The Code Returns

The Dnyaneshwar Code (Part 2)

Sophie-Kutty and Robo Langdon have arrived in Pune, following Sophie-Kutty’s recently dead grandfather’s cryptic directions. Sila the hijra is in hot pursuit. They join the huge annual pilgrimage to Pandharpur known as Palki, looking for more clues. Inspector Jadhav too has sworn publicly to solve the mystery.

The Palki comprised long lines of simple rural folk walking along in bands.

Some carried banners. Many were singing, playing the cymbals, or chanting. The women wore flowers. The men were dressed in dhoti-topi. Elders were carried in palanquins. They had walked for days; covered hundreds of miles. Pune traffic was diverted to non-Palki routes. In their fervour for Dnyaneshwar, school kids and office goers too had decided to stay home.

Sophie-Kutty was filled with pangs of grief for the loss of her grandfather. She looked at Robo. They had grown fond of each other. “I think we should mix in the crowd separately,” she told him. “Let’s meet at the German Bakery tomorrow lunchtime.” Langda nodded. He knew she was right.

Next day, Sophie-Kutty was surprised to see Langda already at the German Bakery, hanging out with a familiar-looking face. “Meet Shantaram,” he introduced her. The famous Australian convict had lived in Mumbai slums, saving lives with his first-aid skills and equipment. Sophie-Kutty had loved the book but found the Marathi renderings pretentious.

“Hmm, not bad,” Sophie-Kutty acknowledged, impressed, “but see what I got!” and she brought forward a handsome but rather dirty-looking young man whose upper-class British antecedents became evident the minute he cleared his throat.

“Antimony Hopscotch,” Sophie-Kutty offered him proudly to the others.

“Fascinating, this Pulkey,” Antimony beamed with native wit. He put down his backpack and he and Shantaram compared notes on their separate groups, routes, rituals, evening entertainment, and where to get good dope.

“Son of a duke,” Sophie-Kutty briefed Langda. “Mother studied metallurgy at Edinburgh. Badly oppressed by life of royalty and disappeared in the middle of his gap year. Surfaces occasionally to e-mail addresses where his folks can wire him money.”

“Gap year?” asked an unfamiliar voice, “Do you mean he spent one year buying t-shirts? Sounds like my son.”

Sophie-Kutty and Robo looked up. Inspector Jadhav stood at the entrance stroking his moustache. A shrill scream from Sophie-Kutty cut short Langda’s socio-economic analysis of the phrase Gap Year. He looked hurt, but she pointed behind the inspector where Sila was shackled. The inspector looked modestly victorious. “We caught him trying to make away with Sant Dnyaneshwar’s sandals,” he explained.

Sila leaned forward and thrust a piece of paper into Langda’s hand.

“Gup re,” shouted Inspector Jadhav threateningly, “Ek kan patti lavtho”.

“Well done sir,” said Robo, “Sophie, we can go home now.”

“What does Sila’s note say?” Sophie-Kutty asked later as they tucked into greasy cheese toasts on the Indrayani.

“I’d forgotten about that!” Robo exclaimed and unfolded the slip, but recoiled when he read FART IN A SHED.

Sophie-Kutty studied the message, squinting worriedly into the railway sheds they passed. As they walked out of CST, Sophie-Kutty jumped up, slapping her forehead. “My grandfather would have been ashamed of me!” she exclaimed. Can’t you see Robo darling, FART IN A SHED is nothing but ANDHERI FAST! Let’s hurry!”

They raced across the streets, propelled by the sea of evening commuters, and fell breathless into an Andheri Fast, pouncing into window seats before others got them.

“Sila!” Sophie-Kutty screeched, leaning and stretching her hands out through the window bars towards the hijra who had found them again.

“I am innocent! Those were MY grandfather’s sandals, he was a famous hijra!” Sila shouted.  “DNA test was done and sandal found to belong in my family. Please Sophie-Kutty, remember one thing, Evidence in a corruption!”

“What?!” Sophie-Kutty asked, startled.

“Evidence in a corruption!” Sila repeated.

The train began to move. Sila ran alongside.

“Continue prior deviance” he yelled desperately.

“Her grandfather was a hijra?” Langda asked incredulously. “I’ve always wondered how these things work.”

“Robo, listen,” said Sophie sternly. “These are Jacob Sussanna’s last two messages. Both indicate very clearly that the convict Shantaram stole Sant Dnyaneshwar’s sandals.”

Arriving at Shantaram’s posh new apartment at Lokhandwala, they found the front door key under the door mat, but no sandals inside.

Later, Sophie-Kutty sipped her chai and mused despondently, “I should have realised my grandfather would never leave me so obvious a clue.”

“Look at this,” responded Langda excitedly, “FART IN A SHED also reads FANS HIDE RAT. Did you know that one year the British banned the Palki saying that the plague was going wherever the Palki went? But the order met with outrage and rebellion of such magnitude that they had no choice but to revoke it.”

“My god!” Sophie-Kutty hurriedly interrupted his lecture. “My grandfather was one smart old geezer! That fits in with Ha ha! Vast armpit injuries itch!”

It was Robo Langda’s turn to slap his forehead. “I’ve got it!” he shouted, leaping up.

Later that day, a beaming Inspector Jadhav faced a battery of mikes and press cameras. “I owe thanks to my dear friends Sophie-Kutty and Robo Langda with whose help the Mumbai Police have apprehended the notorious criminal Mr. Antimony Hopscotch.”

Jadhav and Langda had led Antimony into a temple, while Sophie-Kutty quickly picked up the sandals he left outside and returned them soundlessly to the relieved Palki. When Antimony’s own sandals had torn, he had been too broke to buy a new pair, so just helped himself to the Palki’s sandals without anticipating the resulting furore.

“It’s quite simple, really,” Langda said. “Evidence in a corruption and Continue prior deviance are both anagrams of Received pronunciation.”

“Besides,” added Sophie-Kutty, you must have noticed that most evil villains speak in that posh Brit accent. Remember Sher Khan in Jungle Book? Sean Ambrose in MI2? Lagaan, Mangal Pandey, Rang de Basanti? Cruella D’eville? Lord Farquhart? Hannibal Lecter? Even that horrid Simon Cowell in American Idol speaks like that.”

Concluded Inspector Jadhav, “From my side I am relieved that the culprit has turned out to be a foreign national. The minority groups would have been giving us lot of trouble. These days even our Hindus have become very sensitive and are closing down Hussain exhibitions and the like. The messages of our native Saints like Dnyaneshwar and Tukaram have become increasingly important and I request you all to follow. Jai Maharashtra.”

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 9 July 2006

The Dnyaneshwar Code

Robo Langda awoke slowly.

The doorbell had been ringing insistently for several minutes. He cursed silently and groped his way to the entrance of his apartment, forcing his eyelids painfully apart. That pesky sadistic newspaper boy did it every Sunday morning.

Robo opened the door with the chain on, and felt the large wad of newspapers thrust right into his gut. Coffee, he needed coffee. He tipped a generous shower of Brazilian instant into a mug of water and shoved it into the microwave. Then he saw the headline, and he reeled.

Castrating the ouch! it read. Langda’s breath came in slow, painful gasps. The famous communist poet Jacob Sussanna was no more. Langda, professor in History at the Bombay University, had read Sussanna in Femina and other esteemed magazines ever since he was a student. Sussanna had a brilliant mind, and was well known to be a storehouse of cultural knowledge. Vastly respected for his wit and wisdom, Susanna was a darling of the TV news channels and regularly held forth on various debate shows.

Fully awake now, Langda peered at the extraordinary headline and the photograph of one well-built Inspector Jadhav, arms akimbo. According to the article, Sussanna had phoned Jadhav bare seconds before he died of a massive heart attack. He had been sounding rather strange – Jadhav confirmed that Sussanna often sounded rather strange – and had requested the Inspector to come and see him immediately though it was the middle of the night. Indulgent of the eccentric behaviour of brilliant poets, Jadhav had rushed to his side, but too late. Sussanna lay on the floor, tightly clutching a note in his hand on which was hand-written, in bold capital letters, “Castrating the ouch”. What could it possibly mean?

“Inspector Jadhav is certain that Sophie-Kutty, famous Sudoku champion and granddaughter of Susanna, will have a solution to this mystery,” the article concluded.

Langda, who had an earnest face and kind heart, was romantically unattached. He thought for a moment, then pulled on his trousers, splashed some water on his face, and walked down to the Bandra station.

Soon enough, Sophie-Kutty appeared, and Langda, cunningly looking the other way, stuck his leg out so that she tripped over it. As he helped her up, they held each other’s hands for a brief, warm moment.

Sophie herself was not that bad looking and had small, well-formed (but extremely strong) bones.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your grandfather,” Langda said gently.

“He was trying to warn me,” Sophie-Kutty sobbed. “I’m so scared – see, I’ve been followed!” and she nudged Langda, indicating subtly with her eyebrow. Langda looked where she had pointed and said soothingly, “Don’t worry Sophie-Kutty, that’s only Sila the hijda. She lives behind Elco and I’ve known her for years. She’s quite nice, really.”

“But she’s chasing me,” Sophie-Kutty whispered. “My grandfather knew this was going to happen!”

“Sussanna was a genius,” said Langda. “You know his penchant for double meanings. Take a closer look,” and he pointed at the headline.

Sophie-Kutty gave a little start. “Of course!” she said. “I should have seen it myself. It’s a simple anagram. Re-arranged, CASTRATING THE OUCH reads CHURCHGATE STATION. She tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s hurry!” and they raced across the overbridge.

The train pulled into Churchgate and the two stumbled out but Sophie-Kutty’s blood ran cold. Sila was lurching along behind them, pushing the other well-dressed Sunday commuters out of the way. They hid for a moment behind a milk booth and when Sila paused, Sophie-Kutty grabbed Langda’s sleeve. “He’ll never look here,” she said, and pulled him into the Gents. It was deserted but the stink made them retch. Then, a large graffiti on the side wall made them reel. Retching and reeling, they clutched onto each other for support.  “Ha ha! Vast armpit injuries itch,” Sophie-Kutty read aloud. “What can it possibly mean?”

“I know!” Langda shouted suddenly. “Quick! Can’t you see, it’s another anagram! My god, Sussanna was a genius! CHHATRAPATI SHIVAJI TERMINUS!”

The two ran out and piled hurriedly into a taxi. After the toilet, that whiff of Sophie-Kutty’s perfume was very pleasant to Robo.

“Jaldi, jaldi!” Sophie-Kutty begged the taxi driver when Sila began tapping on the window with threatening looks.

They shot off but Sila ran alongside. “Just ignore her,” the driver advised. Sila was keeping abreast, tapping on the window, sari flapping in the wind, muttering dire threats. “These hijras are something else,” said the driver, “they could make our country proud by joining the Olympics or the marathon. But no, all they want to do is chase my taxi.”

Langda was immersed in thought. Peering at the headline again, he gasped. “Sophie-Kutty, look at this! Castrating the ouch can be rearranged to read CATCH TOUGHER SAINT. My god the extent of Sussanna’s cryptic skill is simply amazing. Finally I know what he was trying to tell us.”

Langda rushed to the window and bought 2 tickets to Pune.

“It’s the Palki,” he explained to Sophie-Kutty. “It’s one of our oldest religious traditions! The greatest ever expression of spontaneous faith! A movement never sullied by politics or powerbroking! Every year, untold thousands of pilgrims walk from all over the countryside, through the birthplaces of the great saints of Maharashtra. Huge processions swell as they move from one village to the next, until they reach Pandharpur on Ashadi Ekadashi.

“Tukaram, Dnyaneshwar, Eknath – these names you have surely heard? The Bhakti movement influenced the course of our country’s religious history from the 13^th to the 16^th centuries. They preached the equality of all humans, the all-pervasiveness of the almighty, and that spirituality had no favoured language. Of course the Brahmins didn’t agree.”

Sophie-Kutty yawned, Langda was a History Prof, remember.

The train pulled in at Pune Station. Among the crowd of faces that milled on the platform, Sophie-Kutty spotted Sila, and shivered.

-        Will Sophie-Kutty and Robert Langda solve the mystery of Sussanna’s messages?

-        Will her grandfather send any more irritating anagrams?

-        Will Sila finally attack them?

-        Will Sant Dnyaneshwar’s sandals be returned to the Palki?

-        Read about it next week in the concluding part of The Dnyaneshwar Code.

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 2 July 2006

Famous Five Go To Lonavala

It was the first day of the summer holidays and Junoon, Annapoorna, Deepali and Digambar sat in the train, chattering excitedly. Digambar bit into his cheese toast. “Isn’t it simply wizard to be going to Lonavala,” he said.
“I was just thinking how odd it was that our parents never seem to take us home for the vacations,” Deepali mused. The dog Timmiah who sat curled up under their seats thumped his tail and made a low growling sound that they knew meant he was a little puzzled too.
“Yes,” said Annapoorna, squinting her eyes hard in concentration, “I’m trying but I can’t for the life of me remember how me mum looks. I wonder what the Athavale’s are going to be like.”
Mrs. Athavale stood at the gate of the honeysuckle cottage, beaming with a merry twinkle in her eye. She was large and a bit untidy but looked very jolly and the children knew there were many treats of puran poli and perhaps a midnight feast or two with shreekhand that they could look forward to.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she glowed at them merrily.
“Really,” said Junoon. “Being pregnant is one thing, but expecting four children and a dog – honestly. That’s a bit much even for this country.”
No one laughed. “I think I’m getting a bit old for this lot," Junoon thought to himself.
Junoon, Digambar and Annapoorna were brothers and sister. They were at the same boarding school as their cousin Deepali.
“Hello, Deepali,” said Mrs. Athavale trying to give the girl a motherly hug.
“I’m Deepak,” she responded fiercely but Junoon intervened before Mrs. Athavale could take offence, handing her a box of Cooper’s fudge that they had bought near the station before they trudged up the hill to Kailashdham, the Athavale’s summer cottage where children could have adventures. It had stables and everything. “She wants to be a boy,” Julian explained. “She’s saving all her pocket money and expects to have enough for an operation in 2009 at Dr. Polly Umranikar’s pollyclinic. You can call us Julian, Anne and Dick. This is our dog Timmiah, but of course we all call him Timmy. You can too,” he added kindly.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Athavale ushered them in cheerily. “Kashinath Uncle is in the study, and you can meet him later. He keeps himself to himself and children, don’t mind him when he gets cross, he has a heart of gold. We want you to enjoy your holidays here and you can walk around and do whatever you want but just keep away from that area over there where you can see all the trees have been uprooted.”
A little thrill ran through the children. “Why can’t we go near that area over there where all the trees have been uprooted?” asked Annapoorna?
“Yes, why can’t we go near that area over there where all the trees have been uprooted?” asked Deepali fiercely.
“Now don’t ask too many questions children,” Mrs. Athavale admonished, waving a cheery finger at them with a little twinkle in her eye.
That night the children, tired out with excitement, fell asleep at once. Nothing disturbed them till early morning when a cock from one of the nearby poultry farms got in through a window into the room where the boys were sleeping, sat on a rafter just above them, and crowed loudly enough to wake them both with a jump.
“What’s that!” said Digambar. “That awful screeching in my ear! Was it you, Ju?”
The cock crowed again and the boys laughed. “Blow him!” said Junoon, settling down again. “I could do with another couple of hours sleep!”
Just then, Deepali came running in, panting. “There’s lights flashing in that area over there where all the trees have been uprooted!” she called out excitedly. “Come ON, you lazy lot!”
Deep, who was going into the 10th that year, had been sitting at her table all night fiercely mugging up the 10 years solved SSC papers when she saw the lights flashing in that area over there where all the trees had been uprooted. A little later she heard the back door close, and heard someone creeping up the stairs. She got up to investigate, and could have sworn she saw Uncle Kashinath’s bright red dressing gown disappearing round the corner into his bedroom. What on earth could he have been doing flashing lights in that area over there where all the trees had been uprooted? She ran to get the others so they could go and investigate together. “Smugglers!” Digambar had said excitedly. “Silly clot,” said Junoon, “We’re nowhere near the coast! It’s probably just the nasty builders and their nefarious deforestation, setting up a swimming pool villa complex while the civic authorities doze.” And Annapoorna had put her foot down. “I don’t think Mother and Daddy would approve,” she said firmly. “We’ve only been given the ONE instruction. I’m not going anywhere near that area over there where all the trees have been uprooted that the Athavale told us to stay away from, are you Timmy old boy?” Timmy thumped his tail and made a low growling sound that they knew meant that HE certainly wasn’t going anywhere near it.
So the children kept away from the area over there where all the trees had been uprooted, and the holidays went by in a haze of sunshine, walks to Bushy Dam, chicken biriyani made with chicken from the nearby poultry farms, nimbu pani made by Annapoorna, and Digambar had to visit the dentist and have a tooth extracted from eating too much chikki.
But one day as they were walking home, tired but happy after a game of snap on the grassy downs by the old highway near the Fariyas Hotel, Timmy ran after a stick thrown by Junoon and vanished out of sight. The children ran in the direction Timmy had disappeared. “TIMMMMY!” they shouted, over and over, but there was no response. Annapoorna began to cry. Deepali looked sulky, and Digambar kicked a large stone off the edge of the road. Even Junoon’s manly chin quivered a little. Suddenly, an orange ball of fur bounded out from behind a boulder and jumped on Annapoorna, knocking her over.
“It’s you, Timmy!” she shouted in glee, hugging the dog and sobbing in relief. The boys crowded round. “Timmy, old chum,” began Junoon, but Digambar held his nose and made a face. “Peeyoo, you stink, Timmy,” he said.
Deepali had wandered over to the side. “Do you lot know where we are!” she exclaimed fierecely. “We’re in that area over there where all the trees have been uprooted!”
“So we are!” exclaimed Junoon. “Now I understand! The orange mess and horrible stink that Timmy’s covered in … the flashing lights early morning … Uncle Kashinath’s unexplained absences … don’t you see, it those mangoes we’ve been eating! Don’t know if you’ve noticed but none of the little cottages we’ve spent our vacations in ever had a toilet. Good old Timmy, he always solves our mysteries for us, doesn’t he!”
“Good old Timmy,” agreed the others, but Anne was the only one who would let him come anywhere near them as they bounded up the road towards the sabudana vadas Athavale Aunty had promised them.

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 11 Jun 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied a range of humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

India, a software superpower

In 6 Autobiographical Chapters

Chapter One (The Application)

To,

Recruitment In charge,

Hi-fly Technologies.

Subject: Application to offer myself for the openings in your firm.

Respected Sir/Madam,

This letter is in response to your advertisement calling for engineering professionals. I intend to offer myself for the career opportunities you have in offing.

It is with no ambiguity when I say that every engineering professional aspires to have their careers kickstarted with a start at your esteemed organization. Your renowned organization's name is synonymous with "Technology and Development" and it is hard not to have heard of you, especially among the engineering fraternity.

As of you to know me, I am attaching herewith my personal academic and other information in my resume for your kind perusal.

I hope to meet you in person and prove to you, my ability and deservedness to associate my services towards both our interests.

Yours faithfully,

Saaz Aggarwal

Chapter Two (The Interview)

Good morning to you madam. Myself Saaz Aggarwal. I am extremely most grateful that you are abling to consider my applications. I am very hardworking and sincere person. If you will give me opportunity I will forever grateful. I will work very very hard and you will never be causing to complains. My technical skills is very excellent. From childhood itself I am doing websurfing and I enjoy to computer games too much. So my mama-papa they are telling to me that you must have to become software engineer. Software engineers is very hard working and getting foreign opportunity also. Further, my communication skills is also perfect and I am having leadership abilities to demonstrate. Now I will tell little about myself. Myself Saaz Aggarwal. I am very sincere and hardworking person. Upto fifth standard I am standing first in class every day. I am very brilliant by nature and was getting into engineering colleges in many states but have chose to continue further studies in Pune itself. In hobbies I am solving aptitude test and CAT papers daily. Everyday I am enjoy the cricket on TV. Please to give me opportunity in your esteemed organization and I will never regret.

Chapter Three (My Date Of Joining Is Also My Birthday)

Good morning to you all of you my dear friends and superiors. I am not thinking any other company in whole world is bringing cake for each and every single employees. I am very extremely happy and lucky person to join company who is giving so much individual importance to all of the individuals and today is my birthday also so thanking you very much for birthday cake and celebrations. Today is my first day of working in company. I am very bright and fresh youngster. I am think to learn great deal and contribute to growth of company. I will be very hardworking and never complain about all the situations. My family is told to me that I should try my best in all the things. I will try to my utmost to satisfy my superiors in every works they are telling to me. I look forward to very long and fruitful associations with all of you my very dear friends. This is company to be exactly like family to me and I am extremely very happy, nobody can feel so happy as I am feeling. After many years I will work and company shall gain many benefits from me and I too shall grow along with company.

Chapter Four (Going On Site. One Month Later)

Now I have finish to my induction training. I am learning too many things about dotnet and so many nice-nice Microsoft technologies. All the colleagues are very friends. Company has offered many nice nice facilities and facilitate paying of electricity bill, telephone bills and the like. We are having too nice supportive environment in company. Next week ago I am going to put on live project in client-side. I will getting some allowances and the like. Next week I am getting loan approval to take bike. I shall bring peda for all the friends and superiors in office. My office is too nice place and we are enjoying many Japanese classes also.

Chapter Five (My HR Department. Six Months Later)

I was thinking that my HR manager was liking to me very much. Every time when I am seeing her I am saying hello with very big smile. She is also smiling and looking very much happy. One day she was telling to me that you must fill up training feedback form. I am ticking to every box is “excellent” so I am thinking HR manager will be happy with me. Now my six months trainee periods is over and I think so my performance is very extremely good so we shall be skip probation periods and HR will be going to do my confirmation in performance review. However such is not the case. I am be continue in probation only. My many other friends are there in other companies and this time all companies are giving 20% pay hike to all employees however here we are not getting. I am think so management is got confused in expansion mode.

Chapter Six (The Application. Ten Months Later)

To,

Recruitment In charge,

Cocacolasys Infotech.

Subject: Application to offer myself for the openings in your firm.

Respected Sir/Madam,

This letter is in response to your advertisement calling for experienced software professionals.

I intend to offer myself for the project opportunities you have in offing.

I am very intelligent and hardly workings 3 years experience Project Leader with extensive knowledge of Japanese language and cultural habits. I have worked on large number of Japanese client side projects and have become familiar with lot many Japanese peoples and cultural habits. I was also about to past Sankyu level of Japanese language certification however project pressures came and I was working daily till 2 p.m. in the morning so therefore I was unable to prepare for examination. If I was getting opportunity to pass examination then surely I would have been getting 70% or 80% marks. If I am sent to client side project in Japan then Cocacolasys Infotech will be getting my very good benefits.

As of you to know me, I am attaching herewith my personal academic, experience, and other information in my resume for your kind perusal.

I hope to meet you in person and prove to you, my ability and deservedness to associate my services towards both our interests. However please to excuse me from sitting for aptitude test. My aptitude is being very excellent. I am having 3 years experience and aptitude test need not be required for senior members of development team.

Yours faithfully,

Saaz Aggarwal 

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 7 May 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied a range of humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

The Economist Style Guide to the Galaxy

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Express Highway lies a small un-regarded yellow brick Cooperative Housing Society. Nestled inside, roughly at a distance of Rs. 14 by rick from the nearest station, is an utterly insignificant blue-green kitchen.

This kitchen has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: though the dishes that lay in them had not been washed, there was absolutely nothing there for the cockroaches, which roamed freely under the sink, to eat.

 Many wise people pondered this problem. Some had brilliant ideas, and wrote long, sometimes rather witty, fortnightly columns and when the newspaper was delivered, they would spend long hours smiling back at their faces, oblivious of the cockroaches for the nonce. Nothing seemed to work.

 And then, one Thursday, two thousand and six years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a young man sitting on his own watching Taxi No. 9211 suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and he finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. The young man, whose name was Maruti Suzuki had found, tucked under his cinema seat, a sheaf of printed papers with the cryptic title (in large friendly letters) The Economist Style Guide and it had answers to all the questions that had ever crossed his mind. Son of the well known Sangli-based half-Japanese barber Muchikapuka, Maruti was a roving freelancer and it was his kitchen in which the cockroaches sought nourishment in vain. Maruti picked up the sheaf and squinted at it eagerly. Unwilling to wait until Intermission, he shone his cellphone torchlight on it.

 “Clarity of writing usually follows clarity of thought,” he read. “Try to be economical in your account or argument. “As a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigour it will give to your style.” (Sydney Smith)”

 Wow! Maruti wiped perspiration from his brow at the force of the well-chosen words.

 Immox the hot, Immox the remote, Immox with the bossy staff who don’t permit outside food! He sat back and immersed himself once again in the film, his 29^th Nanny Pattycake movie in a row. He was working on a cover story on screen tragedy heroes, and Pattycake was his chosen favourite. Heartthrob of post-menopausal women throughout the known universe, Pattycake was also (Maruti knew) widely admired for his wit, cynicism and generally anti-religious attitude, and this was borne out by the parting exchange of their meeting a few days before.

 Pattycake had spoken admiringly of the 9:43 Bandra-Churchgate slow that he had used as a student and which still ran its unflinching schedule come April heatwave or August deluge. He held the existence of this local to be a final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God, thus:

“I refuse to prove that I exist,” says God, “for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.”

“But,” says Man, “the 9:43 Churchgate slow is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. Q.E.D.”

“Oh dear,” says God, “I hadn’t thought of that,” and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.

 They had laughed, and parted friends. Maruti now scrunched himself further into his seat as he skimmed another passage in the Guide.

 “Some words add nothing but length to your prose,” he read the reassuring words with a frisson of pleasure. “Use adjectives to make your meaning more precise and be cautious of those you find yourself using to make it more emphatic. The word very is a case in point. If it occurs in a sentence you have written, try leaving it out and see whether the meaning is changed.

Maruti let out a low groan. If only, if only he had known this before that interview with Sachin Tendlichibhajiaanre the littlest master-batter that this nation has ever seen! He resolved that he must do yet another interview with the great man, in which he would wipe out every single superlative and all the very’s.

The day of the meeting, Maruti received an early-morning anonymous phone call. “Gold seal!” a husky voice whispered into his fuzzy unwashed ear. “New organic treatment!” And it read out a phone number. Maruti grabbed a pencil, sought around desperately for a piece of paper and then tried scratching it into the floor but the point broke. The caller hung up abruptly. Maruti slapped his forehead in exasperation. He had been so close to solving the mystery, and now the clue was gone, out of his reach forever! To make matters worse, Tendlichibhajiaanre, when they met, spoke in familiar but cryptic and rather incongruous nuances.

“I facing many problems when I be younger,” he began earnestly, “But I trying my best and learning lot many important skills. Some people helping to me. Many poke the funs at me.” Maruti, taken aback, narrowed his eyes, unable to pinpoint what exactly this reminded him of, but his expression cleared when Tendlichibhajiaanre added, as explanation, “Boasting, is the secret of my success.”

 “An empty vessel makes the most noise!” he now intoned sonorously. “One drop of honey will attract more cockroaches than fifffty litres of sherry!”

“Pompous ass!” thought Maruti, but then sat up straight with a light in his eye when it struck him that this string of clichés might just hold a clue to his dilemma.

Trembling, Maruti picked up the Guide for reassurance. A thrill shivered through him as he read, “Lazy journalists are at home in oil-rich company A, ruled by ailing President B, the long-serving strongman, who is, according to the chattering classes, a wily political operator – hence the present uneasy peace. Prose such as this is freighted with codewords (respected is applied to someone the writer approves of, militant someone he disapproves of, prestigious  something you won’t have heard of).

Maruti was breathing hard. Filled with a new resolve, he now set out for Bombay Central to board a launch to the party where Kishore Biriyani was said to be standing at the Crossroads. Maruti knew that the party was his last chance for a solution to his cockroach problem. He was also eager to experience the fantastic globs of food passed around stuck on small sticks, which, Salman Corn had once told him, very large sums of money were paid for by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots.

This was before Corn had been convicted and clapped in irons for being a complete rascal. Still, Maruti had been well aware that he was not above a little bribery and corruption in the same way that the sea is not above the clouds. It was well known that when he heard the words integrity or moral rectitude he reached for his dictionary, and when he heard the chink of ready money in large quantities he reached for the rule book and threw it away.

Maruti turned once again to his trusted Guide for sustenance. “A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image,” said Orwell, “while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically “dead” (e.g. iron resolution) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes there is a huge dump of wornout metaphors which are merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves.”

Maruti felt a surge of wellbeing rush through him. He knew now that he was very close to receiving the final answer. And then he saw it! The road leading to his Cooperative Housing Society was dug up for cable-laying and maybe a flyover or two. He walked balancing himself gingerly on a pile of loose black earth. Then, just outside the gate, he saw a large signboard with a black and yellow striped border and with large letters flashing in bright orange. Here was the answer he had been seeking all these years: “Inconvenience Caused is Deeply Regretted,” it said. 

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 16 Apr 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied a range of humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

The Potato Eaters

Annie Tharakan by Woody Allen

Annie Tharakan limped because her shoes were too tight. “Didn’t you try them on before you bought them,” her mother barked.
The truth was that Annie had not felt comfortable in the shoes but she could never bring herself to say no to a salesperson. “I want to be liked,” she admitted to Sushma-madam, the nerdy Maths teacher. “Once I gave all my pocket money away to someone who said she was collecting for the Deaf and Dumb Association. She sprinted away as soon as I put the money in a tin piggy bank which she held out to me, and I’ve never seen her again at the Solar System mall.”
Annie and her school-mates did spend a lot of time at the Solar System mall. They liked it because the escalators had shiny handrails and there were large signs that said SALE 50% discount on selected items, conditions apply. But also because it was air-conditioned and the toilets had a warm-air hand dryer which occasionally worked.
Sushma-madam was outwardly sympathetic but she would later mock Annie in the teachers’ common room. Annie’s mother, who taught Geography, happened to be there. She told the others about certain tribes in Borneo that do not have a word for “no” in their language and consequently turn down requests by nodding their heads and saying, “I’ll get back to you.” She too appeared warm and understanding and inviting of confidences, but later hit Annie on the head with the blunt handle of her imported rubber spatula all the same. “Why did you buy them if they’re too small?” she asked Annie, unaware that she was articulating a quintessential human paradox.
The day Annie bought the shoes, she had actually gone looking for bras. A nice-looking but slim sales girl with a name tag that said Cynthia came up and said “Have a nice day”. Annie was desperate but felt shy to ask for help because there was a man watching her and she naturally didn’t want him to hear what she said when she confessed her bra size to Cynthia.
For some reason, Solar System had put this pimple-faced youth in charge of Nighties. Women would approach the counter but turn around quickly once they saw him. Naturally, nobody ever bought any nighties. He was quite a pleasant-looking fellow actually, as he leaned comfortably on his counter, resting his chin on his arm, and watched while Annie crept round trying to pick up bra boxes and check the size and design without him actually seeing what was written on them.
Finally she gave up and wandered towards some loud sounds near the entrance. It was the finals of a song and dance competition. Annie watched with envy as Pravina who sat next to her in class swayed and bent to the sounds with simple abandon. Even Rishi, the boy whose father ran the kirana shop just outside Annie’s building was swinging beautifully. No one could imagine that the Rishi who helped at the shop on weekends and made home deliveries on his bicycle outside school hours could have reached the semi-finals of this national show with footfalls as stylish as these! Annie sighed. She felt sad and depressed. Slowly, she walked towards the food and grocery section, and inched to the chocolate counter stealthily checking from the corner of her eyes that no one was watching. Near the dog food counter, a boy and girl called Rinku and Pinky were sailing a ball at each other, skipping around, and singing a very silly song. Annie did not even have a dog. She did not know the meaning of the expression GIMROI. But she did have enough money to buy some chocolates.
There was no Zippy-mate raisin-enriched fun-bar, the chocolate that gives you more raisins, more chocolate, more iron content, more energy, more calories, more everything per cubic metre than any other chocolate. Annie did try asking two sales girls where she could find some, but they were very engrossed in whispering secrets to each other and when they detached, they would only look at the other shoppers and tell them admiringly, “Good morning, madam!” and “How can I help you, sir!” with so much charm, sincerity and enthusiasm that Annie just did not feel like getting in the way and she bought Cheepy-mate instead since it was marked down to Rs. 5 from Rs. 13.50 and also 15 for the price of 3. Their lovely green-striped aprons reminded Annie of Cynthia from the Ladies’ Underwear Department and filled with a new resolve, she went back upstairs, determined to get what she had come for.
Cynthia was kind and when she understood the problem, asked the pimple-faced youth (Annie saw from his name-tag that his name was Viren) if he’d mind going on his lunch break now. He argued for a while, then before he moved off gave Annie a deeply reproachful look which Annie knew would haunt her forever. Later, she stood in line at the till with the 3 bra boxes concealed safely at the bottom of basket filled with dog food and Zippy-mate and the shoes which were too tight. But when her turn came, she was horrified to discover that there was no barcode sticker on them and the till assistant had to call out loudly to the supervisor, describing the product in great detail so it was heard by not only everyone in the store but also Viren, the pimple-faced youth, who happened to be passing by at that moment and he turned around and gave Annie a triumphant sneer.
Annie was sad but it was a lesson she would never forget as long as she lived and a few years later when she became sought after as a witty dinner companion she would hold long discourses on the subject and repeat often “Location,” – and here she would briefly before driving home the punch line – “Location” (she would repeat for effect) “is everything.”
First appeared in  Sunday Mid-day on 19 Mar 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.