Narmada Bachao - drops of joy?

Being fiscal year ending, The Parliament was in session. Politicians, musing on if the growth would be at a perfect 10% and whether the yo-yoing Stock Index would yo-yo from unscaled heights to Abyssinian depths for much longer, crowded the Capital. “ A correction is inevitable!!” someone said.

“Omkara!”, a Senator prayed, in Session. “Omkara!”, another agreed.

I went there, for the other reasons. This Rat was not in the Stock Index Race. A bustling Capital held three attractions. Cheese. Sleaze. Grease. Economic soothsaying had never invoked me.

Inevitably, as is the case with mismanaged secrets, the news had spread. And by the time I reached Session, all the three of my coveted lures had been devoured. “Rats!”, I sighed. And slunk away. Some introspection later, I decided to behold the India Gate – a place I had not been able to visit up to, until this unrewarding journey – and looked at the stone structure in wonder. Being a rodent, I was shortly distracted. A set of curves weaned me off the stone, curves that stemmed from a reasonably enticing bosom.

I followed her, wondering what she was called. “Kiran”, someone said. “ As in the other Holy Book?”, I enquired. “No, stupid!,” another admonished. “As in a Ray – married to a star!”

“Oh!” I reacted at my education.

Her husband, I gathered, was India’s most bankable star – and had recently spared a stray ray for Kiran. He was around the India Gate, too, making a film that was a loosely Hellen Keller meets Butch Cassidy. A blind foray into inviting bullets, I was told.

He, The Unsung King, was taking a break from his frenetic schedule. And in his solace, was guzzling the beverage (with his head held high) of his choice. The Pepsi Cola. Now, as Luck would not have it, a voyeuristic lens was focused on the prancing Kiran’s posterior – and clicked a picture. An image purely born of lust – but eventually headed to a much larger, cosmic destiny. Because, it had captured more than a swaying pair of buttocks. It had captured Ameer sipping on the forbidden drink. A picture that was worth more than many a thousand notes. And Ameer saw it being clicked.

He sped behind the sashaying hips, and asked their owner for redemption. “K-K-K- Kiran!” he said, sounding much like the other Khan. (I noticed how much he grimaced at The King’s intrusion into his wife’s boudoir) “Help!”, he implored. Concerned, she thought of a redemption plan for herself. Ameer, exposed, was not the reason for her betrothal. She ran a few blocks in panic, where she stumbled upon a feeble acquaintance from her tree-hugging days. The starved acquaintance had chanced to be around India Gate for an eternal agitation. The right to water. Kiran explained her plight, and the pointlessness of an exposed husband. And her friend promptly provided revolutionary respite. She, as providence would have it, was agitating for a liquid cause – and wielded credibility. Her colleagues, as hysteria would have it, were admirers of The Khan Clan. And were willing to provide a human blanket for the pursued victim, (Since their leader was near starved to death, no one bothered to consult her over the integrity of their intended action.)

Within seconds, Kiran had mustered a million activists to provide the Coke funded Ameer with shelter. To ensure that the curious lens did not capture him with his Pepsi Cola. He beamed at the immaculate conception of his wife. And sipped the illegal drink with determination. “Don’t you worry,” a protestor told his stupefied colleague. “Pepsi contains no juice from the forbidden fruit. It contains additional flavours.” “Maybe we should drink that,” the stupefied one replied. “It seems more freely available than water! Perhaps, we are agitating for a pointless cause.” Ameer solemnly nodded, to endorse their newfound, shared ideals. Quickly, a contract was worked out.

Another bored lensman saw the congregation of activists surrounding Ameer – and asked him why he was in the midst of them. Stupefied, he asked his ex-journalist wife for defence. “He is here for championing a cause!” she proclaimed. Not revealing that the real cause was saving of a staggering endorsement contract. The journalist was taken in by Ameer’s spring towards a critical social cause – and published his picture in the next day’s newspaper. Overnight, he spread rays of hope to the waterless millions.

A Musing Man wondered as to what the motive behind his solidarity was. Was it publicity? Was it a true extension of his last celluloid character? Was it his rebellion against the lyrics of a mediocre jingle maker - penning bad slogans for a Coke wielding persona to spout?

A writer read through his hypocrisy, And was condemned for her seeking God. In small things.
A wife clung through his hypocrisy. And was condemned to plastic smiles.
A fasting activist starved through his hypocrisy. And was condemned to serial breakfasts.
A Rakesh spelt his name with a why? And was condemned to a lifetime of typographic errors.
An actress, playing blind, saw through his hypocrisy. And was condemned to her real life Omkara.
Butch Cassidy was condemned at the Sundance for Kids.

The parliament was not even distracted from The Basanti Session. And was condemned to marvel at yo-yos correcting themselves.

The Rodent told this tale. And was blessed to persist on with his lures. Cheese. Sleaze. Grease. And A Musing Man.

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