The candle flame gutters. Its little pool of light trembles. Darkness gathers. The demons begin to stir. Carl Sagan.

In the year 1973, when I was barely out of college, the talk of the town was a movie called The Exorcist, based on William Peter Blatty’s magnum opus novel of the same name and directed by William Friedkin. A Hollywood production, it was dubbed a supernatural horror film boasting a cast that included the likes of the admirable Max von Sydow and Ellen Burstyn. Not to mention the young Linda Blair, who is possessed of a demon she is unable to rid herself of. To this day, I have no idea why I went to see this hair-raising, blood-curdling, stomach-churning film. I guess it was one of those things we did those days. A kind of herd mentality. Everyone else is going, so must I. Why did I not like The Exorcist, I hear you ask. For one thing, there were too many vomiting scenes for my refined taste. Allow me to explain.

Every time the young protagonist of the film felt the dreaded demon acting up inside her, she would start puking all over the place and generally behaving like a raving lunatic. She was possessed, yes, but that did not make for pleasant watching. While her mother and some priestly type tried to help her out, waving a wooden cross at her and chanting incantations, she (or her demon) was having none of it, throwing up – wave after heaving wave. The Alien had the same effect on me several years later, only there the monster ripped itself out of the victims’ innards. In plain sight, as it were, leaving little to the imagination. Getting back to The Exorcist, by now I was feeling awfully queasy myself, and rushed to the cinema’s toilets, only to discover that it was already full of grown men hawking and retching their guts out. There was nothing for it but to run out of the hall and bring up my lunch on to the pavement, much to a passing stray dog’s annoyance. Fussy pooch. Nauseating would be an apposite word to describe The Exorcist, though it has been hailed as an artistic triumph. One can never account for taste, I guess. Many countries banned the film on grounds of depicting untold horror associated with demonic possession. India was quick to ban it but not before it was screened for a few days when some of us managed to catch it. Couldn’t sleep for a few nights after that for running frequently to the loo, but the feeling passed. Incidentally, a short film titled Sartre’s Nausea, based loosely on Jean Paul Sartre’s famous novel was produced in 1962. Just as well I did not see it.

This column was not intended to be a quick review of The Exorcist, 50 years after its release. However, I felt it was a good way to introduce the subject of demonic possession in the light of a typically absurd story I came across in my esteemed daily newspaper a few days ago. Now here is what happened. Somewhere in the boondocks in the state of Bihar where power outages are a commonplace, the local villagers swore blind that one of their transformers, probably the only one, which was in the habit of tripping and catching fire frequently leaving the community in total darkness, was haunted. Having thus convinced themselves, it was the work of a moment for the village chieftains to approach an exorcist, one who was wise to the ways of demons and devils unknown and unseen. Our rural folk place immense faith in sorcery and witchcraft when it comes to battling ghosts and phantasms. What followed was something that could have attracted the attention of India’s film industry.

The village exorcist, most likely a charlatan, duly arrived covered in sacred ash and clad in vermilion, accompanied by a bevy of dancers and local percussionists who drummed feverishly away vaguely at the transformer. Mantras were chanted while the exorcist and his aides danced the night away, trying desperately to get the reluctant equipment to respond. Doubtless aided and abetted by the finest, illicit local hooch, invocations were petitioned with incense sticks but no dice from the object of their prayers. If an animal sacrifice was performed as part of the propitiation, that has not been reported, though I would not rule it out.

The recalcitrant transformer, however, hid its secrets well and flatly refused to cooperate. The demon slept soundly inside the bowels of the giant transformer, biding its time. Frankly, I would refuse to play ball if a bunch of loonies, claiming to be sorcerers or exorcists kept leaping up and down in front of me, mouthing all manner of unintelligible nothings, keeping the entire neighbourhood awake. To be fair to the villagers, it appears their attempts to engage a local electrical or mechanical expert to deal with the problem did not yield the desired result. Evidently the man told the villagers that this transformer was beyond repair (and hope) and that it was probably haunted by an evil spirit. ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’ as Dante warned in The Divine Comedy. Only the villagers were not laughing. Who can blame them if they decided to fall back on their tried and tested method of summoning the exorcist?

Whether the local black magic man ever had the opportunity to view The Exorcist or not, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. That possibility cannot be pooh-poohed away in these days of the internet and YouTube. I only raise this point as being somewhat pertinent, because the village transformer was heard making strange, belching type of noises in the dead of night accompanied by sparks of flashing lights. Some saw this as the transformer’s way of communicating to the local denizens that it was sick to its stomach and was attempting to bring out the evil spirit by making these retching sounds. We know this to be credible thanks to the Linda Blair character’s shenanigans in the much-quoted film.

At this point one is well poised to pop the question as to why the local electricity board was not consulted in the matter. Apparently, there were many reasons for this including the fact that the nearest office of the nobs who run these matters in this remote village was several miles away and the villagers reposed greater faith in, well, faith healers. That may or may not have been true, but when the local scribes finally managed to reach out to them, the electricity officials were understandably dismissive of the entire affair. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ proclaimed the official. In the native lingo, of course. ‘Probably the result of a short-circuit, faulty connection or an overload. Happens all the time.’ Very dismissive he was, accusing the wide-eyed local yokels of being needlessly alarmist and attempting to create a sensation amongst the gullible village folk. He promised to have the matter looked into soonest. The reports did not provide the reader with a happy ending to the story. We do not know if any qualified electrical or mechanical engineer visited the site to set right the transformer’s strange, undiagnosed malaise. We will have to let sleeping transformers lie.

What I can tell you is that here in urban Bangalore a few days ago, at the witching hour when the city was fast asleep, we were rudely awakened by a loud bang, a long hiss and several sparks flying all over the place. It was the transformer that serviced our apartment block! We had no power for the rest of the night. Happily, the electricity board people put things right by the time dawn had well and truly broken, but just for a moment there…

 One final word of advice. If anyone invites you to an evening at home promising beer and popcorn to watch the new and improved version of The Exorcist on Blu-ray DVD, decline. It may be new and improved with more vivid colours but it will still be sickening, in more ways than one. You are probably better off paying obeisance to your transformer and performing a special puja.

I am baffled beyond words as to why so many of us in India are going ga-ga and being insanely suffused with vicarious joy and pride whenever a person of Indian origin makes a mark in the world of politics, industry, sport or any other field of endeavour in the western hemisphere. When Rishi Sunak was tipped to become the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, our television channels and newspapers just could not get enough of him. Going berserk would be an understatement. We are not inclined to do that when the Prime Minister of Poland is elected. Unless, of course, his grandparents happened to be natives of Kumbakonam. At least Sunak’s wife is the daughter of one of India’s original IT czars and she hails from true blue Indian stock. The erstwhile incumbent at No. 10 Downing Street is no more Indian than our PM Modi is British. Now that Rishi has been shown the door, in a manner of speaking, and the Labour Party chief Keir Starmer has assumed office as Prime Minister, the occidentals in the UK are heaving a sigh of relief. But not before Starmer went around visiting Hindu temples and Gurdwaras to pay obeisance to the Indian diaspora. Every single vote counts. Welcome to Little India, Keir. We are everywhere. Others like Priti Patel and Suella Braverman will be breathing down your neck if you make one false move.

Then there is Kamala Harris. Joe Biden finally decided he will step down as the Presidential candidate for the upcoming election and after some hesitation, make way for his Vice President Harris to be his party’s nominee for the White House. For this to happen, Biden had to remember Kamala’s name, but his staff came to his rescue and bailed him out.  Earlier he had introduced his good lady Vice President as ‘a great President’ at a function. Perhaps he knew something he himself did not know at the time. That may sound nonsensical, but the man, in recent times referred to Ukraine’s chief Zelensky at a NATO Summit in Washington as President Putin. Ye Gods! Zelensky put a brave face on it. Not quite sleeping with the enemy but close enough. Biden could have built a mansion with the number of bricks he kept dropping. That he has decided to call it a day has been received by the American public with undisguised approbation. Not a day too soon, they seem to be saying.

Enough of the stuttering detour about Biden who, let’s face it, could just about manage to put one hesitating foot in front of the other. To get back to Kamala Harris, as the whole world knows, she is part Indian and part West Indian. By that I do not mean Mumbai or Maharashtra but more like Jamaica. Kamala’s mother, as every Indian is aware, hails from Tamil Nadu. More specifically, her maternal grandparents live in Chennai, and Kamala speaks with practiced ease about idlis and dosas, than which, you cannot get more south Indian if you tried. Kamala certainly tries hard which, at times, can get a bit trying.

If Kamala Harris is equally at home with quintessential Jamaican dishes like ackee, saltfish and jerk chicken, then that is something we in India are yet to learn about. Perhaps the burghers of Jamaica can put us wise on her culinary preferences. Meanwhile, pujas are being performed in various parts of Tamil Nadu to ensure the Gods look favourably upon Kamala when the results are gathered in come November. The market for the lotus flower in various parts of Tamil Nadu is distinctly bullish. All part of the offerings to propitiate the Gods. To those who may not have cottoned on to the connection, the Sanskrit term for lotus is kamala. Since I am drawing a parallel with a species of flower, the capitalisation of the word is redundant. LOTUS for POTUS, or its Tamil equivalent, is the cry ringing out in many parts of Tamil Nadu.

Lest we forget, the wife of the Republican Party’s vice-presidential nominee J.D. Vance, is none other than Usha Chilukuri. A few weeks ago, we would have said ‘Usha who?’ A highly qualified lawyer, Usha’s family originates from the West Godavari and Krishna districts of Andhra Pradesh. That being the case, one can expect celebrations and divine propitiations galore in various parts of Andhra Pradesh and Telengana. Sworn enemies in domestic politics in India, the populace from both these twin states will be visiting holy shrines to ensure their daughter Usha, her husband Vance and the boss supremo of their party, Donald, come up trumps at the upcoming hustings. Respective Chief Ministers Chandrababu Naidu and Revanth Reddy could find themselves on the same side of the fence because Madam Chilukuri, thousands of miles away in the United States but boasting a Telugu bloodline, could be America’s second lady.

What a prospect all these political rumblings in the USA promises to reflect here in India that is Bharat. The people of Tamil Nadu are hurling lotuses and other goodies at their places of worship to ensure a Democrat claiming half-Tamil Nadu origin will grace the White House. Whereas, their next-door neighbours, Andhra and Telengana are doing everything they can to bring in a Republican to the same White House, such that they can enjoy bragging rights over their daughter Usha, holding the Vice-President’s hand. And who knows, perhaps move into the White House if the next mad marksman atop a building manages to hit bullseye as his crosshairs zero in on the President, God forbid. Now that India’s own election circus is well and truly over, we can all have some fun watching Indians or People of Indian Origin shine on either side of the political divide in America.

Over the past couple of decades, Indians have come to dominate the business landscape in the west, particularly in the United States. The Nadellas, the Pichais, the Bangas, the Nooyis, not to mention the Vivek Ramaswamys and the Nicky Haleys and so many more have been calling the shots in various fields of endeavour. And now, our brethren and sistren (even if only by accident of birth) are showing their mettle on the world’s biggest political stage. In a sense, therefore, we can take some pride in these developments, but it is little more than a chimera, and the comfort we in India derive is cold. America is a melting pot, the proverbial land of opportunity with the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Their egalitarian ways allow every denomination of the public to live and prosper, if it has what it takes. Some of them migrated from India, some of them were born there but their inborn, genetic brain power is now finding full and glorious expression. Why do so many Indian-origin boys and girls routinely win spelling bee contests abroad, I ask rhetorically. To say nothing of crooning their way to ecstatic, tear-jerking glory on American Idol. Increasingly, on American and British television serials, more and more Indian migrants are featuring in important roles. In recent years, many American-Indian children have taken to Carnatic music and have made a significant mark in their ancestral homes in the four main states of south India.

I guess the point I am striving to make to all my gloating friends in India is this. Kamala Harris, Usha Chilukuri and Rishi Sunak are not Indians. They are full-blown Americans or British, even if they pay obeisance to Lord Ganesha and celebrate Deepavali. They will not go soft on India if and when they come to power simply because they happen to be brown-skinned and their parents speak Tamil, Telugu or Punjabi at home. They may enjoy a plate of idli, chutney and sambhar for breakfast or aloo parantha and chicken tikka masala for lunch. I too enjoy fish and chips, Yorkshire pudding or shepherd’s pie once in a rare while, washed down with a tall glass of Guinness. Does that make me a dyed-in-the-wool Englishman?

I rest my case.

A housewife was arrested recently in Bangalore for attacking her husband with a pair of scissors. She was deeply upset over his refusal to eat dinner her mother had specially cooked for him.  She is being questioned by the police. Press Reports.

‘Madam, do you realise you could have killed your husband? Why did you attack him with a pair of scissors?’ the investigating officer asked quite politely, under the circumstances.

The housewife replied calmly. ‘Because I could not readily find anything more lethal in my fit of rage than a pair of scissors. I regret that I did not kill him.’

The police officer harrumphed impatiently. ‘I did not mean why the scissors, Madam. My question was why did you attack him at all?’

‘What did you expect me to do, Officer? He calls me from his place of work to say that he will be coming home late, and would I rustle up something substantial for dinner as he is already quite famished. I requested my mother, who lives close by to prepare his favourite mutton biryani along with some side dishes, and now this happens.’

‘What happens?’ asked the puzzled cop.

‘Surely, he must have told you. Have you not spoken to him?’

‘At the moment Madam, the nursing home where he is admitted is dealing with several deep cuts and quite a few bruises, resulting from his struggles while you went after him with your weapon of choice, a pair of scissors. He is not in a talkative mood. Why scissors, for God’s sake?’

“I already told you…’

‘Of course, yes. Don’t bother answering. You could not find anything more effective at the time that could have killed him. You botched it up. Yes, I get it. Instead, you are left with a live witness, or should I say victim, namely, your husband who will spill the beans once the stitches from his upper and lower lips are removed. For now, his lips are sealed. I must say, Madam, things are not looking good for you. Aggravated assault and causing hurt with a dangerous weapon are very serious crimes.’

‘You have not heard my side of the story fully, Officer.’

‘I am all ears, Madam. Shoot.’

‘An odd but appropriate choice of word, shoot. If only I had a gun lying around in the house, you would have been questioning me on a murder charge and not aggravated assault. Pity.’ She sounded very sorry for herself.

The policeman was quite intrigued. He pressed on. ‘Are you feeling sorry that you find yourself neck deep in the soup or that you could not finish the job with a pair of scissors? As an aside, could you not find a sharpened kitchen knife or something instead of a rusty pair of paper cutters?’

‘Ah, so you sympathise with my quandary, do you? And they were not rusty.’

‘That was just a figure of speech. I was being facetiously ironic. Sir Winston Churchill once famously said, “Give us the tools and we will finish the job.” Obviously, you were not happy with your tools. Then again, remember a bad workman blames his tools.’

‘You have lost me completely, Officer. Who is this Churchill, and who was he trying to kill? Anyhow, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not quite a crime of passion. I was livid. Try going late home tonight, while your wife waits anxiously at the door with her mother’s biryani in the microwave and tell her you have already eaten and got sloshed at a nearby bar and restaurant. See what happens. I wouldn’t fancy your chances, Officer. Expect a black eye and hide the scissors.’

The policeman was not amused, ‘Ha ha, very funny. Since you ask, Churchill was trying to kill the Germans but I do not have time to give you a history lesson. Tell me, why did you ask your mother to cook? I am curious. Were you not well?’

‘I was out of doors and was forbidden from entering the kitchen. That is why I asked my mother to cook.’

The police officer was foxed. Then realisation dawned. ‘Out of doors? Oh, I see. That. I understand. Sorry.’

Mr. Plod made some notes in his diary. “Accused out of doors, three to four days out of action” he scribbled as if it was an important breakthrough. ‘Boozed as well, did he? I see your point Madam, but why do you feel so aggrieved simply because he ate out and had a couple of large pegs at a restaurant? Maybe he did not want to disturb you and your child that late at night? Hmmm?’

‘You have not been listening to me, Officer. The fact is he wanted to insult my mother. I had specifically told him before he left for work that my mother will be cooking for us that night. She is a great cook. Had it been his mother, he would have been home by eight in the evening to gorge on her tasteless bise bele bath. You see where I am coming from?’

‘Look here young lady, I am a police officer. It is not within my jurisdiction to judge the relative culinary abilities of your mother and your mother-in-law. If your hubby does not hold your mother’s cooking in high regard and finds an escape route, you cannot go after him with the nearest weapon you can lay your hands on. I still cannot believe you chose a pair of scissors, of all things. Thank God you did or else you would have been looking at the noose.’

‘What is that? Noose?’

‘Believe me Madam, as far as you are concerned, no noose is good noose.’ Then he made a gesture with his hand encircling his neck, his eyes bulging out and his tongue hanging out to one side.

‘You are a good mime artist, Sir. They can hang me for this? Then, please tell me what are my legal options?’

‘Divorce springs to mind. Your husband will almost certainly be thinking along those lines. He is most concerned about your child. The duty nurse at the hospital claims that he was extremely worried about a bottle of rat poison in one of the kitchen cupboards which will give you more bad ideas. It could just be delirium. He is heavily sedated, but we will need to talk to him once he comes to, when he can comfortably part his sutured lips and say a few words.’

‘That rat poison expired long ago. Even the rats won’t expire on consuming it. Why can’t we just talk it over and try and settle the matter out of court?’

‘Yes Madam, that option can be explored. Get a lawyer first. Is there anything you want now? Tea, coffee?’

‘Coffee please, thanks. And Officer, do you know how to play rock / paper / scissors?’

The policeman abruptly concludes the interrogation and flounces out of the room in a huff. The case continues.

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.