As my head sank into the pillow, I drifted into a soundless slumber only to be woken up by the bright lunar shine on my face. The moon was full and overhead, smiling brightly and made me fuzzy.
I decided to take a walk in the garden. A gentle breeze blew with the scent of summer night flowers. A handsome man from down South sat under a banyan tree. He alternated between crunching numbers in his head and frantically looking for something. On being asked, he said humbly he was looking for ways to pull out the Indian economy from the dumps. He was in charge of the country’s central bank and he looked a tad despondent.
Feeling sorry for him, I walked a few steps ahead and stopped short, hearing sweet nothings being whispered by what looked like, lovers. As I walked closer, I realized that this was a new game where the protagonists alternated the same notes of passion with different partners. I went closer to get a better look. Under the breeze and the stray clouds, a cute boy called Ranbir held a tall dusky woman in his arms; within a blink she was replaced with a full-bodied Brit girl with dubious Asian roots. I rubbed my eyes and blinked once more to now find the tall dusky woman rolling in the hay with a crazy guy called Ranveer. (Ranbir-Ranveer..they even chose similar sounding names so they wouldn’t get slapped in the act when they moaned the wrong name, I thought). This game was called musical beds. A popular gen Z game like Angry Birds, Candy Crush Saga, Serious Sam.
Scandalized, I returned to my room. Here I was shocked to find an overgrown Assamese school-boy in a black suit, red tie and bulbous eyes glaring at me from an idiotic looking box. His name was Arnab Goswami and if only he didn't lean at a 20-degree angle, one could spot his half-pants under the table. He was the nation’s conscience keeper, who would call 6 panelists to his show every night, not let them speak more than 6 words altogether, subject them to abject humiliation and then hiss and yell at the audience the remaining time. Presumably this Arnab (pronounced Ornob) was angry because he could never spout a full-grown manly moustache. Which is why he chose to spout venom on prime time instead.
Presently, this terminator flashed a piece of paper at me with a smug smile. The pencil sketch mush cast a light shadow over his pink lips. In his war room voice, he proceeded to yell. “Mr. Jha…Misterr Jha…Misterrrr Jhaa…MISTERRRR JHAAAAAAAAAA” (at which a couple of panelists wiped their brows, two others suffered failed bladders and one of them said ‘Hello hello..I think I’ve lost signal’). Unfazed, the fear evoking monster proceeded to demolish them one by one. He waved a paper victoriously at this Mister Jha and said with murderous rage – “I have a piece of paper with me today. I haaave a pieeeeece of paper with me today that the whole country will see. The Nation wants to knowww!! Misterrr Jhaaa with this paper you will be disrobed in front of the whole nation!!” On impulse I shut my eyes to the indignity of a Sanjay Jha without his robes. I have seen better in my youth. I could do without trauma in middle age. Maybe if my name was Hasiba Amin I would have enjoyed the party's strip show.
Shaking my head, I decided to step out on the street for a gulp of fresh air. Potholes glistened under the moonlight. The streetlights that were forgetfully left switched on during the day were turned off. Suddenly the peace of the dark silence was shattered with a growl of vehicles and laughter. It sounded like a Roman victory parade - soldiers, horses, women et al, fast approaching with their spoils of war.
Turns out it was no less a war. Haryanvi men wrapped in designer blankets, drenched in Dimple whiskey, riding Harleys and brandishing axes were chasing 3 women in a Meru cab, who along with the driver cowered like lambs to slaughter. That the women were Ugandan just added to the apathy of the watchers and the testosterone of the chasers. It was our very own Wild Wild North. Smart women had already taken care to avoid such a plight. At dusk, they had slipped into their chic made-in-China iron vest and lower, put on a chastity belt and tossed the key in the dry bed of Yamuna.
As the climax progressed, I woke up with the sound of the dramatic chase and gun shots.
It was winter, there wasn’t a moon, the Romans were gone and I had had too much to drink.
I decided to take a walk in the garden. A gentle breeze blew with the scent of summer night flowers. A handsome man from down South sat under a banyan tree. He alternated between crunching numbers in his head and frantically looking for something. On being asked, he said humbly he was looking for ways to pull out the Indian economy from the dumps. He was in charge of the country’s central bank and he looked a tad despondent.
Feeling sorry for him, I walked a few steps ahead and stopped short, hearing sweet nothings being whispered by what looked like, lovers. As I walked closer, I realized that this was a new game where the protagonists alternated the same notes of passion with different partners. I went closer to get a better look. Under the breeze and the stray clouds, a cute boy called Ranbir held a tall dusky woman in his arms; within a blink she was replaced with a full-bodied Brit girl with dubious Asian roots. I rubbed my eyes and blinked once more to now find the tall dusky woman rolling in the hay with a crazy guy called Ranveer. (Ranbir-Ranveer..they even chose similar sounding names so they wouldn’t get slapped in the act when they moaned the wrong name, I thought). This game was called musical beds. A popular gen Z game like Angry Birds, Candy Crush Saga, Serious Sam.
Scandalized, I returned to my room. Here I was shocked to find an overgrown Assamese school-boy in a black suit, red tie and bulbous eyes glaring at me from an idiotic looking box. His name was Arnab Goswami and if only he didn't lean at a 20-degree angle, one could spot his half-pants under the table. He was the nation’s conscience keeper, who would call 6 panelists to his show every night, not let them speak more than 6 words altogether, subject them to abject humiliation and then hiss and yell at the audience the remaining time. Presumably this Arnab (pronounced Ornob) was angry because he could never spout a full-grown manly moustache. Which is why he chose to spout venom on prime time instead.
Presently, this terminator flashed a piece of paper at me with a smug smile. The pencil sketch mush cast a light shadow over his pink lips. In his war room voice, he proceeded to yell. “Mr. Jha…Misterr Jha…Misterrrr Jhaa…MISTERRRR JHAAAAAAAAAA” (at which a couple of panelists wiped their brows, two others suffered failed bladders and one of them said ‘Hello hello..I think I’ve lost signal’). Unfazed, the fear evoking monster proceeded to demolish them one by one. He waved a paper victoriously at this Mister Jha and said with murderous rage – “I have a piece of paper with me today. I haaave a pieeeeece of paper with me today that the whole country will see. The Nation wants to knowww!! Misterrr Jhaaa with this paper you will be disrobed in front of the whole nation!!” On impulse I shut my eyes to the indignity of a Sanjay Jha without his robes. I have seen better in my youth. I could do without trauma in middle age. Maybe if my name was Hasiba Amin I would have enjoyed the party's strip show.
Shaking my head, I decided to step out on the street for a gulp of fresh air. Potholes glistened under the moonlight. The streetlights that were forgetfully left switched on during the day were turned off. Suddenly the peace of the dark silence was shattered with a growl of vehicles and laughter. It sounded like a Roman victory parade - soldiers, horses, women et al, fast approaching with their spoils of war.
Turns out it was no less a war. Haryanvi men wrapped in designer blankets, drenched in Dimple whiskey, riding Harleys and brandishing axes were chasing 3 women in a Meru cab, who along with the driver cowered like lambs to slaughter. That the women were Ugandan just added to the apathy of the watchers and the testosterone of the chasers. It was our very own Wild Wild North. Smart women had already taken care to avoid such a plight. At dusk, they had slipped into their chic made-in-China iron vest and lower, put on a chastity belt and tossed the key in the dry bed of Yamuna.
As the climax progressed, I woke up with the sound of the dramatic chase and gun shots.
It was winter, there wasn’t a moon, the Romans were gone and I had had too much to drink.
