Picking up the glass of the amber liquid called whiskey, I felt overcome with a feeling of TRANQUILITY, peace and harmony.
This was life. The perfect setting for a great evening where the mind falls into a sort of coma, only waking up to signal the hands to make another stiff one.
But peace is short-lived in this mad, mad world of ours. I was shaken from my comfort zone with a loud bang on the door.
An old friend popped in, went straight to the TV and on to some channel which was showing a programme on cleanliness.
And there was this politician along with an actor and a cricketer and few other celebrities taking a broom and cleaning a rather nasty patch of filth. Bravo! Our rich and famous are actually using their bare hands and manoeuvring it with firm sweeps which would have made any cricketer proud and I said so.
I was within an ace of saluting these wonderful chaps when my friend let out a guffaw which nearly shook the foundations.
For a moment I thought he had choked on the munchies. It took him a full five minutes to gain control before he revealed the cause of the laughter.
I cringed when I heard it. These wonderful chaps were only cleaning stuff which was kept for them a few minutes before the cameras rolled.
This was a big photo op for all these gentlemen. The cleanliness drive was just a facade to up their popularity and win brownie points.
Tut, Tut. And here I was, my chest swollen with pride, admiring these fellows for their noble initiative. I was within an ace of singing the national anthem too.
My friend went into another fit of laughter after hearing me. He criticised my naivety with some solid words which would have made a butcher blush.
He expounded on my brain in particular and affirmed that even a mosquito had more grey matter than me and that I should never donate my brain after death as the number of idiots in the world would grow.
He went on to say that he would recommend me for sainthood and speak to the authorities urgently about it. He knocked back the whiskey bottoms up, poured another stiff one, hands shaking with mirth.
It took him another five minutes to get hold of himself and after a few more choice words directed at the politician, he gained control over himself.
Then he explained in great detail. He first clarified that politicians only use their arms for underhand work. Pointing at that rather portly politician on screen he said,” Look at his hands. All manicured and pedicured. Or for that matter that actor. These chappies have roughly 90 servants at their beck and call. Look at the politician’s paunch.
“He needs to be a trapeze artist to bend and touch even his knees. All humbug, my boy. I can bet you that once the camera stops, this gent is going to splatter the walls with beetle juice. Look closely and you spot the paan in his pocket,” he said and burst into another round of uncontrolled laughter.
He left after that, promising to tell me some lurid stories regarding the politician and the actor.
I immediately fell into a reverie. I thought this politician was a solid chap whom I would vote anytime. I mean, there was setting an example for others. But then again….
I retired to bed a disturbed man. And I dreamt about the politician doing yoga. There he was, bending his elephant legs while his huge backside quivered like a shivering man.
Then there was a loud sound of a trouser ripping apart. Thank God my dream broke precisely at that time.
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