I don’t know about you, dear reader, but every single day of the week, I get a feel-good message from somebody or the other pointing out helpfully that it will be the harbinger of great cheer. These lyrical messages are invariably embedded in some scenic or flowery imagery enhanced by some schmaltzy instrumental tune. I ruthlessly employ the delete option no sooner than I spot it. These images are usually forwarded with little effort on the part of the sender, having done the rounds millions of times on the internet. Nevertheless, I felt it incumbent to take serious note of these missives for a solitary 7-day period, going from Sunday to Saturday. That was the least I could do. And the most. With a little help from a couple of nursery rhymes.

Sunday’s child is fair, wise, good and gay. Let me start with Sunday, when somebody I do not know from Adam unctuously informs me that this traditional day of rest will turn out to be full of excitement. Whether I need excitement on the day of Sabbath when the Fourth of the Ten Commandments has enjoined me to put my feet up, I am not sure. Mind you, my own religion prompts me to no such instruction. Still, that is what the message on my mobile says and I wait for excitement to escalate on Ravivar with bated breath. To kick things off, the power supply in our apartment block gives up the ghost for over six hours. This is followed by our back-up inverter downing tools and consequently my mobile phone running on empty. Cannot approach the neighbours as they face the same fate. The service provider informs us that the breakdown is due to an unforeseen snapping of cables down our street, something they haven’t tumbled to in years. By the time power is restored we are completely bushed, order a pizza online, the promised 20-minute delivery arrives in 90 minutes, the pizza looking like something the cat had brought in. The WhatsApp soothsayer was right after all! Incidentally, I may or may not be fair, wise and good, but I am most definitely not gay! At least, not in the ‘gay’ sense.

Monday’s child is fair of face. Let us move on to Manic Monday. My social media astrologer is all pumped up. Time to make some smart moves. Do not fret about the stock markets. This is the ideal time to invest. Trump is starting to go soft on India, tariffs will be reduced, H1B is being revisited. Above all, NDA is sweeping Bihar. Markets are set to soar. Oh yeah? What about these ammonium nitrate terror blasts in Delhi and Kashmir? What if we attack Pakistan and Trump has a rethink what with all those crypto deals at stake? I am not a salaried employee anymore. I shall revert to bank FDs. Better safe than sorry. As for being fair of face, I looked in the mirror and I think the jury is out on that score.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace. On cue, my WhatsApp well-wisher informs me that the colour of choice for the day is blue. If you are buying a car, opt for variants of blue. Wash your clothes with Robin Blue. Is the brand still around? Fill your fountain pen with Royal Blue ink before signing important documents. Blue Curacao liqueur will be a nice way to finish off a special meal, if you are eating out. Doesn’t miss a trick, my WhatsApper. Only catch is that I am not buying a car and I have not the faintest idea what brand my clothes are washed in. Fountain pen, that’s a laugh. My trusty ball-point will do the job, however critical the documents I have to affix my signature on. The Curacao would have been nice, but curd rice, lime pickle and one green veg is on the menu tonight. Washed down with Aqua Guard filtered water. I am full of grace in my domestic bliss. Not much scope to go blue in the face.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Who wrote this twaddle? The sun came up bright and early this morning, the birds were chirping merrily. Wordsworth would have trilled. Our cricketers, men and women, are having a ball. ‘Wot me worry?’ as Alfred E. Neuman of Mad Magazine fame used to intone. ‘Woe is me’ is not my mantra for the day, whatever nonsense that WhatsApp chappie will have me believe. Then again, if I get knocked over by a two-wheeler while crossing the road or nipped in the ankle by a rabid street dog, I might have to change my tune. That said, till Thursday comes along, I am staying put at home riveted to my television, watching some great tennis and some not-so-great fire and brimstone on the Bihar elections. And woe betide anyone who tries to change my routine for the day.

Thursday’s child has far to go. This time you nailed it, my friend. I will be driving to the airport to receive a close relative arriving from Chennai. Which will take a good two hours, more than twice the amount of time it takes to fly in from Chennai to Bangalore. You might say I am literal-minded and that the WA fellow was speaking metaphorically, that I have a long way to go in life before I call it quits. Or something of that sort. Given my age, I am not sure if he even got that right. Anyhow, I will take my chances with the airport drive, traffic snarls notwithstanding. Add two more hours on the return drive, and I should be ready to hit the sack. I don’t know about Thursday’s child, but this social media nuisance is going too far.

Friday’s child is loving and giving. On the cusp of the weekend, my Friday prediction points irrefutably to visitors turning up at our place when least expected. ‘You will be startled and surprised when the doorbell rings and you open the door to welcome a couple you least expected!’ Now this is a double-edged sword. The WA message thinks it is handing out very pleasant news, whereas visitors who turn up unannounced screaming ‘SURPRISE’ can be very off-putting. Do we take this seriously and order something special for lunch? Should we make up the beds in the guest bedroom? Questions, questions. The end result is that we wait the whole day anxiously biting our fingernails, and when no one arrives till 11 pm, our joy knows no bounds. We had been put to a great deal of angst for no rhyme or reason. Perhaps the mystery guests might have been ‘loving and giving’ but we were not complaining.

Saturday’s child works for a living. This I can vouch for to be utterly true. My wife was born on a Saturday and was a working woman all her life. Still is. When she retired well before her time, colleagues asked ‘Why?’ and not ‘When?’ What is more, even after retirement, she runs the house as she would a corporate organisation, never resting till the domestics have cleaned up every last speck of dust in the flat, and if needs must, doing it herself. Every now and then, I would implore her to rest her weary bones. An unwise call because back would come the curt response, ‘Someone has to do it. Would you care to take over the domestic duties?’ At which point, discretion being the better part of valour, I quietly slink off to work on my next blog.

That’s the seven days my friends from the ether so caringly give me a heads-up on. I normally never even look at them but I should be grateful that they give me enough ammo for a blog. The Beatles had a huge hit during the 60s with Eight Days a Week, but they led a blissful life with no social media to ruin their peace of mind. Though what they would have done with the eighth day, heaven alone knows. Solomon Grundy had the right idea. He was born on a Monday / Christened on Tuesday / Married on Wednesday / Took ill on Thursday / Worse on Friday / Died on Saturday / Buried on Sunday. And that was the end of Solomon Grundy. R.I.P.

‘Actors go into it because it gives us the chance to play people a great deal more interesting than we are, and to say things infinitely wittier and more intelligent than anything we could think of.’ Prunella Scales.

Prunella Scales died last week at the ripe old age of 93. Those of you who may not be familiar with her work, I seek your indulgence. However, to most of us who know of her, the sole point of reference can only be her role as Sybil Fawlty in the iconic, 12-episode television sitcom of the mid-70s, Fawlty Towers. She was one-fourth of the quartet that has made Fawlty Towers the best loved comedy on British television to this day. What is more, its fame has spread to most parts of the English-speaking world. The remainder of that fabulous quartet, I need hardly remind you, were the creators of Fawlty Towers, John Cleese as Basil Fawlty and Connie Booth as the maid Polly. Not to forget Andrew Sachs as the hapless Spanish waiter Manuel, who passed away a few years ago and about whom I wrote an obit piece on that sad occasion. On the off-chance that there are those among you who have not had the pleasure of viewing Fawlty Towers, highlights from the series (if not the full episodes) can be accessed on YouTube.

Getting back to Prunella Scales as Sybil, who together with her fictional husband, John Cleese as Basil, ran the coastal resort hotel Fawlty Towers in Torquay, on the south west of England. Her constant run-ins with her husband’s unintended japes and his inability, quite literally, to put one foot in front of the other without tripping up horribly, had us in stitches. She was viewed as a harridan by her husband and the limited staff of the hotel, but her customers loved her. Prunella Scales had the unique ability to combine comedy with a finely-honed understanding of timing, an ability that endeared her to millions of fans who couldn’t get enough of her. And, in fairness, the rest of the cast as well.

Such has been Prunella Scales’ indelible association with Fawlty Towers that one might easily overlook her distinguished, multi-faceted acting career spanning over 60 years on stage, film and television. Suffice it to say that the average denizen on the street knew her only as Sybil Fawlty, having no idea what her real name was. The roles she essayed elsewhere were many and too numerous to list here. Prunella Scales was not just a one-trick pony dishing out slapstick comedy. Perhaps one of her more serious roles, one that earned her widespread acclaim was that of Queen Elizabeth II in A Question of Attribution, a one-act stage play, subsequently adapted to film, written by well-known playwright Alan Bennett. In short, Scales has demonstrated her ability to play all manner of roles and her status as a thespian to match many hallowed names that bestrode the world of British theatre and film, remains undiminished. She was made Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in the 1992 Birthday Honours List, along with a slew of other notable awards. She was personally known to Queen Camilla whom she met socially off and on.

 Piquantly, a noted rose breeder in England named a rose after her name, Prunella.

On a personal note, my awareness of Fawlty Towers happened by chance in 1981 when I was working for a well-known tyre company in Calcutta. Our Managing Director was a Scotsman who was to retire shortly to return to the UK. At his farewell party where he was showered with the usual encomiums, he drew me aside and handed me a cloth bag containing four video cassette tapes containing all the 12 episodes of Fawlty Towers, about which I knew nothing at the time. ‘I think you will enjoy these tapes,’ he said to me. I was overwhelmed receiving a gift from our Big Chief whom we were bidding farewell to that evening. And that he had sussed out my fondness for British comedy. That was the beginning of my love affair with Fawlty Towers (a silent ‘thank you’ to Mr. Alistair MacIntyre). In subsequent years, I got myself the entire DVD set of the series, which is imperishable. If I told you I have viewed them on fewer than fifty times over the years, I would be telling a lie. A hundred times would be nearer the mark. And still counting.

I would like to conclude this tribute to Prunella Scales and to the television series she helped make so memorable, as I leave with you some of the most risible quotes from the series. Many of them will be better appreciated if viewed in context, but I will have to take that chance. Those of you who have not seen the episodes of Fawlty Towers, find a way to access it online or by any other means. If you have, then watch it again. You cannot get enough of it. God knows we could all do with a laugh in these toxic times we live in.

Basil Fawlty: ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s only my wife laughing.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘I can’t abide cruelty to living creatures.’

Basil Fawlty: ‘I’m a creature and you can abide it to me.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘You’re not living.’

Basil to Sybil Fawlty: ‘Do I detect the smell of Burning Martyr?’

Basil Fawlty: ‘A satisfied customer. We should have him stuffed.’

Mrs. Richards (a dotty, aged, stone-deaf guest): ‘Faulty? What’s wrong with him?’

Sybil Fawlty: Psychiatry, that’s a relatively new profession, isn’t it?’

Psychiatrist’s wife (a hotel guest): ‘Freud started it in 1886.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘Yes, but it’s only now we’re seeing them on the television.’

Polly (the maid): ‘Could I have a raise? Mrs. Fawlty said it would be alright.’

Basil Fawlty: I don’t think we see eye-to-eye vis a vis the frozen assets.’

Basil Fawlty: ‘Well, let me tell you something. This is exactly how Nazi Germany started! A bunch of idiots sticking their noses in, looking for something to complain about!’

Major Gowen (a senile, eccentric permanent resident): ‘The strange thing was that throughout the morning, she kept referring to the Indians as niggers. No, no, I said, niggers are the West Indians, these people are wogs!’

Regarding that last quote, John Cleese narrated recently that almost 50 years after the first telecast, hyper-sensitive, thin-skinned, literal-minded activists have suddenly woken up and objected to the use of pejorative racial stereotypical terms in Fawlty Towers. Cleese stoutly defended himself saying that was the way some people spoke in those days and that he himself does not support the views of the fictitious Major Gowen. Speaking of which, I was myself taken aback when I came across the word ‘nigger’ in a novel by the much-loved and adored P.G.Wodehouse, written around the early part of the 20^th century. Much heated debate has ensued over the deletion of the term in subsequent reprints of the novel. The jury is still out.

Well, that was just a soupçon of the biting irony and wit from Fawlty Towers, and there is a lot more where that came from. If this does not drive you to go and watch all the 12 episodes in one binge sitting, you are more to be pitied than censured. Prunella Scales,’ or rather, Sybil Fawlty’s passing gave me as good an excuse as any to relive one of my favourite television comedies. Sharing it with you, dear reader, only doubles that pleasure.

It is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it. Oscar Wilde.

Tucked away in an insignificant corner of my morning daily was the news that the legendary, if controversial Irish novelist, playwright and poet Oscar Wilde’s library card was reissued 130 years after being revoked over a gay conviction. Wilde’s unconventional (for those days) sexual proclivities did not endear him to the powers-that-be at the turn of the 20^th century. In medieval times, they would have burned him to a crisp at the stake. Or hanged, drawn and quartered. As it was, he was incarcerated for two years hard labour between 1895 and 1897 to atone for his ‘sins.’ In keeping with the temper of the times he brought widespread ignominy on himself. That said, every cloud has a silver lining. During his stint in jail Wilde wrote his bittersweet essay De Profundis, which was in fact a 50,000-word letter to his erstwhile, jilted lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, himself a poet and journalist. Soon after his release from prison, Wilde’s monumental poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol was published.

It would not be too much to say that the man who wrote those light-hearted societal comedies, The Importance of Being Ernest and Lady Windermere’s Fan and the more serious Gothic novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, among several other notable works, was reduced to a byword and a hissing among the cognoscenti of the time. With the passage of the decades, ‘Time, the great healer’ has decided to get into the act and play The Good Samaritan. A bit late in the day, 130 years late, but still welcome. The British Library has now sought to make amends by honouring Wilde through reissuing a reader’s card in his name. The original card was revoked following his conviction for ‘gross indecency.’ He was banished from the library’s reading room in 1895 over his charge for having had homosexual relationships, a criminal offence at the time and convicted bang to rights.

The new card, delivered to his grandson, author Merlin Holland, is intended to ‘acknowledge the injustices and immense suffering’ Wilde faced, the library said. Mr. Holland said the new card is a ‘lovely gesture of forgiveness and I’m sure his spirit will be touched and delighted.’ As a lover of the English language and literature one is immensely pleased that Oscar Wilde’s unjustly tarnished reputation has now been restored to its rightful place. Good on you, British Library.

Unfortunately, I did not enjoy quite the same luck with the British Council Library in Calcutta during my long period of residence in that colourful city. Let me hasten to add that my sin was laughably minor compared to Wilde’s perceived and (mis)judged misdemeanours, but more of that anon.  I became a member of the British Council, or BC as we fondly called that institution, during my university days. Located on the tony Theatre Road, later appositely renamed Shakespeare Sarani, obtaining a membership to the BC was a piece of cake. All one had to do was furnish one’s college identity card, flash a smile at the comely librarian and in the blink of an eye, you were handed the membership card with your name duly printed and a library number to go with it. It was almost a badge of honour that you proudly carried around in your wallet. Several years later, on entering the corporate world, one experienced the same sense of pride on being accepted as a member of one of Calcutta’s prestigious social clubs, such as the Saturday Club or the Calcutta Cricket and Football Club.

Apart from the wonderful selection of books that the BC stored, many of us made a beeline for the library for other reasons. First and foremost was the excellent air-conditioning, which was a godsend in a swelteringly hot and humid city like Calcutta. I am talking about the late 60s and 70s when the ironically named City of Joy suffered unscheduled power cuts for interminably long hours during the day. Even in those days, the BC had its own back-up generator, which enabled us to sit in considerable comfort in the capacious reading room, pretending to pore over some voluminous tome or the other. Occasionally, a gentle snore would emanate from a senior citizen who had wisely decided to use the bulky 80-page Sunday Times as a makeshift pillow, for his post prandial siesta.

As for us undergrads, let us not forget that many of the girls from other colleges also found the BC an intellectual and convenient haven to meet up with their boyfriends. Libraries the world over had a strict ‘observe silence’ policy. Between the boys and the girls, therefore, it had to be a strictly ‘whisper sweet nothings’ strategy. Eye contact only. The icing on the cake was that our library had a vinyl record collection of unusual material. A case in point being a long-playing record of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest featuring legendary thespians like Sir John Gielgud and Sir Ralph Richardson among other notables. A wide collection of Shakespeare’s plays was on offer as well. The BC was also well-stocked with plenty of sterling stuff from the BBC’s record archives. However, if you were browsing hoping to find The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, you would have been sorely disappointed. That said, popular musicians of that era flaunted their erudition and love for literature, frequently namechecking their heroes. Here is Irish bard Van Morrison, ‘Tell me of Poe, Oscar Wilde and Thoreau / Let your midnight and your daytime / Turn into love of life.’

Getting back to why I did not enjoy Oscar Wilde’s luck (having his library card restored posthumously) had nothing to do with anything so murky as the great writer was punished for. Apart from the salient fact that I was and am still alive! It was a simple, mundane matter of a ‘late fee.’ The BC were sticklers for rules. You were permitted to keep the books you borrowed for a maximum period of two weeks, with a permitted extension of an extra week if you called in and informed them. The librarian smilingly and a tad resignedly, told me that on one occasion, she received as many as 27 calls from borrowers seeking an extension as they were struck down, ‘bedridden with the flu.’ Evidently on an epidemic scale! Any further delay would have invited a stiff fine. More tardiness, sickness real or imagined notwithstanding, could put you in the dreaded black list for expulsion. When I tell you that the shame of being expelled from the BC was roughly equated with Oscar Wilde’s own misfortune, you will understand why we students were desperate to return books on time. In my own case, I had to grovel and plead to retrieve my card.

As I sit and contemplate the unique case of Oscar Wilde and libraries in general in the year 2025, I wonder if public libraries exist in the same profusion as they did several decades ago. If they do, it is a moot point how many people visit these libraries. School and college campuses will have them, that is a given. Last I heard, the venerable National Library in Calcutta, formerly known as the Imperial Library, stands more as a grand monument to British architecture than as a house of learning and research, reflected in the paucity of visitors. This unfortunate situation can partly be attributed to reading material being more easily available on the internet. More significantly there are far fewer people, in particular youngsters who take the time and effort to read a book from cover to cover. Someone recently wrote, only partly in jest, that more books of J.K. Rowling are sold and ostentatiously displayed in home libraries than read. After all you can watch all the Harry Potter oeuvre on cable television and sound extremely well read in peer group company.

When the brilliant actor, writer and peerless raconteur Stephen Fry was chosen to reprise the role of Oscar Wilde in the 1997 biopic Wilde, the serendipity was uncanny. For one thing, Fry more than passably resembled Wilde. More to the point, he was avowedly and proudly gay. It was an inspired casting made in heaven and here is what Fry himself had to say about it in an article for the New Yorker, ‘If I were to say that all my life had been a preparation for playing Oscar Wilde, I would (aside from sounding ridiculous) be laying my tender rear horribly on the line. Yet I had been made to feel for years that this might be true. I have had archly nudged into me the winsome phrase “born to be Wilde” more times than I care to remember. “The chubbier you get the more you look like him,” I have been told. “If you can’t, no one can.” And “Let’s be honest. With a face like yours, it’s the only lead you’ll ever get. Otherwise, it’s a life of Gestapo interrogators, emotionally constipated cuckolds, and Bond villains.”’

The man who played Oscar Wilde so convincingly on celluloid received handsome plaudits for his performance. We should thank our lucky stars that we live in more enlightened times when Stephen Fry was not expelled from a library or any other public institution. For on screen, Fry did not play Wilde. He was Wilde. He did not receive an Oscar for his role, but the real, late Oscar would have smiled benignly from heaven. Always assuming the Pearly Gates were not barred to him.

 Sugar / Oh, honey, honey / You are my candy girl / And you got me wanting you The Archies.

I had no cause to worry about diabetes all these years. Never even entertained a passing thought about sugar, other than adding two heaped teaspoonfuls to my tea or coffee every morning or evening. That said, I am not one of those who has a ‘sweet tooth.’ While I have indulged in the odd jalebi, sandesh, Mysore pak, kaju barfi or sugared doughnut, I have never hankered after sweets. I could take them or leave them. Until that is, one of my friends casually asked me what my HbA1c reading was. I had no idea what he was talking about.

‘HbA1c?’ I repeated. ‘What might you be blabbering about? Sounds like some kind of chemical formula. You have the advantage of me, my friend.’

My friend was taken aback. ‘What, you have never heard of HbA1c? Don’t you take your annual blood tests? At the very least, you would have checked out your fasting and post-prandial sugar. Most of us are obsessed with sugar levels nowadays. The papers are full of it.’

‘All that is fine and dandy, but I still do not know what HbA1c is. Pray tell.’ Seriously, I did not know the first thing about it.

My dear friend seemed to be a bit of an expert on matters medical. Every family has one. ‘It gives you a three-month average assessment of your sugar reading. This is a far more accurate way of assessing whether your blood sugar levels are normal, pre-diabetic or full-blown diabetic.’

‘And a random fasting or post-prandial test is not accurate enough?’ I asked.

‘Not really, because people tend to keep away from sweets completely a couple of days before testing which will give a skewed reading that all is well. Crafty. The medicos are wise to this ruse. That is why doctors insist on a three-month test.’

‘Are you sure you’re not a doctor? You could have fooled me.’ I can be biting when the mood takes me.

The long and short of this conversation was that I was persuaded to take an HbA1c test and discuss the results with my GP. Armed with the report, I waited for my doctor to give me the bad news.

The doc read the blood report carefully as there were other parameters that were tested, finally laid the sheet down on his table, removed his spectacles and shook his head slowly east to west and back again, filmy style and said, ‘Hmmm.’ Always a bad sign, this non-verbal communication.

I was beginning to get tetchy. ‘Well, what is it Doc? You can tell me. I can take it.’

‘Your HbA1c reading is 5.9,’ he declared somewhat gravely.

‘Is that bad?’

‘It’s not great but as Shakespeare said in a different context, “tis not as deep as a well nor as wide as a church door, but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.’” He looked rather pleased with himself, my well-read physician.

On the other hand, I was miffed. ‘Doc, if it’s all the same to you, can we shelve the Shakespeare lesson for some other time?  You can also skip all that guff about pancreas, insulin etc. Tell me where I stand on the diabetes scale.’

‘You my friend, are kind of between and betwixt. Neither fish nor fowl. You are not a confirmed diabetic but neither are you totally free of the scourge. The threat perception is mild but it is lurking, waiting to pounce. It’s a sort of warning shot across the bows that you should  take heed. Take more care of what you eat, and take a critical look at your sedentary lifestyle. Exercise is the order of the day, apart from regulating your diet. You are what you eat, as they keep saying. You are at the pre-diabetic stage and need to go easy on excessive starchy foods and opt for sugar-free substitutes to spike your beverages. Incidentally, diabetic sweets are available these days.’ He had said his piece.

‘Diabetic sweets? During this festive season with Deepavali just round the corner? I am told they taste like mud.’

‘But it’s good, healthy mud. Do not mock things you know nothing about.’

It was now my turn to go ‘Hmmm,’ rather thoughtfully. ‘But Doc, I am fairly conservative when it comes to my eating and drinking habits.’ I raised my glass of water and said, ‘Mud in your eye, Doc.’

Ignoring my jokey toast, he said, ‘Drinking habits, you say? I hope you are imbibing not more than a peg or two. And rum is strictly a no, no. Comes from sugarcane and molasses’ he continued, raising his eyebrows needlessly.

‘Why do you jump to the conclusion that the word drink automatically suggests alcohol? Apart from the rare, celebratory glass of wine, I am almost abstemious. I was referring to juices, soft drinks and the like.’ In case you are wondering at my somewhat irritable and over-familiar manner of speech, the physician was an old acquaintance of mine and I could afford that liberty.

‘Aerated?

‘Pardon?’ I was a bit lost.

‘Soft drinks, do you go for Coke, Pepsi and so on?’

‘You hardly expect me to get through a pizza without periodic gulps of Coke, do you? It’s a junk foodie’s sine qua non.’

‘Ah ha, pizzas eh? Well, I’ve got news for you. Put a stop to pizzas or hamburgers and no more Cokes or any other form of sugared, aerated drink. Got that? We need to bring your HbA1c down to 5.7 or under. Sine qua non, indeed!’ He was clearly unimpressed by my smattering of Latin.

‘How about Coke Zero?’ I countered.

‘No means no. They are all fizzy.’ He was going livid. I was worried in case he needed attention.

‘Ok, ok, no need for hysterics. After I hit the magic 5.7, I can binge? You know that old Julie Andrews song? Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.’

‘Good grief man, I don’t allow singing in my chamber. Anyhow, that song was meant for toddlers. Where did you unearth Julie Andrews from? What are you, a teenage adolescent? Now look, I have plenty of patients waiting. Can’t spend the whole day chit chatting with you. Here is a list of do’s and don’ts. Read it carefully and quickly and see if you have any questions. And less of the Mary Poppins stuff, please.’

I ran my eye down the printed sheet of paper. ‘Haven’t tried red rice or millets before. Might be worth exploring. Our Prime Minister speaks highly of millets. I must confess he looks in the pink of health. Eats a lot of mushrooms too, I believe. Hullo, what’s this? No more idlis? Come on Doc, all patients in hospitals in south India gorge on idlis, post op. Idlis are practically a religion with us.’

The man with the stethoscope gave me a knowing look. ‘I thought you will say that. Look, just go easy on the rice idlis. Rava or semolina idlis, upma etc. are fine.’ I thought a rava idli is an abomination, like egg dosa but I chose not to argue.

‘But Doc, even Shashi Tharoor sings paeans of praise to the humble idli and he looks pretty fit to me, barring a few extra inches in the equatorial belt, as my school master used to describe the midriff area. Perhaps he could lose a kilo or two, but other than that even Adonis might envy his looks. The MP from Thiruvananthapuram, as is his wont recently said, “A truly great idli is a cloud, a whisper, a perfect dream of the predictability of human civilisation.” He went on to compare our idli with a Beethoven symphony, a Tagore poem, a Husain canvas, a Tendulkar century and much else besides. He is a wordmeister, after all, if you’ll pardon the coinage. He might have got slightly carried away there, but we can put it down to poetic license and a bit of gallery-playing. The Keralites love their idlis.’

My doctor friend exhibited unwonted patience while I prattled on. Finally, he got a word in edgewise. ‘Perhaps you should consult Dr. Shashi Tharoor regarding your pre-diabetic issue. I think he is a doctor of something or the other. You are clearly wasting your time here.’ His wounded sarcasm was not lost on me. I felt I should make peace and ask him just a few questions on my diet before being shown the door.

Sorry about that Doc. I was just trying to keep the conversation at a frothy, light-hearted level. So, let me make a check list of all the things you have declared a resounding ‘No’ to. Polished white rice, sweets of any kind, carbs including starchy stuff like potatoes, all deep-fried stuff and a further 27 items which I shall not bother listing out.  In short, as some smart aleck said, “Everything I like is illegal, immoral or fattening.” No, no, no to all of them. Perhaps I should dub you Dr. No.’

For the first time, the good doctor’s face was wreathed in a smile. ‘You haven’t forgotten your Ian Fleming, I see. In that case, I will stretch a point. You can have the odd drink, preferably a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.’

I left his chamber in good spirits, thinking pleasant thoughts of the man they call Bond. James Bond.

Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird passed away on September 22nd, widely mourned, at the ripe young age of 92 in his home town in Barnsley, Yorkshire. Peacefully in his sleep. Which is nothing less than the great man deserved. Now I can hear many youngsters, who follow cricket, reading this column, assuming youngsters read the newspapers (digitally or otherwise) these days, going ‘Who is this Dickie Bird? What is this fellow blabbering on about? And how can a 92-year-old man be described as young?’ One can only feel a deep sense of pity for such literal-minded ignoramuses. Or ignorami, if your Latin is up to scratch.

 However, if you belong to that segment of the populace that appreciates the game of cricket, not merely to marvel at those perfect cover drives and muscled sixes, or stumps cartwheeling, or fielders taking sensational diving catches, but takes an avid interest in those ‘characters’ who have involved themselves in other aspects of the game, and found love, honour and recognition in so doing, welcome to the world of Dickie Bird. Arguably the most celebrated umpire the game of cricket has known. ‘What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?’ asked the late Trinidadian, historian, Trotskyist activist and Marxist writer C.L.R. James in his brilliant, social and cultural tour de force of the game in his book, Beyond a Boundary.

As a rule, cricket umpires are a faceless lot. They stand there, the pair of them, for long hours braving fickle weather conditions, player tantrums and spectator animus. Depending, of course, entirely on which way the umpire’s finger moves (or not), when a highly histrionic appeal is made for a leg before or caught behind. It is then, and only then, that the umpire comes under the spotlight. If there was one umpire who managed to win over crowds, players of all national hues, not to mention the administrators ever since he stood behind the stumps and announced in a stentorian voice, ‘Play,’ that umpire was Dickie Bird.

Dickie Bird was nothing if not an obsessive perfectionist. He had to be absolutely, 100% sure before he raised the dreaded finger to send a batsman packing prior to upholding a leg before or caught behind appeal. Always remembering he started umpiring long before television cameras and DRS took over most of an umpire’s decision making. Many bowlers felt Dickie was a bit of a ‘not out-er,’ strictly adhering to the old dictum of always giving the batsman the benefit of the doubt. England’s much-admired captain Mike Brearley, had this to say about Dickie, ‘My only complaint with Dickie Bird is that he requires a degree of certainty that is almost neurotic; like the man who has to keep going to the front door to make certain that he’s locked it.’ That said, he displayed nary a doubt in raising his finger with alacrity at Jimmy Amarnath’s leg-before appeal against Michael Holding, signalling India’s famous victory at Lord’s in the final of the 1983 World Cup, sending a grateful nation into rapturous celebration.

Already many emotional homages have been paid by cricketers, journalists and broadcasters from all over the world to Dickie and reams have been written about personal experiences on the field. Sunil Gavaskar getting a haircut from Dickie because an errant lock of hair was blowing into his face during a blustery day in Old Trafford, Manchester in 1974 is but one of several amusing examples. Thanks to barber Bird, Gavaskar scored 101!

For myself, as a cricket enthusiast deeply involved in matters arising on the field of play as well as the cultural and idiosyncratic ethos surrounding the game, Dickie Bird sits at the top of the tree, along with the likes of revered commentators like John Arlott, Brian Johnston and Jim Swanton. They may have played a bit of cricket in their time but it was their unique ability to bring the game to life, when television was still a twinkle in broadcasters’ eyes, that set these gentlemen apart. We were glued to the wireless reveling in their banter and witticisms. Dickie Bird was not a commentator but a raconteur non pareil. I was fortunate to pick up a double CD titled An Evening with Dickie Bird, which amply displays his wit and wisdom.

If Dickie Bird’s quirks and angularities as a revered umpire could only be enjoyed from a distance as spectators in the stands or in front of our television screens, a product of our imagination, he was a most engaging and entertaining speaker at many a cricketing soiree, where fine wine flowed in step with the heady eloquence. Much of that treasure is contained in those CDs. I can but share a few gems. That said, even if you have heard some of it elsewhere, they still bear repetition. Under the circumstances, I shall refrain from employing that age-old aphorism, ‘Stop me if you’ve heard this before.’

Dickie’s close friend of 75 years, a doughty Yorkshireman himself and sometime cricketer, later on a celebrated talk show host, the late Michael Parkinson, had this to say about our protagonist, ‘Only Shakespeare could have invented a character so full of life’s rich juices as Dickie Bird. Cricket’s genius has been to accommodate his foibles and celebrate his humour.’ Coming as he did from a relatively humble background, Dickie’s humour was that of the rugged Everyman of lore. Here’s a snippet of what he had to say when the Queen invited him to receive his OBE. Evidently, he got a call from the Queen’s office inviting him for lunch. ‘I said – because I thought someone was taking the mickey – if I have been invited to have lunch at Buckingham Palace, I will walk to it from Barnsley.’ He ultimately took that long train journey to London to visit the Queen. Arriving at the Palace much too early, he showed his special pass to the Bobby on the beat at the Palace gates and was told he can’t go in till the Changing of the Guards. When informed that he had come to have lunch with the Queen, the policemen told him to kill some time at a tea shop round the corner. He killed four hours and finally was let into the pearly gates. Anyhow, Her Majesty took one pitying look at Dickie and said he’d better have a drink and he replied, ‘If I may, I will have a glass of red wine and she said, “I’ll have a drink with you, Dickie.”’ Just a gentle, civilised interaction between a commoner and Royalty, but it is the way Dickie tells it that will have you in stitches.

About the great if controversial Geoff Boycott, another Yorkshireman, Dickie’s wry comment – ‘I am the only one he talks to. He hasn’t got a friend in the world, but if I wanted someone to bat for my life, that would be Boycott.’ Then there was that occasion when Sachin Tendulkar, all of 16 years old, playing an ODI in Sharjah for the first time against the West Indies, met the great Dicke Bird, who asked the young adolescent, if his school had granted him leave to play cricket for India. And Tendulkar replied (in Dickie’s mock imitation of Sachin’s high-pitched, teenage voice), ‘My headmaster has given me permission to play for India, Sir.’ Bird goes on to say, in awed tones, that Tendulkar scored 89 against the likes of Walsh and Ambrose!

There are many more such examples from these recordings that one could cite. Suffice it to say that Dickie Bird was one of a kind. They broke the mould after him. Deservedly, a statue of him is erected in Barnsley. A fitting tribute. Had he been with us and officiating in the just-concluded, fractious Asia Cup fixtures between India and Pakistan, he would have called the captains after the game and told them gently but firmly, ‘Now come on lads, stop mucking about. You are not chokra boys. Shake hands like gentlemen and leave your politicians to indulge in all the argy-bargy.’

R.I.P. Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird.

Published in Deccan Chronicle on October 1, 2025.

Caveat: Some of what you are about to read happened. Some of it did not, though it could so easily have. Either way, a pinch of salt would help garnish the offering.

India’s Prime Minister, Narendra Modi is celebrating his 75^th birthday, his platinum jubilee, which came about on September 17. The present continuous tense is employed since the celebrations, countrywide, are expected to go on for a month. Let me rephrase that. India that is Bharat is celebrating, with much fanfare, its Prime Minister’s crossing of this seminal milestone. Doubtless, all his colleagues, friends and acolytes have been gathering outside 7, Lok Kalyan Marg (Race Course Road is considered an abomination) to shower him with blessings and good wishes. Sweetmeat shops (any other meat will invite capital punishment) would have made roaring trade with laddoos and jalebis selling like hot cakes. In western countries, they say it the other way round. The media, particularly some select newspapers and television channels have pulled out all the stops, left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored and any other cliché you might wish to employ, to mark the occasion. Several columns of space and oodles of air time were devoted to singing the praises of our charismatic leader.

All this is par for the course and only to be expected in a country where hero worship of our tallest leaders is an article of faith and practically enshrined in the Constitution ever since we gained independence. What is of far greater interest to many of us is the fact that President Donald Trump saw fit to extend his personal greetings to his ‘dear friend Narendra.’ Whether he warbled Happy birthday over the wires or not, we shall never know. Thank heavens for small mercies. What is worthy of note is that Mr. Modi graciously returned Trump’s goodwill gesture . Not that it was Trump’s birthday or anything, but you get the drift. If Trump was first off the blocks to greet the PM, Vladimir Putin and Pope Leo were not far behind, snapping at his heels (Trump’s heels) while remotely proffering a congratulatory hand. Xi Jinping, as is his wont, remained tight-lipped. Other heads of state don’t count.

Did India’s Leader of the Opposition, Rahul Gandhi extend his good wishes as per informal protocol? He probably did after a fashion, though he was readying his much-touted hydrogen bomb as a birthday present. Said bomb, bearing the legend ‘Vote Chori,’ from what little we could glean, appeared to have downed tools. Went down with a whimper. Yet again. The wick didn’t quite catch. The spirited young man, however, will not be cowed down. He promises to rise from the ashes, Phoenix-like, and return with another weapon of mass destruction. This time with a bang. His persistence is praiseworthy.

Amidst all this bonhomie (for the most part) there are rumours, entirely unfounded and unreported, that put a different spin on this ‘feast of reason and flow of soul’ between the two heads of state who have been at cross purposes lately. Trump and Modi that is. They haven’t exactly been on the chummiest of terms, not to put too fine a point on it. One version has it that Peter Navarro, one of Trump’s henchmen and the bloke who specialises in dropping at least two bricks every day on the ongoing, fractious trade negotiations between India and the United States, is alleged to have suggested that it was the Indian Prime Minister’s office that contacted the White House a few days before ‘dear friend’ Modi’s birthday and made a craven request that Mr. Trump should call and wish our PM well on D-Day. An anonymous caller from the White House is rumoured to have responded by saying, ‘You can hardly expect our President to recall birthdays of the heads of so many nations, when he can barely remember Melania’s. However, since you have made the request during this delicate period in Indo-US relations, we will pass your request on to President Trump.’

While there has been no official reaction from the Indian side to this unofficial, unverified bizarre report, one junior functionary from the PMO who understandably wishes to remain nameless, vehemently responded by saying, ‘If somebody has, in fact, suggested that we made the first move, we can only respond in a language the Americans can understand. Go tell that to the marines. Our Prime Minister only thanked President Trump in response to the latter’s birthday greetings. That is the sum and substance of it. The rest is baloney.’ Apocryphal or not, this has a familiar ring to it.

We now await Navarro’s next gaffe with bated breath. Meanwhile, we can expect more ‘good cop, bad cop’ pronouncements from all the President’s men. If Navarro is the bad cop, the well-groomed Secretary of State, Marco Rubio usually steps in to play the good cop – ‘Ties with India is one of the top relationships the U.S. has in the world today.’ Really? You could have fooled me, Marco. I suppose the strategy is to keep India off kilter, but it does not appear to be working, judging from the President’s feeble, conciliatory gestures of late, followed immediately by the H-1B jolt. ‘It’s all rather confusing, really,’ as Spike Milligan’s crazy creation, Neddie Seagoon used to intone in The Goon Show all those years ago.

To add spice to this whole brouhaha, one of India’s prominent economists advising the Government has confidently predicted that the 25% secondary sanction by America on India’s exports will soon be lifted, post which a further reduction can be expected on the base tariff. And presumably everything will be, in Wodehouse-speak, oojah-cum-spiff. When I read that, I was wondering if it was entirely wise on the learned gentleman’s part to have made such a bold, public statement, even if talks behind the scenes appeared to indicate such optimism. Tempting fate, I felt. Waving the proverbial red rag to a bull that has been very bearish towards India. Then again, what do I know? Encouraging animal spirits, as propounded by John Maynard Keynes is all very well, but tread warily lest they should turn around and bite you in the fleshy parts.

All said and done, the PM and his party henchmen will take full advantage of every available opportunity, in this instance his extended birthday bash, to reach out to the electorate to think well of the ruling alliance when election time comes round. With the Bihar state polls just around the corner, felicitating the country’s numero uno with all the pomp and splendour that his powerful party can muster, will only help the cause. The opposition alliance will have its work cut out, as has been the case these past few years, to create any kind of dent in the BJP bulwark. Of all the strategies that could be available to the I.N.D.I. Alliance, the least favourable option ought to be the ceaseless bad mouthing of the PM via the Election Commission. If for no other reason, one says this because it appears to be merely performative and counterproductive. They need to put on their thinking caps and come up with something different and original. Right now, that seems a far cry. Unless you are counting on, from distant Washington, the constant din created by ‘The Guns of Navarro,’ having an impact on the Indian voter. For now, those guns appear to be firing blanks while India’s birthday boy and his team burn the midnight oil to keep matters on an even keel amidst a highly complex, volatile and unpredictable global geopolitical scenario. The vat is simmering and with Pakistan and Saudi Arabia announcing their nuptials, it is boiling over.

Happy birthday, Prime Minister.

Tailpiece: I read with astonishment a news headline that famed Hollywood actor Johnny Depp has directed a film named Modi: Three Days on the Wings of Madness. Surprisingly, this startling news item received very little play in India. Only on reading the fine print did I realise, with relief, that it was a biopic on the turbulent life of Italian painter, Modigliani!

Whoever said, ‘It’s not whether you win or lose that counts,’ probably lost. Martina Navratilova.

We had the Big Three. We now have the Big Two and a half. I am, of course, talking tennis. Federer and Nadal hung up their rackets recently, at different times, amidst much emotional, tear-jerking fanfare. The third of that triptych, Djokovic, is still in the mix but only just. At nearly 39 years of age, he is good enough to reach the semi-final stage at all the four Grand Slams, but unable to breach the dynamic, young Alcaraz-Sinner wall. That makes the Super Serb the half along with the ‘Sinacraz’ duo, who now bestride the tennis world with virtually no rivals in sight. It won’t be long before Novak bids adieu and joins his illustrious mates Roger and Rafa in their luxurious Senior Citizens enclave. The Joker is playing his cards close to his chest, refusing to contemplate retirement and promising to turn up for the Slams, but it is clear that while the spirit is willing, the flesh is dithering.

The mind-boggling achievements of the Big Three have been well documented and I have no wish to delve into the details of the 66 Grand Slam titles the trio have garnered over the past couple of decades. A golden era in which the likes of Murray and Wawrinka, great players in their own right, played just the occasional spoiler role. As walk-on parts, they made their exits and their entrances. As the inevitable decline of these warriors became evident, the tennis buffs turned to the likes of Medvedev, Thiem, Zverev and Tsitsipas to take over the reins. Thiem opted out prematurely due to injury concerns, while the other three, still active on the circuit, have flattered to deceive. And before you could say double fault, two precociously talented aces, barely out of their teens, shattered everybody else’s dreams with their incandescent brilliance. We are of course, talking about the Spaniard Carlos Alcaraz and the Italian Jannik Sinner. These two have shared the available eight Grand Slam titles equally between them in 2024 and 2025. Need we say more? The GOAT debate resumes afresh.

Alcaraz, with his boyish, toothy grin and extraordinary wizardry is bringing back the genius X factor to world tennis after the exit of Federer, who has long been regarded as tennis royalty. He even has a permanent seat in the Royal Box at Wimbledon these days! At his best, Federer on court was a ballet dancer, all sinewy grace and flourish, pirouetting and gliding around the courts without breaking sweat. When the great Swiss maestro was doing his stuff on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, you could almost hear the Swan Lake overture playing in the background. Is that Nureyev? Is that Baryshnikov? No, it’s Federer. Whence comes such another, the fans cried when Roger called it a day.

We did not have to wait long. Alcaraz is here, with knobs on, and all is well. The young Spaniard is Federer plus his compatriot Nadal multiplied manifold. Alcaraz is all that those two greats were plus a burst of speed, strength, athleticism and dexterity that is breathtaking. At times his on-court pyrotechnics defies gravity. A generational talent. And he is just 22. However, it takes two, sometimes three, to tango. Federer and Nadal were a beloved twosome. Nobody wanted a third. Djokovic was an unwelcome interloper but the great Serb upended and put paid to the dominance of the other two by sheer force of spirit and sweat. Finally earning the somewhat reluctant admiration (if not love) of the fans. A modern-day anti-hero.

Today, we are back to the era of the commanding twosome. Enter stage left, Italian Jannik Sinner, a deceptively shy, redhead. Former American star and coach Brad Gilbert said recently in an interview, ‘If you put Agassi and Djokovic in a blender, you get Sinner.’ An apt description. What Sinner lacks in instinctive flair his rival Alcaraz possesses in spades. Sinner makes up with his amazing agility, the metronomic consistency and power of his ground strokes, not to mention a smooth and silky service motion. He may not provide the frequent glory shot, that out-of-the-blue magic moment that Alcaraz can dazzle us with, but Sinner is proving to be the ideal foil to his Spanish matador. Understated, soft-spoken and quietly determined, he goes about his business without fuss. And he is 24. Two contrasting styles, with plenty of years ahead of them, Alcaraz and Sinner have, for the moment, firmly shut the door on any other aspirant to major triumphs in tennis. If a latter-day Federer, Nadal or Djokovic does come along, tennis buffs can only wait, salivating with bated breath, if you will excuse the mixed metaphor.

Which leaves the tennis world with the existential dilemma – should Djokovic retire instanter? There are two points of view. His die-hard fans argue that many young players today would give anything to be in all the Slam semi-finals (and one final), win an Olympic Gold Medal and be a constant threat to the top players as Novak has been. So why should he not keep playing if he enjoys the thrill of the thrust and parry? The contrarian view is simply this. You have done enough, bagged a record-breaking 24 Slams and finally won the love and affection of the sporting world. Time now to bow out gracefully. Go when people ask ‘Why?’ and not ‘Why not?’ Here in India, the ageless M.S. Dhoni is being asked the same question as he looks to wear the yellow CSK jersey one last time in 2026. A six or two over mid-wicket and, with any luck, he should be limping off into the sunset.

As for me, I shall luxuriate in the sheer joy of watching Alcaraz and Sinner take on all comers. The two musketeers, Athos and Porthos are here to stay. Is there an Aramis waiting in the wings?

Published in the Deccan Chronicle dt. 13/9/25

There is a growing trend amongst several prominent personages in our country and around the world to shoot off letters, usually in high dudgeon, to various heads of state. Errors of omission and commission, on the part of Presidents and Prime Ministers are pointed out in pitiless detail, and advice is freely offered on how those in positions of power should conduct themselves and fashion their policies, if they are to achieve anything like satisfactory results for their nations. It is worth mentioning that quite a few of these inveterate letter writers have been in government service and / or in bureaucracy, and distinguished themselves. This was brought home to me recently when my good friend, the indefatigable, and often irascible, Mani Shankar Aiyar told our Prime Minister exactly where to get off when it came to the latter’s tentative dance steps with his Chinese and Russian counterparts at the just concluded Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO) conclave, in an effort to effect a dramatic change in the world geopolitical order. That is a tall order, but trying never hurt anybody.

There are questions that arise in the specific instance of Aiyar’s recent missive, an open letter to our PM. Will Mr. Modi actually take the time and trouble to read his letter? If he does, will the letter have to be translated in Hindi or Gujarati for his benefit, as Aiyar’s mellifluous, Cantabrigian English, liberally inflected with aphorisms and oblique references may prove beyond the PM’s homespun familiarity with the English language? It is also entirely within the realms of possibility that the PMO, having looked at the bottom of the page and recognised (with alarm) the signature, consigned the letter to the electronic trash can, saving their boss the trouble of having to plough through Aiyar’s circumlocutory eloquence.

The ‘return to sender’ option is also obviated unless Aiyar despatched his letter in a scented envelope by registered post with acknowledgment due. The GPO, close to achieving dinosaur status, could have done with some business coming their way during these instant, digital times. Questions, questions. To give credit to the impassioned scrivener, Aiyar has freely admitted in his opening paragraph that there is no love lost between him and Prime Minister Modi – ‘I am fully aware of the contempt in which you hold me even as you are aware of my low esteem for you.’ That is ‘laying it on the line’ as the Americans might put it. The gloves are off and its no-holds barred.

With that preamble, I have no desire to delve further into that particular one-sided correspondence, which I am sure did not elicit a response from the PM. Aiyar’s letter is ‘open’ and half the English-speaking universe, at least here in India, would have gone through it with a fine toothcomb. Instead, taking a leaf out of Aiyar’s book, I decided to dash off a series of letters to a clutch of world leaders, in hopes that some footling 3^rd under-secretary, a Bernard Woolley type, in some ministry somewhere in the world might have glanced at it perfunctorily and brought it to the notice of his boss. Hope springs eternal in the not-so-young man’s breast. And even if not one single person gets to read these letters of mine, at least I would have had the passing satisfaction of putting out an ‘open letter’ into the public domain, a first for me. And let the devil take the hindmost.

Xi Jinping, President of the People’s Republic of China

Dear Respected Comrade President Xi Jinping,

You have had your hands full this past week, what with so many heads of state to be entertained at the just concluded SCO meet. If what we have been witnessing on our television screens in India is anything to go by, you have had time only for President Putin and Prime Minister Modi. Your handshakes were warm, though you smartly eschewed hugging, which our PM is partial to. That Pakistan’s big nobs appeared to have been given the brush-off gladdened all Indian hearts. Your impassive facial expressions gave very little away but that has always been the Chinese way. The poker face originated in China. You have made encouraging noises about China’s ongoing and future relationship with India, rightly condemned the Pahalgam attacks, which we take to be an oblique rap on the knuckles for Pakistan, tactfully avoided any reference to Arunachal Pradesh and stapled passports, agreed on most issues barring the Belt & Road Initiative. Then again, we need to keep a few things up our sleeves to chew on for future dialogues. Finally, now that Donald Trump is playing footsie with Pakistan, you might want to reset your relationship with our unreliable neighbours. The dragon should breathe some fire in that direction. Just some chop suey for thought.

With warm friendly regards.

——————————–

Vladimir Putin, President of Russia

Dear Honourable and Muscular President Vladimir Putin,

It is now a well-accepted fact that India and Russia need to embrace each other if our relationship is to be kept well oiled, oil being the operative word. As you know, our Prime Minister Modi is willing to embrace anyone, given half a chance, and you have been more than ready to reciprocate. The Russian bear hug is much prized by us in India. This augurs well for both our great nations particularly when the rest of the western world, led by that ‘incredible hulk’ in the White House, is doing all he can to spoil the party for us. The Russia-China-India troika, with our much-touted combined global GDP and population strength is already giving Donald Trump a nasty hand rash. We need to keep up the pressure, and who better than the man sitting on all that oil, natural gas and rare earth minerals to lead the way, namely you, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. It is time to pour oil over these troubled waters. As for your pesky neighbour whose name you doubtless do not wish to take and with whom you are in perennial armed conflict, we will let the EU and NATO worry about it. Clearly, Mr Trump appears to have washed his sadly-infected hands off the whole matter, even as the Z-man of Ukraine is trying to make nice with PM Modi. At least, we hope you enjoyed your trip to Alaska and keenly look forward to your visit to New Delhi soon.

With fraternal greetings.

———————————–

Narendra Modi, Prime Minister of India that is Bharat

Honourable Prime Minister Modi ji,

Congratulations and welcome back to Bharat after your hectic parleys in Shanghai with world leaders at the SCO summit. I am sure you will be diving straight in at the deep end of the Bihar election politics, giving the ‘vote chori’ brigade as good as you get, while managing the Trump tariff scenario along with follow-up action on your fruitful meetings with Presidents Xi Jinping and Putin. It is amazing that you are able to display such boundless energy and presence of mind while so many balls are being thrown up in the air. Even Zelenskyy wants to come to New Delhi to meet you.

 Putting that to one side, I am very curious about one thing. You were ensconced in a luxury, state-of-the-art, bullet-proof limousine for close to 50 minutes with President Putin. From the photographs and brief footage on television, I could not see anybody else in the car. Which means there might not have been present an interpreter, unless he or she was hiding in the boot, which kind of defeats the purpose. In which case, my question – in which language did you communicate with each other?  I have only heard Putin say ‘Next time in Moscow’ to Trump once and though you, Sir, are adept in your own style of rough-and-ready English, I doubt that you speak Russian.

Other than that, you appeared to have cut quite a dash in Shanghai with your elegant, desi wardrobe and the way you appeared to be in the thick of things with Xi Jinping and Putin, frequently wagging your long forefinger and refusing to make even eye contact with your counterpart from Pakistan. We sit glued to our television sets waiting for your next big move. A friendly word of caution. There are people threatening to hurl hydrogen bombs all over the place. Whether metaphorical or literal, do take care Sir.

With utmost respect.

——————————

Donald Trump, President of the United States of America

Dear Mr. Trump,

I hope your hand is healing fast; it looked quite ugly on our television screens. Not to forget the cankle. As for the hand, did you try Burnol ointment? It is very efficacious and many Indians swear by it. We can courier a boxful of tubes for you and your near and dear ones, in case the problem runs in the family. There could be additional cost implications in terms of secondary or tertiary tariffs, surcharge and so on but I am sure, as a special case, this could be waived if a medical emergency to a head of state is involved. Reciprocity on this score (with regard to reducing tariffs) from your side would be greatly appreciated. Lastly, kindly speak to that Navarro gawdelpus to go easy on his mouthing off every now and then on India (‘Modi’s War,’ ‘Laundromat,’ ‘Profiteering Brahmins’). It could ease the despatch of our wonderful Burnol ointment to reach you in double-quick time. And Secretary of State Rubio is not helping matters by claiming that Indo-US relations have never been better. This is news to us.

Caution: If you are suffering from heartburn due to, say, not being considered for the Nobel Peace Prize, then Burnol will not help. If symptoms persist, kindly consult your psychiatrist.

Wishing you a speedy recovery.

———————————

That’s it. I feel strangely cleansed and unburdened. I leave you with a quote from the metaphysical poet John Donne – Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak.’

Turn this crazy bird around / I shouldn’t have got on this flight tonight. Joni Mitchell.

‘Are you veg or non-veg?’ As an opening gambit for a conversation with a perfect stranger, I found this a rather unconventional question. Why would someone you did not know from Adam be asking you about your dietary habits, straight off the blocks? I mean, if I had been introduced to a person at a party, I was hardly going to kick things off by asking if the party of the second part was veg or non-veg now, would I? Any more than I would be asking if he was straight or gay. That would seem pretty daft, not to mention improper, when there are so many other avenues of polite inquiry or even pressing concerns available such as, what the person does for a living, is he married, how many kids, what brand of car does he own, does he support the BJP or Congress, is he au fait with the implications of America’s Secondary Sanctions, is he a fan of Donald Trump and so on. You do not dive straight in at the deep end and query the fellow about matters culinary. Too personal.

Except that this inquisitive (or so I thought) person was sitting, seat-belt fastened, next to me on a domestic flight. And his question, which at first seemed odd, was dictated not so much by idle curiosity but by the fact that the air hostess was making breakfast menu inquiries of the passengers and he was merely trying to be helpful in passing on what the hostess was saying, which was barely audible owing to the ambient sounds of people chatting and the insistent drone of the plane’s engines. Bearing in mind I was occupying a window seat some distance away from the soft-spoken hostess. Having said ‘veg’ and being perfunctorily handed over a soggy box wrapped in aluminium foil, the hostess wheeled her meal cart on to the next row.

That was that, I said to myself. I can now concentrate on navigating the contents of the dodgy cardboard box (after some tedious and clumsy unfoiling) in which were two vadas floating in a watery sambar and a little container with a blob of green chutney on the side. A flimsy, white plastic fork and knife was provided. The fork snapped in two the moment I pushed it into one of the rock hard vadas while two of the broken prongs from the fork embedded themselves into the unappetising, cold offering. I pushed the box away untasted. My neighbour, who was comfortably wolfing down a cheese omelette, essayed a pitying smile. ‘That is one reason why I never order the vegetarian breakfast. You end up consuming more than you had bargained for. In your case, disastrously, it could have been bits and pieces of the plastic fork. Ha ha!’ I did not see the funny side of it but before I could respond tartly with an ‘And you are?’ he stuck his hand out and said, ‘Prakash, consultant physician,’ by way of introducing himself. I offered my right hand and promptly dropped the knife which wedged itself between the back of his trousers and the backrest of the seat, smearing a few drops of sambar for good measure. ‘So sorry, clumsy of me. Here’s some tissue. Why can’t they provide us with metal cutlery? I know this is cattle class, but still. We pay extra for the food, don’t we? I am Suresh, retired brand and marketing mish-mash. Nice to meet you.’

‘Mish-mash?’ The consultant physician looked puzzled.

‘Well, we marketing chaps dabble in various things. We are professional dabblers. Advertising, media management, brand architecture, PR, market research – it’s a sort of smorgasbord disguised as a tutti frutti. Looks and sounds nice but is less than the sum of its constituent parts. Hence mish-mash. Mind you, I was not being derogatory or anything. After all, it’s a career option that kept the home fires burning and all that. Just a spot of healthy cynicism.’

After raising his eyebrows and muttering ‘brand architecture?’ my doctor fellow passenger shovelled another forkful of omelette into his cavernous mouth, his plastic fork intact, and was starting to say something but choked on his omelette and began to sputter and cough uncontrollably. I reached out for the red button above my head for the air hostess to bring drinking water pronto. That darned red button is always tantalisingly out of reach unless you happen to be a giant. It was an American aircraft. Figures! Meanwhile, a few curious passengers had gathered round, tut-tutting and even taking photos on their mobile phones! Watch the birdie and hey presto, we are on Facebook and Instagram! Caption – Passenger chokes on dodgy omelette. I did not bother telling them it was the vada that was dodgy. Anyhow, I shushed them away. It took the hostess 10 minutes to arrive with the water. The doctor was in extremis while I kept patting him vigorously on the back and on top of his head. He took a few sips and a gulp and, mercifully, sanity was restored. He did not collapse on me. After a few more clearing coughs Dr. Prakash apologised profusely and was now breathing normally. As was I.

I chided him. ‘I am sorry to have to say this but as a doctor you ought to know better than to talk with a mouthful of food. You gave me the heebie-jeebies. Didn’t your mother teach you anything? We could have had a crisis and there might not have been another doctor on the flight to attend to you. Market research experts tell us that the chances of there being more than one doctor on a regular flight are infinitesimal. Unless it is a delegation of oncologists or cardiologists flying somewhere for a conference. Physician, heal thyself, about sums it up.’ I can get quite Biblical if greatly exercised. I probably overstepped my limit but he had it coming. Smirking when my fork broke and bolting his omelette like there was no tomorrow or that he had just come out of a period of intermittent fasting. I wouldn’t consult him for any medical issue if he were the last doctor left standing on earth.

To give the man some credit, the good doctor did seem somewhat contrite. ‘Once again, I do apologise for the needless commotion I caused. Thanks for all the care and attention. It was one of those unfortunate accidents. Food getting stuck in the throat. Could have happened to anybody.’ Now he was making excuses but I decided to let it go. No point in rubbing it in. Normal service was resumed.

‘To get back to the subject, are you strictly vegetarian or do you occasionally stray?’ He would not give up.

‘Given the state of the vadas they gave me, I would have happily opted for the omelette. Only I did not get the chance thanks to your histrionics. Truth to tell, I come from strictly vegetarian stock, but you know how it is. Eggs are conveniently not considered non-veg. Hope that answers your question.’

Dr. Prakash, now fully relaxed, smiled. ‘I come from Kerala, where we eat pretty much anything that moves. And please don’t start on that hoary, old chestnut about cruelty to animals. Since you are fond of quoting from the Bible, allow me to return the compliment. In Genesis 9:3, God granted permission to eat meat after the Great Flood; Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. We drew the line on domestic pets of course, but the Chinese and their ilk tend to interpret God’s word quite literally.’

‘Touché. For you don’t count the dead when God’s on your side. That was Bob   Dylan, incidentally, not the Bible.’ I was beginning to enjoy the repartee.

The doctor was impressed. ‘This is quite fascinating. One last question as we should be landing in about 10 minutes. Vegetarians tend to get sanctimonious and, at times, downright unpleasant about those of us who consume the flesh of animals, fish and fowl. Did you know that a group of scientists (in Japan, I think) once conducted experiments on plants and vegetables with very sophisticated, state-of-the-art equipment? They concluded that when vegetables, fruit and leaves were plucked or cut from their parent trees or plants, they experienced indescribably excruciating pain; the flora that is. Not that the scientists were left untouched. The resultant screams of agony were faithfully recorded and amplified. Word is that many of those involved in the experiment could not sleep for months after their investigations. Some of them sank into deep depression and even committed hara kiri. The Japs are like that. Makes you think, what?’

I took his final question to be rhetorical and declined to offer an answer. As the plane was in steep descent, and the undercarriage was opening, I closed my eyes and pretended to pray, as many people do on flights when taking off or landing. Instead, I was thinking to myself, next time on a morning flight I shall order the omelette.

Moral of the story: When breakfasting on a flight, be an eggetarian and not a vegetarian. And chew slowly. Like the cows.

I was a poor student. Let me unburden myself of that albatross. Now that I have long since retired and not looking for a job, that admission comes quite easily. Whether it was during my school days and later on in university, I was one of those who just about scraped through his exams, year on year. My school reports were invariably conspicuous for their ‘Could do better’ and ‘His marks are not a true reflection of his ability’ remarks from the school Warden in Bangalore. I derived cold comfort from these consolatory observations.

This business of struggling when exams came around was somewhat mystifying to my teachers. I won elocution contests. They still speak warmly of my stirring St. Crispian’s Day speech from Henry V. Not to mention the opening lines from the poem What Tomas an Buile Said in a Pub by someone called James Stephens, ‘I saw God. Do you doubt it? / Do you dare doubt it?’ I had the audience eating out of my hands. I was classified an A singer, over the years carolling in the alto and tenor sections of the school choir. I was somewhat discombobulated when my voice broke, but I got over that.

As for my title role as Electrella in our inter-house drama competition, a latter-day adaptation (salute to Mr. Bill Scott, our house master) of the fabled Cinderella, I must have created quite an impression despite disastrously coming on stage prematurely in a sparkling red long gown for the grand Ball when I ought still to have been weeping inconsolably in tattered rags, mopping the floor, till the Fairy Godfather came along with his magic wand in a Chrysler cardboard cut-out. Some of my classmates were convinced I was in drag, not that we knew the meaning of that word at the time. Such terms were not in currency, at least not in school during the 60s. Still and all, we won first prize.

I was a mean off-spinner and could hold one end up stoically with the bat, though I kept running my partners out too frequently for comfort. ‘A good, all-round chap, pity he could not sail through his exams more convincingly, though his potential was there for all to see,’ declaimed the Warden again, who was getting to be a bit repetitive. There was no call for him to keep rubbing it in. Anyhow, that was to have been my epitaph on school leaving day. Many moons later I told myself, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were academic dropouts, couldn’t clear their exams for love or money and they didn’t do too badly for themselves. Hope springs eternal.

Speculation was rife at home in Calcutta as to what my problem was. In those days, nobody had heard of Attention Deficit Syndrome, but whatever was its equivalent back in the day (‘he is one of those dreamy types’) was identified as the root cause for my looking reasonably, if deceptively, bright even if my marksheets invariably told a different story. In the event, my dad forced me to take up B. Com (Hons) in college, a course I was patently unfit to attempt, but being a banker, he felt there was a fair chance of my getting a job somewhere if I could tell the difference between a Bank Reconciliation Statement and a Cash Flow Statement. Presumably I would have been pushed into slogging for four years thereafter to clear my Chartered Accountancy exams – a more arduous drudgery it would be difficult to imagine. A fate worse than death. Charles Lamb hit the nail on the head when he said, ‘I had grown to my desk, as it were, and the wood had entered into my soul.’ What’s more, I was no wiser at the end of it all in being able to tell a BRS from a CFS. 

Unfortunately, in those innocent days most of us did exactly what our daddy told us to do. In the event, I was able to perk up enough gumption to put my foot down and say, ‘Enough is enough.’ I would have been much happier doing English Literature, diving headlong into Shakespeare, Donne, Austen, Bronte (all the four siblings) and the like. And for leisure reading at home, there was always Wodehouse, Christie, Conan Doyle and Erle Stanley Gardner, whose impressive body of work did not exactly do any harm to one’s betterment of the English language. The home reading part was fine, but college was a bummer. To make matters worse, B. Com classes were conducted at the ungodly hours of 6 to 10 in the morning! Daily wake-up alarm was set for 4.30 a.m. Nodded off on the tram ride to Park Street, thence the ten-minute trudge to college. Creeping like snail, unwillingly. None of this was mood-enhancing; cynicism came easily and thoughts were riveted on The Beatles and Bob Dylan. As if that wasn’t enough, my mother made sure I attended Carnatic music classes in the afternoon!

Post university, while wrestling with my own doubts and misgivings about what sort of employment would best suit my temperament, if not my dubious academic qualifications, my thoughts first turned to journalism. I applied and was written-tested and interviewed by India’s leading English daily, The Times of India. I was offered a job as a journalist trainee to be based out of Bombay (Mumbai happened later) at a princely stipend of Rs.400/- a month; accommodation was to be my headache. As to why I wanted to be a journalist having obtained a degree in Commerce, I came clean and told them my life story which seemed to impress the top brass at The Old Lady of Bori Bunder – for its candidness. Anti-climactically, I did not take up the job for the simple reason that I had no idea how I was going to make ends meet on 400 soiled notes a month in a sinfully expensive metro like Bombay – even in the early 70s. After paying rent for PG accommodation and living on vada pav, I might have been able to keep the body intact and only just, but the soul would have been consigned to kingdom come.

Thus, I rushed back to Calcutta (Kolkata happened later) to the comfort of home and hearth and resumed chewing my finger nails. At which point, somebody I met at a party uttered the magic word, ‘Advertising.’ Put me in mind of that seminal moment in the film The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman was wandering around aimlessly after his graduation, completely at a loose end, and one of his rich dad’s pals, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Plastics, now there’s a career for you, young man.’ Or words to that effect. You will have to watch the movie to know what happened after that. This is about me and not Dustin Hoffman, who did very well for himself, thank you very much.

Without going into the tedious details of the whys and wherefores, I landed a job as a trainee in a reputed advertising agency in Calcutta. That my dad held a senior position in a bank which happened to be an important client of the agency might have helped push things along, but I can swear blind I got the job by sheer dint of merit. Truth to tell, pretty much everybody at the agency was the son or daughter of someone who was someone close to the agency’s top echelons. That was how it was those days. Simple, innocent times. Forget about ad agencies, even most corporate houses of repute were quick to take in young trainees who came in with ‘influence.’ Made the shortlisting simpler. As Mary Hopkin might have put it, Those were the days, my friend.

I loved advertising and the frenetic work ethic, where you learned on the job in smoke-filled conference rooms and what was expected of you was basic common sense, a better than average level of articulation, a thick skin (clients could be unreasonably demanding and tough), a calm and becoming personality and, above all, the ability to knock back a few large ones without batting an eyelid. The industry produced its fair share of rumpot geniuses. I passed muster on most of those essential qualifications bar the thick skin and the ability to knock back even one small one; but I made do. I had found my true calling. I was even given a leg-up by the very client I was detailed to handle – in their marketing division as advertising manager. En passant, I was flattered when the branch head of one of our rival agencies tried to entice me with a lucrative offer, throwing in a refrigerator as an attractive company perk! As I was quite happy in my first agency and owned a refrigerator (two would have been surplus to requirements), I gracefully turned down the offer.

Last but by no means the least, I found my life partner during my initial stint in the advertising agency.  Who could ask for more? On that count alone if for nothing else, I owe an everlasting debt to the man at that party several decades ago in Calcutta who whispered into my shell-like ear, ‘Advertising, now there’s a career for you, young man.’ Or words to that effect. Unlike Dustin Hoffman, I paid heed to his words.