Netagiri

by Cyrus Broacha

  ‘Oye bloody Machado,

  Enough is enough. Ingratitude must also have its limits. However, it’s come to my notice that you are being forced into this erratic behavior by your refusal to take your medication on time, and because of some other outside, foreign influence. Let me remind you, the yellow pills are to be taken eight times a day, the blue ones are to be taken four times, and the cod liver oil is to be consumed first thing in the morning, on an empty stomach. I also hereby fine you 300 crore Ragoos for your infantile public outburst. The punishment must include a written apology in Macedonian, handing over your summer villa outside Bey, your entire Bee Gees record collection, your yellow tunic, all your socks, and a poem, written entirely by you explaining why you are such a waste to society and how you’d never challenge my authority, again. You will find that since I’m in a good mood, you are getting off lightly. So strike fast while the iron is hot, and save what’s left of your life and career.

  It was undersigned ‘The one’ for some inexplicable reason.

  Paul didn’t like the job. He was supposed to be finance minister. Now he’d been demoted to postman.

  We now come to a very important stage in our story, a point at which we can get our ship to sail. Eventually, all roads must lead to Rome. A stitch in time saves nine. Where there’s a will there’s a way. At the point at which Paul Huskee climbs the steps of the main atrium of the Ball and Socket Party’s office, our story, our tale, our song, our love ballad, begins anew, at last.

  Yes folks, we now come to the inevitable beginning of our tale, I kid you not, and can lie to you no more.

  Paul walked past the questioning security officer in a way only seasoned Gyaandostaani politicians can. The trick here was to treat all the security detail with absolute contempt, like they never existed. Mere fleas, not even worth a scratch. Hence no query of theirs was entertained. And not even a cursory glance was thrown their way and wasted on them. He brushed past all uniforms and strode confidently into the main office chamber. Paul didn’t like what he was doing, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it in style.

  Huddled around an oval table was a large black violin case, which later Paul realized was Machado himself, but it was the figure opposite the violin case that immediately caught his eye. Colleen O’Connor wasn’t a natural beauty, but she had a certain presence, a certain aura, which could slowly ensnare the observer, i. e., she wasn’t the type of femme fatale you fell in love with in fifteen minutes, but if you looked fifteen minutes, then she had you. But in Paul’s case things wound up a little different.

  Paul had one look at Colleen and figured he’d died and gone to heaven. Only the presence of the crumpled violin case in the same frame made him doubt, ever so slightly, this assumption.

  As he walked towards them in a daze, Paul thought he was looking at a never-ending cascade of hair bouncing off the most beautiful head he had ever seen outside of the Gyaandostaani National Museum.

  Perhaps this is why he didn’t quite see Machado’s Personal Assistant’s right foot, which came into contact with his own heel, causing him to miss a step, stumble, and land in a heap at Colleen’s feet. And what pretty feet they were, complete with 5 toes each. Every one a beauty. Each with its own separate nail! Each nail, with its own separate nail polish. And each nail had such a symmetrical design, as never been seen before on human foot. Although, Paul had, truth be told, never really looked at anybody else’s feet before, ever, except on a holiday in France. And frog legs was more about legs than feet.

  ‘Ah Paul Huskee, decided to defeat Mr Machado?’ said an Irish accent with a heavy Gyaandostaani twang.

  Paul immediately suffered a mild seizure. ‘She said my name, she said my name.’ Unfortunately, as happens to people in delirium, he said his thoughts out aloud. Machado and the PA, moved by their fear which caused one to become a crumpled violin case and the other to merge with the floor, immediately snapped into rapt attention. Meanwhile Paul, realizing he had been heard, tried to save face. ‘She said my name! How dare she say my name?’ But he wasn’t fooling anyone. The wry grin on Colleen’s face meant she sensed an opportunity. ‘Only your master can call you by name, is it?’ she chided. Paul vehemently went on to explain that Col. Jagee was not his master, and that he had no master. And how he was one who could never have a master, and if he did, it would never ever be Col. Jagee because he always envisioned his master to be way shorter.

  He let his words take effect. Then, after a minute’s silence, he pulled out the letter and said, ‘Col. Jagee sent me with a letter for Mr Machado. Please sign here for verification that you have read it. If you don’t sign, Col. Jagee will be very, very angry with me.’ The last two words were a whisper. So saying, Paul slumped into the chair and wore the expression of a man who had just been run over by a train, which is a mighty clear example of when missing a train is actually a good thing.

  Colleen realized she had a golden opportunity to make inroads into Col. Jagee’s court via this young man. This she did by one single act. She put her hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul felt as if he was hit by the train again. Which sounds pretty foolish if you think about it—two trains hitting you consecutively one after another, in a span of three minutes. But this time he enjoyed being hit by the train. In fact, he couldn’t wait for the train to hit him again, so much so that he screamed, ‘Train, train come back!’ the moment she took her hand off him. Since the words had been once again conveyed out aloud, Machado and his PA were convinced that Paul Huskee was suffering from the same mental illness as his grandfather had before him. Machado quickly told his PA to lock up all the windows in the building. Can’t have a Huskee flying out of one of their windows now, can we?

  The next one hour was the most important hour in the political life of Gyaandostaan. Paul and Colleen chatted and Colleen convinced Paul that he was with the wrong party and the wrong leader. This she did not accomplish with long, sensible, thought-provoking speeches, but by simply putting her hand on his shoulders or thigh from time to time. Paul agreed to all her points simply because after a while he wasn’t really listening. He was just watching her lips move and found them to be so captivating that he wanted to build a home between them and live there for the rest of his life. He couldn’t decide which lip was prettier, the upper or the lower.

  Mr Machado, realizing that too much heat was being produced in the room, did what all crumpled violin cases do when they are incompatible. He moved base into the bathroom, where he was accompanied by an utterly confused PA.

  5

  Now our story deserves a real impetus. This can come from borrowing a plot from another story or by finding an event that actually kick-starts the action. Since I’m unable to do either, let’s just meander quietly to Bella Terrace’s 50th birthday celebration, held at a glam suburban 5-star hotel that looks like the Taj, sounds like the Taj, but turns out to be Gyaandostaani for Taj, the Taj Hotel of Gyaandostaan. Bella Terrace had some major entertainment on the cards. First up was an Uzbeki Gymnast, Natalia, who could pirouette while swallowing whole tennis balls, after which, for Act Two, she somersaulted and regurgitated the balls. Shabbir Hoosein, who was an amateur Unani Physician and had consumed 2½ bottles of some poor tasting vodka, sensing the woman was in trouble, threw her down and tried pumping her belly to push the balls out. Natalia turned out to be an even better pugilist than a gymnast. Her fists pumelled Shabbir Hoosein into submission. Amama, thinking his friend was being attacked (which he was), mounted the gymnast in a bid to stop her from killing his friend, who was now lying comatose below her. Amama, whose weight is roughly equivalent to two mosquitoes and a little less than one house fly, soon found himself being squashed between Natalia and Shabbir Hoossein.

  Ray Chow now dived in to stop the massacre. However, when the birthday girl herself was being roughed up in the quest to retrieve Natalia’s balls, the police were called. The party came to a standstill and the police, after questioning a few people, decided to arrest Bella Terrace. She immediately m
ade some phone calls and the police officer in question was suspended and transferred to a desk job. As you can see, this was entertainment at its finest. But all this was just a precursor to the main act that was still to come. That act started at 1: 45 pm, way after Natalia’s acts, way after the police left, and way after Paul Huskee had finished his fifth vodka. The first three were consumed for himself, the next two were consumed so that he could chat with Colleen. However, at quarter to midnight, the banter in the room stopped at the sight of eight bodyguards with machine guns. Eight bodyguards dressed like traders in ill-fitting safari suits. They heralded the entrance of the President of Gyaandostaan, Bella’s uncle—Col. Jagee. The president had perfected a ferocious look for public events.

  He had watched a lot of footage of Saddam Hussein as well as Benito Mussolini and mixed up their serious harsh expressions, thus developing one of his own. Saddam’s was fairly straightforward. His expression was all moustache which was quickly successfully adopted by Col. Jagee. Benito’s was a different cup of tea. He had that transfixed, mad look of a hungry hamster. Benito also had a few tics such as a shaking eye and quivering lips. Marrying all these different factors together meant Col. Jagee’s public persona was quite a show. It included a harsh, sombre moustache, coupled with a stare down, then an eye that twitched, alternating with cheeks that swelled up. This is probably how he earned the sobriquet ‘bull frog’, one that was never yet discussed to his face. As Jagee made his entry, he raised his hand like Julius Caesar and then after 5 full seconds dropped it, a gesture that conveyed that he wanted the cacophony in the room to resume, which it did. It was at this point that Paul Huskee, deep in conversation with Colleen Connor, was momentarily distracted by what he began to think was an extremely large, overgrown bull frog gesturing wildly at him.

  Col. Jagee had heard rumours about possible dissent, and the best way to show everyone who was top dog, sorry top frog, was to publicly confront the rumours. And so the bull frog advanced, more Mussolini of troubles, less Saddam and moustaches, toward Paul Huskee.

  ‘Get me a whiskey soda, Huskee,’ Jagee commanded. There was no response. A kind of hush hit the room, reminiscent of a saloon in the Wild West when one gunslinger challenged another. ‘Huskee, I’m talking to you,’ said a voice so chilling that nobody picked up the Italian accent that had mysteriously landed up under the chilling tone.

  ‘What?’ replied Paul Huskee. Now there was panic in the room, not from the word itself, but the disrespectful way in which it was delivered.

  ‘Fetch me a whiskey and make it quick,’ continued a voice that was half Colonel Jagee and half Benito Mussolini, probably a Benito Jagee, according to unconfirmed reports.

  He (Col. Jagee) had watched a lot of footage of Saddam Hussein as well as Benito Mussolini and mixed up their serious harsh expressions, thus developing one of his own.

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m busy. There’s the bar, go fetch it yourself.’ Paul found that 5 vodkas and the attention of a lady love would make a Chengiz Khan out of any man, even a Huskee.

  ‘What did you say’? Col. Jagee’s delivery was no longer Italian or Iraqi. He was simply breathless with exasperation, typical Col. Jagee on the treadmill.

  ‘I said fetch it yourself. Oh, and one more thing...’ Paul stopped and stared at the glowering president. ‘Get me a vodka soda while you are at it.’

  With this one sentence, Paul Huskee declared war on Col. Jagee, President elect of all Gyaandostaan.

  There was an audible gasp from the collective audience. The bull frog puffed out his chest and said, ‘Son, if you don’t fetch me my drink in the next ten seconds, you’ll be expelled from the party.’

  Paul replied, ‘Which party?’

  CJ: ‘The party you’re in.’

  PH: ‘But this isn’t your party.’

  CJ: ‘But it is my party, you idiot. You’re in my party.’

  PH: ‘No, I’m in Bella Terrace’s party. You are in her party.’

  CJ: ‘No, she’s in her party, I’m in my party, and you are in my party and not in her party.’

  PH: ‘Actually I’m in her party, she’s in her party, and neither of us are in your party.’

  CJ: ‘I’m in MY party, you are in MY party, and she’s welcome to my party.’

  PH: ‘If you are in your party, then what are you doing here in her party? You can’t be in your party and her party at the same time.’

  CJ: ‘But I’m NOT in her party. I’m in my party, you are in my party. Ray Chow, whose party is Huskee in?’

  Ray Chow: ‘You are in her party, he’s in her party, she and me are also in her party, so frankly no one knows who is in your party?’

  This was the coup de grace.

  A giggle perforated in the room. Col. Jagee had just lost an important verbal skirmish. He tried to win some faux points as the ship went down through. ‘Huskee, Chow, you are both thrown out of my party.’

  PH: ‘For the love of God it is not your party, it’s her party, so you can’t throw anyone out as it isn’t your party.’ Now the room burst out, and President Jagee had lost. He had been verbally defeated and humiliated. Public dissent and ridicule is the worst thing that can happen to a politician after failed bariatric surgery.

  His minders and bodyguards ushered the irate, but crumpled, bull frog out of the room. But the worst thing that could have happened, happened. Not only was Jagee’s power dented publicly, and that too possibly forever, he didn’t even get his drink. As it turned out, it really wasn’t his party!

  The euphoria after President Jagee left was unbelievable. No one in the room realized how unpopular he was until he actually left. The party (and by this party, let me first make it abundantly clear that I’m talking about Bella Terrace’s 50th birthday party here) was mixed with guests from both parties and all political streams. Yet the cheering that followed Jagee’s exit was similar to the one that followed Mussolini’s exit (Mussolini exited politics with grace and poise, hanging from a streetlight for hours, if you recall). Paul Huskee had not just made a political statement of sorts, he had vanquished the President in a high pitched battle, which showed the old lion was wounded and could be replaced. But most importantly, he had made inroads into the minds of parliamentarians. The road for Jagee would no longer be a smooth one.

  In a few days, Paul and company were thrown out of the Finance Ministry as well as the Sandwich Party, and obviously they moved into the Ball and Socket Party office. The romance between Paul and Colleen was growing in leaps and bounds. Perhaps more leaps than bounds. We will return to that part of the story later, once I find a writer who is an expert in romance to write that particular piece. This should happen by page 89. But whether it does or doesn’t, we shall know definitely by page 93 and that’s a guarantee.

  Let’s now return to the leader of the opposition, who had realized the enormity of his challenge, and the gravity of consequences that would result. He thus was presently spending 75 percent of his precious time in the lavatory.

  Machado’s mind had clearly flipped a switch. He now liked to communicate in a unique way, with sounds made up of only vowels, like ‘eau’ or ‘eaa’ ‘eauee’. He also liked to blow air into one cheek at a time, and make clicking sounds with bubbles thus produced. Sometimes he would think he’d become a monkey and climb furniture. Other times he’d think he’d become a banana and assume a J position with his body. Of course, these acts didn’t stop him from doing his duties as leader of the opposition in parliament. Colleen had him tied to his chair, and would hand him a Rubik’s cube, which he would alternately try to solve and then eat. Now Paul and his cronies couldn’t just start a revolution in parliament. Besides, overnight they had gone from the ruling party to the opposition. Realizing that Machado needed to be prepped up, Ray Chow and Amama were kept close at hand on either side of Machado’s chair. Chow would hold the leash that kept him fastened to his chair and Amama would play mouthpiece. This he did by pretending to translate any and all of Machado’s primate sounds. Mach
ado soon got used to being fastened in a chair thus, especially once he had ceased to try and become a seated human banana.

  Machado or no Machado, the parliament had become a volatile hunting ground with lot of axes to grind, lots of mud to fling, and lots more would soon hit the fan. Col. Jagee had clear battle lines. First up, the economy was in tatters because of poor leadership from the finance ministry. Who ran this ministry? Paul Huskee. Secondly, it’s so easy to stay out when the kitchen gets too hot, so defecting to the opposition gives you an imprint of the character of Paul Huskee, a man who, once saddled with responsibility, dealt with it by taking a dive!!

  Ray Chow quickly pointed out that since Paul Huskee’s appointment was done by Col. Jagee himself, it was the President who was responsible for this mess. The Prez’s rebuttal to this was to have a seven-minute coughing fit, after which (having bought sufficient thinking time) he explained that he had offered Paul a job in deference to his grandfather who had recently fallen out of the window. To this, Chow countered that the financial rot in the system had started five years ago when Jay Huskee himself was in charge of finance. Once again, an appointment the President was responsible for. An incensed Col. Jagee said that by this logic, he was responsible for everything, including the First World War. Chow replied that he had no proof about Jagee causing the First World War, but World War ll was a different story. Too long had Hitler, Mussolini, and to a lesser extent Hirohito have to carry ‘that’ cross.

  Aghast that their leader was being compared to Hitler, as everyone knew that Col. Jagee was a full three inches taller, Jagee’s supporters joined the debate. This they did by hurling paperweights at Machado, Amama, and Ray Chow. Chow and Amama decided to answer back in a far more mature way, i. e. by throwing all stationary that had jagged edges and points on them, such as pens, dividers, and compasses. Machado, sensing too much tension in the room, dealt with the issue in his own way by trying to touch his nose with his tongue, and occasionally succeeding.