इक्कीसवीं सदी के महामानव

[यह लेख प्रियंका गांधी तथा चंद्रबाबु नायडु को एक अंग्रेजी अखबार द्वारा इक्कीसवीं सदी के व्यक्ति घोषित करने पर लिखा गया]

"इक्कीसवीं शताब्दी का व्यक्ति कहलाने के लिए कौन सी खूबियाँ होनी जरूरी है? अगले साल मैं भी तो २५ वर्ष का हो जाउँगा. फिर यह खिताब मुझे क्यों नहीं मिलना चाहिए?"मोन्टू ने सुबह-सुबह जब यह सवाल दागा तो मैं सोचने को मजबूर हो गया. "आखिर मेरे बेटे में क्या कमी है कि उसे यह खिताब न दिया जाए? वह भी जवान है, वह भी कम्प्यूटर से दिन-रात चिपका रहता है, वह भी दिन में सुनहरे सपने देखता है. उसमें वे सभी खूबियाँ हैं जो एक इक्कीसवीं सदी के युवक में होनी चाहिए."सवेरे अखबार में प्रथम पृष्ट पर दो फोटो चिपकी हुई थीं, जिन्हें देख कर मेरी १४ वर्षीय बेटी के मुँह से बरबस निकल गया था - पापा देखो 'ब्यूटी एन्ड द बीस्ट'. तब तो मैंने उसे यह कह कर डाँट दिया था कि बडे लोगों के बारे में ऐसी बात नहीं करते.मगर जब मैंने नित्यकर्म निपटाते हुए इस बात पर गहन चिंतन किया तो लगा कि बिटिया ने बात तो ठीक ही कही थी. जिन दो हस्तियों की फोटो अखबार के पहले पन्ने पर लगी थीं उसका शीर्षक 'ब्यूटी एन्ड द बीस्ट' होता तो ज्यादा उपयुक्त होता. अखबार अंग्रेजी का था, सो अनुवाद करने की खटपट भी नहीं. इसे पढकर पाठक का मन पुलकित भी हो जाता.
लेकिन फोटो का विवरण बता रहा था कि ये तस्वीरें अगली सदी के महानुभावों की हैं. जिसे मेरी बेटी ब्यूटी बता रही थी वह वाकई मोनालिसा और सोफिया लॉरेन के सौंदर्य का संतुलित सम्मिश्रण लग रही थी. इटली के सुप्रसिद्ध चित्रकार की जगविख्यात कलाकृति एवं इटली की चिरयौवना फिल्म अभिनेत्री से जिसकी तुलना करने का मन हो जाए उसका संबंध भी कहीं न कहीं इटली से जरूर जुडा होना चाहिए.
तस्वीर के इटालियन कनेक्शन को सुलझाने की उधेडबुन में मैंने टूथपेस्ट को शेविंग क्रीम समझकक़्र दाढी पर लगा लिया. नाश्ता करते हुए मैंने आखिर अपने बेटे से उस तस्वीर वाली यौवना का परिचय पूछ ही लिया.
"अरे ! आप इसे नहीं जानते? अपने आपको देश का प्रथम परिवार कहलाने वाले खानदान की यह एक मात्र कुलदीपा है. आप किस दुनिया में रहते हैं,पापा?" मेरे एक मात्र कुलदीपक मोन्टू ने मेरे कमजोर सामान्य ज्ञान पर अपनी गहरी चिंता व्यक्त करते हुए कहा.
"इसके नाम के पीछे भी राष्ट्रपिता के खानदान का नाम जुडा हुआ है. मगर बापू से इसका दूर का भी रिश्ता नहीं है. हाँ, बापू के नाम पर दुकानदारी करने वाले राजनेता 'नरो वा कुंजरो वा' की तरह इस बारे में चुप्पी बनाए रहते हैं, विशेषकर तब जब वे जनता के सामने वोट माँगने निकलते हैं," मोन्टू ने इस विस्मयकारी व्यक्तित्व को और भी अधिक रहस्यमय बनाते हुए कहा.
मुझे मोन्टू के सामान्य ज्ञान पर गर्व और अपनी अनभिज्ञता पर शर्म महसूस हुई. 'नरो वा कुंजरो वा' की उक्ति से तो मैं मोन्टू के संस्कृत ज्ञान से भी प्रभावित हो गया.
मगर दाढी बनाते समय जिस इटालियन कनेक्शन का ख्याल मेरे दिमाग में कौंधा था उसका हल निकाल पाना मोन्टू के भी बस की बात नहीं है. यह सोचकर मैंने अपनी उर्वरक बुद्धि का रौब जमाने के लिए मोन्टू से पूछा,"अच्छा, यह बूझो तो जानें कि तुम कितने अकलमंद हो. मोनालिसा, सोफिया लॉरेन और इस ललना में क्या साम्य है?"
"यह भी कोई सवाल हुआ? ये तीनों महिलाएँ सुबह नाश्ते में पिज्जा खाती हैं, दूध और जलेबी नहीं," मोन्टू तपाक से बोला.
मोन्टू के जवाब ने मुझे लाजवाब कर दिया. मैंने अपनी गंजी खोपडी पर हाथ फेरते हुए गहन चिंतन करने का अभिनय शुरू किया. मुझे इस प्रकार घेर पाने में सफल होने पर मोन्टू मुस्कुराया.
"अच्छा पापा, अब आप बताओ यह खिचडी दाढी वाला कौन है जिसे मुन्नी बीस्ट कह रही थी?" मोन्टू ने पहला सवाल फेंका. मैंने सवाल अनसुना कर दिया. मगर मोन्टू मुझे ऐसे कैसे जाने देता.
"एक संकेत देता हूँ. यह बम्बइया फिल्मों के खलनायक का चमचा-सा दिखने वाला दढियल, तेलुगु सिनेमा के अब तक के सर्वाधिक लोकप्रिय अभिनेता-राजनेता का दामाद है. और आजकल 'किंग मेकर' के रूप में पहचाना जाना पसंद करता है," मोन्टू ने मुझे चुनौती दी.
"देखो मोन्टू, मुझे न अभिनय में रुचि है न ही अभिनेता से नेता बने नायकों में ही कोई रुचि है. हाँ, बचपन में जरूर नौटंकी, सरकस देखे थे," मैंने मोन्टू से आँख चुराते हुए कहा. आज यह लडका मेरे सामान्य ज्ञान की परीक्षा लेकर ही मानेगा.
"ठीक है पापा, मैं कथा पुराणों से उदाहरण दे कर एक और हिंट देता हूँ. महाभारत में जैसे राज के लिए भाई-भाई लडे थे, आंध्र में ससुर-दामाद का द्वंद्व हुआ था. दामाद की जीत हुई तथा सास-ससुर को राजनीतिक वनवास लेना पडा," मोन्टू ने आँखें मटकाते हुए कहा.
"मोन्टू अब बस करो. यह मेरी उम्र नहीं है पहेलियाँ बूझने की. और सुनो, ये ब्यूट एन्ड बीस्ट जो भी हों, एक बात मैं बेशक कह सकता हूँ कि उन्होंने कभी अपने बाप से पहेलियाँ नहीं पूछी होंगी. इसीलिए तो तुम तुम रह गए और ये दोनों इक्कीसवीं सदी के व्यक्ति चुने गए," मैंने बहस पर पूर्णविराम लगाने के अंदाज में कहा और छाता उठाए घर से बाहर निकल गया.

जो जीता वही सिकंदर

मुझे पहली बार लडके-लडकी वाला प्यार छह साल की उम्र में ही हो गया था. हमारे गाँव की दो लडकियों से. जी हाँ, एक साथ दो-दो लडकियों से. दोनों ही मेरी क्लास में पढती थीं.
चूँकि इन तीस साल में हम तीनों शादीशुदा हो चुके है और हमारे बच्चे भी प्यार करने की उम्र के हो चुके हैं मैं अपने पहले प्यार को मधु और सुधा के नाम से पुकारूँगा. ऐसा करने से न उनके पतियों को, न मेरी पत्नी को और न ही हमारे बच्चों को हमारे उस निर्मल्, निश्छल पहले प्यार पर कीचड उछालने का मौका मिलेगा.
मधु, सुधा और मैं साथ-साथ स्कूल जाते थे, क्लास में पास-पास बैठते थे, और स्कूल छूटने के बाद साथ ही घर लौटते थे. मधु और सुधा के साथ खेलने का सिर्फ मुझे ही अधिकार था. मजाल है कि कोई दूसरा लडका उनके साथ खेलने की जुर्रत करे. वैसे ही किसी तीसरी लडकी को मेरे साथ खेलने का अधिकार मधु और सुधा ने नहीं दे रखा था.
मगर मधु और सुधा के बीच मुझे लेकर कोई विवाद नहीं था. विवाद की कोई गुंजाइश भी नहीं थी. मेरी नजर में दोनों का महत्व समान था, भूमिकाएं अलग-अलग थीं. हम रोज घरौंदा खेलते थे. मधु मेरी घरवाली बनती थी, तो सुधा मेरी प्रेमिका. किसी दिन जब सुधा को घरवाली बनने का मन करता था तो मधु प्रेमिका बन जाती थी. यह सिलसिला दो साल तक बिना किसी तकरार के चला. फिर पिताजी गाँव छोडकर शहर आ गए.
शहर की स्कूल में मैं वर्षा का दीवाना बन गया. मैं थोडा सयाना हो गया था, जितना कि किसी दस साल के लडके को होना चाहिए उतना. शहर आने के बाद पहली बार सिनेमा देखा, कौन सी फिल्म थी यह तो याद नहीं. इतना जरूर याद है कि एक पुरुष और स्त्री हर दस-पंद्रह मिनट में बांहों में बांहें डाल कर गाते और नाचते थे. मुझे फिल्म की नायिका की सूरत कुछ-कुछ वर्षा जैसी नजर आई. वर्षा भी उस हिरोइन की तरह दो चोटी रखती थी. बात करते समय उस हिरोइन की तरह आंखें भी मटकाती थी.
मैंने भी फिल्म से प्रेरित हो कर हीरो की स्टाइल में अपने बाल संवारने शुरू कर दिए. सामने की जुल्फों को गुब्बारे की तरह फुलाने के बाद मुझे यकीन होने लगा कि मेरी सूरत भी उस हीरो जैसी नजर आती है. (जब एक दिन वर्षा ने भी मेरी हेयर स्टाइल की तारीफ की तो मुझे पूरा विश्वास हो गया कि मैं सचमुच हीरो जैसा दिखता हूँ.)
वर्षा का घर स्कूल के रास्ते में पडता था. मैं रोज शाम वर्षा के घर होमवर्क पूरा करने के बहाने चला जाता था. उसके पडोस में हमारी ही क्लास का एक लडका दिनेश रहता था. दिनेश मुझसे लंबा-तगडा तो था ही, स्कूल की क्रिकेट टीम का कप्तान भी था.
प्राय: रोज वर्षा के घर जाते समय मुझे दिनेश गली के नुक्कड पर दूसरे लडकों के साथ क्रिकेट या गुल्ली-डंडा खेलते हुए दिख जाता था. वैसे दिनेश ने मुझे कभी कुछ कहा तो नहीं, लेकिन उसकी आंखें हर बार गुर्रा कर मुझे दो-दो हाथ कर लेने के लिए ललकारती थीं. मैं नजरें झुकाकर चुपचाप आगे बढ लेता था.
एक रोज जब मैं वर्षा के घर की ओर जा रहा था कि अचानक मेरी पीठ पर कोडे जैसी मार लगी. मैं दर्द के मारे चीख पडा. पीठ पर मानों जलता हुआ कोयला दागा हो, ऐसी जलन हो रही थी. मैं ने पीछे मुडकर देखा तो मुहल्ले के छोकरे खी-खी कर हँस रहे थे. मेरे कुछ दूर रबर की एक गेंद पडी हुई थी. दिनेश हाथ में क्रिकेट का बल्ला लिए विकेट के पास खडा ठहाके लगा रहा था.
उसके लगाए फटके से ही वह गेंद मेरी पीठ पर गोली की तरह आ लगी थी. मैं तिलमिला गया. लेकिन चुपचाप खून के घूँट पी गया. और कर भी क्या सकता था? थोडा आगे चल कर, इस बात से आश्वस्त हो कर कि कोई नहीं देख रहा, मैंने अपने आँसू कमीज की बाँह से पोछ डाले.
मैं वर्षा के घर आ पहुँचा. होमवर्क पूरा कर मैंने वर्षा को यह कह कर अपने साथ मेरे घर चलने को कहा कि आज माँ ने आईसक्रीम बनाई है. वर्षा खुशी के मारे झूम उठी और झटपट कपडे बदल कर मेरे साथ निकल पडी.
नुक्कड के करीब पहुँचने पर मैंने वर्षा का हाथ अपने हाथ में थाम लिया. उसने मेरी ओर देखा और मुस्कुराने लगी. वह मेरे और पास आ गई. हम दोनों यूँ ही हाथ में हाथ फँसा कर चलने लगे.
नुक्कड पर दिनेश कुछ छोकरों के साथ खडा था. मैंने दिनेश की आंखों में आंखे गडा दीं. इस बार दिनेश ने चुपचाप अपनी नजरें झुका लीं, एक हारे हुए खिलाडी की तरह्.

Messenger of Doom

The timing was uncanny. The day my wife left me for the children, I got my 24 X 7 Net connection. Without realizing the impending danger, I logged on to the wilderness of the Net.

The first visible symptom of the looming calamity was insomnia.“Ting-tong”, a messenger window would pop up at devilish intervals. “Cuckoo”, an unauthorized cyber squatter would squeal, in a desperate effort to find a soul mate in the cyber space.

In no time, I found my sole mate, who checkmated me in just a few moves that even a grandmaster could not have strategised in wildest of his dreams. She masqueraded herself as a sibling but her ulterior agenda of life was to become the darling of nerds – both veterans and greenhorns.Sibling-turned-darling was her favourite screen name. She had multiple screen names to achieve multiple tasks and targets. And, her favourite hunting ground was the voice chat rooms of romantically-inclined netizens, whose cooing and crooning evoked ecstatic oomphs and aahs and an occasional vaah, vaah.

Vulnerable would be the apt description of my state of mind, when an innocuous ‘Hi’ chimed in on the messenger window one lazy Sunday morning. Someone, with filial yet fatal feeling was trying to reach out to me.

Though fed upon Jim Corbett’s jungle lore, I failed to read the message loud and clear that the call of the cat was in fact a hunter’s ruse to lure the prey and not that of a lonely tigress tempting a tiger for a date.

A click on the messenger window did me in. A pair of shimmering brown eyes shrouded behind a veil was how she appeared on the screen, enticing and intriguing. ‘If you ever come across a serpent, don’t look into the eyes, the reptile would hypnotize you,’ a wildlife enthusiast friend had advised me.

Had I heeded the advice, I could have been saved. I was fated to be doomed. There followed a cat-n-mouse game. Some pow-vow, and some ohs and ahs. “Welcome back”, would be her refrain every time I logged on to the Net. A warm welcome indeed, a courtesy my wife had long denied me.

Without realizing the fatal signs of all her gestures, I was drawn deeper and deeper into the dragnet that she had so carefully laid out for me in the wilderness called cyber space. She would entice me now and again, with her ‘available’ status on the chat window. A ‘Hi’ from me would elicit a ‘Welcome back’ reply.

Was she ‘available’ to all, did she welcome all and sundry? My pathetically weak-kneed disposition always prompted me to believe that her ‘available’ status was meant exclusively for me, just for me.

Infatuation often leads to stupor. When this happens in the surreal realm of cyber space, stupor can lead to comatose. She always kept me on my toes, by drawing me into conversation having to do with my peculiar cardiac condition, only to leave me in lurch for hours, changing her online status from ‘Available’ to ‘Be right back’.

Having spent hours gazing at the blank screen of my PC, awaiting her return, my brain too would often go blank. What makes my optimistic heart tick is the ‘Available’ status displayed on her messaging window, 24 X 7.

The Compulsive Tutor

He was fatally attracted towards a whiteboard. His response to a white board was quite like that of a dog to a lamppost. While canines, irrespective of their breed, would impulsively lift their hind leg up on seeing a lamppost, our man would lift his right hand to reach for a marker pen.

The similarity between him and man’s best friend ended there. In all other respects, our man drew inspiration from other species. He had an elephantine memory, the walk of a grizzly bear, the vision of an eagle and the appetite of a hog, to list just a few of his zoological characteristics.

Had he not taken up a mundane job with a company dealing in hydrocarbon products, our man would have become professor emeritus of vital statistics at the Fairsex University of Domestic Science.

In the number-crunching game, he lagged behind a Pentium IV computer by just three nano seconds.The dead wood in the company resented his penchant for explaining complex business problems on the whiteboard. But the eager beavers looked forward to attending the learning sessions presided over by him.

Whenever the top management wanted to keep the otherwise under-worked staff occupied fruitfully, the chief executive officer would summon our man post haste to his chamber.

Soon a meeting would be convened in the conference room. Our man, a marker pen in one hand and a rubber swap in another, would take charge of the whiteboard. All the other staff members, most of them grudgingly, would occupy their seats like obedient school students mentally prepared to be at the receiving end of at least an hour-long discourse.

Discourse it would be of course, but with a difference. Even while our professor emeritus rattled out such high-sounding words as “competitive intelligence, SWOT, Gantt chart, PRD, CSD, mission objective, strategy” so on and so forth, he would fill up the whiteboard with charts, graphs, bullet points, arrows, sets and sub-sets in a myriad of colors.

To be sure, most of what our in-house professor uttered got transmuted into Greek, Latin, Spanish, Hebrew and Chinese the moment those words hit the eardrums of the august audience. Equally obvious would be the audience response, which found expressions in unending yawns, grunts, coughs, hiccups or simply a gush of foul smelling wind.

Least perturbed by such overtures from the audience, the professor would continue with his lecture, marking each of his pause with a scholarly gesture –a nod here, a pointed finger there or simply a dot on the whiteboard with a red marker pen.

Whenever such sessions of intellectual intercourse were held, a sense of purpose would charge up everybody in the company. With a smug satisfaction writ large on his lizard-like lips, the CEO would troop in and out of the conference room, leaving behind some unintelligible interjections for the participants to mull over.

The top management made it a point to meticulously maintain the minutes of every session. These minutes, prepared and transcribed by the pool secretary, were printed on the finest bond paper and kept in spiral bound files, the words ‘Strictly Confidential’ and ‘Only for internal circulation’ embossed in red letters on the cover page.

Post Script: While the company retrenched three-fourths of the staff recently as part of its restructuring, the in-house professor has been given a promotion and re-designated as ‘Director Emeritus’.

Divine Vision

After nine long months of deep meditation, His Holiness delivered a two-pager. His devotees dotingly declared it as the ‘Vision Statement’.

The devotees had been anxiously waiting for this auspicious moment from the very first day of conception. His Holiness had shut himself in the sanctum sanctorum displaying symptoms of divine thoughts germinating in his fertile mind.

Pregnant with ideas, His Holiness had started behaving like an expectant mother. He would throw tantrums at slightest provocation, pace to and fro inside the room, scream at the sight of a flying bumblebee, stomp heavily to scare away a lizard and chew anything sour in taste –tamarind, raw mango or even his nails.

“Don’t you dare disturb Him. Or even be seen near Him. Can’t you see, He is in the contemplating mode,” admonishes, Swami Sahajawani, the disciple numero uno of His Holiness.

Swami always uses a capital ‘H’ whenever he refers to His Holiness as ‘He, Him, His’ just to pledge his unflinching loyalty to Him. Swami also expects others to scrupulously follow the same practice if they want any interaction with him.

Swami was retained by His Holiness at a fabulous salary plus an unlimited expense account primarily to build an imaginary halo around the diminutive physique of His Holiness. It was with the design to enlarge and glorify the otherwise puny personage of His Holiness that the likes of Swami and Sukhanand Saraswati were given higher ranks than the other members of his personal staff.

Had they not got into His Holiness’ regal retinue of staff, Swami and Sukhanand would have easily found place in the Jat Regiment or Haryana police known for their hefty havildars and burly jawans.

As a rule, His Holiness neither directly spoke to others nor liked to be spoken to by any of his followers. He always conveyed, if at all such an exigency arose, through Swami and Sukhanand who were given license to interpret and explain the unspoken divine diktats and dictums. There was no way to find out if these interpretations and explanations had the official sanction.

So, when His Holiness retired to his sanctum sanctorum pregnant with ideas and went into deep meditation, the Swami-Sukhanand duo used the nine-month incubation period to the hilt in creating a hoopla.

“His Holiness, the master creator, is in direct communication with the God. He and the God are busy in serious intellectual and spiritual intercourse,” the duo would repeat day in and day out.

“Wait for the divine deliverance,” the duo would console the followers who were getting impatient and jittery over the agonizingly long period of wait while His Holiness was having his communion with the God.

At long last, on an auspicious Monday morning His Holiness emerged from his sanctum sanctorum. Wearing a Cheshire cat smile, His Holiness announced before the eager gathering that God had finally handed him down the Divine Vision. He called upon his devotees to devote their complete attention to understanding the divine message.

Swami and Sukhanand made copies of the two-page statement of His Holiness and distributed it among the devotees.

“Interact with the God, immerse deeply into the repository of divine content, shunning all other earthly activities and you will have attained the ultimate deliverance,” read the executive summary prepared by the Swami-Sukhanand duo after three months of intense deliberations.

His Holiness has gone back to his sanctum sanctorum, this time to seek inspiration for formulating the fundamental principles of divine content.

Swami and Sukhanand are busy displaying ‘Do not disturb’ signboard outside the sanctum sanctorum.

Mumbo Jumbo Basics

Ms Speakeasy Eveready greeted the news with much gusto. Sitting cross-legged before the idol of the elephant god, she burned up the whole bundle of incense sticks—101 of them she had purchased in the local train at just Rs 10 as a bargain deal.

In deep meditative pose, she chanted the vashikaran mantra 84 times, keeping count by the string of beads she rotated by her fingers. The parrot perched on her shoulder religiously repeated the mantra after her. The parrot prattled with precision all the intonations his patron uttered in her nasal tone.

“At long last, the Rahu kaalam is over. Happy days are here again. Henceforth, everything is going to be very nice, very lovely, very beautiful and obviously fortuitous,” she soliloquized.

Ardent practitioner of the art of mumbo jumbo that she was, Ms Speakeasy firmly held that positive words such as nice, lovely and beautiful have positive effect on the persons who utter them as also on those who hear them. Specially when preceded by the adjective ‘very’.

She was particularly chirpy on this Monday morning because of a two-paragraph news report that had otherwise gone unnoticed but had caught the attention of her beady eyes. “Universities to teach Vedic Astrology”, the news report buried deep inside the newspaper proclaimed.

“We are going to be back in big business, Mitthu,” she said addressing the parrot. “Back in big business,” repeated the parrot.

It had not been easy going for Ms Speakeasy and her parrot for quite some time. Her down-to-earth bureaucrat father had thrown them out of the official bungalow for having wrongly predicted about his promotion.

Instead of the long-overdue promotion, the burra babu was suspended from service facing corruption charges.

Ms Speakeasy had blamed her misfortune on the wrong feng-shui of the official bungalow. For giving out wrong prediction of her father’s career graph, she had punished the parrot by denying it the weekly ration of carrots. Apparently, the parrot had picked up the wrong sets of tarot cards.

Since then, she had taught all the tarot card tricks to the parrot. They were simple tricks. She would stick pastry crumbs on the cards which had ‘positive’ phrases inscribed on them. Ms Speakeasy would then read out these phrases as surefire solutions to the plethora of problems her clients brought forth before her for astrological atonement.

Usually, Ms Speakeasy’s clients were people with weak constitution of mind. They were mostly men and women who relied more on stellar configurations than on their own physical and intellectual efforts to overcome difficulties of earthly life.

Ms Speakeasy’s words carried conviction as, while delivering celestial prescription, she would liberally throw in such pedantic phrases as ‘your Venus is on ascendancy, eclipsing the evil Saturn who was the root cause of all your problems’.

For her own problems – and they were aplenty – Ms Speakeasy apportioned the blame on a freak combination of Saturn, Jupiter, Mercury, Venus, Pluto and Neptune.

She was firm in her conviction that it was because of the evil influence of Neptune that her fortune had been eclipsed. Venus had shied away from her all these 40 years, turning her moon-faced and bereft of much-needed love, Platonic or otherwise.

Now that Indian universities had decided to include Vedic Astrology in their curriculum, Ms Speakeasy had all the reasons to believe that her fortune was going to take a U-turn, eclipsing all her present misfortune.

“Surely, the local university will confer a D.Litt. degree on me. It is time the Vice-chancellor returns me the good I had done him. Remember, Mitthu, how I had juggled with his daughter’s horoscope to make a perfect match with the horoscope of the minister’s son,” she said offering a green chilly to the parrot.

“Horoscope of the minister’s son,” parroted Mitthu in an equally jubilant tone.

Sash, Ash and Di

"Three Miss World in almost a row! The country has indeed made it in the global market so far as this particular kind of merchandise is concerned. If the present trend is maintained for the next two decades, there is every chance of India monopolizing the beauty pageant market and subsequently the global advertisement market. Already, several MNC ad agencies have begun scouting for models in India," mused the principal chief secretary poring through the computer printout of the graphics and other info downloaded from the Internet the previous night.

The principal chief secretary (PCS) was woken up at 8 O' clock in the morning by the PA to the CM and told to be present at the CM's bungalow at 8.11 sharp to make a multi-media presentation on the status of the state vis-a-vis the global market.

The PCS popped several drops of mouth freshner just to make sure that the CM did not get a whiff of the brew he had consumed till late into the night at a five-star hotel with that NRI contractor.

The burra babu, as the PCS was fondly called by his subordinate staff, was ushered into CM's room after making him wait for two hours in the lounge.

"Come to the point. You have this pugnacious habit of beating about the bush with your statis sticks. And, you also have this tendency of mixing up vital statistics with logistics. So, you mean to say this particular Indian merchandise has promising prospects in the global market. Well, what then?" asked the CM.

"Sir, the most heartening thing is that this time it is a city girl who has bagged the world title. Sir, if you allow me, I would suggest setting up of a Personality Development University on the lines of the Information Technology University to help bloom several such sleeping beauties, the PCS purred softly.

"I like it, I like it. The idea sounds good. Remind me to make the announcemenent at the next press conference," said the CM."I will make Joe Baby the VC. She has been sulking ever since the PM inducted that hoyden into his cabinet, over-ruling my wish. The VC's post is any day better than a mere MP's," the CM mused to himself.

"Yes Sir! You can also, Sir, announce a package deal for the entrepreneurs who want to set up beauty clinics, mini personality development institutes, modelling studios and the whole range of ancilliary units," suggested the PCS, encouraged by the CM's response to the idea.

"Smart boy! You do show flashes of brilliance one in a while. Why, I can sell the idea to the media moghul whose latest dream is to divert the entire business of Bollywood and Hollywood to his film city. By giving the necessary policy support, I can retain his group's loyalty till the next general elections. Though he happens to hail from my very own community, the media moghul needs constant doses of incentives to be kept in good humour," said the CM, glowing at the prospect of ensuring media support with the latest master stroke.

"Why not, Sir? This is the time for you to pay him back for the favour his newspaper group had done you at the time of the family coup. Had the group not shifted its loyalty, it would have been impossible to topple the papa-in-law," said the PCS, endorsing the CM's media policy.

"Organize a gala reception for our girl from Secunderabad. She should not run away to Mumbai again. Longer she stays here the better for the development of the state. At least she will keep the paparazzi and the press occupied. A section of the media has been giving bad publicity to me after that bomb exploded near my residence," said the CM.

"Yes, Sir. Very good, Sir. Good day, Sir," said the PCS, satisfied that he was again able to sell a novel idea to the CM.

Confession of a beer guzzler

One of the main reasons why my wife had pestered me into accepting a transfer from Mumbai to Hyderabad was the imposition of dry law by the NT Rama Rao govenment.

She believed that in the absence of beer bars, I would be compelled to drink water or at the most some aerated water to quench my thirst.

But even after a quarter-century of our fevicol-stuck marriage, she had failed to fathom my ingenuity.

Thanks to a childhood chum, who had risen to the rank of a colonel in the army and was posted at one of the defence establishments in Secunderabad, my mug of beer remained full to the brim throughout the dry spell.

My work as a creative director in an advertising agency allowed me ample scope to steal an hour or two during the lunch break to drive down to the officers' mess.

Away from the golden eagle eyes of my wife and secure in thought that her thunder bolt cannot strike me, I merrily guzzled gallons after gallons of 'officer's choice' in the company of my colonel buddy.

She did smell a rat at times, specially when she found me in a particular jovial mood. But she could never pin me down. What about the pungent smell of the brew, you may ask. Several packets of 'gutka' spiked with heavy doses of mint used to achieve the effect that some patented multinational chewing gum claimed to attain through the multimillion clip on the television.

Ever suspicious as she is, my wife started keeping a close tab on my spendings. My daily 'pocket allowance' was reduced to Rs 20. This had little effect on my beer-guzzling routine.

How, you might ask, did I manage the luxury of downing an average of two bottles with just Rs 20? Simple. Like in the past, I never paid for my drinks, which invariably came courtesy the colonel and the eager clients of my ad-agency who had this habit of throwing a working lunch every time they wanted to discuss their campaign.

In fact, I must say this to the credit of the golden yellow, frothy brew that such working lunches in local pubs helped our ad-agency retain many an account. The secret being the coincidence that most of my clients, in their late 40's, also found in working lunches a convenient excuse to steal a beer or two in the afternoon away from the needling eyes of their spouses.

(Advisory: Don't let your wife read this article. It is injurious to your health.) I must admit, though, I always felt guilty about conning my wife almost every day. Her searching looks invariably rattled my bones, but I always put up a brave front.

Dodging the wife becomes a second nature to a veteran husband like me. In fact, it is because of this that our marriage has weathered the last 25 years and become well-seasoned.

Moral of the story: Like the stolen kiss, a stolen beer gives better kick. Any doubt? Try it out.

Janata class travel

If you want to test your physical fitness and agility, board a general compartment of a long-distance train. Getting into the coach itself will be your very first test in basic survival tactics.

If you are an experienced general class traveller, you would have already 'booked' your seat with a porter and arrived well before the train on the platform.

If you haven't had the occasion to travel by a general compartment as yet, let me reveal a state secret - by an unwritten memorandum of understanding (MoU), the railway ministry has outsourced the space in the general compartments to a cartel of porters and touts. The cartel, in turn, auctions the seats and berths.Being an integral part of the market economy, the price of a seat and a berth is determined by the rule of demand and supply. During rush season, like Dasara holidays, a seat in the general compartment could go for as high as Rs 100 and could be had for as low as Rs 10 during the off season.

Personally, I shudder at the thought of travelling unreserved. A quick-finger artiste operating from the Ahmedabad railway station was responsible for making me travel in the unreserved coach up to Warangal recently.

My friend and I had reserved seats in the AC chaircar to go to Mumbai en route Hyderabad. While I was entraining, someone picked my wallet from the back pocket.Left with little over Rs. 50 and no tickets, we had no choice but to board the next day's Navjeevan Express at 6.25 in the morning.

Having worked as a crime reporter with an influential daily, I instinctively contacted a top police officer with the suggestion to return me a favour by helping me get into the train.

He readily obliged and instructed the inspector of the railway police station to make the necessary arrangements.

The inspector, a burly six-footer with an uncanny resemblance to a grisly bear, was humility personified when we met him."We are trying our best to nab the pickpocket. Though I can't promise getting back the money you have lost, there is every chance of recovering your press card," the inspector reassured, his voice dipped in the sugary syrup that goes into making jalebis.

"Unfortunately, the VIP quota has already been released and therefore I won't be able to get you berths in the sleeper class. If you insist traveling by the train tomorrow, I can get you into the general compartment," he said.

"Come by 5.30 to the police station and have the morning cup of tea. They say the tea served at the police station is very very special. The hawaldar will be here to receive you," the inspector said introducing us to the head constable standing in attention.

The train had already inned by the time we arrived at the railway station. "Come on, Sir, there is no time for tea now," said the hawaldar and led us across the platform, making his way through the crowd using his metre-long danda. It was only by his danda that the hawaldar was being recognized by the public as the 'strong arm' of the law, for our man was not in his uniform.

The general compartment was jam packed, with no room even on the floor. While a couple of tough-looking guys were trying to muscle their way into the coach at the main gate, the hawaldar shoved them to a side and led us to two window seats 'reserved' for us by the porters.

Having established our legal right over the two prized seats, courtesy the sircar maibaap, the two of us became the object of awe before the other co-passengers.

Most of the passengers were mill workers and migrant labourers returning home to Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu and Kerala.

"Can't you shift a little and make room for the women?" shouted one of the two Telugu-speaking men at a Keralite youth whose proximity to the former's wife was the cause of great concern to him.

The Telugu biddas had purchased two seats from the touts at Rs 20 each. While the women occupied the seats, their husbands squatted on the floor, resting their back on each of our seats, their shoulders and heads having a peculiar tenency of falling on our laps now and again.

The day journey was spent nudging our fellow-travelers into an upright position and requesting anyone that got down at the various stations to fill our water flask.Having emerged one-up in the pecking order, we had no difficulty in spreading our legs to the utmost comfort when the sleep got over us.

Tip from a veteran traveler: The most comfortable way of traveling by an unreserved coach is to sleep under a bunk by spreading a newspaper on the floor.

Getting high on aqua pura

What makes a drink intoxicating?Of course water!Mix water with gin, you get a kick. Mix water with whiskey, you get a kick. Mix water with rum, again you get a kick.Water is the common liquid in all the above concoctions. Therefore, water is the most intoxicating stuff on this earth. Quod Erat Demonstradum (QED).

Convinced by this geometric argument, Tipsy Toddy, out of job ever since the government imposed dry law under the National Toddy Recycling (NTR) programme, decided to make the most of the government's plan to privatise water supply. He brought together all the tipplers under one toddy roof and formed the Aqua Pura Incorporated (API).

The first thing that Tipsy Toddy did was to contact Kahnthibhai, the only son of the late centenarian patriarch in Mohamaya Nagari whose secret of longevity was the quantum of 'water of life' he consumed.

After much surmonising on the ethics of public life, Kahnthibhai agreed to lend his father's name to the new venture on the condition that he be made a sleeping partner.Having gained impeccable legitimacy for his project by roping in the epitome of all that is moral in this widely immoral world of politics, Tipsy tiptoed his way to Big Bull of suitcase fame to secure consultancy on how to go public with a block-buster mega issue.

Big Bull twirled his tail, unlocked his horns, stamped his hoof and politely, if that is the word to describe bullish way of showing civility, turned down Tipsy's plea."Come to me for private consultation after you go public. Go to Hirubhai Dumbani if you want to learn a trick or two about public issue. He has the latest on multiple option mega issue. Besides, he has a direct line to the powers that be at the Centre," said Big Bull, letting Tipsy in on the secret way to sure success.

Tipsy drew a large swig from the pint of water he always carried in his hip pocket, taking extra care not to let Big Bull know."Thank Ram, I was wise enough to have diluted this extra strong, extra dry smuggled water with a liberal dose of that cheap Russian vodka. I would have choked on the water had I taken it neat," mutter Tipsy to himself.

By now, the water was beginning to show its effect on Tipsy as he stepped off the elevator from Big Bull's penthouse. Known for his zig-zag way of walking, Tipsy crossed the road in a straight line, making it amply clear to the world at large that he had one too many of the water.

Tipsy did not remember how he reached home that afternoon."Enough of your water project! If this is how you are going to drown yourself in water now and damage your liver and kidneys, only God can save you once your project comes through," shouted Tipsy's wife Rummy, nee Giniben Daroowala.

"So long as Rummy is going to remain with me, my project is not going to make any progress. I must find a toddy way out to bypass her," Tipsy resolved, drawing an extra large swig from the pot of neat water he had kept hidden in the bathroom.

In Love at 58

It was like being hauled up by the time machine and transported almost 40 years back into the teenage.

As it is, Professor Knowall Donothing, KD to the girls and Kamchorwa to the folks back home in Bihar, was feeling the tug for quite sometime.The uneasy sensation of something pushing him back into the youth had started tingling his balding head from the moment that breezy little Dolly, with long black hair, walked into his chamber the other day looking for nothing in particular.

KD had gasped and Dolly had blushed. The campus was abuzz with gossips. Like the little Jack Horner who sat in a corner, KD had pulled out a plum assignment for the breezy little thing.What the assignment was, nobody knew. But everybody knew that it required hours of consultations between the professor and the understudy.

“Probably the assignment has something to do with the impact of art and theatre on the contemporary literature,” guessed Prof. Goodfornothing, who had failed in his latest attempt at convincing Miss Silly Ninkompu about the importance of doing research on the impact of comics on modern management techniques.

Prof. Goodfornothing’s guess was based on the campus grapevine which had received reports of KD and Dolly frequenting defunct art galleries and empty cinema halls.The only time one found KD under public gaze was when he stood before the full-length mirror outside the NCC office combing his thinning hair and looking at himself from different angles. KD had already crossed the point of no-return where public gaze, howsoever intense that might be, did not matter.

Having observed KD attending to toiletry before NCC office’s magic mirror half an hour before the scheduled arrival of Dolly, Callmenot pattawala had picked up the pugnacious habit of asking him if he should order for two cans of coke from the campus canteen.

Coke, comics and disco were the only topics KD was interested in those days, besides, of course, Dolly’s favourite Mills & Boon on which KD could give discourse for hours. The KD-Dolly duo was a living encyclopedia on these subjects with the difference that no guy or gal could dare approach them for an update or a cross-check.

The time machine that had set to work from the day Dolly entered the campus had transformed KD’s appearance completely. The shock of gray that dangled like a rope earlier had turned into jet black, its shape fashioned after Gregory Peck. A denim jeans and jacket had replaced the Jawahar-cut churidar and achkan. And, his tortoise-shell rectangular reading glasses had been discarded for a pair of 22-carat gold-plated Christian Dior.

Dolly’s folks arrived one day from Jhumritalliya to take her back for the prospective groom to see.“Arrey! Yeh to Kamchorwa buzaata hai,” (Behold! He looks like our Kamchorwa) exclaimed Dolly’s dad in ecstasy. Her folks had fixed Dolly’s marriage with KD’s nephew Bobby.

The time machine whirred back, bringing KD to the present.