties opposed to the ruling dispensation, went into overdrive criticizing the Government for its alleged unseemly haste and brazenly capitalizing on the main chance. The Government in turn retaliated, firing on all cylinders, and the head of the beleaguered vaccine company went on national television, in righteous indignation, castigating all those who dared throw stones at the company that was doing yeoman’s service with no thought of pelf.

In short, what ought to have been a rah-rah moment of self-congratulation for the Government and the Indian medical profession turned out to be a sticky quagmire, and a PR nightmare. The Government’s medical arm was scrambling around offering complex explanations which only served to complicate matters further.  I shan’t get into the nitty gritty of the issue, except to say that the matter could have been handled all round with a bit more caution and finesse, instead of rushing into areas where angels fear to tread and making needless announcements which left more questions unanswered. It is likely that everything will turn out well, and we may be on our way to getting the vaccines out to our eagerly waiting citizenry. After all, the world has been patting India on the back for its overall handling of the pandemic. And we are reputed to be the vaccine makers to the world for decades. So clearly the Government has got something right. It was at this point that I decided I should talk to my personal physician and get the lowdown on what he felt about the entire l’affaire vaccine. We connected with each other on Zoom and I proceeded to pepper him with inconvenient questions. I was making no apologies. I mean, family physician and all that.

‘Good morning Doc,’ I commenced cheerily. I always called him Doc. What is it with patients that when they face their doctors, invariably they become overly familiar and chatty. A nervous disposition, this hail-fellow-well-met act. I continued, ‘You must be very busy, but thanks for giving me this online appointment at short notice. You are looking well. You will be paid your consultation fees, of course.’ At this point he interrupted me.

‘What seems to be the trouble? I did not get an advance briefing from my Secretary on your complaint.’ He sounded a bit peeved, unless I was vastly mistaken.

‘Unless I am vastly mistaken, you sound a bit peeved Doc. Are you feeling all right?’ I injected just the right amount of caring concern in my voice. Since we were on Zoom, I affected a worried frown. I should be vastly surprised if a few wrinkles did not appear on my forehead, to say nothing of the knitted eyebrows.

‘No, no, nothing of that sort. Just that I have many patients waiting online, so I thought we should get straight to the heart of the matter. What’s more, you seem in fine fettle.’ The Doc sounded quite curt and formal.

‘Heart of the matter, eh? Tell you what, Doc. The old ticker seems to be in perfect working order. BP, pulse, oxygenation, all pretty much up to scratch. I have already jabbed myself with all the other normal flu vaccines. I’ve got arms like pin cushions, as Tony Hancock so memorably put it. Truth to tell, and as you have so unerringly divined, nothing physically wrong with me. Not at the moment anyway. Don’t wish to tempt the fates and speak too soon, eh. Ha ha. Since you keep tapping your pencil restlessly on your front teeth presaging incipient impatience, let me get straight to the point. These two vaccines that the Government has just announced. What is your take on the relative merits or demerits? Come on Doc, out with it. And don’t prevaricate.’ I was brooking no nonsense from him. Put him on the spot.

‘Is this what you fixed an appointment for? And who the hell is Tony Hancock? No wonder I didn’t get your file. Look, I’ve got patients who are genuinely suffering from all manner of ailments, including post-Covid recovery cases. And you want to chat with me on some academic issues to do with vaccines? For God’s sake, all you have to do is watch the news channels on television. They are full of it. The nation’s finest doctors, sporting fine suits and bow-ties and speaking in flawless Oxbridge accents, what more do you want? You can get all the dope from them, free of charge. Why waste your time and mine, not to speak of your money, talking to me about this? I am cutting this link now.’ He was really beside himself.

I rushed in before he disconnected. ‘Hey, hey, Doc. Hang, hang on. Don’t get so worked up. You are missing the point here. Very shortly, I hope, I will be lining up to get a shot of one of these two vaccines. Is it unreasonable to ask my personal physician of twenty-five years standing, which one I should opt for? Forewarned is forearmed and all that. Be reasonable, Doc. We are pals. Don’t take on so. As for Tony Hancock, just Google his name and Blood Donor. Brilliant British comedian of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Ah, I see your tea has arrived. Take a sip or two and simmer down. Careful you don’t spill any on your lovely, silk hand-woven tie. And answer my question.’

My Doc visibly calmed down. ‘Sorry, old chap. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. By the way, nice double entendre, forewarned is forearmed. To get back to your question. Look, about these vaccines. Your guess is as good as mine. How the blazes do I know which one is better, when I have not laid eyes on either one of them? The journos at the newspapers seem to know much more about all this. They keep printing detailed, comparative analyses of the drugs, with plenty of colourful graphics and so on. Bloody confusing, pardon my French.’

‘That’s why I came to you, Doc,’ I said. By now, I was feeling quite sorry for him. ‘Listen, my old medicine man with the stethoscope. Let me give you a tip or two, because I have been cramming up on many of these press reports. Pencil and paper ready? Good. Take notes.’

 I then sat back and let fly from my layman’s knowledge of all that I have been reading in the Times of India and watching on Times Now, India Today, NDTV etc. My Doc was taking all this down furiously. In about fifteen minutes, I was through. ‘That’s it, Doc. I realize you don’t have the time to watch TV or read the papers, but these observations of mine will help you. Ask your Secretary to type this up and read it in the car on your way home. I take it you have a driver.’

‘Yes, I do have a driver, and I will do as instructed. Just a quick question before we end this. What if both the vaccine brands appear equally good on all parameters? What then?’ My Doc was now transformed, he looked quite excited though a bit confused and who can blame him?

‘I guess you’ll just have to toss for it,’ I replied. Adding for good measure, ‘Price equations may come into play, but you can worry about that later. One thing, though. When the vaccine is ready to roll out, I insist on getting the first jab from you, Doc.’

‘Jab we met, eh?’ He laughed raucously at this Bollywood-inspired, overworked, stale in- joke. He was clearly in the mood now. ‘Thanks pal. You’ve been a great help. Taken a load off my mind. Please treat this consultation as pro bono. Sorry I was a bit shirty earlier.’

‘No, no. Think nothing of it. Pro bono? Wouldn’t dream of it. Already paid. And I don’t want a credit note either. We’ll see next time.’ I signed off. As I did so, I saw my Doc looking thoughtfully at two empty vials (marked Covishield and Covaxin) on his table and muttering to himself, his pencil pointing this way and that,‘Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe.’ His voice trailed off as my computer went into sleep mode.

‘Sometimes the ideas just come to me. Other times I have to sweat and almost bleed to make ideas come. It’s a mysterious process, but I hope I never find out exactly how it works. I like a mystery, as you may have noticed.’ ~ J.K. Rowling

More out of a sense of mulish determination than anything else, I try my hardest to get out a weekly column for my blog. I achieved this with reasonable success when I had a contract with a daily newspaper as there was pressure to meet a deadline. The newspaper industry is presently going through the doldrums and light-hearted columns such as mine are generally given the short shrift. Apparently, nobody wants to laugh these days, and who can blame them? I exclude those that do include a very short, humorous column once in a while, but they are the exceptions that prove the rule. And the imported cartoon strips featuring Dennis the Menace or Charlie Brown cannot be taken seriously either, if you get my drift. I am talking about writing. You know, words, sentences, paragraphs – that sort of thing. Humorous writing is a serious business, not to be trifled with. It is a craft that is shaped and honed over many years.

 Ever since I started my own blog, I experience a sense of freedom. No time or word limit, but somehow that has not come in the way of being able to consistently churn out risible columns which a handful of my friends have found worthwhile to skim through. If I can raise even a few giggles, I consider myself that much ahead of the game. However, there are moments when one is stumped for a topic. I mean, how many times can one write about the Covid19 situation, even as it mutates in its own scary way, which keeps the medical profession all excited and the world at large, all of a twitter. Pun intended. Speaking for myself, the subject is done and dusted. I have covered Christmas and New Year jollifications extensively in previous years, and other than wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, giving the receding 2020 a swift kick in the pants will give me immense pleasure.

Then there’s India’s alarming debacle on the cricket field in Australia that everyone’s had their fill of. Those not terribly funny and overwrought jokes about our batsmen’s single digit, ‘telephone number’ performance in the recently concluded Test match at Adelaide are also sorely testing the law of diminishing returns in terms of public interest. ‘Nuff said, is the expression that springs to mind. As for the China situation, all the poor soldiers on both sides are clearly snowbound, and only muffled noises are coming through. They could be echoing singer-songwriter Donald Fagen’s lyrics, Snowbound / Let’s sleep in today / Wake me up / When the wolves come out to play. The farmers and the government are involved in a never-ending game of footsie, also known as ‘who-blinks-first.’ Amit Shah and Nadda are making Mamata go ballistic in Bengal while the Prime Minister’s flowing beard grows longer and longer by the day. All he needs to do is don a fur-lined red suit and cap, and he could be a doppelganger for Santa Claus! All these topics are in a reverberating mode, an absolute nightmare for aspiring column writers seeking fresh pastures.

They call it Writer’s Block. This is the problem statement. With the best will in the world, inspiration eludes you. The big idea is not even a speck on the horizon. No light bulbs going off in your brain. Wallowing in a bathtub and waiting for the Eureka moment like Archimedes, is a non-starter. For one thing, my bathroom is not fitted out with a bathtub as there’s not even enough room to swing the proverbial cat. Secondly, the thought of rushing out of the non-existent tub in my birthday suit, yelling something unintelligible, simply because I might have hit a upon a brilliant thought, is not going to make me hugely popular in the household. The domestic staff will have a fit and the good lady wife will throw one. To say nothing of all the displaced water to swab.

An American going by the name of Jameson Parker whom I have never heard of (my bad) and whose provenance is a closed book to me, has a nice line of thinking on dealing with writer’s block. My research reveals that this Parker is a part-time actor and a part-time writer. Little wonder that I have not come across his oeuvre, but he came up with a snappy one. ‘I work on multiple projects simultaneously, so if something stops up on one article/book/story/whatever, I move to another and let my sub-conscious work on the problem. Of course, like P.G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster, I’m not entirely convinced I have a sub-conscious.’ My thoughts, exactly. The fact that he delved into one of Wodehouse’s treasure trove of gems makes Mr. Parker a man after my own heart. That said, I asked myself why not turn to the Master himself? What did the humourist nonpareil have to say on the vexed subject? It was simplicity itself. ‘I just sit at my typewriter and curse a bit,’ observed the creator of Jeeves and Lord Emsworth. Believe you me, it works. The level of profanity you wish to expend on your laptop or desktop, is entirely a matter of personal choice.

I have said this before, that the daily fare that our newspapers provide or television channels spew out can often give us little nuggets of information of an off-beat nature that can provide fertile ground for a writer to explore. ‘Villager cuts off unfaithful wife’s head’ or ‘Woman cuts off unfaithful husband’s John Thomas’ or better still, ‘MP caught watching mobile porno during parliamentary proceedings,’ – headlines like these are fecund grist to a satirical writer’s mill. The comic possibilities are endless. I once wrote a piece based on an actual news story of a villager, deep in India’s agricultural heartlands, who ceremoniously married a block of wood (suitably attired and made up) because he failed to find a bride! Sadly, these things don’t happen all the time. Which is when one finds oneself mulling over where the next idea is going to come from.

In the final analysis, sitting in front of your computer screen and hurling filthy abuse at it may not always be the best way to invite the muse. A tried and tested method is to just think of something completely at random, never mind what it is, and just type out a couple of sentences. And just walk away from it. Even if it is complete nonsense. When you come back to it after a day or two, you will find the opening sentence leading on to another sentence, then on to another and so on. Before you know it, you have managed an entire paragraph. After that, it should be smooth sailing. Perhaps this is what Jameson Parker meant when he talked about the sub-conscious mind going to work. While you sleep, I should add in parenthesis. I guess I cannot provide a better example of coming out of a writer’s block quandary than this very piece that you, dear reader, have been patiently going through. I started off having no idea what I wanted to write about, having exhausted most of the current hot topics in my earlier blogs. I just kept rambling on about my predicament and before I could say ‘writer’s block,’ I have almost completed an entire column. Writing a piece on not being able to write? Now there’s a thought plainly pregnant with potential, with a neat alliteration thrown in to boot. As the German-American novelist and poet, Charles Bukowski so pithily put it, ‘Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.’ I second that.

The interminable wait for the Covid19 vaccine seems almost over, the United Kingdom leading the pack, while other nations are hot on their heels playing catch-up. 90-year-old Margaret Keenan was the first to receive this long-awaited shot in the arm at her local hospital in Coventry on Tuesday, December 8, 2020. Mark this day and mark it well, for it will go down in our history books as mankind’s latest version of Vaccine Day, or V- Day as the wordsmiths have already dubbed it. Not awfully original, but V-Day holds a special resonance in the United Kingdom, the Brits having rid themselves of another pestilence – a short, megalomaniacal Austrian with delusions of grandeur, a funny, toothbrush moustache and an Oedipus complex. Nurse Mary Parsons holds the bragging rights for being the first to administer the injection. Normally, the nurse in question would be of scant importance to the public at large, but this being a landmark moment in the history of modern medicine, every single detail will be meticulously recorded for posterity. Nurse Parsons, you are as much a celebrity as your nonagenarian patient. Latest reports indicate dear old Maggie is feeling fine and fit as a fiddle.

As if all that was not cause enough for unrestrained joy and good cheer with Christmas and New Year just around the corner, professional scribes in Britain were over the moon with the next beneficiary of the vaccine. A gentleman going by the name of, wait for it, William Shakespeare. Aged 81, this patient from Warwickshire bearing a famous English name, became yet another senior citizen to be administered the Pfizer vaccine to fight the deadly virus that has been, literally, plaguing all of the human race for the best part of 2020. What is more, Shakespeare received his jab, again at a hospital in Coventry not twenty miles from Stratford-upon-Avon, which I need hardly remind you, was the birthplace of the immortal playwright of the same name. Social media have been quick off the blocks with inane vaccine jokes inspired by the Bard’s plays. ‘The Taming of the Flu,’ and ‘The Two Gentlemen of Corona,’ to cite just two examples. I can add my own humble contribution to this dubious list, namely, ‘Julius Sneezer,’ and ‘Coronalanus.’  An apocryphal tale has it that people asked if Margaret Keenan was patient 1A, then was William Shakespeare patient 2B or not 2B? Excuse me while I turn away and retch. More godawful puns and word play can be expected from a country that gave us Shakespeare, the playwright, who may well be turning in his grave, with all the mauling his words are being dealt. I fully expect journos and advertising copywriters to not allow the grass to grow under their feet. They must all be rushing to the nearest pub to celebrate and get as ‘Tight-as-Andronicus.’ You see, it’s catching.

Since both these fortunate recipients were inoculated with the magic vaccine at the University Hospital in Coventry, it is more than probable that they met over a nice cup of tea at the hospital canteen. I cannot place my hand on heart and swear to the precise nature of their conversation, in the event of their having met, but talking to a couple of nurses who were standing by in case of an unlikely emergency, I was able to glean that the two VIP patients were happy as an exaltation of larks (as I’ve heard it described), chattering away like a couple of garrulous magpies. I only have the nurses’ word to go by but the following exchange appears a very credible possibility. One thing puzzled the nurses and others who happened to overhear the animated exchange between the two spavined citizens, which was the strange way in which they spoke. It was not like the way normal people conversed these days. It was slightly worrying, but amusing as well. Worrying because of the nagging fear that the vaccination might have in some way discombobulated the two old-age pensioners. Amusing because they appeared perfectly at ease speaking in this strange tongue.  It was also to be noted that the two of them spoke in a slightly louder volume than normal, as if they were trying to throw their voices from a stage. The term stage whisper springs to mind. Naturally, more and more people, including other doctors and visitors, curious onlookers and passers-by, stopped in their tracks to take in the entertainment. The vaccine appeared to have taken effect. Only too well.

Margaret Keenan – ‘Forsooth William the Younger, it is December, the cruellest month of the year / Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this sunny vaccine of Pfizer.’

William Shakespeare – ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? / It is the east and Margaret is the sun / Thou art truly sagacious, my dear Margaret the Elder / Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths / Our bruised arms hung up for monuments / Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings.’

Margaret – ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, or do I mean my arms, something wicked this way vanishes forever, the dreaded Covid19 / How now, you secret black and midnight germs / Do your worst / It will pass me by as the idle wind.’

William – ‘As to that, dear Margaret, if I may make so informally bold to address you thus, pin thy ears back and hearken / Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow we keep peering at in anticipation, our eyes optimistically peeled / As all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death / Out, out brief Covid, you are nothing but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage / And is heard no more.’

Margaret – ‘Thy words flow like divine treacle, gifted William / To inject, or not to inject, that was the question / Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous Covid / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles with the magic vaccine / And by opposing end them / ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished / To sleep, perchance to dream.’   

William – ‘I can see, noble Margaret, that your native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought / But fret not / The vaccine is slowly taking hold / The inevitable pain will give way to immeasurable pleasure.’ 

Margaret – ‘You mock me, William.  At my age, what pleasure can I hope for? / With no wish to hurl insults at you, wishing pleasure on me at my age causes pain / It is like a tale told by an idiot / Full of sound and fury signifying nothing.’ 

William – ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Reflect well, wondrously wrinkled Margaret / Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous / Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’

Margaret – ‘Thou art veritably a philosopher, William. / And let me complete your thought process / And this our life, exempt from public haunt / Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks / Sermons in stones, and good in everything.’  

William – ‘Quite, quite. And now, balmy sleep beckons, tired nature’s sweet restorer / We most royally shall now to bed / To sleep off all the nonsense we’ve just said. Good night, sweet Princess.’

Margaret – ‘Good night, sweet Prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’

William – ‘Oh, Margaret.’

Margaret – ‘Oh, William.’

At this tender moment, there was a rapturous round of wild applause from all the nurses, doctors and other spectators who stood around hooting and whistling in wild abandon. Romeo and Juliet magnificently reworked and revisited. The Director of the hospital came rushing out to see what the commotion was all about, but soon joined in the festivities. He approached Margaret and William and asked them if they can do a repeat at a later date to an invited audience. The unsung heroine and the hero looked completely blank. They seemed oblivious to what had just transpired, claiming they were just enjoying a refreshing cup of tea, discussing the possible side effects of the vaccine, Brexit and the fine weather they were having in that part of England.

Footnote: Word has just filtered through that the government of Great Britain has placed orders for an undisclosed quantity of that particular batch of vaccine from Pfizer, that has so energized 91-year-old Margaret Keenan and 81-year-old William Shakespeare to wuthering heights of literary and theatrical excellence. To the uncharitable accusation that our Maggie might have been a ‘crisis actor,’ one paid to promote the vaccine, she dismissed the frivolous charge in typical Shakespearean fashion. ‘A pox on you,’ she cried, in affronted indignation. ‘If it was good enough for one of our finest dramatic actors, Sir Ian McKellen, it’s good enough for me,’ she added. And a final word to all those who are about to take the vaccine. Think. For one, brief shining moment, you too could wax eloquent, if disjointedly, through the words of William Shakespeare, the genuine article from Stratford-upon-Avon.

In case there are those amongst you, gentle readers, who are scratching your heads and going, ‘What has the title of this piece got to do with Superstar Rajinikanth?’, tarry awhile and I shall enlighten you. When our Thalaivar, (literally meaning the head honcho but metaphorically, the monarch of all he surveys) decided to formally announce his decision to enter politics and start his own party, he kept repeating the phrase, ‘It’s now or never.’ A line that has now taken on the attributes of a campaign slogan. Naturally, he said it in Tamil (Ippo illenna eppovum illai), but the newspapers and TV channels were full of the English translation. Presumably, he was trying to convey to his millions of adoring fans that the time has come, and not a moment too soon, to set things right in the state of Tamil Nadu. What is more, he is the man to do it, and there is no time like the present. His legion of faithful have been waiting for this announcement for what seems an eternity, and when it finally did come, their joy was unconfined. They were dancing on the streets, bursting crackers and generally behaving like men and women possessed. Covid19 precautions can go take a flying jump.

Explaining the relevance of this piece to its title is a two-step process. ’O Sole Mio (literally ‘My own sun’) is a Neapolitan song written and composed in 1898 and has become one of the most popular songs rendered in the traditional Italian operatic style. The likes of Luciano Pavarotti and Placido Domingo could not conclude their concerts without a curtain call that invariably featured ’O Sole Mio. Such was its immense appeal. That was step one. Moving on to step two, the tune was copied and achieved international fame when, in 1960, King Elvis Presley, recorded this song with English lyrics, It’s Now or Never. The resultant single broke all records and, to this day, remains one of the biggest selling discs ever released. As love songs go, Elvis’ rendition of It’s Now or Never may never be displaced from the top of its residing perch.

We move from the sublime to the cathartic. Whether Superstar Rajinikanth was at all aware of the musical significance and connotations of the ‘It’s now or never’ slogan we shall never know. Chances are he was not. However, since he may have fortuitously hit the jackpot in terms of globalizing his Tamil exhortation to the Indian electorate, I was keen to bring this happy serendipity to the great man’s notice. I will count on some helpful Samaritan to pass this vital information on to our adored Thalaivar. There are many who may take the view that the veteran thespian has no particular need to exploit and take advantage of western popular melodies, be they Neapolitan or English. His raging fame in his home state will be more than adequate to see him through, with a little help from powerful electoral allies. That, to my way of thinking, will be taking a limited, narrow view of Rajini Sir’s explosive potential to garner world fame, particularly in light of the fact that our non-resident Indians living abroad abound in their millions. I am also given to believe that Rajinikanth enjoys serious traction in, of all places, Japan! These are important issues that any shrewd campaign planner should bear in mind. Tamil Nadu today, world domination tomorrow!

This train of thought set me thinking on the lines of extending the idea and arming the Rajinikanth camp with a series of songs that could have special relevance and resonate with his constituents, keeping in view the global audience that needs to be inveigled into the net. Rajinikanth hardly needs any help in his native Tamil Nadu where he is worshipped with the same reverence as all the godheads of India. When I employ the phrase ‘in his native Tamil Nadu,’ I realize that I am paltering with the truth. There are those punctilious types who will be up in arms to ‘correct’ me. So, let me set the record straight. As pretty much everyone knows, Rajinikanth was born into a Maharashtrian family settled in Bangalore. His original name was Shivaji Rao Gaekwad, who in his early days worked as a coolie and a bus conductor in Bangalore. He finally strayed into Chennai where he was spotted by famed director K. Balachander and debuted as a villain alongside fellow star and now turned fellow, or perhaps rival, politician Kamal Haasan in the hit film, Apoorva Raagangal (1975).

 It is a unique peculiarity of Tamil Nadu politics that celluloid superstars turned politicians emerged from states outside Tamil Nadu. To take just two examples, Chief Minister M.G. Ramachandran came from Kerala and his close confidant, iron lady J. Jayalalitha was from Karnataka. Rajinikanth joins that unique migrant club. What is more, achieving superstardom on the silver-screen has a direct positive bearing on political success, notably in south India. Witness the career of former Andhra Pradesh Chief Minister, N.T. Rama Rao, whose mythological roles (Rama in Sampoorna Ramayanam, 1958) assured him a literally holier-than-thou place in people’s hearts and minds.

Now that Rajinikanth has set the cat among the pigeons by jumping into the political fray he is, not surprisingly, attracting unwelcome attention. The DMK have already dubbed him an ‘instant politician,’ and he will be called harsher names in time to come. That’s politics. Knowingly or unknowingly, since he flagged a famous song title as his main campaign plank, I felt it proper to help him with a further clutch of western pop songs that he could profitably use to his advantage. After all, just the one song could run the risk of running aground through campaign fatigue. On the age-old theory that variety is the spice of life, here is my suggested list of songs for Rajini, over and above It’s Now or Never. I am sure the thespian’s PR machinery will find the appropriate Tamil equivalents for these songs.

I Want to Hold Your Hand – The Beatles launched themselves into orbit in 1963 with this classic pop song that captured the imagination of all teenagers and older people as well. In a sense, that is precisely what Rajinikanth should be saying to his fawning public as he stakes a claim for political stardom. Bollywood, long before it acquired that moniker, shamelessly copied this song with Hindi lyrics for the film Jaanwar in 1965, the great Mohammed Rafi ghosting for India’s jumpin’ jack, Shammi Kapoor. S.P. Balasubrahmanyam would have done a brilliant job of it in Tamil for Rajini.  Sadly, SPB is no more, but I am sure a suitable alternative could be found.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want – The Beatles’ alter ego, The Rolling Stones were in philosophical mood when they released this lovely hit in 1969. This should be a salutary reminder to all our mad fans who vote in film stars to the highest office that they should temper their expectations, and help their candidates by setting realistic goals. Rajinkanth would do well to take heed of the Jagger / Richards lyrics and tweak it for his own campaign requirements.

My Way – Ol’ Blue Eyes, the inimitable Frank Sinatra had the world swaying to this immortal classic, released in 1969. Although the song talks mainly about a man who is singing his swan song, these words would resonate with our Thalaivar as he embarks on an exciting, new political career. I planned each chartered course / Each careful step along the byway / But more, much more than this / I did it my way. That said, it would appear that Sinatra had already foreshadowed Rajini who thrilled us with his now unforgettable catchphrase, En vazhi thani vazhi (‘My way is my own, unique way’) in his superhit film, Padayappa in 1999.

Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right – The eternal troubadour with a message for every occasion, Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan nailed it in 1962 with this brilliant composition. Our once and future leader, Rajinikanth could be saying just that to his army of fans and potential voters. As long as they are with him, they need have no fear, no second thoughts, it’s all going to work out just fine.

I’m Your Man – The great Canadian singer-songwriter, Leonard Cohen, assured his fans in this wonderful song with these lyrics, If you want a boxer, I will step into the ring for you / And if you want a doctor, I’ll examine every inch of you. Our Superstar could profitably take a leaf out of Cohen’s songbook and rework the message in Tamil, to the delight of his ardent fans. In his screen-life, Rajini has boxed his way out of many tight situations and healed the wounds of the sick and the lame. He has always been ‘their man.’

Here, There and Everywhere – Another hit from The Beatles, this melodic song was released in 1966 and should have special resonance for our beloved hero and aspiring political leader. Rajinikanth will be travelling the length and breadth of Tamil Nadu, India even, exhorting the voters to cast their ballots in his favour. He will be here, there and everywhere and his humongous fan club simply won’t get enough of him.

I Just Can’t Stop Loving You – The heartthrob of millions, Michael Jackson had his fans swooning to this wonderful ballad. Rajinikanth will be pulling out all the stops to let his audience know that he will love them till the sands of time give over. Not that his fans need any convincing. They simply can’t stop loving their Baasha (1995).

There you are, my selection of a clutch of songs to add to Rajini’s repertoire, including his own contribution of It’s Now or Never. His fans have been waiting for a long time for this announcement that he is ready to join battle, with a heart for any fate. But they ought not to have been fretting. Surely, they can recall what he said in another of his many hit films, Muthu (1995). Naan eppo varuven, eppadi varuvennu yaarukkum teriyadu. Aanaal varavendiya nerathila correcta varuven (‘No one can tell when or how I will arrive, but I unfailingly will, when the time is right.’)

His Tamil accent may still be a bit dodgy, a work in perennial progress, but that won’t worry the voters. In fact, it’s part of his unique charm. They see Rajinikanth as the man of and for the moment. It’s now, or never.

Whoever makes two ears of corn, or two blades of grass to grow where only one grew before, deserves better of mankind, and does more essential service to his country than the whole race of politicians put together. Jonathan Swift.

The recently introduced farm bills passed by voice-vote in Parliament has expectedly stirred up a hornet’s nest, largely in states not under the ruling BJP’s dispensation. Punjab and Haryana have been the most vociferous and the farmers have taken to the streets, marching towards the capital, doing their own version of Gandhiji’s Dandi Salt march. The bills were formally tabled as Farmers’ Produce Trade and Commerce (Promotion and Facilitation) Bill, Farmers’ (Empowerment and Protection) Agreement on Price Assurance, and Farm Services Bill and the Essential Commodities (Amendment) Bill. These bills, as is the norm, received formal approval from the President of India and became Acts. They aim to provide farmers with multiple marketing channels, break the so-called monopolies including that of government regulated mandis (market yards), the avaricious role of middlemen and provide a legal framework for farmers to enter into pre-arranged contracts among other things. That, of course, is the government’s position and avowed intention. The opposition, as is their wont, read insidious motives and are up in arms over what they consider to be a grave injustice to the entire farming community. Battle lines have been drawn, and we can expect this struggle to go right down to the wire. The Government has invited the farm lobby for discussions, but both sides are playing footsie, keeping their cards close to their chests. Plenty of political brownie points are up for grabs.

It is always fascinating for a disinterested observer to ruminate on how a piece of far-reaching legislation can turn so acrimonious. The government claims the new laws are revolutionary, long overdue and frees up the farmer to deal with and buy from any party, while retaining his existing option to engage with the mandis. On the other hand, those opposed to the bill view it as draconian, intended to hurt the poor farmers and put more money in the pockets of a few rich corporates. Depending entirely on where one’s political sympathies lie, you can take sides with either of the two attritional protagonists, ranged on either side of the binary, who are going hammer and tongs at each other. The Government sees this as a win-win situation for the farming community, while the naysayers cry ‘shame-shame.’

On television any number of experts, self-appointed or otherwise, are holding forth on the subject. Some provide studious, long-winded, academic dissertations while others merely froth at the mouth. Clarity of thought is a scarce commodity. The average viewer is not fully abreast of the nuances of APMC (Agricultural Produce Marketing Committee), a fancy name for the mandis and MSP (Minimum Support Price), and wonders what all the fuss is about. MSP is at the heart of the matter. Under the circumstances I thought it prudent to approach an economist with whom I have a nodding acquaintance and buttonhole him for an interview. I explained my predicament, which included a complete lack of understanding based on the daily ruckus on TV and requested that he answer my questions in a clear and concise manner, such that it will make sense to the meanest intelligence. He readily agreed on condition of anonymity. I am therefore giving him a pseudonym, Jogendranath, Jogi to his friends. We chatted on Zoom.

SS – ‘Good morning, Jogi. Thank you for agreeing to this virtual meeting on a vitally important matter. I won’t beat around the stubble bush, and will get straight to the point. Why do we find ourselves in a situation where something being viewed as good for the farmers is also being castigated as being terrible for them?’

Jogi – ‘That is a very good question, very good question indeed.’

SS – ‘And you are about to enlighten me with an answer?’

Jogi – ‘Patience, my friend. There are all sorts of factors at play here. The issue is complicated and there are no easy answers. As Adam Smith said, “I have never known much good done by those who affected to trade for the public good.” What is also worth noting is the support expressed for our farmers by Justin Trudeau of Canada.’

SS – ‘What has what Adam Smith said, god-knows-when, got to do with anything? As for Justin Trudeau, he is famous for dropping diplomatic bricks, particularly on matters concerning India. He is actually currying favour with the Sikh community in Canada. Forget about Trudeau. Just tell me why so many people seem to think, fallaciously some aver, that these new Acts will summarily do away with MSP and APMC, meaning the mandis.’

Jogi – ‘I am an economist. Adam Smith is my god, kindly do not speak ill of him. And you don’t have to spell things out for me. If I have to start from something as basic as MSP and APMC, then I am wasting my time. I can do no better than to quote Philemon, “A farmer is always going to be rich next year.”’

SS – ‘Who on earth is Philemon and what on earth does he mean?’

Jogi – ‘That’s two earths you employed in the same sentence. Well done. Agriculture is all about the earth – tilling the land, growing the crops, selling the produce in the markets and praying for rain. Not necessarily in that order. It’s a simple business demanding simple solutions, when you think about it. Why politicians have to go and complicate it I shall never know. And since you ask, Philemon is a Biblical character. That’s all you need to know. Occam’s razor.’

SS – ‘How much?’

Jogi – ‘Occam’s razor. A theory propounded by William of Ockham in the 14^th century that postulated that from a set of alternative solutions “the simplest explanation is usually the right one.” But try telling that to our farmers and politicians.’

SS – ‘Look Jogi, I can’t understand a word of what you are saying. Can you stick to the subject on hand, which is to do with the farmers’ agitation over the recent Government announcements?’

Jogi – ‘Ha ha! Reminds me of what Alan Greenspan said, “If you think you understand what I am saying, you do not understand what I am saying.” Does that answer your question?

SS – ‘Have you anything to say for yourself Jogi, or are you going to keep throwing quotes at me, that too all by foreigners?’

Jogi – ‘I’ll have you know I went to the London School of Economics. But I am not without an Indian sensibility. Let me quote the father of India’s green revolution, Dr. M.S. Swaminathan, who said, “If agriculture goes wrong, nothing else will have a chance to go right in the country.” Happy?’

SS – ‘No, I am not happy. All very well you showing off about LSE. It’s JNU that matters here. Even our Finance Minister is an alumnus of JNU. I want you to throw some light on whether these announcements are good or bad for the farmer. If so why, and if not why not? You keep saying you are an economist. You are an economist, aren’t you? Is that too much to ask? And if we must trade quotations, here’s John F. Kennedy on farmers, “The farmer is the only man in our economy who buys everything at retail, sells everything at wholesale, and pays the freight both ways.” Try that on for size.’

Jogi – ‘JFK, eh. Nice one, but don’t become agitated, my friend. You are not a farmer. Leave the agitation to them. Remember what Samuel Johnson said, “Agriculture not only gives riches to a nation, but the only riches she can call her own.” You ask me, rather naively, if these measures are good or bad for the farmer. What is sauce for the goose is not always sauce for the gander. Capiche?’

SS – ‘Capiche? What are you, a card-carrying member of the Mafiosi? I am at the end of my tether here. For the last time Jogi, do you think the government will be able to bring the farmers round to their way of thinking? Right now, neither side is willing to yield an inch. One side says no rollback, and the other side refuses to roll over and die. Where does that leave us, and what is more, how is the government planning to explain the scheme and convince the farmers of their good intentions?’

Jogi – ‘Boy, you do ask a lot of questions. Good intentions? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my friend. What we have here is a face off, with neither side wanting to lose face. The need of the hour is a bit of give and take. I believe the government’s proposals are fundamentally sound. Only they have not sold the idea articulately to the stakeholders. Remember Marshall McLuhan’s famous line, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”’

SS – ‘I thought that line was from the Paul Newman classic, Cool Hand Luke. You’re getting all mixed up, Jogi. Marshall McLuhan was an advertising guru who said, “The medium is the message,” which is quite appropriate in the present context. I really don’t know why I invited you over. Anyhow, I am calling time now. Next time, I’ll invite a farmer. I am sure he will be better informed. Thanks for nothing.’

 Jogi switched his monitor off, muttering strange oaths. As for me, I’ve tried everything. Observing pundits over television and the press, as well as talking to reputed economists, and I am none the wiser for it, other than learning a few new aphorisms. This vexed subject of agricultural reforms announced by the government has foxed me. We have an ace communicator in our PM and yet the message has been lost in translation. I think I’ll take a leaf out of my friend Jogi’s book and sign off with a snappy quotation from the Mahabharata. This is Ashwatthama to Duryodhana, ‘Passion, engagement, skill and policy – these are the means to achieve objectives.’

Top that, Jogi.