Excerpt THE TALIBAN CRICKET CLUB

MY NEW NOVEL PUBLISHED MAY 2012. READ THE EXCERPT/QUOTES

“No one could be—” I stopped when I saw the Land Cruiser race into the courtyard in front of us. “Oh god.”

In the back lay a man and a woman, their arms and legs bound. The woman wore her burka; the man had a sack over his head. Two Talibs, along with two police officers who had guns, stood above them. The vehicle stopped, the Talibs jumped down and pushed their prisoners out onto the ground as if they were sacks of grain. When they fell we heard their muffled cries.

The minister for the propagation of virtue and the prevention of vice, Zorak Wahidi, the man who had summoned us here, stepped out of the passenger seat and walked slowly back to the fallen couple. I felt a shudder of recognition. His beard was whiter since I’d last seen him four years ago. There was a stoop to his shoulders, as if a thousand dead souls pressed down on him. He wore a black shalwar, a black lungee, and new black sandals. He also carried a pistol and looked down at the prisoners, and then across to us. I wanted to shield Jahan from what was about to happen but he had moved to stand between Parwaaze and Qubad and watched with the fascination of any teenager. He had never witnessed an execution before— mother had forbidden him to accompany me and Parwaaze last November when Zarmina was executed. “Look away, look away,” I whispered, but he didn’t hear me. Wahidi pointed the pistol down toward the man and shot him in the head. The man appeared to rise briefly before falling back. Wahidi moved to the crying woman and shot her in the head too. The shots sounded flat and harmless in the empty space surrounding us. He walked toward us holding his pistol, as casually as a man crossing a drawing room to greet his guests. The two Talibs,  and the policemen followed him. He turned to give them an order, and then turned back to us.

“Do you know why they were executed?” We remained silent. I felt his eyes penetrating my veil, trying to remember the face he could not see. He angrily answered his own question. “They were traitors to the Islamic Emirate  of Afghanistan. They were committing adultery, which is against our laws, and they deserved to die. We will not tolerate such vices. The press too . . .” Here he paused and surveyed us, noting each one present, focusing  again on me. “. . . are responsible for projecting in the foreign media a very bad image of our legitimate government.” He paced in front of us, and shouted, his face snarling in fury. “From here on out, you will write exactly what I tell you.” The men took out their notebooks like obedient schoolboys . I hadn’t brought one.

“The ruling council of the Islamic Emirate  of Afghanistan, and I, have decided to show the world that we’re a fair and just people. To that end, our government has decided to promote cricket in Afghanistan. We have applied to the International Cricket Council for membership.”

Like the others, I raised my head in surprise.

“We wait to hear from them on this. The Pakistan Cricket Board will support our application. Cricket will show all those against us that we too can be sportsmen. As our young men have much time to spare, we wish to occupy them to prevent any vices. We banned cricket because it was a legacy of the evil British. But we studied all sports and cricket is modest in its clothing. The uniform covers the player from his neck to his feet and covers his head as well. Therefore, we will encourage the sport, strictly according to Islamic rules of dress, and we will hold a tournament in three weeks. We will welcome an official from the International Cricket Council to observe the matches and know that we are genuine in our interest in promoting the sport, openly and fairly. The tournament is open to all Afghans and we will send the winning team to Pakistan to perfect their playing skills. They will return to teach other young men to play this sport. Women, of course, will not be permitted to play.” He ended the announcement and dismissed us.

“What do you think?” I asked Yasir.

“I write what they tell me, and I do not think. But let’s see how many Afghans turn up for the matches when they read about this. A free pass to leave the country—I wonder how many will return. Are you going to write this up?”

“Yasir—I don’t write anymore.”

When I moved to leave with the others, the two policemen grabbed me. Jahan tried to stop them but one Talib hit him in the stomach with his gun butt. Yasir moved to help, but the second Talib pointed his gun at Yasir’s chest. I struggled, trying to get a last glimpse of Jahan, but the men dragged me out of the courtyard and into a small, bare room and forced me to kneel. They pressed their gun barrels down on my shoulders so I could not move. We waited in oppressive silence. Finally, I sensed someone entering the room. I couldn’t see through the mesh and tried to lift my head, but a hand pressed it back down to supplication. I smelled perfume, a cloying, sweet odor. I glimpsed dusty feet slyly circling me, and then he and his cologne walked out of the door. Minutes later, Wahidi walked into the room in his black sandals. I heard the rustle of a paper, and he held a newspaper before my eyes. The English headline read “Taliban Execute Mother of Five Children.” It was my story and I felt my heart miss a beat, then another. This was why I had been summoned here and he was about to kill me. But I also knew he had no proof I had written it—it was filed under my pseudonym. He is only trying to frighten you, I told myself, and tried to stay calm. I did not speak; thankfully I wasn’t expected to. He crushed the paper deliberately into a small ball and dropped it on the floor. Then he lowered a pistol to my line of vision, and I smelled cigarette smoke. Through the mesh, I saw his finger around the trigger, the gun like a natural extension of his hand. Its black barrel was worn gray, the butt chipped along the edges. His finger curled and uncurled as if it had a mind of its own, and was thinking over a decision. The finger was surprisingly long, almost delicate, and manicured. Then the hand lifted the gun out of my small window of vision; it was somewhere above my head. I shut my eyes and waited. I tried prayers, but I couldn’t form the words or sentences that would accompany me into the next life. I opened my eyes when the cigarette’s smoke stung my nostrils. The cigarette lay on the floor, a serpent of smoke curling up. The ball of paper began to burn. He let it come to a small flame then crushed it with his sandal. He lowered to squat in front of me, his eyes almost level with mine. I shut mine tight and yet I felt his eyes piercing the mesh, as if searching the contours of my face. Then, with a decisive grunt, he stood up. The police lifted the gun barrels off my shoulders and followed him out.

I remained kneeling, waiting to open my eyes until I heard no further movement. The door was partially open and I was free to leave. Involuntarily, I laughed in relief. I struggled to stand, my foot caught in the edge of the burka, and I fell. I stood up, swaying, and moved to the door. I stepped out into an empty corridor. To my left, men were loading the executed couple into the back of an old Land Cruiser. For once, I was thankful for the burka. I had wet myself. My legs were rubbery and I leaned against the wall for strength. I moved cautiously out of the building, back into sunlight. Yasir waited by the entrance, while Jahan, Parwaaze, and Qubad were sitting on the low wall, across the street, along the river. They jumped up and hurried over when they saw me. I was more concerned for the abuse Jahan had suffered, and though he walked carefully, he appeared to be all right. He lifted his arms to embrace me but dropped them quickly in embarrassment, looking around to see if such an intimate gesture was noticed by the religious police. When Yasir saw my companions, he said, “Be careful,” and hurried away.

“Are you okay?” they chorused.

“Yes. Jahan, are you all right?”

“Just a stomachache. It’ll pass.”

“We didn’t think we’d see you again,” Parwaaze said, leading us away, our feet leaden on the broken pavement. “Did they hurt you?” he asked me, checking back over his shoulder.

“No, and they didn’t say a word.”

“Then why did they take you inside? What did they want?”

“I don’t know. Wahidi came into the room, smoked a cigarette, and left.” I didn’t mention the gun barrels on my shoulders, the article, or the pistol. I was frightened and I didn’t want to frighten them more.

“I didn’t want you to see . . . that,” I said to Jahan.

He was almost in tears, as he was remembering the impact of the bullets. “I didn’t want to watch, but it was so sudden and I couldn’t move my eyes, I couldn’t even shut them.

“It’s better to cry for them than just look away.” I looked at the other two. They too had moist eyes, flickering with horror at what they had witnessed, and their faces were a shade paler. “Are you both okay?” I asked them, wishing I could take back everything they had seen.

“Another execution. How many more will I see before I can get out of this country?” Parwaaze asked aloud.

“Rukhsana, next time we’ll be carrying out your co-corpse,” Qubad said, “You must leave Kabul. Go to Shaheen, he’s waiting for you in America. He was lucky to get out.”

“I can’t—there’s just no way. I’m not going to leave Maadar while . . .” I didn’t want Mother to die. Somehow, I had to survive and see my mother through her illness, and then escape. I prayed hard. “Please let me make it safely through Maadar’s death and I will leave an instant later. Please protect me until then—just a little more time before I join my bethrothed.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Jahan said.

We hurried toward home. My shoulders still burned from the gun barrels and I felt Wahidi’s breath on my face. Why had he called me? Was he setting a trap to see if I’d report today’s executions and write about the cricket announcement? If he was certain I’d written those other stories, I wouldn’t be walking home. I’d be in prison.

In my preocupation, I wasn’t listening to the boys until Parwaaze’s excited voice broke through my thoughts.

“. . . in three weeks and the winning team will go to Pakistan,” he said. “We get out if we win that match . . . go to Australia . . .  America . . . to university . . . finish our studies . . . work . . . wasting our lives here . . .”

“Then we’ll have to come back here to teach the others,” Jahan said.

“I’ll keep going and going,” Parwaaze said.

“But we have one small pr-problem with that brilliant idea,” Qubad said.

“We don’t know how to play cricket,” Parwaaze admitted, crestfallen.

“We don’t,” Jahan said. “But Rukhsana does.”

Love our politicians

I absolutely love our politicians. I have to fall in worship and awe of their egos.
Who else but an Indian politician, a chief minister at that and therefore all-powerful, would build a massive, and I mean MASSIVE, statue of herself in a cathedral-like building that dwarfs the Chartres cathedral.
Of course Mayawati meant this monument to hers dalit self (and two dalit men standing behind her) to be a place of worship. It cost the state’s exchequer a mere 680 crore rupees. One moment while I convert that to US dollars – another mere 151 million USD, I think.
I’ve only seen the photographs of this Mayawati basilica. She stands in front of her edifice and just about reaches her own stone ankle. What I really love too is that her gigantic alter ego carries a huge handbag. It’s hard to get a perspective from a photograph but she looks, in real life, as the same height as her stone bag. What does she, in real life again, carry in this trademark handbag? Money? She needs cash to pay for the auto rickshaw, buy flowers from the roadside seller, a cup of chai too, and to tip the waiter in a dhabba. Or does it hold her makeup kit? Lipstick, powder, rouge, perfume, a comb?
Politicians never carry anything, their chamchas do. Indira didn’t, Sonia and Jayalalithaa don’t carry bags. They have black cats to do that. Besides, politicians never ever need to carry money. It’s a given that they’re LOADED with it, either in India or elsewhere. So why her handbag and what is in it, to return to my puzzlement? To prove her femininity, probably.
We love our statues of our politicians. They sprout, like some deity, in every street corner, square, maidan, traffic roundabout. They’re religious garlanded on their birth and death anniversaries, riots break out if they’re forgotten. At least for Mohandas Gandhi, the statues of him were built, and scattered like confetti all over India, long after he was dead. Now, being dead and statues after is out of fashion. They’re erected while the ‘great’ person is still alive so he or she can garland it, and admire it, while they’re still alive.
Mayawati should read Percy Byshee Shelley’s poem, Ozymandis:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Hostile Witnesses

As there seems to be a countless number of ‘hostile witnesses’ wandering around our judicial system today, I thought I’d better find out a bit more about this tribe. One moment a case, years after the event took place, is about to start and the next day I read that someone has become a ‘hostile witness’. I must presume he was a friendly witness before the case started. The people belonging to this category range across from movie stars and accountants to bus drivers and government servants. Obviously, this ‘hostile witness’ disease isn’t a respecter of persons.
I figured a good murder case would be a start. There are enough murders going around to make a dozen good movies. Like a good detective, I tracked down the cop who investigated the murder and interviewed the witnesses. He was sitting at his desk in the Crime department looking very morose. At the same time he was emptying his desk drawers and packing a small case.
‘So you messed up again?’ I said. ‘You got the wrong witness.’
‘Wrong witness!’ he was very sour. ‘This person was sitting three feet away when the killer hacked the victim to death. My witness was so close that some drops of blood fell on his shirt. When I interviewed him three years ago at the time of the crime, he gave a detailed eye witness description of the killer and exactly what happened.’
‘Where did this murder take place?’
‘In a well-known tea kadai at ten o’clock in the morning. The kadai was crowded with tea drinkers, and they all witnessed the murder. After the hacking the killer paid for his tea and walked out. It was an open and shut case.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Except, for one small detail that I hadn’t taken into my investigation.’
‘What was that?’
‘The killer belonged to a political party. Of course then, the party was out of power. Until then, it was open and shut.’
‘Why should that make a difference? A dozen witnesses saw the murder in broad daylight. It was open and shut.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed mournfully. ‘The other problem began when his political party won the election and came to power. You see that changes the whole equation in our judicial system. As long as the party people who committed the crimes are out of power we have open and shut cases against the perpetrators. The moment the party returns to power the whole equation changes. We no longer have open and shut and no witnesses at all.’
‘Where can I find a hostile witness?’
‘Try the tea kadai. They all hang together, bureaucrats, movie stars, auditors, registrars, and bus drivers. It’s called the Hostile Witness tea kadai.’
He rose and picked up his case, giving the shabby office a last fond look around.
‘Are you retiring?’
‘No, I’ve been taken off the case and posted to the Andaman Islands. I’ll have to stay there until the next election, I suppose.’
The tea kadai was just a stone’s throw from our majestic High Court. It was a small, dark place, with barely enough light to illuminate your cup of tea. A dozen or so hostile witnesses shifted uneasily when I sat down among them.
‘Why have you all turned hostile? Once you were such friendly and co-operative witnesses and now you’re furtive as rats.’
‘It’s all very well for you to talk but what can we do,’ the murder witness, a small, worried said. ‘The murd…I mean the gentleman who allegedly killed this other person in this very kadai three years ago came to see me. He was now a ruling party member. He was most polite and asked if I recognised him. When I said ‘yes’, he and ten others came that night and threw stones at my house and threatened my wife and children. So when he came the next morning and asked the same question, I had to honestly reply that I’d never seen him ever in my life.’ He shrugged. ‘And that’s what I said in the witness box.’
‘But there must be some crooks out there who aren’t connected to any political party?’
‘Even if they weren’t connected at the start of their careers, they soon joined a political party. You cannot remain a criminal in this country without being a member of a political party. It’s mandatory now a days. It’s a smart career move for all criminal types. First commit the crime, then join the party, and then get elected. In this way, they can continue to commit crimes.’
‘But what about you movie stars and auditors and bureaucrats? You can call the police for protection, can’t you?’
‘You are an innocent. The police also belong to the ruling party, depending on which party. The ones who belong to the party in opposition don’t have the power to protect us at all. They’ve all been posted to the Andaman Islands.’

The OPIATE

DO TERRORISTS make good rulers? I know they are good at terror but do they actually administer the country they have won over by terrorism? Do they feed and educate the people they rule? We know from their latest statements that they love dying while the Americans love living. It is much harder to live than to die.
I have yet to figure out how the Taliban ruled Afghanistan between 1996 and 2001. I have read countless articles on them but they remain veiled behind their beards and clerical garb. I know they issued edicts frequently. These edicts were terse and mainly had to do with their religious beliefs. Like the edicts that ordered the destruction of the giant statues of the Buddha. The Taliban spent a fair amount of money and ammunition on that exercise, despite the worlds protests. What did that achieve? Did it feed the starving people or give them employment? It was said to be destruction for the sake of the purity of Afghanistan.
Then the Taliban issued other edicts, equally terse but quite terrifying. Men had to grow beards to a certain length. I scanned the articles to discover what length, but they failed to give me the information. So a man could be walking down the street ith a four-inch beard and the Religious Police could whip out a scale, measure it and whip him if it was too short or too long.
Women had been driven behind the veil. They could not work, they could not get an education. They could not leave their homes without the Talibans written permission. According to an eyewitness report, a woman taking her dying child to the nearest hospital was stopped by a Taliban cop. When she pleaded with him that her child was dying and that she did not have a pass, he hit her and tried to drive her back home. She dodged past him and began running, with her child in her arms, to the hospital. The cop shot her in the back and walked away.
Having come to power through a brutal civil war, I have yet to figure out how the Taliban ruled their country. I have not read about a Finance Minister making any economic statements or planning for the future. Was there a Finance Ministry? The Taliban made a lot of their money out of drugs enough to pay for shells and bullets. I know there was a Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but it must have been one of the most under-employed ministries in the world. The only foreign affairs they deal with related to Pakistan.
I had noticed how extremely well-fed the Taliban ambassador to Pakistan was. He looked like he was fed well with naan, butter chicken, lamb kebabs and lassi. In contrast, his compatriots in Kabul looked undernourished and thin. I was surprised they still remained upright. Equally emaciated were the two million refugees in Pakistans various refugee camps. The Taliban, naturally, dened their existence.
Terror and religion have long been bedfellows. The Roman Catholic Church practised its brand of terror the Inquisition in the 13th century. If you were judged a heretic, you were burned at the stake. Such persecution arises out of a sense of deep insec urity and the fear that the prevailing beliefs will be diluted by mans progress. In those days, only the priests were educated and gave their own interpretations of the religious texts. Gradually, through education and the spread of information, they los t this monopoly over knowledge.
Today, Islam is also going through a period of insecurity. It wants to protect its followers from all the contamination of a more powerful culture. The Taliban clerics learn the Koran by heart and are prone to interpreting it whichever way they choose. In India, we have the saffron brigade that also wants to regress to the golden age of Hinduism. If they grab power (as it is attempting), we would have our own version of the Taliban dictating the way we dress and behave.
Change frightens people and our world is constantly changing. Although, at times, it looks as if it is for the worse, huge numbers of people have found a better life than their fathers and grandfathers. And with change they abandon the old ways and take up the new to fit into their increased economic freedom. It is possible that religion becomes less important in their lives.
As Karl Marx wrote: Religion is the opiate of the masses. For those religious fanatics everywhere, it still is.

SELL THE POOR

I have to admit those Chinese are a lot smarter than we Indians are are. We may think we’re on the cutting edge of technology in the IT revolution and smarter than any one else in the world. Our NRIs may be the richest ethnic group in the US and we now have our first Indian dollar billionaire. However, when it comes to making money, the Chinese have us beat easily.
Here we are, doing our level best – within the restrictive parameters of our babus- to make a fast buck. We’re selling shoes, brains, spices, cloth and whatever else we can lay our hands on. We’re begging those rich foreign tourists to visit the Taj Mahal, stay in a Rajasthan Palace and sun bathe in Goa. All for what? It costs us money to advertise these attractions in Harper’s Bazaar and The New York Times.
What we don’t know is that we’re sitting on a gold mine. We have 400-odd million of our wonderful citizens living below the poverty level and we’re just not exploiting them properly. That’s where the Chinese are smarter than us. They’re now arranging guided tours for the rich tourists to visit and see how the poor live. Each tour costs $35 for a city slum and a lot more for a rural poverty tour.
Now don’t you think that’s clever? Sell the poor as a tourist attraction. We have worse slums than the Chinese can boast about. Just stroll through any Indian city and you’ll see slums that will make a Chinese tour guide’s mouth water with envy. We can boast of sewage water for drinking (that’s if they’re a rich slum), non-existent drainage, no sewage (apart from drinking), no schools, skinny people, no lighting, slush and garbage everywhere. At $30 a head (we should undercut the Chinese as this is a very competitive age) we could show them kids working in sweat shops – if they’re lucky- or in surroundings that make sweat shops look like paradise, men drunk in despair, women with too many children and all of them living on a diet of a handful of rice and kanji.
That’s only for openers. Just imagine how much money we could make off the tourists by guiding them around Bihar or Orissa or any one of our extremely poor states. Stop the air-conditioned bus. Jump off and see people eating boiled leaves, men women and children illiterate in this 21st century. See the Dalits. Now that’s something the Chinese don’t have. We could charge $75 a head for the rich tourist to see how Dalits are treated in some villages. In fact, I’m sure the Thakurs or others could put on a show of gunning them down.
I was wondering why the Chinese were having such success with their ‘See the poor’ tourist attraction. Of course, the rich have no idea how the poor live. Admittedly, most of the tourists were Americans but Americans do have a greater curiosity than other nationalities. So here they are in China, having flown business or first, staying in a five star, looking at the Great Wall and other sites. Then what? Back for a dumpling dinner? They want to know whether the poor eat dumplings, have American Express Gold cards, shop in Rodeo Drive and eat McDonalds or McChinese.
I know our slums appall tourists coming to India. But that’s because they don’t know them, haven’t lived in one, chatted to a starving man, drunk filthy water (or watch others drink as we don’t want to jeopardise their health and lose their money). We must copy the Chinese. Don’t let our tourists sink back into air-conditioned rooms in the Taj hotel, whip them out on a tour of the poor.
They’ll love our poor; it will be the last great adventure. They’ll take snaps, go back, and tell their friends in Ohio about how awful and ugly Indian poverty is. This is far better than hearsay and TV documentaries. On top of that, we coin money showing off our poor. Naturally, we won’t give the poor the tourist dollars, this would ruin them totally and might even uplift them. Just think what our politicians would do if they couldn’t spout ‘uplift the poor’ in every speech.
I believe we should test out our new tourist attraction as soon as possible so that we can start coining the money. What’s the point of showing foreigners hi-tech India? They have higher tech back home in his toilet.
No, our leaders should have him inaugurate our new ‘visit the poor’ tourists programme and charge them $35. And the rest of us will get rich quick.

FROM A HUMBLE POLITICIAN

From: The Lok Sabha.
Dear Constituent,
As your elected representative to the Lok Sabha, I am aware that you do not have a high opinion of us politicians. We may give the impression that we’re in this political business only to disagree, sometimes violently by throwing chairs and microphones and storming the well, with the ruling party. As members of the opposition, our job is to oppose whatever the ruling party proposes, whether the proposal is good for the nation or not is beside the point. Otherwise, there would be no need for an opposition party. When the ruling party is in opposition, they will perform the same role when we’re the ruling party.
However, I am delighted to inform you that for once in our long history of political conflicts, all the political parties are in total agreement. I wish to point out that such harmony has never been witnessed before in the Lok Sabha and I am certain you will be proud of your parliament and the smooth functioning of the democratic process.
I write only to explain to you why we – all the members of the Lok Sabha – so strongly oppose any electoral reforms. First of all , to be frank as I know you will understand such things being an Indian voter, I am not in this political business to serve you or the nation. I might give that impression during an election but I know that you do not believe a word I speak and you are there only to support my ambitions. Politics is about making money, even as business – an industrialist or a shopkeeper is also about making money. If it weren’t for the vast amounts of money there for the taking, why would any sane human being enter the political arena? I ask you.
My sole purpose, as you well know, is to make money swiftly as possible. Five years is a very short time to make enough money for me, my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren and great-great grandchildren. I cannot leave so many generations destitute and I will be long remembered by my descendants and given thanks for great foresight that they can lead lives of luxury and comfort.
You are very aware, having read the lies in the newspapers, that I have a 150 criminal cases pending against me in various courts. Among my colleagues in the Lok Sabha I am known as the ‘King of Courts’, while they’re mere princelings and petty zamindars in our courts. Some of them have only four or five criminal cases pending against them, which shows how they lack ambition to greatness.
I began my political career as a petty criminal – theft and extortion . While in prison, I was recruited into politics by my party leader who was also in prison on politically motivated charges for corruption. He was my guru who pointed out that there was more money to be made in politics than in owning an oil well. He needed my criminal mind and contacts to build up the party, so we became partners in politics. And through sheer will power, I rose up the ranks, committing murders and performing corrupt deed to magnificent proportions.
I am truly the embodiment of the Indian Dream – to amass as much wealth and power without performing any creditable deeds. But that’s why so many are eager to enter politics. Believe me, it’s not cheap getting a ticket to a ruling or major opposition party. It costs lakhs, sometimes a crore or two, and then we have to spend on our elections. By the time we reach the Lok Sabha or a State Assembly, we’re in deep debt. How else to pay off this debt? And then, further, how else to accrue as much as possible as, no doubt, in five years time, you will throw me out of my lucrative office.
You must understand now why all the political parties in the Lok Sabha oppose any electoral reforms. I began with nothing except a petty criminal record and lived in a hovel. Today I am worth crores and crores. Tell me, is it your business how much money I have? Making money is all luck and it was my luck to enter politics. Why should I reveal my bank accounts, properties, stocks, shares, benami properties. Now, I pay no income tax. What will happen, I ask, once all these acquired assets are revealed to everyone’s gaze? Income tax will demand their share of my hard-earned wealth. I don’t ask you how much money you have or how you got it. I firmly believe – as the American people do too – that this is an invasion of privacy.
I trust you will, like us all, strong oppose any electoral reforms. We know, at the end of the day, they will be easily subverted (our Indian minds are experts at this) and this process is just a waste of our time. We have better things to do – like making money.
Yours Sincerely, Gulabjaman-ji, Member of the Lok Sabha.

OUR ROYAL WEDDING

As you may have heard Prince William waited for the my arrival in London to announce his engagement to Kate Middleton. They had a nine year relationship, and when William called me for advice, I told him ‘Go for it. England needs a big tamasha.’ When I got to London I called to congratulate William on his decision, as we knew he was doing it for the flag, The Queen and the British economy. Kate, or the future Queen Kate as she is now known, is a beautiful woman and the media just can’t get enough of her. We’re told she is middle class, whatever that may mean in the British class system.
The whole media rejoiced when they heard the news and bells rang out across the length and breadth of this emerald Isle. The British PM interrupted a discussion on the ailing economy to let allow three cheers in the cabinet room. In print, television and the radio, every pundit who could be hauled out of the pub, discussed the engagement and the coming marriage today. They all agreed that the wedding, like the one between Prince Charles and Diana, will bring in millions of tourists to witness this splendid spectacle. And millions of tourists mean many more million pounds spent on hotels, hot dogs, flags, souvenir mugs and quaff beer. The sagging economy and the sagging spirits of the British empire, or what’s left of it, will be uplifted by the sight of the young handsome couple sitting in a golden carriage and accompanied by the horseguards with their golden helmets and breast plates. The last royal wedding also took place when the British spirits and the economy was on a low, and we all know what happened to tha marriage.
I have to admit the British are very good at mounting spectacles. They have that down to a fine art – colourful horsemen, soldiers with bearskin hats and marching bands. We learned from them on how to mount colourful spectacles but we only do that on Republic Day. I do believe we have the untapped potential to make better use of our splendid army uniforms, bands, camel corps, elephant parades and our natural love of a big tamasha.
Now, what we need to bring this together is a royal wedding. I know there was one recently when a Rajasthan royal married another royal and it was covered by the world media as Mick Jagger and Bono were in the guest list. I doubt those two spent the millions that the British hope their royal wedding will generate.
We do have a much more important royal family – an Indo-Italian one – and what we need is a grand wedding for the young, or not so young, prince who still remains single. Prince William found his Kate and I am praying that Rahul will find his mate soon. Once he does, we can then learn from the Brits how to stage a royal wedding. They have Westminister Abbey and BuckinghamPalace we have the Raj Bhavan and that awe inspiring sweep up to it. We too have carriages, now only used for the President to travel in, and it can be the wedding carriage. So the couple start their regal drive from there and end up in the Red Fort which now is wasted with boring speeches by a PM on Indpendence Day. They’ll wave from the rampants to the adoring masses. I am certain once the wedding is announced, our media, especially TV, will make it an event that will put President Obama’s visit in the shade. There will be hysteria and second by second updates of the happy couple.
And, ofcourse, millions of tourists will line the drive to wave Indian flags, spend millions of rupees, buy souvernirs of the happy couple on lotas, and drink as much Black Label as they can.