Arnab, 1999/07/11, "News Item #1"

New National Party Launched

Calcutta, July 11. - A new national party, The Party For Academic Politics, was launched amid gala celebrations at the Calcutta Press Club today.

Party president, eminent professor, A.P.Shukla explained in his welcome address, "This is not a party for academics but for anyone interested in the academic aspects of politics and would like a testing gorund for their political theories. We, theoretical politicians, have been ignored for decades and would now like to claim our share of the spoils."

Spokesmen claimed that the party already boasted a membership of two thousand, including famous and respected personalities from the field of science, mathematics, literature and agriculture. "We have committees in every state of the country, after all we are a national party," a spokesman said.

The opening address was followed by a set of songs by Suman Chattopadyay, who also voiced his support for "men with ideas complicated enough to satisfy the disparate needs of our diverse nation." Physicist T.K.Shah and author Bhupen Sardar gave particularly long speeches while footballer Sougata Biswas simply led a cheer of "Academic Party, hip, hip, hooray." There was also a flower show by horticulturist Carlton D'Souza.

After the luminaries departed, a group of spokespeople took turns in explaining the technical workings of the party with the aid of overhead view graphs and laser pointers. One spokesman, displaying a log-log plot, explained where the party fit in the power spectrum of Indian politics.

The evening ended, quite inexplicably, pogoing to the classic revolutionary song, "Submission".

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Vanka/Anindya/Somnath, 1999/07/16, "An Interview Of The Empires"

Robert arrived at the office a good half hour early, as instructed. It was half past eight, the birds were chirping outside, the floors were still wet, the air-conditioner was on full blast, and there was nobody around. To make matters worse, the door claiming entrance to the offices of "South City Employment Services" was unequivocally locked. Through the large glass window one could see that the big reception room was beautifully decorated with wooden panels. The sofa looked extremely comfortable. The table beside it looked like a Chippendale. But the fact remained that he was outside and didn't have a place to sit. Somehow the indignity of being kept waiting seemed markedly unbearable in that narrow air-conditioned corridor.

Each time someone walked down the corridor, Robert felt that the Marines had come to his rescue. Each time he was wrong. The routine was the same. The half smile from afar. The sudden quickening of step. The sudden look-away at about fifteen yards followed by the checking of time at five yards. The direct quizzical look. Then the quivering mouth, signalling conversation melting into an embarrassed nod and a quick get away. It was indeed frustrating. In the end the person who did speak took him completely by surprise. A short and fair kid in huge baggy pants wearing a black T-shirt reaching down to his knees and the biggest, thickest, fakest gold chain that Robert had ever seen. He also wore a black baseball cap on, with the letters "NY" on it.

Boy : Yo! Man! Yo heah foh da eentahvu?
Robert : Excuse me?
Boy : Eentahvu? Yo heah fo da eentahvu?
Robert : Oh, ah, yes. I am here for the interview.
Boy : Ah em Abh-raw, whattsya nem, bradah?
Robert : Ah, er, I am Robert. Are you here for the interview too, Abhro?
Abhro : (rapping)

Abhro promptly walked away without a word leaving Robert to reflect on the competition. An M.B.A, even one of the calibre of Abhro, was quite a serious thing and moreover the guy seemed to have some drive and ambition. The bug of nervousness began to get hold of him. He was trying to remain calm by counting sheep when Abhro returned with the janitor and got the door opened.

Robert decided that the best course would be to discourage this fellow. It was quite possible that the interviewer could be a tad uncertain about employing an uninterested rapping MBA.

Robert : Do you like rap music?
Abhro : Ah.
Robert : Do you want to go to places with good rap shows and all?
Abhro : Ah.
Robert : Then why do you want to go to Canada?
Abhro : Ah?
Robert : There are no rappers in Canada.
Abhro : Ah! Reely?
Robert : Yes, my cousin lives there. He says so.

It took about an hour for the good people to set up. Then Abhro was called in. "Gudd eentahvu. Gudd lahk bradah", Abhro had announced before hurrying off to catch up on Canadian rappers. Another half an hour and then, "Mr. Robert Pal? Please go in."

Robert entered the room apprehensively, and found two people sitting in cushioned chairs facing him. One was a young man who seemed unbearably constipated. He also had a very mournful, searching expression on his face. Robert doubted whether the man had had a good night's sleep in his entire life.

Man : Hello Mr Pal. I am Satyendra Palit. I am from the Human Resources department of this agency. This is Mr Brian Morrison who will be representing North Wind Publications.

The other man was a Canadian and a proud representative of that richly endowed country. He seemed to weigh around 300 pounds and looked hungry. His eyes goggled in their sockets and rolled about, as if in warning. He nodded threateningly.

Palit : Ahem. You have a bachelor's degree - right, Mr. Pal? In which subject is it in?
Robert : (nervously) Er, in Geography, it is clearly mentioned in my resume. (nervously searching for a copy of his resume among a sheaf of papers)
Palit : (offended) Yes yes, we have it. (Morrison is surprised and starts to look through his sheaf of papers) In Geography, yes. Why did you study Geography?
Robert : (quite surprised at the question) I, well, like Geography. I mean, I like to read about different places and things like that.
Palit : Well, Mr Pal, your work will not involve any Geography. Why do you want this job? Why do you want to go to Canada?
Robert : (who had rehearsed this answer several times the previous night) I am quite interested in publishing. I've read a lot of books and the process of delivering the joy of reading to so many people really excites me. Moreover, Canada has recently been voted as the best country to live in for the 6th consecutive time. It is full of..
Morrison : (interrupting) Do you know the best thing about Canada?
Robert : T-the warmth of the people? The skating and skiing?
Morrison : No! The humour! All the best comedians in the world come from Canada. (with a sly look at Robert) Must've heard of Leslie Nielson, eh?
Robert : (who had never heard of the guy) Y-yes of course. I've always enjoyed his work. Isn't he the best young comedians, eh? (suddenly remembering Arnab's advice)
Morrison : (much amused) Ha! Ha! He's a riot! Tell me (abruptlty getting closer and giving Robert a stare with his round eyes) Why did the chicken cross the road?
Robert : (finding the close proximity of Morrison's eyes unbearable) Er, eh, why not? There is no law against chicken crossing the road.
Morrison (laughing away, almost in tears) H-H-he's the man, eh? Way to go buddy!
Palit (beginning to feel a little sidelined) Er..., anyway, to return to the questions .. Do you have a passport?
Robert : Yes, I do.
Palit : Ok, could you name the current bestseller in ...
Morrison (interrupting) So tell me , old chap, is it always this freaking hot out here?
Robert (beginning to relax and enjoy the interview) No, only this time of the year.
Morrison : (wistfully) I spent three weeks at the Swami Harryharrananda Ashraym in the mountains ... wish I could go back there. Out here the heat's gonna kill me soon. I get such nightmares ... (abruptly) Tell me, do you dream often?
Robert (taken by surprise) Err ... y-yes. Quite often.
Morrison (smiling jovially) I have in degree in introspective psychology. My speciality is interpreting dreams. Tell me your dreams and I'll tell ya why you dream the way you do.
Robert (beginning to feel strained again) Er ... I see a lot of snakes in my dreams.
Morrison (interested) Snakes, eh? That is a representation of the female primeval force that resides primarily in the spine. It is a clear indication that your id is trying to break loose from the confines of your materialistic desires. Settenderrah, what do you dream about?
Palit : (literally jumping with the shock) I ... I don't dream much. I really think we should get along with the questions, Mr Morrison.
Morrison : Don't dream much? Now that is a real problem. You starve yourself too much my dear fellow. You should eat and sleep more, enjoy life, y'know, travel. Feed the body and the imagination.

Satyendra Palit was beginning to fell the atmosphere a bit, well, uncongenial. He was an ambitious young man who had survivied through many a battle and struggled his way over a million hurdles before his star had turned. Still, interviews were one thing he could not stand. Although Brian Morrison did not know it, he did have dreams, recurring nightmares actually. The questions Palit had been asked in the countless interviews he had faced constantly came back to haunt him at night. Roommates had often been unpleasantly jarred out of sleep with screams from Palit that went "Aami janina! Aami janina!"

And just when he thought he had conquered his demons, that his expensive analyst was actually treating him, here he is, being humiliated at an interview again. First there was that unintelligable Abhro guy, with whom Brian had carried on an hour long musical conversation and his own musical tastes being called into question! And now this? The time had come to take charge of the situation, as his analyst had advised, and show them who was the boss.

Palit : (assuming his most aggresive tone) Now, listen young man - tell me (authoritatively) what is the capital of Guatemala?

To Satyendra Palit, this was The Question. It that reappeared the most in Palit's troubled dreams. He still remembered squirming in his seat and trying his best to avoid the eyes of the interviewers while he tried desperately to extract the answer from the inkpot in front of him. And then, when it looked like the room would tear away his vitals and engulf him, the guys in the torture chamber had laughed and said softly "Guatemala, of course. He He."

But this certainly wasn't Palit's day. He saw that miserable Canadian guy lean over and whisper confidentially to Pal "I'll give you a hint : what would you call a spade?"

Robert had specialized in cracking puzzles while sitting in the schoolbus and being forced to listen to the endless teasers Arnab used to come up with. So he made the connection in a flash. Why, the capital of Guatemala was Guatemala, of course. And Palit was crushed for the day.

Morrison : Attaboy! And now, here's my question on Geography : can you tell me any place here where I can get a decent bite?
Robert : (now a little mischievous) Well, there's Decker's Lane of course ...
Palit : Thank you Mr Pal, that will be all. We will let you know our descision in a couple of days.

Vanka, 1999/07/13, "A Tale Of Woe"

Oh the heart melts in sadness deep
To see Manada's bitter grief,
It's time we gave the blow by blow,
On why this good man suffers so.

It goes back to that Summer night,
Those dreamy eyes by candlelight...
The biryani and the chicken chow,
Where (oh where!) are those moments now?

Her no-no's to his requests hurt,
Then her papa tore his costly shirt,
The side-un, then the upper-cut,
Then forced to flee with eyes wide shut.

Oh no! these saddened eyes do weep,
To see Manada's bitter grief,
It's time we gave you the blow by blow,
On why this good man suffers so.

Whenever Habul saw Mamoni, his heart always seemed to go pit-a-pat and dance around the narrow confines of his diaphragm. There was that delightful inviting twinkle in her eyes as she presented the clothes for dry-cleaninig that day. It goes without saying that Mamoni had already had had a similar effect effect on Taru the shopkeeper, Nirmal that pompous token giver at the Mother Diary Milk Booth and the Pondit at the Kali Mondir. Cupid generally ordered and kept an extra consignment of arrows whenever Mamoni went on her customary round of the para. She giggled and swung her svelte way past a million hearts as she skipped back towards home, her heart singing a dozen tunes of happiness.

Life was fun at the moment for Mamoni. Palashbabu had just installed a computer at home and she was having a whale of a time playing around with it, subscribing various newsgroups and downloading games and other such stuff from the intarnate. Her marriage with Ashes had been temporarily shelved, of course, following those rather interesting revelations about his past life. But far be it for our heroine to brood over as trivial a thing as that. Mamoni and nature had one thing in common - they both knew how to fill a vaccuum in double-quick time.

But as she crossed Tekumalla's pan-shop, there appeared the villain of the piece - Manada. Mamoni lost the jauntiness in her steps somewhat. Manada had started to become a bit of a bore since that loadshedding night when Palashbabu had floored him with those blows. While Palashbabu had grown in her eyes as a superstar dad, Manada had fallen in the same proportion. It's like that Dabur Chawanprash ad where the female scorns that dashing young man who loses out to the old bloke in the race to catch the bus. Not that Manada was either young or dashing to start with. So Mamoni's giggles had been replaced by blank stares and blind spots whenever she chanced across Manada on the street. Manada's unhappiness over this was not hidden from her. But that was not her problem. The old geezer needed to be put in his place anyway.

Not surprisingly Manada did not think so. He approached Mamoni and this time his eyes seemed to hold that teeny weeny whiff of censure. The light of love was dying fast for poor Manada. And the time had come to do some tough talking. He accosted Mamoni and asked her in firmer tones than usual to accompany him to watch the matinee show of Mann. Ganesh had bought two balcony tickets at triple the price expressly for that purpose.

However, Mamoni crushed those last dying embers of hope that he harboured with just a toss of her pretty head and a sweet "aamar kaaj acche". There was nothing Manada could do stop her as she giggled and went her merry way. There *was* something about Mamoni - something intangible in her giggles and in her eyes, that usually left the male population limp and straggly behind her. Manada was left staring at her pretty back and wondering why the fates were dealing such cruel blows to him .....

Oh no! these saddened eyes do weep,
To see Manada's bitter grief,
It's time we gave you blow by blow,
On why this good man suffers so.

Not one kind word ever since that night,
Out of bounds and out of sight,
It now seemed that the little prick,
Had dropped him like a scalding brick.

Then news about some marriage plans,
Some software guy, the rumours ran,
The curtain on their little fling?
The time had come to do something.

One way to play the twisting game
Was to go and sully the girly's name.
To be well explained to that balded jerk.
Though fists had failed, blackmail works.

But his bleeding luck was indeed bad,
Her dad turned out a nasty cad,
His hands flew on the face again,
All his schemes and logic were in vain.

'Twas just poor Manada's stricken fate,
That Palashbabu was a middleweight,
Many a man had fallen in daze,
At boxing jousts in his younger days.

Oh the cuts this time did go quite deep,
There was no end to Manada's grief,
So on we go with the blow by blow,
On why his good man suffers so.

While Manada recuperates from the stunned vegetable state into which Palashbabu's fiery blows have reduced him, it's time we took a long and hard look at Palashbabu. A casual observer, following the course of events in the narration, would be forced to scratch his head and ask a few questions. Palashbabu's behaviour was such as to make one wonder whether the writers were, er, you know, losing their touch. His physical prowess would do any doting daughter proud but one cannot help but ask how Palashbabu had proved to be such a Rambo-type fellow against as formidable and important a figure as Manada. After all, Manada was a powerful CPM committee member whose very nod (when he would be capable of nodding his head again, that is) would be enough for Ganesh and all the other dadas to go berseck. Palashbabu may have been a headstrong and short-tempered person but he most certainly wasn't stupid.

The answer my friend, is blowing discreetly in whispers and awed tones from an Academic's office in Gurgaon through various bylanes and channels to finally enter Manada's right, non-bandaged ear. Express instructions had come from the highest levels, from the Boss himself, not to touch a hair on Palashbabu's head (not that Manada could have succeeded at that in any case). Palashbabu was important to the Boss's plans. Whatever Manada did, he was *not* to disrespect this command and displease Palashbabu in any way.

So that explained Palashbabu's remarkable confidence. And that also explains Manada's present state of misery as he gently tries to shift himself on his bed with some clumsy aid from Ganesh. What with Mamoni's indifference and Palashbabu's active physical interest in him (how he wished it had been the other way around!) life did not seem worth living for Manada. As we leave him languishing there, we catch the final images that passed through his unhappy mind : "Blood. Blood. A Nepali dagger. Blood"

Arnab, 1999/07/10, "Blood, Semen and Beer"

Images kept flashing through the mind of the man wearing a purple tie. Blood. Semen. A Nepali dagger. A beach on the French Rivera. No, no, that was wrong. Blood. Semen. A Nepali dagger with silver handle. A house on fire. Men claiming to be a women in internet chatrooms! No that was wrong again. Police sirens. Grumpy old detectives vomiting. Charges of indecent telephone calls. No, no, oh what the hell! A dead girl in a flourescent bikini. That was better. A torn flourescent bikini. Blood and semen and a bloody Nepali dagger.

One nail through his chest. Oh Bhutanda, amar notun computerta dekhbe? One through each of his palms. Bhutanda, ami aajke Linux install korechi. Linux ta darun jinish na? Then the one through both his feet. Bhutanda, tumi ki aaje baje mail pathao! Aami ekta vacation program likhechi, mail peyechile? Bhutanda - don't abandon me, he he he he.

"No, I haven't finished yet", Bhutan put off the advances of the bartender. Installing Linux! What the fuck was Linux? Where did she learn all this bullshit? Not from Ashes, surely? Or was she having a relationship there? Didn't Mashima tell him that the marraige had been put off? Shameless whore. She must have started a tryst with the nerd. Behind her parents' back. Behind his back!

You think it's easy huh? You don't have to arrange for models with a hard on all day long only to have your boss score them all do you? No sir, you just pick a nice little girl and marry. Look at the guy over there. I bet no girl cared about *his* potbelly. No, it probably even looked successful to them. And what did he care anyway. Whores each and every one of them. Long live Jack The Ripper. He ought to blow her brains out with a .44 like that guy in "Summer Of Sam". Yeah, the images.

"Another one please. Yes, the same." Oh no! Now who was this? Laloo Prasad Yadav's brother, no doubt. This used to be a decent place. A man could drink his beer and think about the injustices of life without being bothered. "Nehi, mere pash mathces nehi hai. Mae smoke nehi karta."

"Arre, bangalli babu, ee try karo, tunty parcent ganja, hundrid parcent phun. ho, ho, ho, ho ... Lo babua"

It was a tempting offer, especially after a hard day. And moreover he didn't have anything else to look forward to. He took the offered bidi and lit it. The man introduced himself as Satram Singh.

Bhutan : Sandip Roy, unhhh I make advertisements.
Satram : Make advertisements?
Bhutan : Yes, see that Kingfisher ad? I made it?
Satram : You made it? Great looking girl - did you ...
Bhutan : Yes.

Satram looked at Bhutan with new found respect. He looked at Bhutan, looked at the girl and nodded painfully to himself. The bidi was taking effect on both and a new jug of beer arrived.

Satram : (tearfully) I knew Mamta Kulkarni. I used to work with Laloo Yadav.
Bhutan : (aside) I told you so. (aloud) Laloo Yadav? What do you do?
Satram : (cautiously) I worked for a travel agency.
Bhutan : (incredulous) You were Laloo Prasad's travel agent?
Satram : (deciding to throw caution to the wind to regain his status) More like, travel agent for his bank balance ... see what I mean?
Bhutan : (impressed) Must be very exciting, what happened?
Satram : We went out of business. (looking around) Our boss decided that it was time to quit. He has joined a political party. (proudly) I am now a local committee member. Have you read this?

He proffered that day's Statesman and pointed to the article about the formation of the Academic Party. Bhutan read with interest and nodded in approval.

Bhutan : These people have the right idea. I have always wondered why politicians were so unprofessional. I mean, a few coloured transparencies are so much more impressive than a loud mouthed rally. So who's the boss?
Satram : (throwing his hands up in the air) I don't know. He just said, you'll know in due time. The only thing I know about him is his voice over the telephone.
Bhutan : Really? So what does a local committee member do?
Satram : I'm not really sure. I guess you arrange for party meetings, introduce the speakers. I was supposed to meet this CPM guy, Manash Halder, today - you know, learn the tricks of the trade and what not - but he got bashed up and is at PG hospital.
Bhutan : (enjoying his peek at underbelly of things) You mean, being a committee member is a dangerous job?
Satram : No, no. Usually, if you are any good, you bash people around, not the other way round. But this guy has the hots for some girl in Lake Gardens, some Mamoni or somebody, and her father, well, bashed him up.

This was a very interesting area of conversation. Bhutan now had no doubts whatsoever about who the protagonists of the incident were. The thought of Manada lying on a hospital bed, plastered and trussed, sure made his day. He almost ordered a round and raised a toast for Palashbabu but his alcohol-drenched good sense prevailed. His Communacation Consulting instinct leaped up and demanded a hearing. All his adult life he had been chasing contacts over Park Street and here was one that fate had dropped on his lap (or on his shoulder, because Satram had dozed off and perched his head there). Here was a chance to get some inside information on the clan and as every CC worth his salt knew "knowledge was power". Bhutan nudged Satram awake.

Bhutan : So tell me, this father of the girl, is he a big shot?
Satram : (quiet blank) Which girl?
Bhutan : The girl whose father beat up that Manash guy.
Satram : Oh Palashbabu? Didn't I tell you about him? He has contacts in high places. My boss said, "See Satram, these are very treacherous times. Don't trust anyone, don't tell anyone anything. If you have a problem talk to Palashbabu. He'll sort things out. Politics is a nasty game, we need all the help we can get."

Bhutan reeled a bit in disbelief. This was very mysterious indeed. In the seven odd years of interaction he had never suspected such a thing. He paid for his drinks, exchanged phone numbers with Satram and stumbled out with a sense of adventure. The hunter in him was aroused. He would expose Palashbabu!

Arnab, 1999/07/16, "News Item #2"

Man Scratched By Madman

Calcutta, July 11. - Ayan Bhattacharya (39) was ambushed by an unknown assailant on Tollygunj Circular Road late last night. Police said that they believed it was the work of a madman and they had some leads. Both the hospital and the Police sources refused to divulge the exact nature of Mr Bhattacharya's injuries, saying "they are not serious but quite embarrasing for the victim". One hospital employee, on condition of anonymity, revealed that the injuries consisted of "lacerations of the scalp caused by vigourous scratching". Mr Bhattacharya is suffering from severe psychological trauma and is under heavy sedation.

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