I am often asked, sometimes asked, somebody asked me once – why I do not write more often in leading newspapers and other online publications. The operative phrase here is ‘more often,’ meaning thereby that I have contributed to newspapers and online sites, but infrequently. There are several reasons for this and rather than list them out in a prosaic manner, the following correspondence / exchanges, which are representative samples of my interactions with editors and sub-editors of varying hues, will better enable the reader to understand my predicament in this regard. To those of you who may not have sampled my light-hearted offerings before, let me state that I go for gentle satire and humour such that I steer clear of being hauled off to court for libel or defamation. That has never stopped well-meaning friends from cautioning me to be careful as Big Brother might be watching me. I am aware that George Orwell had his beef with Big Brother (ref: 1984), but I let him pass me by as the idle wind. Big Brother that is, not George Orwell.

As and when the creative juices flow and the spirits soar, I decide to make bold and dash off a column or two to the powers-that-be in the print media in the fond hope that said columns will see the light of day, as the broadsheets reel off those giant offset machines at the crack of dawn. In fairness, I must state that I have had sporadic success in this regard, but they have been few and far between. Which is a very good reason why I fall back on my own blog site when all else fails. Let us now look at some of these friendly exchanges, shall we?

To the Editor of a leading newspaper.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am attaching a humorous piece on ‘Politicians I would love to have lunch with,’ for favour of publication in your esteemed daily. Your early response will be appreciated.

Yours sincerely.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

Thank you for sending us your article. We regret this piece cannot be carried as there are references to living politicians which are not complimentary and could be taken amiss. Thank you for showing an interest in our publication.

Yours regretfully.

Dear Sir / Madam,

Perhaps I could attempt a flattering column on dead politicians? Would that be more in line with your paper’s policy?

Yours sincerely.

The correspondence ended abruptly here as I received no reply.

To the Sub-editor of a leading newspaper.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am pleased to submit a 1200-word article, in humorous vein, the subject headlined ‘Are we being fleeced by our doctors?’ I am sure you will find it worthy of publication.

Yours sincerely.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

We hold the medical profession in the highest esteem and it is not our policy to publish material, humorous or otherwise, that could show our doctors in poor light. We wish you well.

Faithfully yours.

Dear Sir / Madam,

It is clear to me that your medical bills are being taken care of by your company. Otherwise, you would be laughing on the other side of your face.

Yours disappointedly.

To the Editor of a leading newspaper.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am attaching a satirical piece on ‘Politicians I would love to have breakfast with,’ for favour of publication in your reputed daily. Your early response will be appreciated.

Yours sincerely.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

We have been through this before. Simply by changing the meeting with politicians from lunch to breakfast will not cut much ice. What do you take us for? We would request you to refrain from suggesting dinner or tea with politicians next time round as no response will be forthcoming.

Yours irritably.

To the Sub-editor of the Opinion page of a leading newspaper.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am keen to make my debut in the Opinion page of your admired paper by contributing a piece on the subject titled ‘Are Carnatic and Hindustani classical music strictly comparable?’ A 1500-word piece is attached for favour of publication.

Yours in anticipation.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

We accord the privilege of contributing to our Opinion pages only to a limited number of empanelled writers. As such we are sorry, we cannot accommodate your contribution. Thank you for writing in.

Yours etc.

Dear Sir / Madam,

Did you even read my piece? And what does it take to become an empanelled writer? What does that mean anyway? At the risk of being rejected outright in the future, I must say this clearly smacks of a ‘cosy club’ culture. May I remind you that London’s Decca record label rejected The Beatles in 1962 and have been eating their hearts out ever since.

Yours in high dudgeon.

Naturally, the scent on that trail went irrevocably cold.

To the Sub-editor of a leading newspaper.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am delighted to submit a laugh-out-loud 1200-word piece on the subject of ‘Laughter is the best medicine,’ an appreciative nod to a column of the same name that adorned the much loved, now virtually defunct, family magazine, ‘Reader’s Digest.’ I trust you will find it worthy of publication. Kindly let me have your assent.

Yours in hope.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

We admire your persistence and feel you should be given an opportunity to have your piece carried in our paper. However, we do not have room for 1200 words. If you can edit the article down to around 500 words, we might be in business.

Best wishes.

Dear Sir / Madam,

While I am overjoyed at your first-time positive response, I can’t help feeling that it is but a false dawn. I was quite proficient at précis writing in school, but to redact 700 words from the original version is tantamount to, if you will pardon a cricketing analogy, asking a team to score 75 runs in three balls to win the game. No way José, is my answer. Thanks for nothing. Do you pay your contributors by the word? Just asking.

Yours very miffed.

Lest you get the wrong impression, dear reader, there have been a couple of editors who have shown great faith in my efforts and taken in my articles unquestioningly, but I can count them on the end of two fingers. For the most part, it has been an uphill struggle. However, the wooden spoon should go to one national daily where our exchange of words went like so.

To the Editor of a leading national daily.

Dear Sir / Madam,

I have published several books of my blogs and columns and these have been well received. I am sending you a copy for you to get an idea of my oeuvre. Can I interest you in considering a fortnightly regular column, the sort of stuff Art Buchwald was celebrated for? If I am not being presumptuous?

Awaiting your positive response.

Dear Mr. Subrahmanyan,

You are being presumptuous. Art Buchwald, indeed! We already have a columnist who contributes a humorous piece every week. Regret we are therefore unable to consider your ambitious suggestion which will be surplus to requirements. Thank you for the book, which promises to be most engaging. If our present humour columnist should, for any reason withdraw from his assignment or be gored by a bull, we shall certainly approach you.

We wish you only the very best.

Dear Sir / Madam,

Thank you for your prompt response. I have no ill will towards your current humour columnist and should he cross paths with a raging bull, I am sure he will have the presence of mind and adroitness to avoid a fatal collision which you, rather tastelessly, seem to foresee. I wish the present incumbent a long life and many more witty columns. I also note that you accepted the gift of my book with alacrity. That said, why you cannot entertain more than one writer to provide some light relief to your readers ‘is a riddle wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in an enigma,’ to quote Sir Winston Churchill.

Yours mystified.

As I conclude this circumlocutory rant, I hasten to add that there are no sour grapes involved. Once in a rare while, when my article has been carried by the newspaper, my emotions have been mixed. Happy that the blessed thing went into print. Mortified that the piece had been hacked beyond recognition, apostrophes unilaterally and generously scattered about in places where none should exist, paragraphs merged or excised to meet space requirements and more such disasters. I put this down to some junior, wet-behind-the-ears sub whose command of the English language can be gauged by watching some breathless, young reporter on our television news channels who cannot distinguish between ‘few’ and ‘a few.’ His / her grasp of the language is clearly ‘very less.’

All said and done, I am happy with penning my own blogs. At least the responsibility for errors will be down to me, and me alone. As that peerless wit Oscar Wilde put it, ‘Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.’

                               

So that’s the telephone? They ring, and you run. Edgar Degas.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but over the past few months I have been receiving some strange calls on my mobile phone. I would not classify them as crank calls exactly, but apparently the aim is to fool you into believing that someone in authority has something incriminating on you and unless you acquiesce in some way or the other, you could find yourself in extremely hot water; a crude attempt at blackmail. As to what you are expected to do to steer clear of the looming threat is a closed book because I cut the line within 10 seconds of the call coming through, if not sooner. My mobile service company usually tries to be helpful on these occasions but their efforts are futile. Oftentimes, when my phone rings and a ‘Suspected Spam’ flashes across the screen, I disconnect immediately. Such, however, is not always the case. When the call displays just a set of digits, one knows it is not from your contact list, but you still respond in case it is something important from a source whose number you had not saved or its provenance unknown. It is on such occasions that the conversation takes an unsavoury and confrontational turn. I responded to one such call just the other day.

‘Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Subrahmanyan?’ inquires the caller.

‘Yes, you are. Who is this?’

‘I am calling from Customs at the Bangalore Airport. A parcel has just arrived in your name from Cuba, your address and mobile number clearly marked, and we have reasons to believe the package contains contraband material.’

‘What, just because it arrived from Cuba? Could have been a box of Montecristo cigars, though I don’t smoke and was not expecting its arrival. Anyhow, what is the sender’s name?’ I was peeved and curious.

‘There is no sender’s name mentioned on the parcel, which is very suspicious. We would request you to come to the Customs office at the Airport and discuss the matter with us.’

‘Look, my dear old Customs official, I am not expecting any parcel from Cuba. I know no one in that country. At least, not after Castro died. I have no intention of responding to your request to travel for over two hours to come to the airport. I am reporting this matter to the police. Kindly text me your name and designation in Customs, which will help both of us get to the bottom of this mystery.’ The line went dead. I tried calling that number a few times and a recorded voice informed me that ‘this number does not exist.’

Then there was that unpleasant call from someone claiming to be from the Vigilance Cell of the Mumbai police.

‘Is this the mobile number of Mr. Subrahmanyan?’

‘Yes, it is. What can I do you for?’

‘We are calling from the Vigilance Cell of the Mumbai Police.’

‘And a very good morning to you too. Do we have a name, Mr. Vigilance Cell?’ I was at my acerbic best, but my sarcasm went over the caller’s head. He got quite shirty.

‘My name is not important. You have been making obscene calls to several ladies in Mumbai who have registered their complaints with us. You are to report to our Malabar Hill station within 24 hours.’

‘Listen carefully, my vigilant friend. I live in Bangalore and you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of my taking a flight to Mumbai. I would like to know your name and ID proof, names of the ladies who have made this ridiculous complaint and at least one recording of this mythical, obscene call. Merely the sound of heavy breathing will not do. And if I do not receive the requested information within 24 hours, I shall be making a very obscene call to you and turn into a vigilante myself. Am I getting through to you?’

Clearly, I was not getting through as the line suffered a sudden cardiac arrest and breathed its last. I tried calling the number and, once more, received the helpful recorded message that the number did not exist. I was advised to block such numbers, but these charlatans are canny. They keep calling from different numbers, the sods. In more ways than one, they had my number.

As if all this was not nuisance enough to distract me from my attempting to unravel P.D. James’ supreme prose while solving a murder mystery, which alone is enough to put anyone off one’s equilibrium, there are the courier service chaps who will call you to reconfirm your address and phone number because they are holding a parcel from FedEx in my name.

‘So why don’t you just deliver it to me like every other two-bit courier does, ringing my door bell and ruining my afternoon nap? Why do you need to reconfirm my address and phone number? You have just called me on this number and I am he whose name supposedly features on the parcel.’

‘You could have misplaced your phone Sir, and we could be talking to someone else and not Mr. Seetharaman.’

‘But I am not Mr. Seetharaman.’

‘Then who are you, Sir?’

‘That is for me to know and for you to find out. Why should I reveal my identity if that blasted parcel is intended for a Mr. Seetharaman, whoever he is. Maybe he fancies Cuban cigars.’ Finally, I was starting to enjoy this exchange.

‘Then how is your mobile number featured on the address? Gotcha.’ He sounded like the chap whose Bishop had just dealt a death blow to my Queen and was about to say ‘Checkmate.’

‘Search me.’ Go and ask the mobile service company and I am sure they will give you short shrift. If you fellows cannot distinguish two similar sounding but entirely different names, then that is your problem. There, I have even given you a hint as to what my name might be. Have the time of your life and next time I hear from you, I am calling the cops. Capiche?’ I cut him off before he could ask me what ‘capiche’ meant.

It has always been a matter of wonderment to me as to what these guys get out of making these crazy calls with misleading messages. I cannot see any reasonably educated person falling for these telephonic tricks. If you know for certain that you are not expecting a parcel from Cuba, you will certainly not respond and the ‘threat’ vanishes. There could be an element of blackmail if you had ordered sex toys and were embarrassed to admit it, though no crime is involved. Or so I am told. I read about something like this recently in my daily newspaper where a small-town teenager had placed an order for an inflatable, life-sized doll from Bangkok which got our officialdom most interested, leaving the pimply, pubescent adolescent red-faced. I think the cops get off on cases like this.

There is always a downside to this problem involving fake calls. What if the call was genuine? An executive from a mutual fund house called to tell me that a largish sum in a particular equity fund was about to expire and what would I like to do with it. As I had forgotten all about it, I assumed this was another one of those fraudulent calls and I was quite rude to the fund manager. When he explained himself curtly, I had to hurriedly proffer my apologies. After all, this was real money. Not an inflatable doll.

The newspapers inform us regularly that strenuous efforts are being made to catch these culprits and many of them are cooling their heels behind bars. However, the calls keep coming and old people are getting gypped of their hard-earned savings. I am considering changing my mobile number. Not that that is going to help. The cyber crooks are always one step ahead of the game. Worse luck.

A number of films or television serials these days open with a black screen sternly informing the viewer in bold, reverse type that ‘Smoking is injurious to health.’ That is old hat of course, and we have been seeing that health warning or its variants on cigarette packs – ‘Smoking causes cancer’ – visually aided by skull and crossbones, for several decades now. Nobody pays a blind bit of notice for various reasons. The thing of it is, there are not too many people smoking these days, though I could be contradicted on that point by some market research wag representing the interests of the tobacco lobby. Smokers at international airports are treated like outcasts and provided with a separate glass cabin where they all gather in the haze and smoke their lungs out, coughing and sputtering the while. Smoking inside the aircraft, of course, is a strict no-no, and if you are nabbed sneaking a drag inside the loo, you could be thrown out in mid-flight. Without a parachute.

 As for the pernicious habit having declined worldwide, I am speaking more for myself and those I run into on a regular basis. And as I am on the subject of films, the first thing you notice as soon as the film or episode commences, is the hero fishing out a fag from his soft pack and taking a deep, contemplative drag. Who remembers ‘You’re never alone with a Strand’ – a classic 1950s British cigarette commercial? Which kind of puts the kibosh on the preceding health warning premise. That is perfectly fine from the storyline’s point of view. One is not expecting the hero, or the bad guy for that matter, to be overly consumed by potential health hazards.  It is all to do with style.

Can you imagine Casablanca without Humphrey Bogart and a cigarette dangling from his lips throughout the film? For those of you reading this who are too young to have heard of Casablanca or Humphrey Bogart, you could do worse than get on to Google search. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ became a tagline for the ages, on par with Gone with the Wind hero Rhett Butler’s ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ Staying with the Bogart reference, there is a saying (and a song) Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend (featured in the soundtrack of the 1969 counterculture classic Easy Rider), meaning don’t keep the weed dangling. Pass it round. Needless to add, the joint referred to contains substances far more potent than your normal, everyday cigarette. Once your name, in this case Humphrey Bogart’s, goes into legend and song, there is nothing more to be said.

This raises an interesting question. Why do purveyors of tele-cinematic entertainment confine themselves to tobacco when it comes to warning us of dire health consequences? Truth to tell, it is the government’s film censor board that insists on the warning being displayed at the outset, not the producers themselves. The point I am making is, I don’t come across the scolding strap line with regard to drinking. Are we to conclude that it is perfectly kosher with the authorities if we watch our blotto heroes drink like fish? I am not aware of the drinking habits of our Piscean friends and I am convinced these underwater vertebrates are being needlessly dragged into the subject of alcoholism. It is bad enough that we grill, boil and fry them for our gastronomic delectation. Should we also set them up as a benchmark for human intemperance?

When it comes to Indian popular films courtesy of Bollywood, Tollywood and others, a sozzled hero is almost a sine qua non for a lovelorn, lugubrious song sequence. So many memorable Indian film songs have been composed and screened featuring the protagonist staggering around clutching a bottle of VAT 69 firmly in his hands. It’s always VAT 69. Contrary to what I said earlier, I am informed that some Indian films do warn the viewer of the evils of drinking at the bottom of the screen whenever the actors shout ‘Cheers’ and raise a glass or three. However, I have not encountered this warning on drinking, so I will keep my counsel. Or perhaps I should watch more Indian films.

Taking this argument further, crime movies and murder mysteries revel in criminal acts of varying kinds. That is precisely why the genre is so dubbed. That said, I have yet to witness a film sequence where, just as the killer shoots down his victim, knifes him in the gut, poisons his cup of tea or strangles and gags him to death, a warning line flashes across the screen letting us know that committing murder is a crime, injurious to the health of the victim and can attract capital punishment for the perpetrator. If any of you reading this has seen anything on our screens approximating to these typographic legends, do let me know giving details of the film and where I can access the same.

What price, Gluttony? Listed among the Bible’s Seven Deadly Sins, there are any number of films which feature our bulimic movie stars gorging themselves on meat and drink and all manner of other comestibles till they are sick to the stomach. At least, the viewer is filled with nausea. Is this not a fit sequence to let the audience know that eating too much is not just extremely bad for health, but a sin to boot? The religious angle is always rife with possibilities. The poet Dante, in his seminal work Inferno, dealt unspeakably harshly with those found guilty of Gluttony. He was not too kind with those guilty of the remaining six deadly sins either – Pride, Greed, Wrath, Lust, Envy and Sloth. Dante was like that. A morose individual, he loved getting into gory and graphic details of how sinners of every hue received their comeuppance. Just imagine. If all those sins were to be highlighted in bold type every time they were committed on screen, we will not be able to follow the storyline from start to finish. I experience that problem with subtitles as well, but I have to live with them if I am watching an award-winning Italian or Japanese film.

I guess what I am questioning is the relevance of warning the public on the ills of smoking or drinking in cinema halls and on our television screens, when there is no evidence to suggest that the audience is carefully considering the admonishing, wagging finger and taking remedial action. My point is further underscored when we are treated to surrogate adverts singing the praises of Kingfisher soda water, Royal Challenger sports drinks, Wills casual wear, not to mention the stunning, Absolut series of advertisements. All these brands trigger their original, ‘mother’ brands purveying liquor or tobacco. What do they take us for? Chopped liver?

In conclusion, I can only say that the wool is constantly being pulled over our eyes. And we know it. So, my fervent appeal to the powers-that-be is that they should stop frequently interrupting our enjoyment of visual entertainment by asinine comments about the ills of smoking, plumb spang in the middle of a sequence in which the smoking hero is about to say something priceless. Like who choked to death the attractive typist with her nylon stockings? If push comes to shove, let them (at their expense) do a 30-second commercial showing a doctor taking us through our decaying lungs or calcified intestinal tract due to smoking or mindless eating. This can be screened along with other commercials like eateries, life insurance, potato chips, automobiles and so on. That’s fair dinkum, as the Aussies love saying. I’ll leave you with this thought. When did you last see an arty black and white photograph of the genius film maker Satyajit Ray without a cigarette between his fingers or his lips?

I rest my case.

By the time you read this, the entire country will be agog with what the exit polls are saying with regard to the likely winners and losers of India’s mega general elections, the final results of which will be declared a couple of days later on June 4. This, after waiting for six insanely long weeks of polling. In my personal view, these exit polls are nothing more than a thinly-veiled excuse for our television news channels to draw in as many viewers as possible, and give the chattering classes something to pump fists and exercise their palms with endless high fives, depending on which party you are supporting. Not forgetting all the elbow bending involved in downing all manner of alcoholic beverages to celebrate possible victory or drown one’s sorrows at the prospect of crushing defeat. Those not so inclined towards wild revelry, will visit temples, mosques and churches to pay obeisance to their respective divinities to ensure favourable outcomes. In exceptional cases, top political leaders will themselves be anointed with divine status. There is a well-known Tamil saying, Thoonilum iruppar, thurumbilum iruppar, which loosely translates as God can be found in pillars and in the dust. Which, in the present context can also mean He can be spotted for a darshan (you should be so lucky) in 7 Lok Kalyan Marg née 7 Race Course Road in New Delhi.

Let me hasten to add that as these are only speculative exit polls, their accuracy factor, going by past records, could be anybody’s guess. Now that the IPL is behind us, welcome to the election entertainment. Lest I forget, let us not lose sight of all the advertising moolah that the channels rake in during these programmes. Speaking for myself, I would much rather wait for the actual results on June 4 that should effectively put me out of my misery. Then again, I tell a lie. I will be one of the millions of couch potatoes, glued to my set, taking vicarious pleasure watching all the garrulous and often hare-brained talking heads going at each other with a vengeance. Without exception, every news channel will claim credit for having read the tea leaves accurately.

That opening salvo is, in point of fact, a bit of a red herring. I have no intention of talking about the elections. I am fed up to the back teeth watching Rajdeep, Rahul (both of them, not counting the Gandhi variant), Arnab, Navika, Zaka et al, having a ball with politicians and psephologists, all of which serve only to muddy the waters. Then you have the YouTube gang with Karan, Barkha, Sreenivasan and others doing their bit to provide an alternative truth. If one channel decides to buttonhole self-appointed political analyst and potentially, the future Chief Minister of Bihar (reading between the lines) Prashant Kishore, then every single channel must jump on the bandwagon and interview PK. Who, in turn, says pretty much the same thing to all the channels, looking very smug and self-assured the while. A description that sits equally well on psephologist turned political pundit, Yogendra Yadav, who speaks in perpetual slow motion which appears to lend verisimilitude to his studied utterances.

Now look what I have gone and done. I have expended in excess of 500 words talking about a subject I do not wish to talk about! That is how insidious this subject is, but now I am going to change the topic. And that is to contemplate on the issue of why our television honchos latch on to one subject, critical as it may seem, and keep jabbering on about it for the next few days breathlessly. Take this underage fat cat boy in Pune, who had too much to drink, took his millionaire dad’s flash Porsche for a spin. Pressed on the accelerator, did not take his foot off the pedal and mowed down two young souls and sent them on their way to kingdom come.

 If that was not horrific enough, we had to listen to the whole cover-up attempt, how the delinquent was offered pizza and burger by the solicitous cops, how his dad was brought in for questioning, how even his grandfather tried to make their driver take the rap, how the doctors colluded with his mother in obfuscating blood reports – one excruciating detail after another. Now, far be it from me to suggest that this was not a deadly (pun intended) serious news item, but to dwell on it day in and day out, as if nothing else is happening in the world, is gross. A clear case of misplaced priorities. One of the anchors even conducted a serious interrogation with Pune’s chief of police. Was it his place to do so? Who can tell?

Just when we thought we were over the Pune fiasco another accident, this time in Uttar Pradesh, takes two more young lives on a two-wheeler. A prominent MP, Brij Bhushan Singh (who himself has been under a cloud for alleged misdemeanours with India’s women wrestlers) must now wrestle with the problem of how an SUV, part of his son’s cavalcade, careened off the roads leading to the tragedy. Whether the MP’s son Karan, a BJP candidate who stood for elections in place of his father, was in the convoy or not, is unclear. In the time-honoured fashion, he is sticking to stout denial. The case is ongoing, and the television channels are beside themselves.

Ditto the disastrous fires in a Rajkot gaming zone and a Delhi hospital resulting in the deaths of many, including children and new-born babies. They must be reported exhaustively but again, the media ought to do their bit, seek a modicum of balance and allow the law to take its own course. Whither sense of proportion? Withered, that’s what. Keep us posted, by all means, but must we be subjected 24 x7 to shrieky teenage correspondents, accompanied by a frenetic cameraman, breathlessly taking us through the minutiae of these incidents, hour upon hour, without any fresh insights to add? They call it a media trial. God knows it is extremely trying on the viewer. And as we have often witnessed before, after a few days, these cases disappear completely from our screens and we are back to Kejriwal and Maliwal. What is more, the alleged multiple rapist Prajwal Revanna, who had gone rogue, has just returned from his hideaway in Munich and walked straight into the loving arms of a posse of policemen and members of the Special Investigating Team. I can already see our television newshounds, dogging his footsteps from the Kempegowda International Airport all the way to his abode of confinement, hoping for an unintelligible and unintelligent sound bite.

Inevitably and contrarily, I change horses in mid-stream and get back to our elections. As we draw closer to the exit polls and the final results hove into view, our friends in the media will forget all about road rage and burning hospitals. Instead, there will be plenty of fire and brimstone with self-appointed experts crying themselves hoarse over the unfolding results, minute by painful minute. We have seen it all before.

For myself, I would much rather switch to the French Open, armed with a bag of popcorn or crisps and a tall glass of the frothy nectar, watching the artistry of Alcaraz, Sinner, Zverev and Djokovic. Not to mention Swiatek, Sabalenka, Rybakina and Gauff. And I shall blub into my beer at the ineffable sadness of Nadal’s first round exit. Finally, if Rajdeep Sardesai and Arnab Goswami come down with a severe streptococcal infection and are unable to speak on the idiot box, that would be perfectly fine with me.

You know your driving is really terrible when your GPS says, ‘After 200 metres, stop and let me out!’

Up until about five years ago, I had employed a permanent driver. As I was fully involved in my marketing consultancy assignments, driving long distances to my clients’ offices in Bangalore under impossible traffic conditions was a given. And let us not even talk about parking problems. Under the circumstances, employing a driver was money well spent, both for the sake of convenience and peace of mind. Once I decided to retire altogether from my consultancy business, my driver was clearly surplus to requirements. However, I kept him on because my wife and I felt sorry for him, though our call for his services was minimal. Putting him out to grass would have meant he would have had to look for another job in these straitened times. The problem was taken out of my hands when, most tragically, he was involved in a horrific two-wheeler accident from which he did not survive.

Shocking as that incident was, that is not the primary aim of this week’s ruminations. My late driver, being reasonably adept at using his mobile phone and the ubiquitous Global Positioning System (GPS) to guide him to unknown destinations, I never really bothered to familiarise myself with this crucial aspect of my hand-held companion. Now that I have once again started steering the wheel, for the most part over reasonable distances (one can always hire a driver these days for one-off long journeys), I had to learn to use my mobile phone loaded with the GPS app, while a female voice with an American, British or Korean accent would guide me through the ins and outs of the city. That said, my confidence was still at a low ebb. ‘Even a ten-year old child can handle a GPS,’ scolded some of my friends.

That was just the point, you see. Ten-year olds, why, even five-year olds have no issues with a mobile phone. Two thumbs are all they need and the mobile phone is their oyster. Whoever said ‘He is all thumbs’ to denote clumsiness, clearly made that observation long before the advent of the mobile phone. Speaking of which, I am strictly a one forefinger man when it comes to tapping the keys on my mobile. Takes more time but better safe than sorry, autocorrect notwithstanding. I tried the two thumbs approach, which the youth of today overwhelmingly favour, and a simple sentence on WhatsApp such as ‘Where should we meet for lunch?’ turned up as ‘wwwwhhrree shoooos wwiiii mmeeaatt ffurr hhuunge?’ Before you ask, of course I pressed the ‘send’ key without checking the text first. Cardinal sin.

Let me get back to my driving with the aid of the indispensable GPS. As I draft this blog, my familiarity with GPS has considerably improved though practice has yet to make it perfect. As a broad guide to things to be wary of while taking the audio help of your foreign guide through the tiny and tinny speakers of your mobile phone, here is my list of the metaphorical potholes you might encounter.

1. If you are approaching a T-junction, when you must needs be told whether to turn left or right, the garrulous Korean / American / English girl will go all quiet. Thus far she has been yapping away non-stop with gems like, ‘In 200 metres, turn left at 17^th cross after Rajinikanth Tailors.’ I cannot do the pronunciation as this is a written piece, but it is good for a laugh. You then take matters into your own hands at the blasted T-junction, do a quick eeny, meeny, minie, moe and turn left. No sooner have you done that than your disembodied instructor springs to life. ‘You are proceeding away from your destination. Take a U-turn to get back on track.’ Thank you very much!
2. ‘There is a diversion 120 metres ahead. Take the road turning slightly to the right and not the road turning slightly to the left.’ By the time I reach the diversion point, amidst all the traffic snarls ahead, behind and on both sides of my vehicle, I have no idea which option is slightly to the left and which is slightly to the right. As I am stuck in a godawful jam, I take a quick peek at the moving map on my mobile. It shows 37 minutes to my destination. Only the map is moving, not my car. They have a sense of black humour, these GPS wallahs.
3. ‘In 50 metres, at the traffic signal, take the service road slightly to the left of the main road to reach your destination.’ Now she tells me, when I am moving at a snail’s pace to the far right of the main road. In order to navigate towards the left, I have to cut across several vehicles. No can do. I drive on straight past the green lights. At which point, the voice tells me in chiding tones (at least that is my imagination working overtime) that I have passed my destination and will need to look for the first turn-off 120 metres ahead and get back towards the service road. Only this time I should veer slightly towards the right. It is always slightly this or slightly that. Don’t ask me why.
4. Finally, those magic words, ‘You have reached your destination.’ At which point, I stop the car, craning my neck this way and that, attempting to locate my destination. With cars parked on both sides, bumper to bumper, I am sweating profusely. At last, relief. My friend, whose new home and hearth I am visiting for the first time, darts out of his gate 20 metres further on, waving frantically for me to drive on and park in front of his gate. I bark at my mobile, ‘What do you mean I have reached my destination, you dumbkoff? It is still 20 metres ahead.’ To quote a famous Beatles song, No Reply.

It is entirely possible that most of you reading this are having yourselves a quiet chuckle in the full knowledge and confidence of your own competence with tech gizmos. I am still learning – very slowly, as you would have gathered. I am fully alive to the fact that the advantages we derive from the many features (GPS for one) our mobile phones offer, are greatly to be thankful for. However, one must ask the critical question. Why can’t GPS systems in India record with Indian voices? Multi-lingual options can be provided. As a nation that provides tech support for organizations all over the world, this should be a cinch. Whenever you reverse your car, if it happens to be one of the newer models, invariably a shrieky, Oriental voice would ring out, ‘This car is backing out, this car is backing out.’ And it will not stop till you shift your gears back to neutral or forward. Enough to put your foot on the accelerator instead of the brakes and nearly run over somebody’s pet cat. English is fine, but with an unaccented Indian twang is what I am seeking. If Hindi is your chosen lingo, just opt for it on your mobile and you can enjoy the dulcet tones of Hema Malini to keep you company. The legendary actor even has a Tamilian tinge to her Hindi. That is two tongues for the price of one. Think about it, car makers. We live in an AI age. Surely, what I am seeking should be chicken feed for all you nerds out there.

Postscript: As I am putting this piece to bed, this morning’s papers tell me that a group of tourists driving around near Kottayam in Kerala, drove their car straight into a river, following the dictates of their car navigation app. The good news is nobody died, enabling us to see the funny side of it, though the unfortunate travelers would have been laughing out of the other side of their mouths. Did they not hear a foreign voice from their app shrieking, ‘You are driving into a river, you are driving into a river. Turn back, turn back.’?

I marvel at people who, at the drop of a hat, shoot off letters to all and sundry. For the most part, these are addressed to folks they do not know from Adam. Or for that matter, Abdul or Shiva. One has to be ever so mindful. People are so prickly and thin-skinned. ‘What do you mean, Adam? What Adam? Which Adam?’ See what I mean? These inveterate letter-writers, may their tribe increase, are not very fussy about who they are writing to. As long as they can spit on their hands and get two or three missives posted or emailed every day, their work is done. There are not too many of them around these days, I grant you, but they are there – those that lick and stick stamps and slide the envelope into a mail box, if you can find one. Chances are you will spot them sitting in some dark corner of their apartments, tapping away at their laptops. The rarities are those who write with an ink-filled fountain pen or even a ball-point. And please do not ask me why I should not consider the millions who send rude bullet points on X or Facebook. Anyone who sends messages where punctuations and capital letters count for nothing, count for nothing. At least, in my book.

I have come across people who will think nothing of writing letters to the Prime Minister, the leader of the opposition, the Governor of the Reserve Bank of India, members of the judiciary, the President of the BCCI, the President of one’s Resident Welfare Association, newspaper editors et al. If you suffer from a bad case of the letter-writing itch, you can spend a whole year writing to all sorts of people. And start all over again.

Before computers and the internet entered our lives, I used to enjoy writing letters. Never a day passed when I did not have to thoroughly soap my hands to get the ink stains off my fingers before sitting down to a meal. I ate with my hands. Unless I was breakfasting on toast and a fried egg or omelette, in which case cutlery was de rigueur. All that is in the distant past – the writing by hand, not the eating. So much so that even my signature has turned all spidery, leading to complaints from my bank manager. ‘We are holding back your cheque for clearing until confirmation is received on your signature.’

Reflecting on all this, I felt the urge to sit down and dash off letters to whoever took my fancy. Whether they read it or not was of little concern to me. It is the existential act of writing that consumed me. I write, therefore I am. With these noble thoughts in mind, I got down to it. Just to a few select individuals who would receive the benefit of my pearls of wisdom. In fact, I am sharing these priceless gems even before the recipients have seen them. Just to see which way the wind is blowing. With these few words….

Dear Prime Minister,

Your Home Minister has declared that the BJP has already secured a majority with voting having been completed in just 380 of the total 543 seats. That means 272 seats are already in the bag for the NDA. I salute you as you will ascend the throne for the third term running. With 163 seats still to be counted, you are well on your way to crossing that magical 400 seat mark, that is so dear to your heart. You have also gone on record as saying that the blueprint for action during the first 100 days of your government’s third tenure is ready and waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting public. You have also talked about accepting invitations from the world’s heads of state to visit their nations after the 4^th of June. Not to forget your presence at the next G 7 Summit in Brazil. And of special significance to small time investors like me, your prediction that the stock markets will go through the roof once you are crowned, brings great comfort.

Here’s hoping Sir, notwithstanding your certitude, that your chickens have already been hatched before you started counting them.

With best wishes.

Dear Leader of the INDI Alliance,

I am not quite sure who you are, but it could be anyone from the motley baker’s dozen that constitutes your alliance. Perhaps this missive should be circulated to all the distinguished leaders of each of your constituent parties. The common man is thrilled to bits that your analysts have declared victory, hands down, to the Alliance as D-Day draws near. In fact, as per your incisive studies, the ruling dispensation will be lucky if they cross even 150 to 200 seats, never mind 400. That will learn them, as the Americans love saying. Your strategy of not naming the likely Prime Minister, till you are sworn in, has served you well. You can be freely sworn at in your respective states till such time as you sweep the polls and declare, ‘Victory is Mine. Or Ours.’

I wish you well. And if, by any strange chance, things do not quite go your way, you can always ask for a recount in all the states (barring those states where you have won). Not to mention cribbing about the perfidious EVMs (barring ditto previous parenthetical sentence).

May Lady Luck be with you.

Dear Chief Minister, New Delhi,

Sorry to disturb you when you are taking a much-needed break from jail time. Just a few questions. Were you at home at the time? If so, did you hear any screaming and shouting or were you in a sound-proof room with your television set turned on full blast? Were there not a retinue of domestic staff like cooks, plumbers, electricians and sweepers in residence who came and reported the disturbance to you? If so, why did you not come rushing out of your sound-proof room to check what the ruckus was all about? And what was your security detail up to? What about your good wife? Was she also watching the 10^th replay of the PM’s interview on one of the many channels in that sound-proof room? Finally, for additional protection, do you also employ a beefy chap who is an expert on karate and kick-boxing? Questions, questions. Some answers would be most welcome.

Yours in anticipation.

Dear Swati Madam,

Your original description of the beating you took at your CM’s residence, in lieu of being offered a cup of tea, was shocking. A person of your stature! You should have been black and blue all over. However, the official medical report describes bruises on your ‘proximal left leg,’ (whatever that is) and on your right cheek. Bruised, but not battered. This is perplexing given your horrific description of the alleged mayhem. Perhaps other internal injuries will surface later. Not to speak of the mental wounds not visible to the naked eye. Whichever way you look at it, your distress was more than apparent on camera, as you limped off towards your vehicle after your medical test. To top it all, your party colleagues are now alleging that you might be a spy. Not quite a Mata Hari, but still. Hell’s bells!

Yours in deep sympathy.

Dear Mahendra Singh Dhoni,

You are the most admired and adored Mahi Bhai. We know you are of a retiring nature, never wishing to be in the limelight. So, when are you going to retire from your beloved CSK franchise? Your millions of hero-worshipping fans would rather you did not answer that question. Who knows, your muscle tear will heal in a few weeks and you can start training again for the 2025 season, and this time, please, go higher up in the batting order.

Our Thalaiva for ever.

Dear President, Resident Welfare Association,

You promised the water flowing out of our taps will not be greyish in a week’s time. You were right. The water is now a deep brown. When will the next colour change take place? The suspense is killing me. Do tell.

Yours ironically.

Dear Governor of the RBI,

One day you are raising interest. Next day you are reducing interest. From day to day, we do not know what you are up to. My local, nationalised bank points helplessly to you if I complain. And what have oil prices got to do with the price of fish? It is not good enough.

Yours in utter confusion.

Dear Judges of the Supreme Court,

Why was Carbolic Smoke Ball found guilty of reneging on their promise in the famous case of Carlill vs Carbolic Smoke Ball? My teacher, who took law class in college was never able to satisfactorily explain the establishment of contract law. Once your lordships have sorted out all the high-profile cases that you are presently seized of, kindly enlighten me. I need a good night’s sleep.

Respectfully and reverentially.

Postscript to my letter to Swati Madam. For now, apply Burnol to the affected part of that proximal left leg whatsit. If things don’t improve, go for an MRI. Might reveal something more sinister to strengthen your case. The cheek will take care of itself.

Get well soon.

Almost seven decades ago, 68 years to be precise, the wondrous Harry Belafonte, now sadly no longer with us, released a melodious, calypso-tinged song called Brown Skin Girl (stay home and mind baby). We teenagers at the time had no clue that this was a song that lyrically satirised and obliquely commented on American soldiers who landed in Jamaica and other islands in the Caribbean (ostensibly to protect the local yokels from a fate worse than death). Only, as they have routinely done in various parts of the world, the Yanks left the islands leaving a bevy of (mostly) blue-eyed babies, who will never know their fathers. The sordid import of those lyrics we only learnt much later. The song itself was catchy and hummable, and along with many other such songs like The Banana Boat Song, Harry Belafonte became a party favourite all over the world. A quick warning. If, upon reading this, you happen to search Brown Skin Girl on the internet, you will get something unlistenable (my personal view) by Beyonce with some rappers called Blue Ivy, Wizkid and SAINt JHN (sic). Avoid at all costs. Be sure to key in Harry Belafonte after or before the song title. Finding something of good taste involves a hard search – needle in a haystack.

Now what made me think of Belafonte and Brown Skin Girl, you are doubtless wondering. No prizes for guessing. A gentleman by the name of Sam Pitroda, till recently friend, philosopher and guide to the Congress Party of India and in particular, Uncle Sam to the Gandhi clan (count from Rajiv Gandhi downwards), decided to shoot his mouth off on the racial diversity of India – not in a very clever or avuncular way. So far, so bad. Pitroda’s defence, if he had one, was that he was celebrating the diversity that is Bharat that is India. Nice try, Sir. To be fair to the man, not that I am in any mood to be, he may have been taken somewhat out of context, though there were not many takers for that school of thought.

Which is hardly surprising. Mr. Pitroda went about it so ham-handedly that he has now been ostracized, officially declared an outcast and forced to resign from his role as Chairman of the Indian Overseas Congress. I was not even aware that such a body existed. Try these on for size as the man extends himself in a Joycean, stream of consciousness vein. Likening people from the East of India to the Chinese (broody herr!), denizens from the South to Africans (Crikey! / Ayyayyo!), those from the North to the whites (really? Caucasian?) and pretty much the rest of the country to the Arabs (enough to give you the sheikhs). All this purely on the basis of skin tone. Clearly, Pitroda’s mouth started operating on fifth gear while his brain was still cranking up to second gear. He was gassing away on the fly. Result? A potential political disaster for the Congress just when they were beginning to gain some traction leading up to the final stages of India’s general election. At this time, they needed Pitroda’s gaffe like a hole in the head. Before I go on in this vein, let us acknowledge that Sam Pitroda it was, who led the telecom revolution in India during the early 90s. You can’t take that away from him, though that does not give him the licence to start racially equating Indians with Chinese, Africans, Arabs and Whites.

While the Congress Party wasted no time, to their credit, in distancing themselves from Pitroda’s blooper, the BJP went gleefully on overdrive to take full advantage of what was clearly viewed as an unpardonable solecism on the opposition’s (read Sam Pitroda’s) part. It is election time, after all, and the BJP minions were in no mood to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Prime Minister, as is his wont, thundered on about how cross he was at this gross insult to India’s people. Speaking for himself, he would not have minded barbs being directed at him as he is quite accustomed to it. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,’ he seemed to be saying. However, he drew the line at this tasteless slur on his beloved countrymen, women and children.

Quite right, too. He demanded an apology from the Congress apparatchik over this racial brick dropped by Sam the Sudden, but thus far no apology has been forthcoming. Surely, his banishment from the party should be apology enough? Other leaders from the BJP wasted little time in hurling vituperation at their opponents. In for a penny, in for a pound. My favourite sound byte came from Assam’s feisty Chief Minister, Himanta Biswa Sarma who said, ‘After I heard Sam Pitroda’s statement, I looked at myself in the mirror and I appear as a proud Assamese and Indian, not as a Chinese… this is a racist comment.’ It is noteworthy that the CM of Assam needed to stand in front of his dressing room mirror to ensure he is in no way, shape or form a man of Chinese origin. Must have come as a huge relief to him. Still and all, better safe than sorry, I suppose.

Is anyone feeling sorry for this Pitroda chap? He has obviously jetted off to some distant island in the West Indies to reflect on his faux pas and to nurse his wounds amongst the blue sea and silvery sands. With plenty of coconut water to wash down the fried onion bhajjis. Yes, you can get them in those islands. I am guessing Sam is a vegetarian, given his Gujarati background.  All that is just speculation on my part. For all I know, he could still be in touch with ‘the family’ sending priceless advice by code. He is a techie, after all. Who knows? Strange name, Pitroda. Never met anyone else with that moniker. As I suggested earlier, I am told his antecedents come from Gujarat, the land of THE Gandhi, that is the Mahatma, and, of course, our Prime Minister, THE Modi. There’s a dollop of irony for you. Whether Pitroda’s forbears can be traced back even further to Africa or China is anybody’s guess. As all of us humans have descended from primates, I do believe Pitroda’s critics might be going a mite over the top, but then, that is politics, baby. God knows, he fired the first salvo. Unwisely. Now he has no option but to face the music.

Since Sam started all this colour coding business, I have been struck by one anomaly pertaining to his head and facial hirsuteness. Why is his head of hair a mixture of grey and white, while his goatee beard is unfailingly jet black? Bears thinking about. While how he wishes to look when he confronts his mirror is entirely his business, I would strongly advise him to dye it all black, or leave the external grey follicles to their own, natural devices. Seeing as the grey matter inside his head is being severely challenged, given his recent pronouncements, that may be his best course of action. I am not sure if Sam Pitroda is familiar with the works of the late Frank Sinatra, aka, ‘Ol’ Blue Eyes. If he is, he might reflect ruefully on the lyrics of this hit song, Something Stupid, which Frank duetted with his daughter, Nancy.  I practice every day / To find some clever lines to say / To make the meaning come true / And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like……

Dear reader, you can paraphrase the last words of the incomplete line, as the fancy takes you. Just make sure it rhymes.

Ever since I can recall, I have never been much of a political person. For the purposes of this essay, I am not talking about petty office politics (the proverbial gossip at the water cooler) or even more petty family politics, but the national political scene – the biggie. With elections well and truly upon us, what else could it be? For myself, I lean neither to the left, nor to the right. My school motto was ‘On Straight On!’ which explains my somewhat ambivalent position on the issue of taking a political stance. I believe the proper term to describe such an individual is apolitical. Which reads like a spelling error, but there it is. The naysayers might characterise such a stance as akin to one ‘sitting on the fence.’

That is all very well, but in this day and age, and given my age, it becomes very hard to sit quietly in mixed company, sipping my fruit cocktail and declare that I am not in the least bit interested in politics. Fifty years ago, I could have done that with impunity. Congress, BJP? Who dat?  An indifferent shrug of the shoulders, while I whistle Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head in a distracted manner. Right now, I should be so lucky! With the raindrops, I mean. Rain man, where are you? To get back to the subject on hand, I was not an uninterested animal when it came to politics, more disinterested, if you get my meaning. I could not have cared less, one way or the other. I was not ideologically driven. Make of that what you will.

All that has changed. It matters not a whit who you are spending an idle hour with these days. Your own kith and kin, close friends, strangers whom you may have just run into while waiting for your flight to be announced – you simply have to mind your political Ps and Qs. I was recently embroiled in one such situation, when I ran into an old acquaintance from my university days. While I cannot claim that we were bosom pals, we certainly belonged to a group that nursed pretensions towards the finer aspects of art, literature and music.

This person, of whom I speak, was one of those who invariably saw himself as something distinctly apart from the rest of us. Bit of an effete snob, a pain in the nether regions, but truth to tell, that was the case with most of us at college. A clear case of the pot calling the kettle black. Ostentatiously displaying J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums, these rubbing shoulders with our armful of text and exercise books. Humming Don McLean’s American Pie to casually impress the girls. The ubiquitous packet of Charms (or something even more mood-enhancing) being passed around the while.

Still and all, we were good friends, frequently seen to be plucking the gowans fine, to draw on an ancient aphorism. I did warn you that we were a sickeningly pretentious lot. For the record, I understand the expression has P.G. Wodehouse’s imprimatur and no one else has laid claims to it. Do I hear you ask, ‘What does it mean, plucking the gowans fine?’ I shan’t spoon feed you. Look it up, like I did. Putting all that to one side, this character from the dim mists of time started chatting with me, and our conversation went roughly along the following lines. Being sensitive to his feelings, I shall employ a nom de plume and call him Montu, a name not calculated to raise exalted visions of a litterateur, but Bengalis (I grew up in Calcutta) loved names like that. Pintu would have done equally well. Not being a natural-born Bengali I, perforce, will be referred to in the first-person singular. No name, no pack drill.

‘I say Montu, my old friend, how’s tricks? All going well?’ Seeing as I had not met him in years, I thought the hail-fellow-well-met approach would hit just the right spot. ‘Flying to Calcutta?’

‘My dear fellow, we are both sitting at the same gate awaiting the boarding call to Calcutta. Where else would I be flying to? I should be grateful you didn’t ask me that after the plane took off.’

I guess I asked for that. ‘Montu at your sardonic best, I see. Just making conversation. Something to break the ice. Anyhow, it’s been ages since we last bumped into each other. What are you up to these days? Last I heard, you were heading up the HR function at ITC or Shaw Wallace or some such, weren’t you?’

‘If you must know, it was Metal Box. They called us boxwallahs for a reason. In fact, pardon my showing off, Nobel Laureate V.S. Naipaul made reference to “the boxwallah culture of Calcutta” in one of his novels. All that is so much water under the bridge. We are both retired from corporate service. I remember you in Dunlop putting out all those clever advertisements. At least you seemed to be having a bit of fun. In HR, all we ever did was figuring out ways to sack staff.’

‘Oh come, come, surely it was not all that dreary. I know it was impossible to sack unionised labour, particularly in red-flagged Calcutta those days, but managerial staff was fair game, were they not? And there were all those bright, young lady secretaries to brighten up your day.’

‘As was the case in your company as well, but things started to change as you know. What with advanced computers and rapid changes in technology, the office secretaries were rendered hors de combat. An endangered, if not extinct, species.’

We then went on to chat a bit about how we missed the Calcutta club culture, decadent as it was, but the hooch was cheap. I had just taken the conversation to a higher plane with casual references to Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Ingmar Bergman, Jean-Luc Goddard, Miloš Forman and others of that ilk. Just then the ‘higher plane’ took a nose dive as our own flight to the City of Joy was announced. As we got up to join the queue to the bus, I put it to Montu that we could quaff a beer at The Saturday Club at a time of mutual convenience. ‘For old times’ sake?’ I added for good measure. ‘I don’t think so,’ was Montu’s lugubrious response. ‘I have had my fill of Calcutta’s musty clubs. The rats are feasting on the carpets. Trying to recapture the past is a mug’s game. If it’s all the same to you, I shall give it a miss.’ So saying, he wandered off towards the jam-packed bus that would ferry us to the plane. A sad, forlorn figure.

I decided to let Montu board well ahead of me and hoped we were not seated within coughing distance of each other in the aircraft. A pity, because I was about to engage him in a bit of political chinwag. You know, stuff like how is our old friend, quizmaster extraordinaire -turned feisty politician Derek O’Brien getting along with Mamata Di? A far cry from the days when we worked closely with him at sponsored quiz programmes at The Dalhousie Institute Club. All that will have to wait for another day. Or perhaps, another echo from the hoary past that was Calcutta née Kolkata- a Jiltu, a Khokhon or even a Bapi. I had given up the ghost on Montu. At least in those days, we fought over film directors, cricketers, authors and musicians. We did not care two hoots which party ruled the country or the state. Why the indifference? Elementary, my dear you-know-who. My father, who art in heaven, paid for everything and petrol retailed at a rupee a litre. We were young, impressionable idealists, dreaming of Oxbridge and Harvard, who could afford to give politics and politicians the good, old heave-ho.

Dear reader, if you heard a deep, nostalgic sigh, that was me.

I have a question that has stayed with me for more years than I care to remember. Why is it that whenever a politician, industrialist, film star or some other big wig is taken into custody by the long arm of the law, the arrested individual invariably sports a triumphant smile for the cameras? Not to forget the thumbs up signal for the world to witness and conclude that they are completely innocent, pure as the driven snow. It is as if the alleged criminal has just won the biggest lottery of his life or been declared winner at the general elections from his constituency. In a sense, they are both more-or-less the same thing. By which I mean that politics is a lottery, and by recent accounts, those who run lotteries are inextricably linked with political parties. The only exception to this rule is when the persons or gangs so incarcerated have been accused of committing a ghastly murder or rape, they are all tied together like so many lambs being taken to the abattoir, their faces covered with a black mask – the criminals’ faces I mean, not the lambs’. Which is a big let-down for television viewers, who would love to wallow in their schadenfreude and get a close look at these fiends in human shape.

Part of the reason why many of these alleged criminals display that ‘all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds’ look is sheer bravado, intended solely for the cameras. Then there is what can only be described as the burning martyr syndrome. Playing the victim card. Former President of the United States, Richard Nixon, while deeply embroiled in the Watergate scandal, famously said, ‘I am not a crook.’ Case closed. In the event, the courts opined differently and Tricky Dick had to hightail it out of the White House. The justice system in the United States makes no distinction between the high and mighty and those less privileged. Retribution is swift. Here in India, things take their own, majestic course. As we speak, AAP chief and Delhi Chief Minister Arvind Kejriwal is cooling his heels, along with some of his senior party colleagues in a prison cell, the courts clearly looking askance at his bail application. As this piece goes to press, one of them (not the CM) has just obtained bail.

This has provided a heaven-sent opportunity for the fractured opposition INDI Alliance to apply Fevicol or some other adhesive substance to glue themselves together, albeit temporarily, and vent their spleen against the ruling dispensation. Once the general elections get under way, they can get back to squabbling among themselves. It is noteworthy that the wives of leaders such as Kejriwal and Hemant Soren have been pitchforked into the melee to make emotional appeals to the public, shedding crocodile tears while bemoaning their pitiable plight. It must be hard for prominent politicians’ families to run the household while their husbands are forced to practice yoga in dank cells. One’s heart goes out to them. However, from the point of view of gaining brownie points prior to the elections, it may not be the worst ploy to unleash the victims’ family members to tug at the heartstrings of an impressionable public. Accordingly, the opposition parties got together in the capital and their leaders shook their fists and railed against the government in power.

Rahul Gandhi, in a rare turn of inspiration, likened the government to ‘match fixers.’ He employed the match fixing theme as a telling idiom and warned the public of dire consequences if they were dumb enough to vote the BJP and its allies back to power. The Gandhi scion literally shouted himself hoarse. His voice would have been a non-starter in any singing competition, though he sounded a lot like Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong with a sore throat. Whether Rahul Gandhi can hold a note or not is a moot point. If I were him, I would be more concerned about a few black sheep in his own alliance, as opposed to going baa-baa at the BJP, whose antics he must by now be fully familiar with.

Members of the ruling party, meanwhile, are sitting back and purring contentedly like the proverbial cat that has had its saucerful of milk. They have already decided that their war cry, Ab ki baar, char sau paar is a foregone conclusion. Done and dusted. They may not have heard of the axiom pertaining to the perils of counting one’s chickens before they are hatched, but they would do well to pay heed. Hubris is a dangerous affliction and some of their recent actions may come back to haunt them. The awkward question as to why only opposition party members are routinely rounded up on some allegation or the other, and none from the ruling classes sticks out like a sore thumb. The standard response is that if you find any misdeed with any of their members, file a complaint with the police. Hmmm.

The opposition parties keep coming up with the ‘washing machine’ analogy. The theory being that if you have had a shady past, all you have to do is ditch your party and join the treasury benches. Just say the word and all your past sins will vanish in a trice. Spotlessly white. You don’t even need Surf Excel. The ruling party’s rejoinder is that the opposition can always approach the courts for redress. Thus far the courts have taken a leaf out of Queen Victoria’s line, ‘We are not amused.’ One thing we know for sure. The rival political spokespersons can go hammer and tongs at each other, but no one will dare speak pejoratively of the judiciary, if they know which side their bread is buttered on. ED, IT, CBI, CEC – all fair game to aim pot shots at, but not a whimper against the judges. Rahul Gandhi has just said the country ‘will be on fire’ if the BJP is returned to power. To which the PM has riposted by asking Indians to wipe out the Congress from every nook and cranny of the country. Let battle be truly joined.

 And to those who are chalk-marking their days in incarceration, they can take solace from the poet’s lines, ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’ While you are at it, mind that triumphant smile does not turn into a frozen rictus.

I am not sure what it is, something in the air perhaps, but every other person I know seems to be going in for cataract surgery. This awareness has been brought sharply to my attention when, after a routine eye check-up, my ophthalmologist declared that I am a ripe candidate for the removal of my cataract in both eyes before they ripen any further. As some poet, whose name escapes me for the nonce said, ‘The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe for change.’ A date was set and I began to embark on the inevitable Google search to learn all about cataract surgery, its benefits and risks, at the end of which I was not sure if my eyesight will return to its pristine 20/20 vision status, or if I will turn completely blind. I have warned some of my closest friends and relatives never to conduct internet searches relating to one’s medical issues. That way lies the path to prolonged uncertainty and misery. In the event, I did not heed my own counsel, and had to spend a few weeks in speculating on all manner of post-surgery complications that were a product of the wretched Google and my own fertile imagination.

However, as I had indicated at the top of this piece, I was in good company. Unbeknownst to me, my brother in Chennai was about to have his eyes operated upon for cataract. The same went for two of my cousins and three close friends, some of them living abroad. We came within a toucher of forming a WhatsApp group, we ‘Cataractees,’ if you will pardon the coinage. That is the way to go nowadays in our digital world. We could have daily, if not hourly, exchanged messages on symptoms, our doctors’ relative competence, eyedrop routines, insurance issues, post-op adjustments and so on. Thankfully, wiser counsel prevailed and we threw the idea out of the window. Nevertheless, well-meaning advice was given and received with gratitude, even if such advice was gratuitous. One of my close friends, claimed he saw pink immediately after the surgery. ‘Everything looked alarmingly pink for a couple of days,’ he exclaimed, ‘was I turning colour blind?’ Surely not, if he could see pink. I don’t know about pink, but he must have seen red vis-à-vis his surgeon. Happily, his pink phase passed and his sight returned to normal, and his eyes are now in the pink of health. That was good news for my friend, but as I was about to submit myself to the surgeon’s knife (or laser), it gave me pause.

Speaking of being alarmist, I had to take a fitness certificate from my GP, based on a routine ECG and blood test, this to be submitted to the hospital before my eye doctor would agree to undertake the surgery. I expected this to be a cakewalk, but my GP saw something in my ECG report that I did not. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said gravely, looking at one of the snaky squiggles that typically turn up on an ECG graph, if graph is what it is. He then proceeded to write a diabolical, lengthy, hand-written report, which virtually said I undertake this procedure at my own risk. I then did what any sensible person would have done. Went to another diagnostic centre and had a fresh ECG done. Lo and behold, this time it came out clear and unblemished. My heart was in the right place, after all. The doctor at the diagnostic centre gave me a clean bill of health and I was on my way. Moral of the story – always take a second opinion.

D-Day arrived and I reported, as directed, promptly at 8.30 in the morning at the hospital for the procedure. This, after two postponements due to some technical issues pertaining to the condition of my eyes and their readiness for surgery. As to what those technical issues were is not pertinent. Suffice it to say the postponements only increased my suspense and gave full rein to my already galloping imagination. Prior to that, I had to be administered 13 eyedrops for a day to ward off infection preparatory to the rigours of the surgery. The person to suffer more was my wife, who had to do the drop administering throughout the day. All I had to do was lie supine, stock-still and look up. Every speck of dust and strand of cobweb on my ceiling fan is indelibly embedded in my memory. Little was I to know that this was just the beginning of the ordeal which, post-surgery would continue for the best part of three months. Drop, drop, drop five or six times a day. A bit like Chinese torture – for the dropper and the dropee.

The rigmarole involved with the surgery itself is interesting. You are first escorted into an ante-chamber, there to recline in a plush leatherette arm-chair, along with six other patients who are awaiting the procedure. Only then do you realise that you are in an assembly line queue. While seated comfortably on these recliners, which remind you of business class travel on an international flight (not that I have had much experience of that), having changed into the customary green smock with matching head-gear, the nurses come round and take your blood pressure, check your pulse rate, administer more eye drops, ask you nicely if you would like some water to drink. They are stone deaf to requests for café latte. You then wait and look around at the other patients, who appear to be in dreamland. A gentleman next to me opened a conversation on the subject of Calcutta, in Bengali! On inquiring how he divined that I knew Bengali, he smiled and said that he heard me talking to my wife in Bengali earlier. For the record, neither my wife nor I are Bengalis but we spent half our lives in Calcutta and there’s no getting away from giving speech in that lovely language. Khoob bhaalo laagche!

At last, your name is called and you are escorted into the OT, which looks more like something out of a sci-fi movie. The sound system was softly playing some old Kishore Kumar / Asha Bhosle duet, Aankhon aankhon mein, baat hone do. Very apt. You are not given much time to take in the scene, as it were. All I saw was a bank of digital screens blinking away to kingdom come. Before you can say glaucoma, you are strapped to a narrow, cushioned plank, all manner of paraphernalia strapped on to you, and more and more anaesthetic drops wash over your eyes. I should properly say eye, because the procedure involved back-to-back surgeries for the left and right eye one day after the other. Anyhow, my surgeon comfortingly tells me I will feel nothing and it will all be over in 20 minutes. She was right. I felt nothing, but I saw stars. Not metaphorically but literally. All manner of coloured lights and shapes, flashing like streaks of lightning and my surgeon periodically asking me how I was feeling. I asked her, besides the eye drops, if I had ingested LSD! That is how crazy and colourful the ‘trip’ was. She laughed heartily, saying nobody had told her that before and if I had indeed dropped acid anytime in my life. I said ‘yes,’ once during my, carefree college days while grooving to The Allman Brothers Band or maybe, Grateful Dead. Some conversation to have during surgery! My whole conception of a surgeon underwent a sea change. Next thing I knew, it was all over and they had slapped a plastic cup and bandaged it over my left eye.

‘Well done,’ said my surgeon, cheerful as ever, as if I had anything to do with it. ‘See you again tomorrow for the right eye.’ ‘You’ve got yourself a date, Doc,’ said I. Come to think of it, it wasn’t such an ordeal after all. My surgeon kept up a steady stream of cheerful banter which kept me in good spirits. The whole procedure was repeated the following day. Two days later, I was looking at the world anew, with two bright new eyes. And I am not seeing pink. Or red. What is more, surprise, surprise, the insurance chaps gave me no trouble and the entire cost of the operation was taken care of in a jiffy. Sometimes, life can be a breeze. Finally, as the nurses were not obliging, on my way out I bought myself a delicious cup of hot chocolate at the swank branded franchise in the hospital foyer.

As we got into the car, I was feeling quite chuffed, though my wife bore a grim visage. ‘What’s up? Everything went well. Why the long face?’ Her response was telling. ‘I am thinking about the post-op drops I will have to administer for the next three months. About 750 of them. That’s why the long face.’

Clearly, she had the drop on me.