Read Online The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel by Zubin J. Shroff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Zubin J. Shroff
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then when the onion problem is solved, they simply regain their jobs.
It is a good system, I said.
Iqbal shook his head and looked at the tiles.
Then Netaji became serious. But, he said, you are little bit correct in your earlier point. Nowadays, the politicians are finding that after giving up their jobs to cousins and in-laws, there is no guarantee that they will regain their jobs. And so they are more concerned with onion problem than previously.
Okay, I said, so now you will be changing your onion supply plan?
No, you silly bugger, said Netaji, I do not care about the family matters of the stupid politicians.
But to return to an even earlier point, said Iqbal, if the Indian politicians are worrying about onion problem and revolution, then would they not create border trouble to distract the Indians?
Netaji laughed. No, he said, the Indian politicians simply create internal trouble to distract the people.
Like what? I said.
Like riots, floods, earthquakes, temple destruction, mosque burning, and other such normal day-to-day things, said Netaji.
Now again Iqbal and I were stunned.
But, I said, is that not worse for Indians than border trouble?
Yes, said Iqbal, should you not then redirect your onions to local people so that such terrible domestic problems can be reduced?
Netaji sighed and shook his head.
What is the problem? I asked.
See, said Netaji, although you will soon understand that my tactics provide the maximum possible benefit to India’s overall situation, the problems you speak of are domestic issues, and I am a foreign-relations specialist, so these are not my problems to deal with directly.
Now I was hundred percent sure we were dealing with a madman. Or perhaps even a politician himself, which could be even more dangerous. I looked at Iqbal, and I could tell by his stillness that he agreed with me. We somehow had to stop this madman, or at least get ourselves out of there.
14
O f course, when you are in the darkness of a madman’s hole in a previously-unknown courtyard in the city of your birth, then sometimes it is not so easy to get out, or even to talk about getting out. You see, for some reason Iqbal was not paying as much attention to me, and I worried that our wavelengths were little bit off at that point, the result being that I was unable to communicate my determination to get away from the madman. At least I could not communicate it through nonverbal and nonphysical means.
So first I selected a physical means of communication. With my foot, I poked Iqbal’s foot. But this did not work. He simply moved his foot to the side and kept on staring at Netaji. So then I tried a verbal means of communicating my apprehension.
Since Netaji was highly trained in diplomacy, I had to be diplomatic, so I could not simply say: Come Iqbal, let us flee from this dark hole of the madman who thinks he is Netaji.
Instead, I made sounds that I hoped would be understood by Iqbal and not Netaji. The sounds themselves are indescribable, and even if they were describable, it would not do to describe them. Suffice it to say that I started off with the softest and least offensive sounds, and progressively progressed to the loudest and most disgusting sounds.
Perhaps you have eaten too many onion bhajias, said Netaji with a diplomatic smile.
Iqbal stared at me as if to say the same thing but with the addition of shut up at the end. I was quite embarrassed, and when I looked up to see Bhatkoo peeking at me through the door-shaped opening in the wall, I became angry like how when you are embarrassed and someone laughs at you and you immediately become angry. But luckily the anger was of the clarifying kind, and I immediately thought of a solution to being expelled from this dark hole of the madmen and the hydroponics.
I would insult the plants once more. No doubt then Iqbal and I would be thrown from the place with a high degree of immediacy and prejudice. Although I thought the idea of plants that care
It is a good system, I said.
Iqbal shook his head and looked at the tiles.
Then Netaji became serious. But, he said, you are little bit correct in your earlier point. Nowadays, the politicians are finding that after giving up their jobs to cousins and in-laws, there is no guarantee that they will regain their jobs. And so they are more concerned with onion problem than previously.
Okay, I said, so now you will be changing your onion supply plan?
No, you silly bugger, said Netaji, I do not care about the family matters of the stupid politicians.
But to return to an even earlier point, said Iqbal, if the Indian politicians are worrying about onion problem and revolution, then would they not create border trouble to distract the Indians?
Netaji laughed. No, he said, the Indian politicians simply create internal trouble to distract the people.
Like what? I said.
Like riots, floods, earthquakes, temple destruction, mosque burning, and other such normal day-to-day things, said Netaji.
Now again Iqbal and I were stunned.
But, I said, is that not worse for Indians than border trouble?
Yes, said Iqbal, should you not then redirect your onions to local people so that such terrible domestic problems can be reduced?
Netaji sighed and shook his head.
What is the problem? I asked.
See, said Netaji, although you will soon understand that my tactics provide the maximum possible benefit to India’s overall situation, the problems you speak of are domestic issues, and I am a foreign-relations specialist, so these are not my problems to deal with directly.
Now I was hundred percent sure we were dealing with a madman. Or perhaps even a politician himself, which could be even more dangerous. I looked at Iqbal, and I could tell by his stillness that he agreed with me. We somehow had to stop this madman, or at least get ourselves out of there.
14
O f course, when you are in the darkness of a madman’s hole in a previously-unknown courtyard in the city of your birth, then sometimes it is not so easy to get out, or even to talk about getting out. You see, for some reason Iqbal was not paying as much attention to me, and I worried that our wavelengths were little bit off at that point, the result being that I was unable to communicate my determination to get away from the madman. At least I could not communicate it through nonverbal and nonphysical means.
So first I selected a physical means of communication. With my foot, I poked Iqbal’s foot. But this did not work. He simply moved his foot to the side and kept on staring at Netaji. So then I tried a verbal means of communicating my apprehension.
Since Netaji was highly trained in diplomacy, I had to be diplomatic, so I could not simply say: Come Iqbal, let us flee from this dark hole of the madman who thinks he is Netaji.
Instead, I made sounds that I hoped would be understood by Iqbal and not Netaji. The sounds themselves are indescribable, and even if they were describable, it would not do to describe them. Suffice it to say that I started off with the softest and least offensive sounds, and progressively progressed to the loudest and most disgusting sounds.
Perhaps you have eaten too many onion bhajias, said Netaji with a diplomatic smile.
Iqbal stared at me as if to say the same thing but with the addition of shut up at the end. I was quite embarrassed, and when I looked up to see Bhatkoo peeking at me through the door-shaped opening in the wall, I became angry like how when you are embarrassed and someone laughs at you and you immediately become angry. But luckily the anger was of the clarifying kind, and I immediately thought of a solution to being expelled from this dark hole of the madmen and the hydroponics.
I would insult the plants once more. No doubt then Iqbal and I would be thrown from the place with a high degree of immediacy and prejudice. Although I thought the idea of plants that care
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