satire: Call Bell -a colonial relic

 

According to a recent report, Hon’ble Netaji has issued a decree. The office call bell should be removed from the officers’ chamber. Reason? the bell is a symbol of colonial past. We are living in a democracy. So now while you may have your peon/MTS   you may call him on his cell-phone and request what you want. This will be the last nail in the coffin of colonialism. Did you know death of colonialism was so easy, by just removing call bell from office. How easy you have made its death sir.

 

The domestic grinding mill of grains/spices etc. In household lingo it is called Ghar-Ghanti. So now next item on Netaji's ‘TO DO’ list is call-bell of your chamber.  

 

It is said that Mughal emperor Jahangir had put a bell in his palace and the end of the rope was hung to enable aggrieved person to ring the bell to attract the attention of the emperor seeking his audience. But now the grievance cannot be heard. How will you listen? even if you want to. Office and its files are inseparable. Who will carry files from one desk to another if there is no bell. As far as cell phones are concerned, that also will ring a bell only. 

 

When all the data was digitized in an office, a grand computer section for its maintenance was inaugurated by Netaji with great fanfare and explained how now all the record will be available with a click of a mouse. But he forgot his own staff has doubled their rate of facilitation fee (bribe) reason-- "Earlier it was in our hands, now everything is in the computer room, where the entry is highly restricted. Even the guys working there can only get in after removing their shoes.

 

Instead of removing call-bell better would have been to make seating arrangement of the peon inside along with Saheb. That would have been real socialism. The only hazard is visitors would have mistakenly taken peon to be the Saheb and vice-versa. This would have been a great motivational positive stroke to peon.   

 

It could have been better if a Jahangir type bell was placed in the chamber of senior executives, rope hanging out from the window, so that the complainant could ring the bell. I have given you the idea, you may suggest it as your ‘own suggestion’   in your next Monday meeting of Kayakalp (transformation) group.

  

By the way, rarely peons are found in their seat. How many times have I seen officers making their own tea/coffee. One peon's bell is seldom heeded by another peon. Not only does his seniority come in way, but the officer who is ringing the bell! His seniority also counts. In fact, a peon's hearing ability is programmed to listen to the frequency/wavelength of his Saab’s bell only. 

 

If you think, these little superficial steps would make you immortal in the annals of Ministry’s history, you are sadly mistaken. However, you can console yourself that since 1853 none of your predecessors ever thought of it. Why? Because this herculean feat was to be done by you. Generations to come would not believe that there was a Minister who had such an eye for detail and could bring about a bell-less ‘silent’ revolution. Revolutions do not take place without sacrifice. In this case it was you who first removed his own call-bell. You have set the benchmark. Others are sulking as to what to do to be in your good books. What to remove? To be great, immortal and written about in red letters in Administrative History. Few are mulling whether to remove carpet or chair-table or sofa or all of these colonial symbols of slavery. These are tools of Western luxury. Public servants should lead a simple life coupled with high thoughts.

 

Now it may also mean no call-bells, only costly branded attire clad Liaison agents with hi-fi English accent. You know? They do not need call-bells rather the mandarins, however, high & Mighty they may be are at the beck and call of the Principal Employers of these Liaison Agents.

 

satire: Flower-Judge-Gym and police

  

Recently a delightful little headline popped up: a certain Me Lord has made life so difficult for his local police station staff that they were practically doing squats under the weight of complimentary services being provided to Me Lord.  

 

Not long ago, another headline had hit the collective national conscience -recovery of half burnt currency from the outhouse. The dignitary promptly declared ‘That’s outhouse, not my ‘house’ how could a man be held responsible for what happens in an outhouse? Fair enough! Years ago in Vadodara, a spurious liquor distillery was raided in a senior officer’s outhouse. The senior officer gave a similar ‘innocent’ explanation: first, I don’t drink —this is common knowledge in the entire city. Second, how on earth was he supposed to know what was brewing (literally) in the outhouse? And if he didn’t know, how could he possibly be responsible?

 

In the same spirit of creative logic, the local police quietly took it lying down. Apparently, it all begun with a harmless chunk of flowers for daily Pooja (prayer) by the family of a certain Me Lord in Delhi. Flowers was not much of an issue. Then came another summon: Me Lord wanted Membership of the swanky Gym of the area. Fair enough! Problem occurred when Me Lord wanted local police station to bear the expenses. He went to the gym; but the policemen were getting thinner paying the bill, their wallet lost all the weight.

 

I’m not sure what noble defense Judge Sahib planned to offer, but I can imagine. He could argue that in almost every case that comes before him, the local police are involved in some capacity either complainant or witness or investigator or just hanging around for ambience. The old saying goes, a healthy mind resides in a healthy body Therefore, for justice to be served promptly and flawlessly, it is essential for the police to ensure Me Lord remains in pink of health. A stressed-out judge! -God knows what might happen in his court. Thinking of all the consequences which may occur the policemen kept paying as part of due process of Judicial modus operandi  —because in case Me Lord wished, he had a million other ways to roast them day in day out.

 

I had once witnessed in the courtroom even before touching the case file, the judge tore into a policeman for not wearing his uniform. The policeman politely explained he was from the intelligence unit and allowed to be in mufti. That only provoked Round Two: “What is this loose paper you’re waving? Ever heard of a file cover? Is this any way to present documents?” and so on. The police have, in fact, stated that humiliating them in court was one of Me Lord’s daily warm-up exercises.

 

But that’s not all. According to the police, fresh flowers were sent every morning to Me Lord’s residence for his daily puja routine. Prayers were offered by him, but the monthly flower bill was paid by the police station. A rather unfair arrangement—after all, the poor policemen were not receiving any spiritual credit. How was the deity supposed to know that daily supply of fresh flowers offered, are financed by the nearest SHO and his team? And let’s not even start about the cost—three thousand rupees a month for flowers alone!

 

Once the gym had toned up Me Lord’s physique and sharpened his imagination, he asked for more; why not add cricket to the fitness routine? Pat came the order and duly conveyed to the police station: henceforth, Me Lord would play cricket beginning from Net Practice. Therefore, cricket bats, pads, balls, cap, guard & gloves be procured of the reputed international brand. The bill? A modest couple of lakhs! This was the precise moment the police found itself in Net. They decided enough was enough.  Entire Police station rose in unison and complained.

 

Sensing the sensitivity of the matter, the judicial administration quietly transferred Me Lord to another court. No one knows what became of his puja —will the daily prayers turn flowerless?  What about the cricket? The gloves? Above all—what will happen to the ‘body’ of me Lord!

 

satire: Genies from the House of Sarma ji

 

There is a peculiar modern tradition: if someone in society starts slipping mentally, emotionally, or logically, we simply step aside and let gravity do its job. Let him fall, Who has the time and inclination thus, yet another life goes down on the slope of life, gets conveniently abandoned. 

 

Sharma ji was one such abandoned masterpiece. Officially he ‘worked’ in my office. Unofficially, he was our department’s Bermuda Triangle—he existed only in rumours. In my three years tenure, I never saw him. Guys in my office had a different folk tale about him. And with every version, my curiosity rose—what sort of rare species had accidentally been placed on our payroll?

 

He had been instructed to attend office many a times verbally as well as in writing. My predecessors attempted, failed, and eventually surrendered—leaving Sharma ji to operate in his own time zone, universe, and possibly dimension. Now you might ask, why would anyone disrespect such a dignified post—Deputy Chief Officer? Simple. Life had gifted Sharma ji an impressive collection of frustrations, and he responded by turning himself into a high-powered not terminator but generator of problems. A colleague all along thought ‘Trouble Shooter’ is the person who creates Troubles, he shoots the troubles everywhere for everyone around. He could not be convinced how a Trouble Shooter could be the one who rather kills or solves the trouble.

 

The peak episode appeared on a day when he(Sarma ji)  phoned the Head of one of our sister institutes. The poor man picked up the phone and instantly regretted every decision that had brought him to that moment.

 

“This is Sharma. I have been receiving serious complaints about your institute. I have been specially deputed to check your functioning. I am coming this afternoon. This cannot continue!”

 

By the time he hung up, the Director General was halfway through cardiac complications. Chaos erupted. Floors were scrubbed, files straightened, dust fearing for its life. If they could polish the air, they would have.

 

And then Sarma ji arrived—on time, for the first and last time in recorded history. He delivered a monologue that could make dictators proud. The DG sometimes suspected something was amiss, but unfortunately courage was not on that day’s menu. Sarma ji vanished abruptly after the performance, leaving behind a perspiring senior officer questioning his career choices. A quick check of the phone series revealed the call originated from my department. Naturally, I received the panic call, “Who the hell is this Sarma?!”

 

Ah yes. Our departmental legend. The man who climbed to the post of Deputy Chief Officer without troubling work, office, or logic. Somewhere along the journey, an internal wire seems to have come loose. He began speaking in bursts—English, Hindi, unknown languages, sometimes all at once. He muttered, chanted, babbled. The office developed a safety radius around him. No one went near him with files. Self-preservation is a powerful thing.

 

On some days he would suddenly declare: “In the known history of mankind fundamental rights have never been suppressed even in the dark continents of Africa the way they are being trampled in this office. I refuse to participate in such functioning!” all of it one breath. This was when we were discussing a leave application.

 

He eventually qualified for a ‘special medical examination’ —a polite way of saying, ‘Please go figure out what’s happening in your brain’ Whether he went or simply scared the hospital staff into early retirement, nobody knows. But after that, Sarma ji adopted ‘No work from home’ —meaning, he stayed at home and harassed everyone on phone. Years before the concept even existed. Truly a visionary.

 

His other full-time occupation was prayer. He prayed so much that even God probably started putting his calls on silent mode. Once, two unfortunate staff members waited hours outside his house for a simple signature. Sarma emerged holding a brass vessel like an exorcist on night duty. He sprinkled water everywhere. On seeing the staffers, he got offended—because how dare they interfere in his routine. He stormed inside, returned with half a lemon, chanted something that sounded like a cross between Sanskrit and Wi-Fi password, and hurled the lemon at them. Followed by another holy shower.

 

The two men ran at speed previously recorded only in wildlife documentaries. After that, visiting Sarma’s house was an activity classified under ‘risk allowance not provided’ The Director General, upon hearing this saga, asked the most intelligent question of his career: “Why does he still have an office phone?” Fair point. But removing the phone required someone to physically approach Sarma ji. Everyone declined. Courage died that day. We finally deactivated the SIM. And the DG—who had just been trembling like a washing machine on spin mode—asked me for a written note authorizing the disconnection. Bureaucracy: where you need paperwork even to save your life.

 

Naturally, Sarma ji continued exactly as before. Departmental proceedings began. Since he had crossed 20 years of service, the committee concluded—politely—that he should be compulsorily retired. One senior officer refused to sign his VR order and protested, “Why are you making me do this sin?” As if allowing him to continue would be a virtuous thing. Before the matter reached closure, I got transferred.

 

Later, I heard that Sarma ji’s condition worsened. Eventually, the department retired him compulsorily. People said he was unmarried. His brother lived with him—another prayer enthusiast, who clocked 22 hours daily on the spiritual treadmill.

People don’t lose their mental balance overnight. They slowly slide… and without care, medication or support system, the slide becomes a freefall. Sarma was simply the final product of that neglected descent.

 

When news of his death reached me, I genuinely felt sad. A life had been thrown into a dustbin—first by circumstance, then by people, and finally by the system. And all we were left with was a ghost story no one knew how to stop.

 

 

satire: To Whomsoever It May Concern (Unfortunately)

 

 

 

Given the kind of chaos currently swirling through society, the day is not far when—much like court marriages—we’ll also need a formal ‘Show Cause Notice’ in our traditional weddings. Even before daring to fall in love or get married it would be made mandatory to publish it in two leading newspapers English and vernacular. So, in the larger interest of public harmony and emotional, law-and-order, I hereby issue this PMPA (pre-marital public announcement)

 

To all lovers, Romeos, young in age, young at heart, self-certified heartbreakers, self-styled Casanovas, dirty old men, park-bench poets, and other assorted patrons of modern romance—please be informed that after reviewing all evidences, considering my steadily advancing age, my parents’ last wish, and the relentless taunts of relatives who have made punching bag of my bachelorhood their full-time hobby, I have—of my own sound mind—decided that perhaps, just perhaps, it is time for me to get married.

 

I, Murkhanandan, son of Shri Riwaz Das, resident of Every-Gali, Every-Chauraha, Any City, solemnly declare that I am actively contemplating entering the sacred, risky, occasionally fatal institution known as marriage. In light of this, all lovers and claimants with any possible objections to my upcoming nuptials are invited to register their protests—verbally, in writing, or by personal appearance—within six weeks of publication of this notice in the newspaper.

 

To facilitate this noble democratic process, the house and office will be kept open even on holidays. Objections may be filed any time between 8 AM to 8 PM. Kindly attach any supporting documents—photographs, love letters, WhatsApp screenshots, Facebook albums, or any other relics of your romantic association. These will greatly assist in quick and amicable disposal of the matter.

 

Let it be clear: the advertiser harbours no desire to intrude upon anyone’s romance, sabotage any couple, or become the odd man out in someone’s emotional triangle. My only wish is to live the remainder of my life peacefully, without anxiety, and preferably without mysterious circumstances landing me in a blue plastic drum or at the bottom of a remote hillside gorge. I also have no particular interest in consuming accidental poison via milk, food, or sweets. Hence—before destiny, geography, or jealousy intervene—this public notice is being issued as a precautionary measure.

 

NB:

This is not the final call. In the unlikely event that after my wedding also in case, you develop an overwhelming realization that your true soulmate is indeed yours and your alone truly, please inform me in advance. Visit freely; no one will question you. As long as heads remain intact, turbans can always be found. After all, life comes before romance, and survival before ceremony. Consider this my version of an anticipatory bail for lovers everywhere.

 

With warm regards and a prayer for your happiness—

Yours Faithfully, Affectionately, and Cautiously

 

satire: Bathed With My Soap? Face arrest!

 

 

I had always heard that women can be a hugely sensitive about their cosmetic/beauty products, but someone could be so possessive about her bathing soap that when her own husband bathed with her soap, she actually called the police—this I discovered only after reading a recent newspaper report.

 

But then, think about it! The poor wife combs through half the city to find the newest, most glamorous beauty soap—the one that smells like a bouquet of roses, the one the movie stars use, the one whose price alone could disturb your monthly budget. And this soap barely lasts five days as it is. Now if the husband, who is hardly aware of  the protocol of using such expensive soaps and makes mess of whatever toiletries he has, also starts bathing with it, forget days—how many rounds will it last? Bathing soap is a deeply private asset; practically an inseparable part of your body if not, soul. Once the husband lays his hands on it, she’ll either have to throw it away or just hand it over to him permanently. For all you know, the soap might be imported, or gifted by a friend who just came back from some exotic country. You can’t just bathe with anyone’s soap. There is great danger for your dermis in this practice.

 

I even remember a man proudly boasting at work that his wife and Hema Malini have a lot in common. His friends asked, “Oh, really? How come?” The man replied, “Both bathe with Lux soap.”

 

Anyway, the police must have given the poor husband a good, thorough ‘wash’. So thorough that he must now tremble at the very mention of the word ‘bath’. Maybe he’ll take a vow to bathe soap-free for rest of his life.    

 

In our childhood, the entire household bathed with one single Lifebuoy bar. And to top it off, there was just one towel for one family. Now that we can afford better, everyone has their own soap/soaps our own individual towel/towels and even own bathroom. Once, when a group of us friends visited someone’s house, the LOH (Lady of the house) went a step further—she offered us the used toothbrushes of her family! “Here, use these!” she said. I stared at the toothbrush, then at the hostess, preferring to do it without toothbrush. 

 

Earlier, we lent shirts and pants to our younger brothers without a second thought. They returned them without a second thought as well. Sharing a cot between two people was absolutely normal. Today, forget the cot—most people can’t tolerate the presence of another human being in their bedroom. In Mumbai, a teenager, once murdered his grandmother just because his room was assigned to her to sleep, whenever she visited Mumbai (from her village) The teenager cribbed “What about my privacy?”. This new disease called ‘Privacy’ and ‘My Space’ seems to have spread quite a bit.

 

But the real question is—why did the wife call the police? Perhaps the husband was a habitual offender. Perhaps she finally decided enough was enough and it was time to teach him a lesson. Think about it—at one end of the spectrum are celebrities who reportedly shared even their toothbrush; at the other end is this poor chap who merely bathed with her soap and got arrested. Who knows how far the police took it—did they detain him? Put him in lock-up? How many days of remand? Was it a Police remand or judicial remand. After a few rounds of third-degree interrogation, he must have confessed every crime he ever committed, including the ones he didn’t. By now, forget her soap—he must have sworn off bathing altogether. Maybe they even took him away in handcuffs. A lucky man, honestly—he escaped after paying some fine and arranging a few bars of soap as compensation. Had bhabhi ji wanted, she could have gotten far more creative: hired someone, ordered cement and a blue plastic drum, or taken him on a final ‘trip’ to Shillong hillock/gorge.

 

Here is the final lesson:

 

Bathing with soap is hazardous—not to health, no, no—not to health, but to the very life itself. Haven’t you heard? Soap causes skin dryness. If you want to live, stop bathing with soap. You’re a lion—why should a lion need a soap bar? How can a lion go around the police station just because of a tiny bar of rose-scented soap? It simply does not augur well for lion of a man that is you.

satire: Course on Broken Hearts (Much awaited curriculum)

                    

 

Looking at the cases popping up around us these days, Delhi University deserves a standing ovation. Starting formal courses on modern love and heartbreak is probably the most progressive thing any academic institution has done since the times Romeo0Jukiet, Heer-Ranjha and Laila-Majnu. Superfluous shall be removed from the syllabus. No more cursive writing or grammar. Honestly, the real question is not why these courses were launched, but why it took Authorities so long. In fact, we should begin them right from school. Expecting teenagers to figure out puppy-love on their own is like asking a frog to fly and then blaming the pond when it falls.

 

Since we’ve all finally accepted that co-ed schools are healthier than boys-only or girls-only silos, we might as well agree to the rest of the truth too. Separating adolescents creates more myths than mythology, more fantasies than Bollywood could churn out. These teenagers (Boys/Girls) remain forever in uneducated curious mode. They learn hard way. Then we sit around blaming mobile phones, the internet, movies, TV, and even Crime Patrol—as if all problems of modern India can be solved by banning a VDU. Instead of cursing the darkness, these courses are that one brave candle someone finally thought of lighting.

 

Because trust me, today’s ‘forever in love’ generation is drowning in emotional typhoon. Inside their teenage ribcages, full-scale hurricanes are spinning 24/7. And when these storms don’t get managed, they take the scenic route—to murder, contract killing, blue plastic drum, drunken rage, drug binges, disastrous live-ins, and painfully avoidable suicides. Emotional management has quietly become humanity’s biggest unsolved mystery, right after ‘Why do people still forward WhatsApp messages?’

 

So, these courses plan to teach some simple basics—tiny truths that might help clear the dense clouds sitting on young minds. Designing the syllabus is no joke. What to teach? When to teach? How much to teach? It’s tougher than drafting the Union Budget. But at least let the youth know the difference between love, puppy love, infatuation and ‘whatever-this-feeling-is-that-creeps on weekends’

 

Look around—couples marry on Monday and by the fourth week they are plotting each other’s murder like it’s a group project they must submit. A bit of theory might help. Right now, everything is a giant emotional zigzag—puppy love, daydreaming, obsession, and zero understanding of real-life basics. What does it mean to earn a living? What does running a home involve? What is marriage? More importantly, what marriage is not?

 

So, by all means—run diploma courses, certificate courses, degree courses. The Indian male especially needs to learn the fine line between caring and ‘I own you’ Some short-term compulsory courses might actually save a few marriages. Love, romance, heartbreaks—these are all so pervasive and prevalent, yet we expect teenager to navigate them without oars, without map or compass. Gautam Buddha said ‘Appo Deepo Bhava’—Be your own Guiding lamp. Beautiful line, but even a lamp needs someone to strike the match.

 

It’s high time we explained these things in simple, clear, user-friendly text book like language. The objective of life is to be happy—not to hang from trees or kill each other out of boredom, which seems to have become a pastime lately. The problem doesn’t seem to be going anytime soon; in fact, the disease is growing faster than the beneficiaries of 5 Kg rice doled out to BPL families.

 

Someone has to teach this GenZ what sages have said ‘the lane of love is extremely narrow; no two (persons) can together walk through’   Marriage is basically a polite word for compromise. Rather Compromise is not one up but two up. Marriage has eight letters while Compromise is a ten-letter word. Old titles like ‘gharwala’ (Master of the Household) and ‘gharwali’ (In-charge, household) are outdated; people come together to multiply their happiness and progeny, not to destroy each other’s very existence.

 

And for that reason alone, these courses deserve a grand, open heart, open mind and open arm welcome.          

 

 

satire: Wanted: An Alcoholic Husband

 

 

Normally, a drunk husband is considered bad news. We’ve all heard those stories where the bride sends the entire baraat back from the wedding mandap itself because the groom arrived soaked in booze instead of decency. But now there’s a news item saying a wife has filed for a divorce because her husband has quit drinking. According to her, only an alcoholic husband is the ‘right choice baby’

 

There was a time when families made inquiries about the groom’s antecedents—those charming habits that bring shame to both man and clan: gambling, drinking, tobacco and the like. These were called bad habits and if two of them—gambling and drinking—sprouted after marriage, it was considered no less than tragedy. The wives would cry no end, the in-laws would panic, and the elders would assemble to dispense wisdom and scolding.

 

But times changed, and changed thoroughly. Slowly, this drinking business sank into homes like dampness in a monsoon wall. Every occasion became a License to Drink—wedding, birthday, baby shower ceremonies, even ear-piercing sessions. In short, instead of every time is tea time…it became every time (occasion) is Drinking time. Anyone who didn’t drink was treated like odd man out and taken note of so that could conveniently be excluded on next ‘celebrating’ occasion. These days cocktail has become next compulsory thing in weddings, 1st being groom n bride of course. The first inquiry in these days’ wedding is “When’s the cocktail and where?” Delhi practically runs on “car-o-bar,” and a wedding without alcohol is considered a waste of precious evening.

 

I once handed an acquaintance a wedding invitation. He stared at the envelope like a customs officer hunting for hidden contraband—the cocktail coupon. He tilted the envelope, shook it, blew into it. When he realized there wasn’t one, his face collapsed entirely. “Okay…” he whispered, like a man told his salary won’t be coming this month. We knew he wouldn’t show up.

 

At another wedding, the bride’s side had skipped the bar. Their guests wandered about in thirsty desperation of lost souls. One of them even slipped into the other side i.e. groom’s “car-o-bar,” where the regulars embraced him warmly and poured him a couple of Patiala pegs.

 

I’ve seen wives drink alongside their husbands shoulder to shoulder err… peg to peg. Their logic is flawless: “If he drinks outside, I just keep worrying. If he drinks at home, I can supervise—how much, how fast, and when to stop him.” In one unusual case, the husband didn’t drink at all, but his wife had an excellent weakness for the finest liquor.

 

Now comes this delightful case from Bhopal: a wife filing for divorce because her husband has stopped drinking. She has stated clearly—either he must forthwith resume his noble relationship with the bottle, or he must release her from the wedlock. She will stay only if liquor stays with him. In short,  ‘No alcohol, no marriage’

 

Marriage counsellors are baffled. Until now they handled cases where they had to convince husbands to quit drinking. This one flipped the formula entirely. Some clinical counsellors, after years of explaining the benefits of quitting alcohol have to now go around enumerating the benefits of drinking. They now seem to be ready to drink themselves enabling them to deliver empirical sermon in the holy name of Bacchus.

 

As one poet puts it:

 

Mere gham ne hosh unke bhi kho diye,

Woh samjhate-samjhate khud ro diye.

 

My sorrows overwhelmed her so much

Persuading me not to cry, she herself started crying