The Train to Mayiladuthurai

The Train to Mayiladuthurai

In Tamil,
“Mayil” = Peafowl (peacock or peahen),

“aadum” = dancing,

“thurai” = place

Mayiladuthurai gets its name from the Mayura or Mayil (peacock) form in which Goddess Parvathi worshipped God Shiva at this place. While previously known by its Sanskrit name Mayuram (and Mayavaram) meaning "peacock town", the town has been recently de-Sanskritized to its Tamil translation Mayiladuthurai as a result of a petition by the Mayuram municipality to the Government of Tamil Nadu in the wake of the Dravidian Movement. The Mayuranathaswami Temple dedicated to Goddess Parvathi is one of the most important Hindu temples in the town. There is a statue depicting Goddess Parvathi in a peahen form worshipping a linga, the symbol of God Shiva to the west of the eastern wall of the temple.

                                                                                                            (Source: Wikipedia)

As the week dawned – (do weeks dawn?) – and I got my instructions to get ready for a train journey, it dawned on me that I had no clue. I donned my thinking cap and thought. Then “thunk!” It sank in. Another secret mission. They should make a list of all missions beforehand and give it to chaps being sent on missions so that chaps don’t get confused when they have to go on missions suddenly. Weak yawn.

Gradually, the details filtered in. I gathered them.

Anyway, to come to the nub or the crux or the rem, there I was, all details committed to memory and torn up, shredded, burnt and flushed so no one will ever know. In secret service parlance it is referred to as “no need to know”. What? Exactly. It will be tough to get anything out of me now. How do you unflush, unburn, unshred or untear something?

I got a pleasant surprise when I sat down and booked my train ticket online. As soon as I entered my age in the space provided, there was a “sproing”, followed by an “aila!” from the computer and then the price of the ticket got halved! Voila!

At the appointed time on the appointed evening, I stood on Platform No. 2 of Bengaluru Cantonment Railway Station, twiddling the shoulder straps of the haversack hoisted behind my back, waiting for the Mysuru-Mailaduthurai Express (My-Mai Express) to arrive.

There was something stabbing me in the back. I opened the haversack and peered in. Ah! It was the steel spoon packed to help me shovel the curd rice in. I pushed it into a corner away from my back and went back to waiting.

This My-Mai Express used to be called Bangalore-Tiruchirapalli Express and ran from Bangalore to Tiruchirapalli (and back, of course). Later, its run was extended up to Thanjavur and it came to be called Bangalore-Thanjavur Express. Still later, someone somewhere somehow decided that the train needs to run more up and more down and stretched its route somewhat at both ends. The result is that it now runs from Mysuru to Mayiladuthurai. And back. Bengaluru City, which started off as the origin and destination station, got pushed down one third of the way from the Mysuru end.

The train arrived on time and I hopped in. Then hopped off. Wrong door. This one said 1 TO 72. My berth was not near this door. I ran to the other door which said 72 TO 1 and jumped in before anyone could say “Mayiladuthurai”. Moving stealthily and quickly, I secured my berth No. 70 near the door by placing my haversack on it. I was allotted the top berth. Top berths for top men. Hah!

The cubicle was empty except for me and another gent. Probably another agent. He didn’t speak much. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. This could be because he was fast asleep. Smart thing to do when you have to get off at half three in the morning.

I quickly opened my dinner box, unpeeled the butter paper wrapped around the butter-pepper sandwich and wolfed it down (wolfed down the sandwich, I mean, not the butter paper), shovelled in the curd rice and vadumanga pickle with the back-stabbing spoon and curled up in my bunker, er, berth. And didn’t sleep one wink. I wanted to, but was afraid I might wake up in Mayiladuthurai.

But I must have nodded off because I was woken up suddenly by some noise. The well-oiled clock in my head read 01:03:27 hours (my head follows the 24-hour system of telling time, starting from 00:00:00), we had reached some station, the train was motionless and there was commotion outside. It seemed like hordes of people were trying to get into our compartment. My sleep was eroded. I heard the word “erode” being bandied about and, using my superior intelligence, was able to guess where we were. Listening to the pandemonium outside, I prepared for the worst eventuality but need not have worried because I was ensconced in my top berth and no one attempted to snatch it away from me. It is rather difficult to snatch top berths away, you see.

Ultimately, a group of four persons, including a tiny kid of about three-and-a-half, barged their way in and triumphantly took possession of the vacant berths below me. Suddenly the compartment had become full and started to tilt ever so slightly towards our end. I lay still and pretended to be sleeping by not opening my mouth. But kept both my ears open. Just in case.

By and by the train chugged off once again and picked up speed. The din died down only slightly. Because the kid, who was secured to one of the middle berths by a printed Erode bed-sheet and the arms of his mother, wanted to get off and run around. He started demanding his rights vociferously but his amma was unmoved. The person I assumed to be his father was hiding under another Erode sheet on the top berth opposite mine. The kid started bawling loudly. I sobbed silently into my pillow. Goodbye, sleep, thou art mist terribly. Pray, when will thou come to mine eyes?

Ultimately and to my great relief, the kid and the mummy appeared to reach some kind of amicable settlement or understanding or truce; a couple of papers were signed and exchanged between them, they shook hands solemnly and went into silent mode. I tried sitting up to give thanks but there was no head room so I did it supine.

The next thing I remembered was that someone was shouting “Yendiru, adutthadu Trichy (wake up, next is Trichy).” I clambered down, slipped on my slip-ons, hitched my haversack and waited. The clock in my head said 03:29:38. Right on time, the train as well as the clock. (I must remember to continue to oil my head regularly.)

Trichy Fort! As I detrained and clambered up the steps of the over-bridge, I got a glimpse of the Rockfort Temple, lit bright. I paused and shot off a quick Namaskaram to my Supreme Commander.

The autorickshaw men of Trichy Fort are a militant lot. I am told that, back in the days of yore, they used to ferry warring soldiers from both camps up and down the fort. They became known for naming the fare and not budging but getting paid by the warring soldiers without demur. This automan wanted eighty rupees to convey me to my lodge. I felt the fare was unreasonable and told him so. He did not budge. I cleverly decided that, if he did not budge, I would, and got going by foot. When the going gets tough, the tough get going and all that sort of thing. After walking for about twenty rupees, I found another auto chap who quoted a more reasonable fare of sixty rupees. I got in and we phut-phutted to the seventy-year old hostelry which was to be my abode for the day.

The watchman at the gate asked me my name. I told him. His eyes opened wide and he opened the gate wide. I walked in, and presented myself at the empty reception. Nothing happened for about a minute. Then a genial gent who turned out to be the third generation owner suddenly materialised through the far wall and asked me my name. I told him. He just nodded and pushed a register towards me and, showing me a blank rectangle, told me to fill it, which I did, with a beautiful three-dots-reducing-to-one “kolam” ( or rangoli, traditional design made by hand from coloured powder, on the ground in front of houses and a popular custom in South India). No, actually, I filled in my name and address. I paid him a grand sum which shall remain confidential. He then made a secret notation in the register and said “1-2-3”. I blinked. This code was not given to me. Then he clarified, “that’s your room number” and I relaxed.  He advised me to “go and relax for some time”. Summoning the watchman, he handed over a key to him. The watchman politely relieved me of my haversack and waited.

It was not yet four o’ clock and still pitch-dark outside. I held the watchman’s hand and he led me to my room, my haversack in his other hand, I couldn’t see if it was the left or the right hand because of the darkness. He opened the door, switched on the tubelight and waited expectantly. I gave him ten rupees and he parked my haversack on the side table. Fair exchange.

After he left the room, I whooped and lay down for a spot of rest.

The lodge has a quaint dining hall, large and pillared. It serves only “tiffin”, no “saappaadu” or meals. There are small individual tables with a stool in front of each. There is also a sign which says “PLEASE PUT THE LEAF INTO THE BIN AFTER USE”.

They make only so many idlis every morning, a sort of a limited steamer service, and since half as many persons had already eaten, two to a person, the idlis were sold out. I had to be content with poori-urulaikizhangu (poori-potato sabji) and dosai-chutney-sambar.

I polished off two poories while my dosai was being manufactured. When it was delivered, I could only stare. It was a huge affair, about a yard in diameter and could easily be unfurled into an umbrella - it was only missing a stick with a handle on one side and spokes on the other. The dosai was reverently folded, re-folded and laid onto my leaf. Sambar and chutney were poured on one side while I tackled it from the opposite side, working my way inwards slowly but surely, all the while careful to ensure that the chutney-sambar dam was not breached. By and by, the leaf became clean. I rolled it up tightly, folded it in the middle and dropped it into the bin dutifully.  A hearty breakfast was finished off in typical style with a tumbler of strong filter kaapi, sakkarai kammi.

Having fortified myself thus, I set off from Trichy Fort on my mission. Which I won’t tell you about, it being a secret mission and all that sort of thing, you know. Suffice it to say that I accomplished a fair degree of confusion. My only regret was that I did not get to have panneer soda, the fizzy rosewater flavoured drink which I’ve had only in Trichy.

The return train journey to base was nothing much to write about, so I won’t write about it. I arrived back in Namma Bengaluru at the crack of dawn and was ferried home in an autorickshaw named “Om Madurai Veeran”.

© Shiva Kumar 2016

Rangaswamy & The Tiger

Hilarious!

Rangaswamy & The Tiger 

(Colonial Poetry of the Raj)

Deep in jungle I am went

On shooting Tiger I am bent

Bugger Tiger has eaten wife

No doubt I avenge poor darling's life

Too much quiet, snakes and leeches

But am not feared these sons of beeches

Hearing loud noise I am jump with start

But noise is coming from damn fool heart

Taking care not to be fright

I am clutching rifle with eye to sight

Should Tiger come I will fall him down

Then like hero return to native town

Then through trees I am espying one cave

I am telling self - "Rangaswamy be brave"

I now proceed with too much care

From nonsense smell this Tiger's lair

My leg is shake, I start to pray

I think I shoot Tiger some other day

Turning round I am going to go

But Tiger giving bloody roar

He bounding from cave like shooting star

I commend my soul to Kali Ma

Through the jungle I am went

Like bullet with Tiger hot on scent

Mighty Tiger rave and rant

Rangaswamy shit in pant!

Must to therefore leave the jungle

Killing Tiger one big bungle!!

I am telling that never in life

I will risk again for damn fool wife.

                                 ~ Anonymous

                                   (source: internet)

Unfair Words

P.G.Wodehouse (Plum to his fans) spoke about how difficult it is to find a rhyme for “love”.

Unfair Words

Plum spoke about the difficulty, by Jove

In finding a rhyming word for ‘love’

Dashed unfair are these dashed words

Can’t be rhymed forwards or backwards

Orange, for instance, is by itself, all alone

In solitary confinement, loneliness prone

The solution to this problem called orange

Is to simply its colourful name re-arrange!

Purple is one more such feller

Sort of a roving single bachelor

No kith, no kin, no mimic and no mime

No copy, no dupe, no verse nor rhyme!

And unless you deign to consider

Substitutes below par and inferior

You have to carry on, regardless

With orange and purple, rhymeless

-         © Shiva Kumar 2016

Dreamy Maal Chakni

Dreamy Maal Chakni

1. Sock 1 cup dal from the Urals, ½ cup dal left over from the tour and ¼ cup king-mother beans left over at night or at least 8 years, sorry, 8 hours old.

2. In a pressure pan, add a little pressure. Pour a little oil into the troubled pan and let it calm down. Heat it till hot. Frightfully lie one opped chonion, one small god of parlic and one finely gingered grate.

3. If you wish to add one or two spoons of kasoori methi, add. If you don’t wish to add, don’t. Subtract. Multiply. Divide. Do the math. Agar nahin karna hai toh math karo. Go and do khethi baadi instead.

4. Add one big tomato finely chopped or two small tomatoes super-finely chopped or three smaller tomatoes super-duper-finely chopped or four still smaller tomatoes totally super-duper-finely chopped or ... you get the Atlantic drift.

5. Add some terrific murmuring powder, silly red powder, dakhni maal masala and some tastefully pinched salt. Lie frightfully till the mixture is homogeneously reduced to a sad pulp.

6. Add the socked dals to the mocked masalas and a liberal dash of milk along with two fingers. Close pressure pan and cook well. Whistle a jolly tune 4 to 5 times. Check if you have put on weight since the last dal session. No? Good.

7. When the pressure subsides, open the pan and remove the fingers. Add more water, more masala, more salt and anything else lying around. Add more heat. Don’t subtract anything. Mat karo. Pinch more salt if you like. Remember to taste the salt before adding. Heat on till everything boils once more. Encore!

8. Give a coat of coriander varnish. Glory be to la hoja verde of the Familia Corianda. Go to the verandah. Play the viola. Voila!

9. Dreamy maal chakhni ready. Steady, go.

- Sieve Cucumbar

-      © Shiva Kumar

    18 July 2016

Bongo Trumpet

                                 THE BONGO TRUMPET

KOLKATA’S PHEVRIT TRANSAMERICAN NOOSEPEPPER

KOLKOTER PRIYA TRANSAMERICA PHANSAMARICA

To-day’s news delivered yesterday.

Read to-day and tear tomorrow : Aaj padho aur kolkoter karo

Published every now and then from the laptop. Ed: Sudden Shiv

Weakened edition: Soon-day, Sechszehn fur Siebzehn Joolai

One single page

CITY  ON  HIGH  ALERT !!! Plans for secret meeting unearthed by your phevrit noosepepper before any unearth happens. Read on! ACHTUNG!  ACHTUNG!  ACHTUNG! CAUTION NOTICE TO ALL KOLKATANS -          Filed by your correspondent from an undisclosed location in Sharif Town, Omar Kolkata, on Sola Joolai -            Your phevrit noosepepper has learnt from reliable but anonymous sources (your correspondent forgot to ask their names, but has promised a quick update within a week) that a group of unfettered lunatics are planning a secret rendezvous at, hold your breath, the ordnance factory! They are planning to have a blast there! (You may breathe now.) These as-yet unseen insanes are said to very closely resemble humans but prone to unpredictable behaviour. They have named themselves after a fruit of the genus prunus.  Without easting or wasting any time, your correspondent very generously shared a scoop of this three-scoop news and alerted the alert authorities. They immediately deputed the keeper of the simian enclosure who swung into action to track down and deal with these ufos. Meanwhile, the ordnance factory has been kept closed to-day. All weapons including brooms, sticks, coconut shells, papayas, etc., are safely stored in a wire cage, secured with foolproof pyjama naada. Your phevrit noosepepper has been tasked with the responsibility of issuing dire threats, sorry, urgent summons, sorry, saavdhaan notice to all citizens to be on the alert.

IMPORTANT WHATTUDU TIPS      1.    If you see any unidentified object or baggage at the railway station or the airport, do not pick it up. If you do, you will be responsible for paying the baggage charges. If you see any identified object or baggage, don’t touch it. The owner may not like it.      2.    If you see a copper without a helmet, beware. Our fruity friends are known to have a fondness for coppers’ helmets and may be lurking around the corner. They may be lurkas or lurkies, we don’t know yet.       3.      Our Prunus manus are said to communicate by throwing bread crumbs at each other. If you see bread crumbs strewn in your path, go around them. However, if you find bread crumbs coated with jam, then it is a new thing and needs to be investigated. Call us and we’ll see what we can do about it.       4.      Stay away from the ordnance factory. Don’t even think of having a blast anywhere near it.       5.      Watch out for flying fruits. If you are caught plum in front, turn around and run for it.       6.      That’s all for now. More soon. Stay at home to stay safe. Don’t exit. (Note from Ed: There will be no issue of your phevrit noosepepper until further notice as your correspondent has gone into hiding and the editor fears for his wellbeing. Soo you seen.)

Shoes for sale

SHOES FOR SALE

One complete pair of leather shoes for sale, my own

Comprising one left, black and the other, right, brown

Both left and right are of the same size, number eight

A nine might squeeze in but find the fit a mite tight

Also included: one black lace and one brown lace

There’s even a third one, burgundy, just in case

They’re as good as new, though the soles are lightly worn

And very carefully maintained, though slightly torn

Hate to sell as they’re deeply attached to my feet

But compelled to do it so as to make ends meet

If interested, contact my agent’s office

Uninterested parties may stay away please

-                                                                                                                -  Shoe Coomar

© Shiva Kumar -  July 2016

Hit Squarely!

Hit Squarely!

“Tok … tok … tok… …. … Yeow!!!!!”

You might be wondering what brought me to such painful grief. Well, I brought it upon myself.

It actually started like this one fine, lazy, Sunday morning. Having gone through the three newspapers which are delivered to me on Sundays, I contemplated deeply on the country’s plight for about four and a half minutes, tut-tutted when I read about today’s youth and commiserated with Dagwood Bumstead on his never-ending troubles with Dithers. There was nothing else in the papers which could hold my attention. I sat there, at a loss, twiddling my thumbs, my mind blank, seemingly in a vacuum.

I gazed into space for a few moments but there was nothing to see there except empty space. I found it extremely boring. I closed my eyes for a couple of minutes but there was an inky blackness which unnerved me. I tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, not at such short notice. I had had a good night’s rest and was feeling fresh as a daisy. I opened my eyes again and sighed.

My better three-fourths, busy as usual with her kitchen chores, saw me sprawled limpidly on the easy chair as she was passing by, and prodded me with the back end of a ladle.

“Why don’t you do some useful work for a change? You could dust the furniture or sell off the old newspapers or, better still, put up all those pictures you got framed last month.”

Now that last suggestion sounded like a good idea, something which would keep me busy for a couple of hours at the very least. Suddenly energised, I sprang out of the chair and headed off to get together the tools and tackles.

I keep a tool box handy for just such purposes. From it I gathered a handful of nails and wooden plugs, a carpenter’s drill, a hammer and my trusted tape measure. First I stood back and surveyed the living room wall facing the sofa where I would hang my favourite picture. Then, tape in hand, I measured out the width of the wall at a little above eye level and using my time tested knowledge and experience, I calculated and marked off with an “X” the exact centre, give or take a couple of millimeters. I stood back a couple of steps and checked out the spot again. It seemed perfect. Satisfied with my preparatory efforts, I proceeded further. With the carpenter’s drill, I carefully drilled a hole about a quarter of an inch in diameter and an inch deep. I hammered a wooden plug into this hole. It was now ready to take the nail.

I chose a one-inch nail which had a flat round head with a large striking surface, a smooth and straight shank and a sharp point. I gave it the once over to make sure that it justified its selection. It did, and I decided to hammer it in without further ado.

I held the nail with the point at the dead centre of the plug with my left hand and hefted the hammer in my right. After a couple of practice swings to get the feel and the follow through just so, I went for it. Starting from somewhere behind my right ear, I brought the hammer down smartly. It struck the nail squarely – my thumbnail, that is.

“Ayyoeow! Yeow, yeow, yeow”, I screamed, dropping the hammer. It fell on my big toe, causing me to yelp again, “ow, ow, ow”. I hopped around for quite some time till the pain subsided somewhat. Naturally I had to suspend all hammering operations with immediate effect.

What started off as a fine, lazy Sunday morning ended on quite a painful note for me. I retired hurt for the day, all thoughts of hammers, nails and picture frames put aside for the moment.

Those days were a daze!

Those days were a daze!

Once upon a time there was a tavern

Where we used to break a glass or three

Remember how we laughed at the barman

Think of all the great things we got free!

Those days were a daze my friend

We thought we’d never mend

We’d run and prance for hours without end

We’d live on musambi juice

We’d fight on without a truce

For we were stung and swore to have revenge

Refrain: Oo-oo-oo-oooooooo

(refrain from saying anything)

When the busy steward went rushing by us

We blasted him in indignation as he passed our way

If a glance you’d give me in the washroom

We’d grimace at one another and we’d bray

Those days were a daze my friend

We thought we’d never mend

We’d run and prance for hours without end

We’d live on musambi juice

We’d fight on without a truce

For we were stung and swore to have revenge

Oo-oo-oo-oooooooo

(refrain)

Just to-day I staggered near the tavern

The way in seemed crookeder than it used to be

In my glass I saw a strange concoction

Was that glowing lemon really free

Those days were a daze my friend

We thought we’d never mend

We’d run and prance for hours without end

We’d live on musambi juice

We’d fight on without a truce

For we were stung and swore to have revenge

Oo-oo-oo-oooooooo

(frown)

Through the floor came Amelia the doctor

She saw my face and tried to recall my name

Oh my friend we’re old but she’s older

For in her heart the beats are out of time

Those days were a daze my friend

We thought we’d never mend

We’d run and prance for hours without end

We’d live on musambi juice

We’d fight on without a truce

For we were stung and swore to have revenge

Oo-oo-oo-oooooooo

(refrown)

© Sibu Kumru 2016

The Jig Bamboorie

THE BIG APRIL FOOLS JAMBOORIE
(aka THE JIG BAMBOORIE)

It almost never happened but then happened suddenly. 

I was planning to have a couple of idlis with chutney evenly smeared on top, followed by a vadai floating in sambar, followed by a strong filter coffee, not sugarless but with less sugar. Then suddenly I changed my mind. It was due for a change anyway. I turned the car westwards and let the still afternoon breeze carry me towards the Cantonment station. And when I was at the junction where the station looms on my left I smartly and cunningly turned right, thru the wide open gates, deftly avoiding the water spray directed toward me by the watchman-cum-waterman who, I deduced quite easliy, was watering something. As I entered the hallowed precincts I could feel the earth tremble and hear sounds of maniacal laughter emanating from somewhere around the castle. I paused and asked the waterman "hey waterman or watchman, as the case may be, yahan what ho raha hai?" and he answered "yes". What a man!

(Pause - I have to go back to Cantonment now to get a train caught by someone who has to catch a train. So I shall continue this narrative tomorrow after working hours. By the way, I had a narrow exape to-day and those in the know know it.)

Alright, so continuing from where I left, I remember turning the old City away from the Cantonment, right into the JPH and being greeted by the wa-wa-man...

I turned round and looked behind me to see the afternoon train (Milk train? Coffee train? It was a goods train, Maal Gaadi) trundling into the station, hooting its whistle. The mystery of the tremors and the maniacal laughter was solved.

I parked the old faithful under the sun, for the shady portions were already taken over and, as I walked into the JPH, what do I see? People! My goodness, I thought to myself, fooled again. There were about a dozen strange faces staring at me, making me cringe. I cringed courteously from them and they all cringed courteously back from me. It was the wrong group. My group would never cringe. I excused myself and pointed myself towards the North-North-West corner. And there they were, the Loonatricks! They did not cringe. They seemed to be on a binge. There was a box of sweets being passed around and I managed to grab half a sweet as the box whistled past me.

I shook hands with a lady in yellow, a newly inducted internee I guessed, who mentioned something about chits. I nodded politely but before my mind could register anything, suddenly, from the depths of one of the cane chairs an apparition rose and stood before me. David Niven in the flesh! I was stunned for a moment before recovering somewhat, threw him a casual salute, greeted him wormly and asked him when did he get back from Navarone. He replied, “Navarone se nahin, Belgaum se aa raha hoon. Aur main David Niven nahin hoon. Milind Renegade hoon” and crushed my hand for good measure. When I could recover my hand from his grip, I moved around the table, greeting, in turn, The Boss (he showed me who was the boss by holding his hand away from me and conquered by forcing me to stoop), The Cap Man (who merely smiled and nodded because he was focussed on something on a plate in front of him), The Goat Lover, er, I mean The Great Lover who lives on the Balcony, who laughed at me and said “vaango, vaango”, The Weatherman (who looked like he was about to ask me a question but thought better of it and just shook my shoulder in an absentminded sort of way – I think he was composting a poem in his mind). I turned round and went back the way I came, around the table, I mean, and shook hands with the lady in yellow who said, this time in a clear ringing voice, that she was Sanchita. Ah, that explained the chits. Much relieved, I started to wonder loudly where her smaller half was. She raised her eyebrows and I subsided into silence. I then shook hands with The Rajasthani Mirage who seemed to be taking a break from terrorising all living things. She had flown in direct from the desert but was looking none the worse for it. She was, in fact, looking striking in a yellow outfit with chokers and talismans and medals and rings and things all over her. As if this was not enough, she was carrying a sling bag which, I suspect, contained, among other things, a slingshot, a sawn-off shotgun, hardened Rajasthani mini samosas and kachoris and other missiles. She didn’t admit to carrying all this contraband stuff but told us that what she had in her bag were all originally meant for her protection but now she was carrying them as momentos. She looked like she was just waiting to bean someone with a kachori so we maintained our distance and avoided looking her in the eye. Seated next to her was the Pint Sized madcap dressed in a black-and-jigna outfit with aerobatik work on it. Straight from Rajasthan. She put out her hand and tapped me on my head in greeting. I replied with a Namaste. All the fair ladies were well armed. Phew!

Ah, but I almost forgot the quiet man in the checked shirt sitting unobtrusively in the midst of the feisty ladies contemplating something and nodding to himself. I went up to him and wished him “Hi Johnny”. He tilted his head thirty degrees from the vertical to the right, nodded seven times and said “Johny ... mera naam nahin”. Our in-house Dev Anand fan, RS was in his elements.

Greetings and introductions over, I walked around the table once again to take my place among the stars. Actually, The Boss wanted me to do nine rounds around the table as we do to the Navagrahas, but I politely declined (my head was beginning to spin with all this turning-arounds).

It was good to be back amongst my pack of loonatricks.

I saw a huge moustache lying around on the table. It lay all curled up and was twitching occasionally. When questioned about it, Cad told me that it belonged to Sriram and he was trying to domesticate it. It had curled up for its afternoon nap. I wasn’t sure if this was a lie but we let it lie. Later on, we would take pictures with it.

There was a book on the table, under the moustache. Books don’t lie, so it was just sitting there. Cad asked me to open it to any random page and sing the first words I read to the tune of that cricket song, the one which describes how Raina gets out and Shyam doesn’t want to come in next probably because of the battering the batsmen were getting from the bouncers. I gently placed the moustache aside without waking it up, picked up the book and was able to accomplish the difficult singing task quite simply, chiefly through the good offices of Sriram who play-backed for me. Everyone applauded politely and I was handed half-a-glass of beer as a token of their appreciation. The Renegade, in a kind gesture, topped it up with foam. Soon I was frothing at the mouth. But the beer was good. And the company, better.

Then someone began passing a turban around and we all took turns wearing it. I was told that it was pinched from a palace guard or a camel, I forget which, in Rajasthan. When the turban went around the table (reminding me of myself), VGP thought we were passing the hat around and put some good amount of money into it but quickly took it back when he found no one else put anything except his or her head into it.

I made a call to our friend in Faridabad, the man who participates in our every meet through his voice . A voice which sounded like his answered and I asked “awaaz pehchana?” The voice said something which sounded like “ek mint”. Then our good man answered and said that he was not in a position to talk because he was a highwayman and was travelling in his highwaycar and needed to keep his hands, eyes, ears and mouth alert. I quickly passed the phone to SP and LM and they wished him a jolly good ride. All along, I kept my eyes constantly on my phone and made sure I got it back.

Meanwhile, the Rajasthan Returnee was loudly lecturing some of us about not being dressed in Rajasthani attire and threatening to strangulate us. She was holding a kind of a beaded choker in her hand and was swinging it around for all to see. The other guests in JPH got their tables shifted away from us as a matter of precaution and were heard requesting the waiters to form a protective ring around them. When she was not watching, the steward surreptitiously removed all the forks and knives from our table.

BM, who was all along maintaining a dignified silence till then, spoke up and told us about the important role a balcony played in the life of a married man. We agreed with him on the points he made, all of us except VGP, who seemed to have no clue. I attempted to explain to him what a balcony was but he said he already knew it and in fact had two in his house, but what he was clueless about was the meaning of “married man”. Immediately all of us stood up and tried to explain this to him. All, except SN Jr., JKM and LM, who were all married but not men.

We had just switched over to the topic of perils in life when in walked AV. The whole JPH gathering went still. Then JKM, LM and SP dived for cover but it was of no use. She had already spotted them. She was dressed in a resplendent maroon-and-jigna outfit which she said was of a Rajasthani origin and does anyone dare to dispute it? None of us were ready for any dispute so we maintained a sort of radio silence, meaning only murmurs, no loud talk. Combative, that’s the word which suddenly comes to my mind, I don’t know why.

We had rotis and gravies and curries and things for lunch. I preferred to have curd rice. But we were so engrossed in talk and cross-talk and talk-back that we forgot what we ate. We spoke of a little bit of this and a little bit of that and suddenly I remembered I was on duty and had a meeting to attend. We quickly rushed to the fountain in the small lawn to get ourselves photographed. SN Jr. nearly got drowned when she stepped into the fountain pool. Thankfully, it was only two feet deep and there was just an inch of water in it. Narrow escape.

Photographs over, we wanted to push off but the waiters were very reluctant to let us go. We were deeply touched by their attachment to us. Then the bill payment was made and they wished us a good evening.

I ran to my car and raced against time. I managed to reach my meeting venue with seconds to spare. Narrow, narrow escape.

A Leopard Spotted!

ExcluShiv!

On-the-spot report from your correspondent

A LEOPARD SPOTTED!

Zen galore, Tuwell Farawary

The denizens living in and around the zen village in the outskirts of our good old bean town have learnt a new pastime – that of spotting names, places, animals and things, especially animals, mainly leopards.

The whole locality was in a tizzy on account of the frantic traffic situation and the denizens have taken to spotting leopards to while away their time spent waiting for the roads to clear. The area faces terrible road snarls all the time and the collective roar of the automobile engines is so loud that one can’t hear the snarls of leopards and other animals roaming around on the outskirts of the outskirts.

Though why they should undertake such an unnecessary exercise, a fizool samay ki barbaadi, is beyond this correspondent’s understanding. Why go and spot something which is already spotted? Your correspondent put this question to one senior citizen trying to read a newspaper by holding it upside down and got the response, “Your question is spot on”.

This particular spotting of the stray leopard took place just a few days ago. The poor thing must have had an argument at home and run away from there, only to lose its way and end up right in the middle of a whole lot people sitting quietly in their cars trying to look busy. And before it could utter “mamma mia”, the idling gentry had spotted it!

The spotted leopard escaped from the traffic jam and ran into the compound of a school nearby. Finding a convenient swimming pool there, it promptly jumped into it and tried to shake off the newly acquired spots. Not succeeding, it jumped back out and looked around for alternative therapies.

A conscientious warden, employed by the department of natural justice to ward off wildlife which did not have valid IDs or donor passes, wandered into the same school and, looking through his binoculars, suddenly saw spots in front of his eyes. The Spotted One spotted him at the same time and attempted to charge him. Of course, he refused to pay, citing his inability to pay any additional charge on account of his meagre pay scale. After a few moments of confrontation during which nothing happened, the warden stepped smartly back into the pool and wet his pants on account of the water level being waist high. What a waste of starch and ironing! The leopard turned around and parked itself in a classroom and was seen gazing at the mathematical formulae written on the blackboard with a quizzical expression on its face.

The citizens quickly formed a four-man team consisting of a temporarily unemployed spot boy, a pizza delivery boy, a dance teacher and a brake inspector to negotiate with the leopard and convince it to go back.

The authorities were alerted and soon landed up at the spot, bringing with them two huge cages which they set up in two strategic spots. Some twenty three spectating bystanders, spotting a golden opportunity, promptly entered the cages and closed the doors after them.  They had to be coaxed out gently.

The negotiators then approached the leopard and asked him to quietly leave or else. The leopard was unmoved by this threat and refused to budge from his spot. After quickly conferring among themselves out of the earshot of the leopard, the team came up with an offer of a free pizza with three different toppings, free dance classes for three months, two paid pedicures at a five star salon and a prime spot on the front page of the town’s leading weekly.

It was an offer the leopard couldn’t refuse. With tears in its eyes, it went down on bended knees to thank them, whereupon an intrepid veterinarian who was hovering nearby with an injection in his hand promptly injected a tranquilising dose into its body.

The tranquilised leopard was carried off by the authorities who promised to release it without pressing any charges, which, in any case would not have been paid.