The Bugle
Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum. Or some usual wheeze like that. Oh, on with it.
The-Lunchtime-in-Babudom-Section
The gaggle of mothers – go to any relict of babudom and it’s the same… the gaggle of mothers (the Government’s not-so-token obeisance to gender equal employment), standing like a pack of geese; gawking, peering into rooms full of consultants, and of course, discussing the biggest newshog of the month. For the moment, unfortunately, I need bear with gory dissections of the Nithari murders. The sheer professionalism, it seems, of the murderers has impressed the mothers. The geese literally tripped over each other in their ghoulish enjoyment of the catastrophic events.
“Did you hear? It could be organ trade!!” “No! I heard it was cannibalism” “Sniffle. The horror! oh the horror of itall!” “They say he was a professional at chopping up” [Ed’s aside: eh what?] “Itna padha likha aadmi. Kehte hain Stephen’s se tha? Kya hoga is desh ka?” [As though this mania had much to do with the poor august (?) institution]
The blood, the gore, the pathos of it all… It seemed much like your everyday Ekta Kapoor (Ekkkta Kkappoor?) serial. What with rape, marital discord, sabotage, murder and generic everyday mayhem, all they now need is serial killing. Are you listening, Balaji?
Who says babudom is boring? Lunch breaks are always thus; full of sensation and mystery. Not long ago, it was “poor Mihir”; so young, so dead, so back from the dead. Then came Salman Khan (always a big draw, believe it or not, the geese are nuts about those abs) and recently, the Abhishek-Aishwarya marriage. The lives of the famous are so fleeting. Excellent fodder.
The-Hold-On-To-Your-Seats-Section
I henceforth renounce my job. This is a decision made not only as a stand against the very oppression of my soul, but also to prevent my soul from taking off on its own trips. Tricky that, having to catch it and stuff it back into its solitary prison. Poor child. I wonder if all people have episodes like that? Feeling that one’s soul is fleeting, watching one’s own life from a distance, finding it dismal, meaningless, mere drudgery. Wishing that one could escape from this mortal prison and take off on a flight that one was always meant for; away from petty involvements and pursuits. It’s powerful strange, I can tell you, feeling as oneself, and yet different. Perhaps this is what drove poor yogis across the centuries to attempt to find that release, that joy that awaits around the corner. Death isn’t so bad, afterall.
The-General-What-Was-That-You-Said-?-Section
Some say that the Indian tradition of passing knowledge through word of mouth led to the downfall of our rich heritage and the reason why it is esoteric and the sole domain of a few today. Upon closer examination of the Indian ethos, however, it would seem that such statements are particularly blasphemous. Think, how deeply are Indians entrenched with the very knowledge contained in those cryptic volumes; the focus has been, not on learning those texts, but rather on implementing what those texts wish to convey. A way of life.
I see naysayers amongst you. Allow me to demonstrate. With all due apologies to the Messers Sagar and Chopra, our knowledge of Hindu mythology is not derived from a reading of these famous tomes. And yet, is there a single Indian who has NOT imbibed traits from these?
Look merely to the roads. There are Arjuns in full; drivers who not only weave their way expertly through traffic, but also pave the way for followers. There are Abhimanyus too… Arjuns in the making; who have learnt in infancy how to break the deadlock of traffic, but without the expertise to allow another to take advantage of it. Whither there is Arjun, can Duryodhan be far behind? The wary traveller of the “Fast” lane, who refuses upon cajoling, threats and the repeated honking of a horn, to give up the space equal to the tip of a needle. Or the ever-present Sarthis; the Krishnas of our times, the beatific back-seat drivers who give sage advice and enjoy the race. There are the Sitas; the fearless crossers of not one but several stop lines. The hostile Ravanas, cops (or thulas, if you’re in Delhi) who extract a price for having crossed a line (or, in a modern twist, broken a light).
What price written transfer of knowledge?
The-Acknowledgement-Section
A new section this, created for the specific purpose of thanking my ardent readers, and for expressing what little emotion I reserve for the general populace, alternatively known as my friends.
As usual, I thank the returnees (not like you had much choice, did you, poor slobs?) and the new entrants (who may for all I know, be returnees, cursing and kicking at the hard knock of fate. Let this be a lesson; in the words of Wodehouse, the bit of lead piping is never far) for reaching, without death or destruction to the end of this, the newest edition of the ever-popular Ever-So-Oftenly-Bugle. Also known as The Bugle to its adoring fans (note, those of the aa milne extraction, that it is The Bugle, not the Bugle or similar such horrors).
The-Freedom-Of-Speech-Section
As always, person or persons are free to send in compliments, favourable reviews and the like, in sheer adulation of The Bugle or even better of the Ed (see? Freedom of speech DOES apply in my little kingdom). As always, with the exclusive right of selective cognition or attention, all criticism shall be discarded at source.
the Ed.
[Small print begins] All damage to life, property or sanity is solely the responsibility of the beholder. The creator of this dazzling beauty shall be held neither responsible nor liable for any temporary or permanent lunacy. [Small print ends]
[Small print begins again] PS. Clause I applies (sorry couldn’t resist the pot-shot). [Small print ends]
[Small print begins YET again] Heard of the first amendment to Clause I though? [Small print DEFINITELY ends]
