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.