April 18, 2007

Mr. Sun was mercilessly puncturing the earth's sanctity with his stupid rays. People found solace in the dark clouds that glided to and fro, making more of a harmonic motion.

I had the misfortune of having to pay the month's electricity bill. It was the last day and few hours hence, we had to pay a fine. Ten in the morning, I dressed up and cycled to the counter. The line was already half a kilometer long. It seemed like they were distributing free gold coins. The whole place reminded me of R.K.Narayan's Malgudi. I didn't know that so many people lived in my neighborhood!(Im always hooked up on the computer, tying to compose something...) So I joined the bandwagon. There were two lines, one for men, the other for women and the innumerous kids they brought along.

I stood amidst the cacophony of cellphones and kids and a radio screaming in a neighboring saloon. I watched people fiddling with their bills twisting here, folding there and inventing every possible way of killing time. Some pathetic old men seemed so tsunami-affected. Women were carrying on their usual profession: gossip. No one seemed to enjoy his wait, except for a few microbusinessmen who were busy with their cell phones kissing their ears. Some plugged in the earphones to have a midday fiesta. What interested me, was a moron old man, who was apparently on a mission to provide any kind of social service to those in needs. For one thing, he looked funny. He had White, curly locks of hair and had grown his beard to rival Abraham Lincoln. The funniest part: He wore a rain cap to cover his bald head. And there were the large spectacles he wore, which made him look strange.

Everyone looked at him, when he talked to an old woman saying, "Have you taken the receipt? Is everything fine at home? Where do you stay?" I was fiddling with my cycle key. He walked towards me. Thankfully, he went to the man behind me. Now, here I was, ten days before a major screening test, listening to some idiot man on the road giving someone else a sermon.

Soon he donned the role of "Malgudi's talkative man". He gave a pellucid account of his wonderful days in office. I heard that he worked in some company which imported things for other countries and did something else with them …He wasn't clear, you know…… On the day he had finished working for 3 months, His boss had complimented on his intelligence. He was soon promoted to a higher post. Along with his promotion, he said, came his arrogance. Soon, he was shouting at people, I mean the tender guys or whatever they call them. He had to visit Rajasthan for some major issue. The old man had protested, but finally was forced to go to a commissioner in Rajasthan on an official visit. He swore at his boss. Everyone turned around.

I looked at the line. I had crossed two pit stops or two pillars and 9 people were ahead of me. I was the tenth guy. The Line was moving slower than a snail but faster than India's Fast RTC buses. I felt like writing a suicide note and giving it to that man. But I held on.

The old man was now speaking of a security guard in Rajasthan. He described him. I felt the sudden urge to urge him to write a novel, which, I was sure would win a Man booker. He would probably be christened as a writer/activist. The guard, he said, was so persistent in not allowing him to meet the commissioner. He was dismissed saying, "Sir is having lunch" and sometimes saying, "Sir is having tea" or "sir is with some clients" et al. The old man waited. Two and a half hours and he hadn't spoken a word to the guard. Now, he lost his patience. He went to the guard for one last time demanded permit. Then, it seems, he yelled at the guard. The whole place shook as he repeated the very words he had spoken, eons ago, to some incredible guard in far-off Rajasthan. The nasty, Hindi sentence he uttered was more an eye turner than the advertisers promise their bikes to be. He broke open the door and spoke to the commissioner. Said he to the commissioner – "I have been waiting far two ouvers. Why is youver guard not allowing me? Does he want tip? If he want tip, I will give tip, But why all this?" Then began a saga of how he discussed the matter with some higher official.

Two persons to go. There was the sudden overcrowding of people at the counter.
He had written about 'The Issue' to the defense minister- No, Home minister- or maybe both of them (who knows??). He paused. He slid before me to the counter. I didn't protest. If I did, He would probably compose another raucous parody on me. The lady in the counter had suddenly moved on to the ladies. A precious gift of time for him to continue. He spoke about how he gave the order to some German firm and got some time saved. God! Pity the Germans! He paid his bill. It looked like Homer, Shakespeare, Vyasa and Valmiki and Kalidasa had just completed reciting all their complete works. He took the receipt and began to read it right away. I managed to spill the words 'excuse me' out of my mouth. He turned around, viewed me frantically and moved over to the side muttering something.

If he were a cute little football, I tell you,

You would Have known me as "The guy Who Outplayed Pele ".