Cyrus Broacha
NETAGIRI
RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Contents
By the Same Author
Dedication
Introduction
Introduction to Introduction
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Epilogue
A Note on the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Follow Random House
Copyright
By the Same Author
The Average Indian Male
Karl, Aaj aur Kal
To my son Mikhaail, my daughter Maya, and my German Shepherd Ruffo.
You guys often wonder why your dad doesn’t have a job. I could take the easy way out and say I’m not your dad. Instead, I’ve decided to write a book. After reading this book you’ll know why I don’t have a job and why all three of you must work very hard to provide for me. Especially you, Ruffo.
Your... er... dad.
Introduction
After his first book, which was semi-autobiographical, and then a second, which was as close to a foray in socio-cultural anthropology as a weightlifter could make, with this third book Netagiri, Cyrus Broacha surely enters a thoroughfare that was earlier traversed only by the likes of Henry David Thoreau, Aldous Huxley, and Lalu Prasad Yadav. Politics.
Ordinarily, politics is not a subject you would bargain for Cyrus Broacha to commonly attempt. The topics you’d expect him to write about would be ‘The Cryological Genesis of the Hair Weave’, ‘The Entomological Nature of the Common Tick’, ‘Metaphysical Poets from Cusrow Baug’, and ‘How to Measure the Bust of a Female Bodybuilder’. So you’d probably think of this book as a departure.
But politics to Cyrus is second nature. Not many people know that he established himself as a seasoned political practitioner from the day he first pinched his Montessori teacher’s behind and blamed it on Pakistan. He’s never looked back since.
As a young boy studying in college, he never once bought a textbook, pen, or paper but instead borrowed from any poor willing soul; all the while insisting he try out a socioeconomic system structured upon common ownership. He called it Communism.
As a sophomore actor on the English stage, he celebrated many an opening night—drinking with the cast at popular drinking holes, enjoying the social brotherhood that theatre inspired, never having to reach into his wallet. To him this was co-operative management of the economy. He called it Socialism.
As an anchor on television, he acknowledged and welcomed all suggestions, opinions, and directives, encouraging every single person to participate in the decision-making personally. He then proceeded to do exactly what he wanted. This was his version of Democracy.
Today, as a married man with two young children, he honestly believes he is living in a Dictatorship.
With such practiced political beliefs, Cyrus could have easily found vocation as chief political advisor to Muammar al-Gaddafi or Pervez Musharraf but chose to pursue a less dignified life in satire.
Having been intimately involved in his career as a satirist for the last, give and take, twenty-five years and, especially in the last eight as partner in the weekly political send-up television show, ‘The Week That Wasn’t’, I have faithfully watched his growth as he turned from amateur to professional and from ectomorph to endomorph.
His intuition, understanding, and perspicacity in grasping political rumblings and nuances is exceptional. His ability to spin a solemn story into a whimsical yarn and ruthlessly witty satires is unparalleled. And with his ever-questioning intelligence, he possesses the best perspective to take on this dubious subject, Politics.
I imagine Netagiri will be uproariously, hilariously, side-splittingly funny, and an exciting and priceless read for you. I will tell you for sure if I decide to read it.
Kunal Vijayakar
Introduction to Introduction
This is a huge mistake folks. Firstly, a work of fiction doesn’t ever have an Introduction. For this I blame the publisher who believe this to be a true story. However, this is as big a yarn as man descending from apes is.
Secondly, I have never met this person Kunal Vijayakar and I deny all accusations of proximity between himself and me quite vehemently. Furthermore, his usage of words such as ‘Sophomore actor’ ‘Cryological Genesis’, and ‘Socialism’ are absolutely wrong as none of these words exist in the English language. His facts are all over the place. I never ever pinched my Montessori teacher’s behind. I merely pressed it gently for 14 minutes. Twice. I also didn’t blame it on Pakistan.
Lastly, I deny being married, although I may have discovered two children. I ask you, dear reader, to disregard the paranoid rantings of this delusional delinquent Kunal Vijayakar forthwith. I ask you instead to pay far closer attention to the paranoid rantings of this delusional delinquent namely myself instead.
Prologue
Long, long ago... or was it last month? No, long, long ago. actually some time ago...er... look, stop pressurizing me. I don’t have all the details, but what I have, I’ll share with you.
Although time is not clear, the geography certainly is. Our tale is set in a country which is on the right of Australia, just below North America, and very close to present day East Timor (or was it on the right of North America?). Look, the best I can do on such short notice is that the country was next to Nepal. It was a largish country and had all the features countries should have—mountains, rivers, two wild animals, traffic jams, incomplete road construction, bridges with no utilitarian value, dengue, dust, dirt, and a politician every square mile. Oh, and a partridge in a pear tree.
It was an impressive enough country. Especially if you’d never been there. It was called ‘GYAANDOSTAAN’. This roughly translates into ‘a place of two pieces of knowledge’. And it was a crime to spell the country name in small letters. You had to use capitals. GYAANDOSTAAN. Even if you were just thinking of the name in your head. The Gyaandostaanis (citizens) spoke their own language. This was mistakenly called Gyaandostaani. In fact, the Gyaandostaanis didn’t speak Gyaandostaani. They spoke Pupric. Gyaandostaani was spoken by a few tribes that lived off the eastern side of the Russian Steppes. Now Pupric is a very difficult language. It has no consonants. Only vowels. As a result, it appears to the outside ear as a collection of wailing sounds similar to the plaintiff cry of lost Emperor Penguins. Since you, dear reader, are not familiar with the plaintiff cry of Emperor Penguins, I have translated everything from the original Pupric into rudimentary English which can be understood by 5-year-olds who incidentally are my main reading market. But to simplify things and not make a hillside out of an ant hill, let’s call the language Gyaandostaani anyway.
GYAANDOSTAAN’S capital was a city called Bey. Both the action, and the lack of action (depending on how you rate this book at the end of it), takes place in Bey. Now, since this book will never release in GYAANDOSTAAN—well, it may not release in Nepal either—I’ve decided to use capitals for GYAANDOSTAAN only when I feel it necessary. And I will feel it necessary when I need to fill in the page with bigger letters for the noble purpose of finishing off the story as quickly as possible in order to avoid being sued by the Emperor Penguins mentioned at the beginning of the story. Story being the original idea, but we may diversify into ditty, poem, love lyric, or even leaflet, depending of course on market conditions.
A brief history of Gyaandostaan would be warranted here. But, I don’t want to be accused of spoi
ling you, dear reader. As the great Freddie Mercury once allegedly told his accountant, ‘Too much detail can kill you’.
Our story, in short, traces the rise of a young politician, who could have easily been mistaken for Napoleon if he was one inch taller. He rises to power with Napoleonic speed and takes the country to dizzying heights.
This book is all set to be a motion picture. And the list of actors who have turned down the lead role include Nasseruddin Shah, Irrfan Khan, and possibly, Darsheel Zaffary.
GYAANDOSTAAN’S climb is a lesson to the whole world that you can go far in life, even if your country has a strange name.
Although the story’s beginning is a straight lift from Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick (original version), the rest of the story is almost original, and the music is perchance, never lifted. Our tale starts where most books ought to start at, a funeral.
In sector 36 of mid-town Bey, in a palace about twice the size of Buckingham, and with no Welsh corgis, the grand patriarch of the Huskee clan, Jay Huskee, had just passed away. To tell you the truth, he had passed out of a balcony window after losing his balance. He fell into an open truck carrying seaweed to Oceania. Within minutes, he was deep at sea, never to be seen again. His family took out a search party to sea, to see, but abandoned the mission after nine minutes, primarily because it started to drizzle, though of course not precisely where they were, but about 15 miles to the Northwest.
Grandfather Huskee was a career politician. Nobody knew his real age because he hadn’t told the truth in 38 years.
Our story now starts with the family having returned home after the customary last rites. Since Jay Huskee’s body was never found, this was performed with his favourite lighter and a handful of seaweed (perhaps, his last known adversary).
Our tale opens on the first dinner after this monumental event. (Keep in mind GYAANDOSTAANI tradition requires four days’ mourning followed by three days’ recovery before dinner can actually be served. If it is served before this, it must be served only on one leg. )
1
It was a big, old house (which I suppose is different from an old, big house, although I have no idea why), especially by Gyaandostaan’s standards. Bear in mind, houses were not owned in GYAANDOSTAAN, they were ‘occupied’. All you had to do was enter an abode and never leave, which may or may not explain why the rock group The Eagles wrote ‘Hotel California’ after a weekend in Bey.
By GYAANDOSTAANI standards (not the language that is spoken in Gyaandostaan, but the place), it was huge. Bey was a thinning town where most people happily lived like cockroaches. A 400-square-feet one-bedroom house easily contained an average of eight to ten residents. In contrast, the Huskee’s place was a seven-room, five-bathroom mansion, with a swimming pool and a terrace garden. In keeping with the philosophy of dumping down their wealth, the Huskee’s swimming pool had no water, and the terrace garden had only two plants, both made of ceramic, which Mrs Huskee (Jay’s daughter-in-law) insisted on watering twice a day. Now that you mentioned Mrs Huskee, let me tell you a little about her.
Sophia Huskee was born probably many years ago. She worked in a law firm where she met Y. Suresh Huskee, Jay’s son. Since she was pretty and he influential, they quickly pretended to fall in love, and soon got married. Jay’s wife had died when Y. Suresh was just 5, so the early marriage was welcomed by the Huskee clan. Jay’s wife was actually a very nice lady, except for the fact that she had a man’s first name—Mohan—which was a continued source of embarrassment to Jay. Invitations would say Mohan and Jay, which made the duo sound like out-of-work music composers. As Jay earned fame and power as a politician, his wife’s first name came even more into prominence. So when she died suddenly of an illness which I cannot pronounce properly, he quickly looked on the bright side, and oh yes, immediately started answering all invitations.
Sophia and Y. Suresh produced two sons. Well, technically Sophia produced and Y. Suresh may have contributed. The elder one was called Paul. Paul was in fact an original Pupric name. Meticulously it was spelt and pronounced exactly the same as the Christian version, Paul. But I assure you there was no relation between the two Pauls. The second son was named Mohan after his grandmother as a tribute to her.
Paul and Mohan were pleasant enough boys. Mohan was perhaps a bit too pleasant. And as he grew up, his fondness for the opposite gender became less and less apparent. Paul was an avid sportsman and soon became obsessed with Gyaandostaan’s national game of darts. He became the school captain, the envy of all. However his ‘darts’ career ended when, during a state tournament, representing Bey, he pierced the forehead of a rival school’s principal standing seven-and-a-half feet from the dart board on the other side of the road.
Paul was a popular boy in school and college, and had, at an early stage, decided he wanted to be a leader of men. An incident told by a school friend, Vandy, confirms this. ‘Paul was once dropped from the handball team by the school captain. Paul first thought he’d practice hard and get back into the team. It then dawned on him to do the right thing, which he did. He complained to his grandfather. Within 48 hours the team captain was removed from the school itself. Paul was made the skipper of the handball team, Emeritus for Life. Handball in GYAANDOSTAAN was a very different sort of a sport. Basically you could touch the ball with any body part, save the hand. Or the other hand. Thus it was very close to football, which is very close to soccer. However, there is no word for soccer in Pupric, so it was conveniently called handball. And now, I beg you please don’t ask me what football was called!
However, it was around this time that another incident occurred with the Huskee family.
Y. Suresh had, for the past year, started going for advanced yoga classes. His teacher was a svelte, sexy, young yogini called Shanti. Shanti was so good that she could take on three yogic positions, simultaneously. She was arguably on the list of ‘Sexiest Women of All Time’ along with Marilyn Monroe, Halle Berry, and that hot chick from your class whose name I now forget. The family should have figured something was wrong when the half-hour session started stretching to five-and-a-half hours. They should have at least started having doubts when the class’s location changed from home to the Imperial hotel, room 609. And they really should have had second thoughts when the class started lasting a full three-day weekend.
One fine day, Y. Suresh, not cut out for politics, not having worked a day in his life (which actually meant he was cut out for politics), did the famous Gyaandostaan rope trick. You know the one where the rope disappears? He and his positions manager just clean vanished.
Of course nobody really missed him. And Jay immediately started grooming Sophia as the next in line for power. As for the boys, the only effect it had on them was that Paul distanced himself from yoga forever, and that Mohan gave up wearing spandex for a month.
It’s important to set up the Huskee family here, because the actual story will take up only four printed pages. So we need to discuss something else for a while, and I feel football has been done to death, quite frankly. So let us return to the first dinner, after the sad demise of the venerable old statesman—Jay Huskee.
Our story opens in the long dining room of the Huskee residence where Sophia Huskee is sitting disconsolate, upset, and depressed, as she can’t find the orange sari belonging to the duly departed patriarch. In keeping with her depression, she’s wearing a parrot green shiny chiffon ‘paanglu’. A ‘paanglu’ is exactly the same as the Indian salwar-kameez, though strangely there is absolutely no connection between the two cultures, Gyaandostaan, being a far more ancient and complexed culture as evidenced by the fact that no Gyaandostaani spit in public.
The fact that the patriarch liked to dress in sarees (albeit in private) was something that Sophia never brought up in front of the family. Not out of any perceived embarrassment or affront, nor because she was petrified that once out in the open, Jay Huskee would start wearing all her clothes. The real reason was that she had taken a fancy to one of his orange sarees.
For ten minutes at the dinner table, no one spoke. Then Sophia decided to help everyone come to terms with their grief. This she did by dividing his personal things among those present.
Paul immediately looked at his grandfather’s grand room, as well as his collection of shoes (his grandfather owned over 200 pairs of shoes; some were even of the right size). Mohan was given the rest of his belongings. Inwardly Sophia hoped he wouldn’t get the orange saree. At this point the door burst opened and Mr D’Souza entered.
People who thought nicely of Mr D’Souza would have compared him perhaps to a Russell’s Viper. In reality he was even more peculiar. He wore white pants, a white shirt, gold-rimmed spectacles and had slicked-back hair. His hair was jet black, which was not common in a 60-year-old in Gyaandostaan. Mr D’Souza dressed the same all year round, whether it was for office, a family picnic, or a cocktail party. He was very close to Jay Huskee, some said too close. In fact, the day Jay fell out of the window, Mr D’Souza was standing next to him. This set tongues wagging. However, it didn’t make sense for D’Souza to rid himself of his mentor. As Huskee’s principal secretary, he enjoyed all the trappings of power only as long as Jay Huskee was around. His explanation was that he tried to hold on to Huskee, but got an almighty sneeze at the same time. And as his hands flew to secure his nose, Jay Huskee flew out of the window.
It was Mr D’Souza who saw him fall into the truck and bounce thrice up and down. And it was D’Souza who noted down the truck’s number and colour, information that he gave to the police (red truck, no. 78113) later. And although both facts turned out to be absolutely wrong (it was in fact a green truck, no. 4914), every little piece of information always helps in ultimately putting together an entire jigsaw puzzle. Mr D’Souza and Jay Huskee had been together for 30 years and although Sophia had never seen them actually do more than hold hands, she had her suspicions, having occasionally seen Mr D’Souza in a blue chiffon ‘Paanglu’.
Netagiri Page 1