OF POTHOLES AND PATRIOTISM

The alarm crowed. Some boisterous Bollywood tune he had been conned into keeping as a ring tone by that surreptitious cellphone service provider. An hour and five minutes was all he had before plunging into the rigmarole of the daily grind. He decided to snatch those five precious minutes for a quick loll back in the pillow, satiated in this half asleep state of limbo.

A strong nudge jolted him out of his reverie. The wife was peering down at him with affront. Sabzi lana hai, junior to be dropped off at school and he dared oversleep yet again! Bleary-eyed, our gentleman stumbled out of bed. Bustling animated characters stared back at him from the television screen. Sonny wouldn’t drink his milk if the cartoon channel wasn’t turned on. So peace is bought at a digital price. After a defeated attempt to catch the news headlines, he wearily heads towards the bathroom.

He fondly recalls his childhood, when dawns resounded with All India Radio signature tunes and news bulletins dictated his morning time-table. But never mind, he did like that warring cat and mouse duo, especially when he needed to slip into his I-can’t-hear-you mode with Mrs. complaining down his neck.

He trudges to the locality sabzi mandi. Gentlemen and genteel ladies haggled over vegetable prices. Strange, how we gladly part ways with wads of notes for the latest in mobile-speak and that famed age-defying cream and yet we grudge the humble baingan its rightful due! Lofty thoughts aside, he goes about enlightening the vendor about the bhindi’s retail price and walks away, a satisfied man, clutching his booty.

Rushing through his morning grind occasionally fills him with a curious longing. Why can’t we have a little variation? A chastened bai who doesn’t go about clanking the washed dishes, perhaps? Or that cup of chamomile tea, just the kind those ads promised, to soothe his frayed nerves?

Wail! Sonny had started his famed chapatti wrestle yet again! O, well, there was comfort in routine. And besides, he couldn’t do without his cuppa with that hint of ginger in it.

En route to office, while manoeuvring his two-wheeler, he barely avoids a gaping pothole. Curse it, is desh ka kya hoga? Fat promises from netas and these apologies in the name of roads. And then the assiduous traffic policeman waylays him. Helmet kahan hai? A humble apology and a hundred-rupee note gets him off the hook. Whew! Hasn’t been a smooth beginning to a tedious day.

He is summoned to his boss’s cabin. The financial statements of XYZ company have to be submitted pronto, that unmistakable frown driving home the point loud and clear. His under-breath mutter covers a gamut of emotions. Desh to doodhwala, all bear dissection under his errant outbursts. Furious fingers drumming the keyboard, he peers darkly at the screen. It is sadistic to expect punctuality from your subordinates in a country running on habitual delay. A muffled shout from somewhere in the office premise snaps him out of his thoughts. O crumbs, how could he have forgotten THE cricket match?

He rushes to reception area to join the huddled group of colleagues gasping at the last ball flying across the screen. A cheer goes up. India has won. He can’t wipe off that goofy grin or quell the choking in his throat. That fierce pride overpowers all else….. MERA BHARAT MAHAAN……