Many moons ago, circa 1967 probably, I was glued to my transistor radio listening intently to a BBC World Service programme called My Music, a witty and amusing quiz show in which some very erudite and musically inclined speakers were asked questions on various genres and aspects of music. In one particular episode, one of the participants decided to go off the deep end. He asked an apparently crackpot question to the rest of the panel, ‘What would happen if we replaced the word love with the word lunch in many well-known songs?’ I cannot, for the life of me, remember any of the songs that were suggested. All I can recall was the sheer hilarity that ensued as each participant went to town giving his or her own version, and often even singing it. Desperate as I was, what with the weekend drawing near and my self-imposed deadline to post a blog in jeopardy, I decided to draw inspiration from that programme and provide my own list of love songs, or rather, lunch songs to see what comes out of it. The results, to say the least, were surprising. Since love is a universal theme for songs, I am sure you, dear reader, can add to this list immeasurably. With that preliminary pourparler, here goes nothing.

When The Beatles released their immensely popular hit, All You Need Is Love, with a chorus line that made it a singalong song for the ages, I tried to imagine what the implication would have been had the song been titled All You Need Is Lunch. It is a valid proposition for discussion. After all, if the stomach is not properly taken care of, if hunger pangs are not fully sated when the call comes, love can take a nosedive. It is an existential issue. I daresay during their early days of struggle in pre-Thatcherite Liverpool, Lennon and McCartney, along with Harrison and Starr might have been worried about when or where their next egg or ham sandwich is coming from. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were not born rich. Around the time, they also composed It’s Only Love, a poignant number which would have been far more appropriately titled, It’s Only Lunch. Thus, striking a philosophical note as if to say, ‘Don’t fret lads, a big hit is just round the corner and we could have all the 5-star lunches and dinners our hearts could desire.’ And so it came to pass.

There have been many recorded versions of the 1950s song Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing, first released as part of the soundtrack of the film bearing the eponymous name. My own favourite rendition is by the man with the honey-dewed voice, Nat King Cole. Had the song been called Lunch Is A Many-Splendored Thing, you would not have found too many people disagreeing. Like The Beatles, Nat King Cole, a school dropout, also emerged from modest beginnings where a sausage roll would have passed for a decent repast. When the great crooner achieved worldwide fame with songs like Autumn Leaves, Unforgettable and L.O.V.E., the fanciest restauranteurs in the world would have laid out the red carpet for him to enjoy many a splendored lunch or dinner.

The much loved, gravelly-voiced Canadian poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen wrote many songs that his army of diehard fans loved. None more so than Ain’t No Cure For Love and Dance Me To The End Of Love. From what little we know of Leonard Cohen’s personal life (he was quite a private person) I can make an educated guess that to the extent that he thought of food, he could have been an epicurean’s delight. The term is derived from the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus, who was devoted to refined, sensuous enjoyment, especially in matters of food and drink and one who sought pleasure but not excessive or self-indulgent pleasure. That he (Cohen that is, not Epicurus) lived on the Greek island of Hydra in the 1960s with his girlfriend Marianne (So Long, Marianne) seems entirely apposite. Epicurean? It’s an adjective that fits Leonard Cohen to a T. So, when you listen to those songs of his, tweak them to Ain’t No Cure For Lunch and Dance Me To The End Of Lunch.

Celebrated hard-rock British band Led Zeppelin, you would have thought, hardly qualifies to be spoken of in emotionally-charged tones involving soft feelings like love and matters inspired by Cupid. However, their earthquake-inducing number Whole Lotta Love was a monster hit which took Led Zep to the top of the world charts, registering 7.5 on the Richter scale. Had I been their manager (fat chance), I would have advised the band’s songwriters Jimmy Page and Robert Plant to cool down a bit and by great contrast, come up with Whole Lotta Lunch, with lyrics showing they are not just acid-dropping freaks but can enjoy a decent meal that would have made their grandmothers proud. No such luck. They went on their merry ways and ruled the rock music world, often skipping lunch and dinner but supplementing their energies with plenty of liquid nourishment of a kind their grannies would not have approved.

Another old classic, much popularised by the likes of Frank ‘Old Blue Eyes’ Sinatra was I Am In The Mood For Love. We all know Sinatra and his notorious Rat Pack gang loved the good life. He loved his food and wine and was a hearty trencherman. I daresay every time he felt the clarion call from his rumbling stomach, he would warble I Am In The Mood For Lunch and a luncheon spread fit for a king would have been his for the asking. Sinatra singing for his supper? Maybe, but not quite in the way you might think.

During the 50s and 60s there was no greater pop sensation than Elvis ‘the pelvis’ Presley. Until The Beatles and The Rolling Stones came along and rained on his parade. However, when Elvis bestrode the world of pop music and cinema like a Colossus, he was nonpareil. His seductive voice and killer good looks had the girls and boys ‘all shook up.’ His hit songs like Jailhouse Rock, It’s Now or Never (a.k.a. O Sole Mio), Wooden Heart, Teddy Bear and so much more had everyone foot-tapping and in a frenzied tizzy. And when he belted out, I Need Your Love Tonight, every teenage girl and her mother imagined they were enjoying wedded bliss with the star who demanded I Need Your Lunch Tonight. And in their dreams, they were only too willing to oblige, even if it meant serving left-over lunch warmed up, for dinner!

Bob Dylan is not the kind of singer-songwriter you would associate with writing soppy, sentimental love songs. He was the poet who shook his angry fist at the establishment and at the world’s wrongdoings while warning his publics that The Times They Are A’Changing and that answers to difficult questions are Blowin’ In the Wind. In saying that, I might be doing injustice to the man from Minnesota, originally christened Robert Zimmermann. He did address matters of the heart a number of times, none more plaintively than Lay, Lady Lay and I Want You. However, his song Love Minus Zero found me scratching my head. The lyrics do not even mention the title. I then thought that if Dylan visited a restaurant and ordered a Lunch Minus Zero, the waiter, long used to the star’s obsessive weight-watching, would holler out to the kitchen, ‘Lunch for Bob, low calories and no carbs please. And a diet beer to wash it down.’ He might have added ‘Don’t think twice Bob, it’s alright,’ if he had been aware of the bard’s output.

While concluding this idiosyncratic piece, it occurred to me why I could not find any songs from women who could fit the bill. Before I get brickbats hurled at me from the distaff side, I had to do some quick thinking. Women look at both love and lunch in completely different ways to men, and I was predisposed to put forward the male point of view. But hey, women musicians have given us some beautiful songs extolling the noble virtues of pure love. Carole King’s Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, Joni Mitchell’s Solid Love and Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You, spring to mind amongst several others. However, I do not wish to satirise or trivialise them by force-fitting the lunch motif into those lyrics. Gastronomy, sometimes bordering on gluttony is still a male preserve. Lunch comes first before their thoughts turn to gentler emotions. Don’t take my word for it. No less than George Bernard Shaw said, ‘There is no sincerer love than the love of food.’

Stand-up comedy is a very hard thing on the spirit. There are people who transcend it, but in its essence, it’s soul destroying. It tends to turn people into control freaks. Film director Mike Nichols.

At the outset, let me make it abundantly clear that I have nothing against stand-up comics. They are probably fine human beings, kind to animals and take great care of their aging parents. Always assuming their parents are old enough to need taking care of. It is just that I am not particularly enamoured of the idea of a man or a woman standing up (ergo stand-up) on a podium and cracking jokes to an intimate audience at the speed of lightning while their fans crack up with uncontrolled mirth at every single utterance of the performer on stage. Jerry Seinfeld was among the early entrants to this form of amusing people, but I greatly preferred his sit-coms in the brilliant company of his partners in crime – Elaine Benes, Cosmo Kramer and George Costanza. Seinfeld must have had good reason to drop the stand-up routine at the start of each episode after a couple of seasons and move straight into the storyline for subsequent versions. A wise move.

Stand-up comedy originated from the English music halls and American burlesque traditions. It has flourished in America though American comedy, by and large, leaves me somewhat cold barring exceptions like Seinfeld or Bob Hope and Buster Keaton from an earlier vintage. The British tended to look askance at stand-up as a genre but the virus has affected the ‘scepter’d isle’ as well. Witness Ricky Gervais, whose stand-up routines seem forced, often offensive and unfunny as compared to his brilliant portrayal of the bumbling, pretentious David Brent in the television series, The Office. The Brits perfected the art of self-deprecating, understated humour and satire. No one comes close to it. As John Cleese of Fawlty Towers fame said, ‘A wonderful thing about true laughter is that it just destroys any kind of system of dividing people.’

The stand-up craze has now caught on in India; big time. Young couples and their friends find nothing more entertaining and elevating than to take in our budding stand-up stars rattling off their own version of satire and low-brow humour, across languages, while they roll in the aisles, delirious tears cascading down their cheeks. In our metropolitan cities in particular, youngsters find nothing more entertaining to pass a late evening hour than to listen to someone regale them with Modi put-downs and Rahul mimicry. You may well ask who the heck do I think I am being superciliously patronising about gifted young people who are doing nothing less (or more) than spreading sweetness and light while all around us we are surrounded by gloom and doom. Good point. Slap on the wrist accepted. Each to his own. If stand-up is your thing, go for it. So long as you allow me to have the freedom to express why I am not a fan of the art form, if one can so describe it. If I am raising hackles, put it down to collateral damage.

A wag once said, ‘Stand up comics say funny things. Great comedians who interact with others on stage or film, say things funny.’ It’s a subtle difference. The operative word here is interact. There is a situation that is created in a play where the audience is primed to anticipate the actor’s response and when the punch line is delivered, the appreciative laughter is instinctive. Hence situation comedy or sit-com. I am not suggesting that comic sequences in films and plays cannot fall flat. Of course they can, but between the script, the director and the actors, when everything gels together, you are the fortunate soul in the audience who will break into a broad smile, and not necessarily roar with guffaws. A stand-up comedian is expected to come up with a punch line every time he opens his mouth. After a point, the strain begins to show; on the performer as well as his audience.

In Indian movies, a comic actor is nearly always a comic actor. Period. Labelled for life. The great Mehmood’s only job in Hindi films was to get film goers to laugh. It hardly mattered what he said or what antics he got up to. From the moment he first staggers on to the screen, the urge to laugh is already embedded into our psyche. Likewise, the irrepressible Nagesh in Tamil films. On rare occasions, the comedian was required to descend into bathos. A bad idea, unless your name was Charlie Chaplin who mastered the art of bathos (The Kid, Limelight). In order to make us laugh, we want our comedians to laugh, not cry. If they must cry, the situation must demand that the lachrymose comedian must get us to laugh our guts out. A good example of this is to be found in vintage Laurel and Hardy films. Laurel is the one who, every now and then, breaks into tears over some disaster or the other. However, the said disaster was intended to be funny and Laurel’s plight leading to tears even more so. No amount of description can convey this unless you actually watch a Laurel and Hardy film and see the former blubbing while the audience roared with laughter.

The extraordinary reception that stand-up comedy has received in India is evidenced by the fact that Amazon Prime Video gave us a series named Comicstaan, which pitted young, upcoming stand-ups in competition against each other. I hear it did pretty well, running for three seasons before Amazon decided to call a halt. Perhaps it was too much of a good thing. Perhaps they have just taken a long break before hitting us with Season 4. The original Hindi version was later followed by a Tamil version, which was also a riot by all accounts. In fact, Tamil stand-ups like Alexander Babu and Bosskey are household names in Tamil Nadu and the folks from down south simply cannot get enough of them. Even our esteemed friend Shashi Tharoor tried it. Once. If you ask me , he is better off doing gravitas.

Given all the facts I have recounted, what is my beef with stand-up comedy and why am I given to perversely boasting that I have never been to a stand-up performance? An inversion of inverted snobbery? Fair’s fair, in order to write this piece, I did watch a few of the stand-up stars on YouTube. Just to see what makes them tick. A couple of valid reasons come to mind. The old, slapstick, slipping-on-a-banana-peel type of comedy has ceased to enthral our younger generation. Not that it holds much appeal for the older generation either. Stand-up is relatively fresh and has an obvious attraction. Smaller audiences gather in intimate venues and the comedian appears to be speaking directly to you. The subjects chosen to tickle your ribs are invariably relevant and topical. All good. The moot point is will it sustain or is it just an ephemeral shooting star? A passing phase. Will our youngsters twenty or thirty years from now still be enjoying stand-up comedy or will they have moved on to something else, attention spans being limited by the confined 6.5” screen of a smartphone? My point being this; when I first watched Fawlty Towers, I was in my late 20s. And I am still enjoying it in my 70s. There is a timeless quality to it and similar productions from that era. One must reserve judgement.

The thing about comedy is contained in the aphorism, ‘different strokes for different folks.’ What is good for the goose is not necessarily good for the gander. If you boil it right down to its bare essentials, I think it has something to do with age. In fact, it has everything to do with age. When I watched those video snippets of Comicstaan, I could not even summon a smile. My bad. ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’ Which just about sums it up. As I said at the top of this piece, I have no grouse against stand-ups. Just not my cup of tea. If I am giving it the thumbs down, it is nothing personal. Meanwhile, I offer a peace pipe. Go well, my young stand-ups. If you can make people laugh even for a moment, you are doing a great service to humanity, which has all but forgotten how to laugh. One caveat, do not try to seek me out in the audience. I shan’t be there.

Now then, where is my well-thumbed copy of Uncle Fred in the Springtime?

Member of Parliament Shashi Tharoor, he of the silver tongue, is very much in the news these days for all kinds of reasons. Mostly positive, unless you belong to his Congress Party who at best, are being ambivalent about him and at worst, are deeply suspicious about their star parliamentarian from Kerala and are keeping him strictly at arm’s length. His party bosses don’t quite know what to make of him, and they are not taking very kindly to his singing hosannas to the ruling dispensation, read the BJP and the country’s Prime Minister and, of course, our defence forces for the way the recent conflict with Pakistan has been handled. This is being viewed as the ‘unkindest cut of all,’ tantamount to sleeping with the enemy. To be clear, his praising our doughty men (and women) in uniform is kosher. It’s the others that rankle. To make matters worse, for the Congress Party that is, Tharoor is leading one of many delegations fanning out across the world to present India’s side of the story and to put right the canards that our neighbours across the western border have been so mendaciously spreading about Bharat. The umbrage taken by the Congress in Tharoor’s selection is primarily to do with the fact that the former poster boy is not the party’s first choice. Nor second, nor third. He is not even in the frame. Anyhow, Tharoor and his colleagues have reached foreign shores and their eloquent presentation of India’s case is there for all to see. Just go to YouTube and you can watch it for yourself as Tharoor’s dulcet tones and silken prose floor his audience.

This is where I move on to the nub of my narrative as hinted by the title of the piece. Shashi Tharoor happens to be good looking, subjective as that description is. It is a plus that has greatly added value to his other undeniable assets. While I am in no position to corroborate the general view that women swoon over him, it will come as no surprise if that was the case. However, if indeed I harboured any misgivings on that score, somebody recently put out a short video clip on social media of a press conference (no idea when and where) which left no one in any doubt. A lady of Oriental origins (I have no means of ascertaining which country from the Orient she hails from as the film was devoid of any informative caption) stood up to ask our Shashi a question. Only, in the guise of a question it was more of a gushing, blushing, over-the-moon young correspondent who could not stop wondering how her hero could be so good looking and at the same time so brilliant, so eloquent and so…well, she was so overcome she was almost lost for words. Thankfully, Shashi did not blush (or did he?), put his good looks down to his genes (‘Choose your parents wisely’) which drew laughter and applause. He attributed his oratorical skills to reading, hard work and constant practice which comes through addressing and interacting with live audiences. As opposed to admiring one’s debating prowess in front of a mirror. I am paraphrasing but that was the sum and substance of his response. Consummately handled, as you would expect from a former diplomat and a distinguished parliamentarian. I have seen Tharoor standing his ground against the likes of the late, magnificent polemicist Christopher Hitchens, and that is saying something.

Dear reader, if I have dwelt at length on Mr. Tharoor, it was only to make a larger point, and his being on our front pages and television screens in recent times was merely a logical opening to the subject. The moot point is, what has looks got to do with anything. If that sentence has not been punctuated with a mark of interrogation, it is only because I deem it to be a rhetorical question. This is where I leave Shashi Tharoor to happily wallow in his rarefied world of fandom and move on to other parallels.

Some years ago, my wife and I happened to be holidaying in the United Kingdom and we were staying in a quiet, pretty village in Somerset with an English couple who were very dear to us. While we scoured the bucolic scenes and historic ruins (how the English love their ruins) of the village surrounds during the day, evenings were spent chatting in front of a crackling fireplace and, at times, watching television. On one occasion, we were treated to a lively, civilised debate involving a couple of intellectuals on the subject of, and I am extrapolating from memory, ‘Does God exist?’ or something similar. One of the speakers was a lady who, let us face it, would not have won a beauty competition, not for all the tea in China. Alright, let me not be coy, mince words and hide behind British understatements. The lady was decidedly plain by any conventional yardstick – the archetypal Plain Jane. But here is the twist in the tale. She was an outstanding speaker, full of brilliant aphorisms, quoting Shakespeare, Chaucer and Blake at will and slipping in the occasional ironic put-down at one of her fellow panellists. At the end of it all, she won the debate hands down and was the undisputed ‘belle of the ball.’ Fair play to her, we agreed. Watching it on the telly at home, we were bowled over. Her looks did not even enter our minds. Until my English friend, in typical tongue-in-cheek fashion piped up with, ‘She’s not just a pretty face, you know.’ As the poet Keats, while waxing eloquent about an urn from Greece had it, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’

Banter aside, here is where I come from. You can look like a handsome prince and yet be a total blockhead and nobody will give you a second glance. Come to think of it, are all princes handsome? William, Harry, Charles before he became King? The royals of Windsor were not particularly known for being dishy. Are they intelligent? Many, like the aforementioned Christopher Hitchens found that question eminently debatable. Think about it. Take Tom Cruise for instance. He is not a prince but he is good looking if somewhat vertically challenged. Blonde, brown or black hair depending on the role he essays, chiselled features, beguiling smile, kills six villains with just his fists of fury, kills six women with just a look and a smile, the man has it all. A latter-day James Bond. But do we really know if the man has brains? He memorises from a script or with the aid of a prompter and many of his daredevil stunts are done by stuntmen though he swears blind he does it all himself. Tell that to the marines, say I.

The moot point is, can the all-conquering Tom Cruise explain Pythagoras’ theorem? Is he familiar with Bach’s Goldberg Variations? Can he unravel the mysteries of the universe? Maybe. Maybe not. Take him out of his celluloid or digital comfort zone and he is no Jack Reacher or Jerry Maguire. He will no more be capable of taking on Mission: Impossible – all the 8 versions – than Bruce Lee can karate chop an entire villainous kingdom out of existence. And he is no more Top Gun than you or me. Mind you, I am not suggesting that Tom Cruise has no brains in real life. I am merely speculating that we do not know and therefore should not be taken in just by his looks. If I do come across the man, a highly unlikely prospect, I shall quiz him on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. If he rattles off the answer, I shall fall at his feet and apologise unconditionally. And probably beg for mercy. Till then, I shall hold my horses. In any case, I have no means of knowing if he was right or wrong as I know nix about Einstein’s T of R.

All of which brings me right back to where I started from. India’s mellifluously loquacious and enviably articulate Shashi Tharoor, a man of many parts (author of several notable tomes) with a distinct penchant for the mot juste, who will not bat an eyelid when it comes to using ten words where two might suffice, who has been satirised to death for his verbosity by all and sundry, including by himself but in the final analysis, is much loved and respected amongst a vast majority of Indians and foreigners across all age groups. Clearly the Prime Minister and his closest advisors saw fit to rope him in to ‘speak the speech trippingly on the tongue’ to international audiences in a way that they will understand us better and, hopefully, put Pakistan’s ridiculous, and largely successful, propaganda to shame. A task that has thus far proved beyond the capabilities of Mr. Modi’s current crop of spokespersons. Shashi Tharoor is handsome. Let us not hold that against him. After all, handsome is as handsome does. And the man is doing plenty while displaying admirable party-agnosticism. And to those not sitting in the treasury benches that find his being pitchforked into this exalted level by a ruling government distasteful, all I can say is, ‘eat your hearts out.’ As I close, I am reminded of the words of the world-famous classical violinist Niccolò Paganini who said, ‘I am not handsome, but when women hear me play, they come crawling to my feet.’

People want to be told what to do so badly that they’ll listen to anyone. Don Draper from the American television serial, Mad Men.

It will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that the advertising and marketing loonies who inhabit the internet space on our smart phones and elsewhere, most gallingly and annoyingly on the former, have formally pronounced me an almost gone-case diabetic. Not that I am one of course, but simply because my HbA1c reading on my latest blood test revealed a 6.1 score. How my mobile internet got wind of my medical report is a mystery for the ages. More of that anon. Now any confirmed hypochondriac and his doctor (if he or she has taken the Hippocratic oath), will tell you that a 6.1 reading is properly classified as ‘pre-diabetic,’ a mild warning shot across the bows to go easy on the sugar and carbs, the alarm bells firmly kept on hold. Which means you still have some distance to cover before starting to ostentatiously turn away from chocolate pastries and sinful jalebies and laddoos.

As my GP, as sound a medical practitioner as ever said ‘Take a deep breath and stick your tongue out’ told me, ‘Consume sweets in moderation by all means, but do not gorge on them. And walk briskly for half-an-hour every day.’ A medico after my own heart I felt, as I treated myself to a sugar doughnut layered with frosted icing from the hospital’s franchised café, washed down with a rich chocolate milk shake. If that is not moderate, I don’t know what is. The girl at the delivery counter gave me a conspiratorial smile as if to say, ‘6.1 is fine Sir, just don’t ask for seconds.’ She doesn’t know the half of it, unlike my Samsung smart phone.

Now here’s the thing. As soon as I got into the car and opened my mobile phone, the first thing that greeted me on Google was an advert for an ayurvedic concoction that would take care of all my diabetic troubles. Not that I had any. Troubles, I mean. The message was supported by a short video featuring several individuals, men and women wearing tee-shirts with HbA1c 5.6 emblazoned on them, who have tried this treatment and are now wolfing down all manner of sweetmeats without a care in the world. While it is not for me to pass judgement on the wisdom or otherwise of these ‘patients’ tucking into whatever noxious substances they were tucking into, my larger concern had to do with how my mobile phone sussed out my pre-diabetic findings and targeted me for their precisely aimed BrahMos missiles. It is uncanny. You just have to say something to someone. Next thing you know, your mobile internet has got you down pat. Big brother is not just watching you, he is sitting on your left shoulder, ears pricked up. You complain of stomach ache, and you are greeted with a slew of ads and snippets on gut management. All ending with some form of medication that will solve your problems in the equatorial belt, as one of my school masters was fond of describing your midriff. Watch those bowels move!

Orthopaedics is another favourite on the internet. Make an innocuous inquiry of the best ‘bone doctor’ in the city and you will promptly receive several recommendations and on occasion, some unsolicited calls as well. ‘We do knee replacements, Sir. We also specialise in keyhole surgery. You have medical insurance?’ While you’re about it, why not have a go at the hips as well, you are tempted to ask. However, the telling blow is the mind-boggling array of messages from makers of orthopaedic equipment – exercise bikes, knee guards, myriad unguents for pain relief and much, much more. You can even liberally spray yourself with a magnesium aerosol and sleep like a baby. And if you are male and above the age of 60, you are spoilt for choice from several brands promising relief from prostate problems. ‘No more waking up at night, no fear of surgery, prostate size shrinkage guaranteed, hundreds of satisfied users testify to the efficacy of this magic potion.’ I could have sworn I heard Bob Dylan’s Watch the River Flow in the background, but that could just be my fevered imagination. The prostate-promise extends to a couple of other issues which cannot be discussed in a family blog such as this. Which is a silly thing for me to say given that the ad on your mobile, not conspicuous for its reticence, does not hold back on anything. Then again, one has one’s inhibitions.

Then there is the challenge of coming to grips with one’s eating choices. It is all very well to go around saying philosophically, ‘I am what I eat,’ but when one section of experts is of the opinion that anything one loves to eat is either illegal, immoral or fattening, then we are faced with an existential dilemma. In principle, I don’t have an issue with brands that advertise their succulent offerings on my mobile with no lofty pretence of lowering my calories or making wild promises of getting me fighting fit for the next Olympics. What they promise is not illegal or immoral but almost certainly fattening. Their sole appeal is to your taste buds. I can take them or leave them. The choice and its consequences, deleterious or otherwise, is mine and mine alone. The late, lamented journalistic pundit Bernard Levin, who wrote relentlessly and coruscatingly for The Times of London, had this to say on the subject. ‘The essence of a free society is that the citizens should examine such evidence as they think useful and appropriate, even if it comes from a source the Foodies think unreliable, and then make up their minds. But I reject the claim that some people have the right to make up the minds of others.’

Which brings me to the utter confusion that surrounds me when I come across many of the health fad ads for what kind of fruit, vegetable or meat I should eat or not eat. ‘Perplexed in the extreme,’ as Othello was wont to put it. One dietician will visually demonstrate to you with the aid of frightening graphics that potatoes and grapes will lead you to an early grave. The following day, probably aided and abetted by the Potato & Grape Growers Union, a 95-year-old man (I have to believe the blurb), looking fit as a fiddle and holding a tennis racket, addresses you while you stare at your hand-held instrument disbelievingly, ‘I have been eating potatoes since I was born and I can still play a 5-setter without breaking sweat. Bring on Carlos Alcaraz. Carrots? I feed them to my rabbits.’ The same insane contradiction applies to bananas, papayas and watermelons. Rich in vitamins and fibre. One day they are great, the next they are killers. And that old chestnut – egg white is good for you; egg yolk is bad. Say that the other way round and you will still be right! To be on the safe side, they will tell you to eat any of these comestibles in moderation, which is repeated immoderately. White rice, red rice, millets, take your pick. The millet-wallahs have gone one step ahead of the others. They roped in our Prime Minister to attest to the enormous health benefits one can accrue by substituting rice with millets. That pretty much seals the deal. For the record, I tried millets recently. They pair well with dal or sambar. As to its claimed health virtues, the jury is still out, notwithstanding the PM’s testimonial.

Cornflakes is great for Kellogg’s but bad for you, according to some self-appointed experts. Oats is great for you and for Quaker but bad for Kellogg’s, if it eats into their market share. And let us not forget the ‘sugar-free daddies.’ Biscuits, cream crackers, chocolates and ice-creams come with a sugar-free variant. Beware of the label ‘No added sugar.’ It hides more than it reveals. Tea, coffee and all manner of fruit juices should be had with sugar-free tablets or powder. To make confusion confounded, we are also helpfully advised that fruits are better consumed whole than in juice form, as the latter is divested of all healthful fibre content. As for sugar-free options, they do not taste like natural sugar as promised (there’s an unpleasant after-taste) and some doctors even go to the extent of warning you that certain types of sugar-free additives can trigger other ailments. With so much contradictory advice bombarding you over the smart phone, it may be wiser to just follow your own dictates without obsessing over it. Your body will tell you what is good and not good for you. As celebrated, yesteryear English radio and television comedian Tony Hancock said so unctuously in his most famous episode The Blood Donor, ‘You look after your body, and your body will look after you.’

That takes care of the homo sapiens. Finally, let us spare a thought for our dumb chums. Our Rovers, Lassies, Bingos, Totos, Paddys, Rajas and Ranis need their daily nourishment and looking after. Just once, just this once, key in ‘Dog Food’ on your Google Search and see what happens. An avalanche, that’s what happens. Every available brand of dog food will vie for your custom – Royal Canin, Pedigree, Eukanuba and Kibbles n’ Bits. Not forgetting grooming tips, collars and leashes, and how best to look after your loving pooch in sickness and in health will demand your attention whenever you open your mobile. And in between, a vet will appear on your smart screen and speak to you about anti-rabies, parvovirus and distemper injections and similar while a cute Golden Retriever will be climbing all over him. You will wonder why you ever listened to your 5-year-old daughter when she cried, ‘Daddy, I want a puppy. Like my friend Disha’s got.’ But does Disha take her Frisky out walkies, clean up after her when she does her poo-poo on your expensive hand-knotted rug or give her a nice bathy-bath? Not a chance! Incidentally, in case cat-fanciers are miffed about why I have left out the feline of the species, it’s nothing personal. Cats can look after themselves. They lick themselves clean and there’s always a few rodents and other creepy-crawlies to keep their hunger sated. A saucer of milk won’t go amiss, though.

At the end of the day, let us be realistic. You are not going to chuck your mobile phone into the trash can and you are not going to stop hunting for things on the internet. Therefore, you will be inundated with ad messages. Après moi, le deluge. Learn to live with it. If you can’t beat them, join them. One of the finest crime fiction novelists of our times, Dorothy Sayers, started her career in advertising in the 1920s as a copywriter and is widely credited with coining the phrase, ‘It pays to advertise.’ She also said, ‘Very dangerous things, theories.’ Had she been alive today in our social media era, she would have plumped for the latter pronouncement. With knobs on.

Raise your hand those of you who have never received a crank call on their mobile phones or, come to that, their landline phones. Any takers? Nope, I do not see a single hand going up and neither did I expect to see one. Those amongst you below the age of consent who are not aware of what a landline phone is, please consult you parents or anyone you know who is above the age of 50. Getting back to crank calls, they assail you in a variety of different ways. We are gradually getting accustomed to the sinister, fake ‘digital arrest’ calls about which we read in our broadsheets every other day. By now we are pretty much aware of how to deal with such calls and I shan’t delve further into the subject. If you are still innocent of the dangers involved in engaging with the fake caller, on your head be it. The same applies to friendly voices over the air waves who are keen to divest you of all your hard-earned cash by promises of untold riches in the shortest possible time. As a trial and to establish credibility, Rs. 3000/- is all you need to transfer to a specified bank account. Within three days you will receive a credit of Rs.6000/-. And the 6k does indeed arrive on queue. 6k grows to 12k and you are over the moon. Little knowing. You have been sucked into their odious web. Another get-rich-quick scheme hits the bullseye. ‘There’s a sucker born every minute,’ said P.T. Barnum. Don’t whine later that you were not warned.

As I have had my fill of telephonic criminality, I am confining this piece to the more gentle, accidental ‘wrong numbers’ which often give rise to amusement and anger at the same time. Here is a good example of something that happened to me only a few weeks ago. I dialled a wrong number on my mobile instead of another number I had not yet saved. Must have got one of the digits mixed up. I am all thumbs on my mobile. I thought I was calling my car service company. Instead, there followed what can only be described as an entertaining snatch of a not entirely unpleasant conversation. I opened the proceedings.

‘Hello, who am I speaking to?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Nobody? Is that your first name or surname?’

‘Haha. Very funny. Are you a stand-up? You called me, so you had better identify yourself first.’

‘Isn’t this the Prime Auto Service Garage?’

‘What if it is?’

‘If it is, I would like to speak to the service representative, Ronny, who is in charge of my car which is being serviced. I was promised an estimate for the work being done.’

‘Ah, but this is not the Prime whatever garage and I am not Ronny. However, if you are looking for some prime property on the outskirts of Bangalore, I am your man.’

‘Look, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place instead of wasting my time?’

‘Sorry about that. Just having a bit of fun. I do that whenever someone calls me by mistake. Today it was prime property, tomorrow I could be selling health insurance and the day after, if the mood takes me, I become the floor manager of the city’s largest retail mart for consumer durables. You know, smart TVs, refrigerators, kitchen appliances and so on.’

‘Yes, I know what consumer durables are, thank you very much. Now, if you’ve had your share of fun and games, I should be disconnecting. One last question. If you are none of those things you might be pretending to be, and you are not Ronny as well, what or who in fact are you?’

‘Just a 25-year-old educated, unemployed youth, hoping to hit the jackpot with someone like you who might be impressed by my clever ploy. And as you might have guessed by now, I have a nice line in repartee.’

‘What a big mouth you have!’

‘Said Little Red Riding Hood to Grandmother Wolf, if I know my fairy tales. Written by the Brothers Grimm, it’s a grim cautionary tale, as the Big, Bad Wolf literally makes a meal out of LRRH. And wolfs down her human grandmother as well for dessert. Why the Grimm siblings thought this nightmare-inducing stuff was fit for children to read at bedtime beats the hell out of me.’

‘How well read you are! And just 25 years old. How many nursery rhymes do you know? Tell you what, despite your smartass methods, you have struck a sympathetic chord. Now that you have my number, send me your bio-data by WhatsApp. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘And your name and occupation, Sir?’

‘That’s better. A bit of respect. My name? Charles Perrault should suffice for the time being.’

‘How much?’

‘Exactly. Not so clever after all, are we? Why don’t you Google him? On second thoughts, I will put you out of your misery. He is the other bloke who wrote Little Red Riding Hood with which literary masterpiece you appear to be so familiar.’

‘How come two people ended up writing the same story and both took credit for it? Didn’t they have copyright laws? Weird.’

‘In point of fact, they were both more or less the same story, only with a slightly different “moral of the story” ending. It is a bit odd, I agree. Why don’t you download them on Kindle for your bedtime read?’

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I am only half way through Jack and the Beanstalk. And thanks for reminding me. I have to learn Three Blind Mice and Little Jack Horner by heart by tomorrow morning. Or my teacher miss will be very cross. I will consider your offer and revert soonest.’ Too clever by half, with a penchant for sarcasm as well.

Anyhow, the line went dead. Pity. I was just starting to get into the swing of things. I would like to leave you, dear reader, with one more example of a colourful telephone call. I hark back to the early 70s when I was a management trainee in an advertising agency in Calcutta. The previous story, while based loosely on a true incident, was heavily embroidered by me to make it more engaging to read. This one is far closer to the truth in most respects. Those were the days of landline telephony and it had already gained dinosaur status in the City of Joy. Frequent disconnections and cross connections were the order of the day, but we soldiered on. Just untangling those frayed, corded cables was a job in itself. It was one such occasion when I was having a serious telecon over the crackling wires with an important client and this happened.

 Brand Manager (Vikram) – ‘When can I expect to see the final artwork of the press ad for our new brand of radial car tyres? It’s long overdue and we barely have a week before the launch. Your media chaps have already booked front page solus positions in all the mainline dailies and I cannot wait any longer. The boss is frothing at the mouth. No more iterations, please.’

Me – ‘We are almost done Vikram. Just giving finishing touches to the body copy. You and your boss are going to love it. Just give me till…’

(At this point a third voice, no right to be there, intervenes).

Third voice (an unknown female) – ‘Ooh, I would love to see some bawdy copy. Shall we set up a date?’

Vikram – ‘Hullo, hullo, who is this? I was speaking with Suresh. Are you from the agency?’

Me – ‘It’s a cross connection, Vikram. Bloody Calcutta telephones. Lady, will you kindly get off the line? We are discussing important issues.’

Unknown female – ‘And what’s all this about artworks? Are you holding an art exhibition? I could meet you there, if you tell me where and at what time?’

Me – ‘Meet whom? Me or Vikram?’

Unknown female – ‘Interesting question. Why not meet both of you? You have nice voices. A ménage à trois?’

Me – ‘Vikram, I am disconnecting now and making a police report. They won’t understand French, but I’ll take my chances.’

As I was disconnecting, I just about caught the mystery lady’s fading words. Something about being a wet blanket. Before she could say she will be wearing a yellow sari with a red scarf round her neck and standing outside Flury’s on Park Street at 6 pm sharp, whistling Roses are Red my Love, the line went dead. There is a tailpiece to this story. My client Vikram called me back a few minutes later sounding very cross. I thought it was about that delayed artwork again.

Me – ‘Listen Vikram, I told you I will come round in a jiffy and present the finished artwork.’

Vikram – ‘Forget the perishing artwork. Can you get that lady on the line again?’

I couldn’t even begin to fathom the salacious motives my client Vikram might have harboured in wishing to reconnect with our intrusive and anonymous femme fatale. What aroused my curiosity was her linguistic sophistication. Anyone, purely on the strength of aural waves, who can convert ‘body copy’ into ‘bawdy copy’ and casually throw in a French phrase like ménage à trois must possess a level of erudition that goes beyond the humdrum nuisance value of an attention seeker. However, wiser counsel prevailed and I did not pursue the matter any further, much to Vikram’s disappointment. There is a limit to how far an ad agency executive will go to please his client. If you ask me, the lady just happened accidentally to join this cross talk. And decided to take the mickey out of us. C’est la vie! Those were the heady days my friend, we thought they’d never end.

Postscript: The more observant amongst you might well be wondering how I figured out, on a phone conversation, that the lady meant ‘bawdy copy’ and not ‘body copy.’ It’s just the way she said it. And the pretentious ‘ménage à trois’ put the lid on it.