If weather conditions are unbearable, the last election results will be held as valid. To make this a free and fair election, the weather comptroller is Mr Shampoo and that final decision will be made by him.
Obese people, slow learners, people with acne, and little people may be disbarred from voting according to the discretion of the polling booth officer.’
The rest of the paper had large pictures of Col. Jagee and some key party members. For some strange reason, Col. Jagee was in a strange set of progressive undress. Col. Jagee at the National Day parade in full regalia; Col. Jagee with his horses; Col. Jagee at the beach; Col. Jagee in the bubble bath, minus the bubbles; Col. Jagee in bed.
To balance it out, to be completely fair, Paul Huskee was also given some footage. A picture of a completely ‘wasted’ Paul Huskee lying on his back on the floor, with Colleen Connor’s foot on his chest, appeared under the caption of other ‘aspiring’ candidates.
Col. Jagee was readying for battle. Unbeknownst to him, the battle had long since begun.
GYAANDOSTAAN went berserk. For the next three days, it became like a state undergoing a ‘good’ emergency. Schools, colleges, and banks, in fact all commercial institutions, remained closed. There was a flurry of activities on the street, as candidates jousted with each other for prominent banners. In GYAANDOSTAAN, it was not uncommon for one banner to cover another one as candidates tried to outdo one another. In the spirit of free and fair, not to mention an extremely dignified elective process, different techniques were evolving. One such was the ‘Black Ink Gang’. They were a group of affluent investment bankers who offered their services during campaigning, not as bankers but as gangs of thugs who would blacken with ink the banner of a candidate for a certain fee. They often worked at cross-purposes, as bankers often do, and would take on as rivals both opposition candidates simultaneously, thus in one swoop proving the ultimate aim of politics—to make money regardless of government political situation, clime, or time.
Then there was the ‘Mixed Double Coop’. This was a group of ladies who would, again for a considerable fee, slap charges of illicit affairs with sitting MPs as well as new challengers. The fee depended wholly on the aesthetic situation of the candidate. The uglier the candidate, the higher the fee. The young Mr Machado was an early casualty. Early on in his political career, he was weighed down with seven such affairs. So distraught was he by this aerial bombardment that he confessed to five. It was the beginning of the end, resulting ultimately in his vassal state and mental disintegration.
But the most important log in the elective wheel was the fixer Joey Dis who along with his brother Joet Dat and Joey Joey played the role of political brokers.
Joey Dis and his brothers ran the most important business in parliament. They were in charge of the MP’s lockers. 300 lockers of 300 members of Parliament were all maintained by Joey Dis and family. That meant, whatever secrets that a particular MP had in his locker was known to Joey Dis. And the secrets were quite varied to be fair. They ranged from a ‘How to make a risotto in 4 minutes’ recipe to pictures of Col. Jagee watering his plants in the buff. From a sample of pigeon droppings to pictures of an MP before he became a female. The bottom line was Joey Dis and Joey Dat, not to forget Joey Joey, were in a splendid position to buy, sell, and haggle the process of all members of parliament.
In years gone by, this was all one-way traffic, i. e how much to pay an MP to defect to the Sandwich Party? The community charged the most, of course. There were all kinds of stuff available on the menu as the Joeys offered a large a la carte as well as buffet options. You could
Get a minister for your birthday party.
Stay in a ministerial bungalow for a weekend getaway with your family.
Actually take the minister’s place for a session in parliament.
Have the minister grace your corporate function, where obviously the price would be less if he is allowed to speak.
Spend the day swimming with a minister in a seaside resort, as long as in doing so the marine life of the area is not endangered.
Be a part of a minister’s family function.
Get to wake up a member of parliament from his bed. The most expensive, and strangely most popular included, comb a minister’s hair, massage a member of parliament and the big one, take the measurements by tape of your favourite member of parliament.
On Tuesday, the day before the actual elections, Joey Dis was inundated by phone calls. He took only the most important one, his hairdresser’s. Joey Dis didn’t believe in business on the phone. His method was straightforward—you come to him, name your price, and the minister. Then Joey Dat and Joey Joey check with the said minister; they then tell Joey Dis if it’s a show, or no go.
But this time, Joey Dis had broken all rules. Bella Terrace, his classmate from GYAANDOSTAAN University, and the love of his life, unbeknownst to Mrs Dis, had camped at his headquarters for the period. The period of the election that is (wise guy). So enamoured with Bella Terrace was Joey Dis that he let lesser sense prevail and soon Bella was in charge of all negotiations. She arranged for 50 Sandwich Party candidates to disappear from the contest. They gladly accepted their paid vacations to different ends of earth. Next up, 35 Sandwich Party sureties were convinced to switch parties. This was done in two steps. First by telling them to. Second by paying them huge sums of money. But that was not the coup de grace. This was. Every time a Sandwich Party member came to meet Joey Dis, he was ushered into the waiting room as Joey Dis was too busy. At one point Bella Terrace was told that as many as 57 Sandwich MPs were waiting to meet Joey Dis. Many had been waiting for over 10 hours. Bella Terrace felt bad and decided enough was enough. They already had the numbers, there was no need to be insensitive. The Sandwich guys were waiting for hours. So finally, she offered them tea. Now you might, dear reader, raise a very important point which I hadn’t noticed. In which case you may raise another even more important point which again may have escaped my attention. So finally you may scream that Joey’s love for Bella could only take them so far. Ultimately he was and is a businessmen and would want hard currency for his one-sided favouritism. Then you would make your second point (and I applaud you on this one because it means you’ve been paying attention as clearly as I haven’t been, and thank God one of us is for the sake of this book), which would be that if the Ball and Socket Party’s money is tied up in the North Korea’s leader’s birthday celebrations, then where is the money coming from to buy all these members of Parliament love or no love? Members of parliament don’t grow on trees, you know. To answer your very important points, we need to relocate ourselves to the home of the great leader (great leader according to a survey conducted of himself by himself)—Col. Jagee, President of GYAANDOSTAAN.
15
Midnight, Tuesday, February 20 and something, to be precise. President Jagee, the only Colonel in GYAANDOSTAAN military who had never seen a single active day of service, was at his wits’ end. Wearing his Saddam Hussein fatigues, complete with a beret, he was tapping his desk with his feet. But that wasn’t the peculiar part. The peculiar part was he was standing on it.
Col. Jagee: ‘Are you telling me Shampoo that of the 66 MPs I’ve sent to Joey Dis’ office, not a single one can be contacted?’
Shampoo: ‘Not a single one, Sir. All their mobiles have been switched off.’
Col. Jagee: ‘The total and absolute morons. Who asked them to switch their phones off?’
Shampoo: ‘You did, Sir. You asked them to remain uncontactable until the job is done.’
Wearing his Saddam Hussein fatigues, complete with a beret, he (Col. Jagee) was tapping his desk with his feet. But that wasn’t the peculiar part, the peculiar part was he was standing on it.
Col. Jagee: ‘But the job isn’t done?’
Shampoo: ‘Afraid it is, Sir.’
Col. Jagee: ‘If it’s done, then they should have contacted me. So it’s not done.’
Shampoo: ‘Actually it is done, but not in that way Sir.�
��
Col. Jagee: ‘If they have not completed the job, Shampoo, the job is not done. So pray in what way is the job done if the job has not been done?’
Shampoo tried to explain with the same success he’d have had teaching the rudiments of trigonometry to a tarantula spider. Meanwhile the tarantula spider in question was in a highly perplexed state.
Col. Jagee: ‘If the rumour is that they are buying our MPs, then tell me pray with what money? Isn’t all their money tied up in that birthday celebration in North Korea?’
Shampoo: ‘I don’t know, Sir, but I think the answer is with Mohan Huskee’.
Col. Jagee: ‘Mohan Huskee is missing.’
Shampoo: ‘Precisely. I think that’s your answer.’
Col. Jagee: ‘Betrayed by my own people. Shampoo, you think that nitwit lied. set us up?
Shampoo: ‘I think so, Sir.’
Col. Jagee: ‘Well, Shampoo, we may be in a corner, we may be in dire straits, but leadership is defined by moments like this. I know exactly what to do.’
Shampoo: ‘What Sir?’
Col. Jagee: ‘I need a massage. See if anyone’s free please, otherwise it will have to be you.’
Shampoo: ‘Sir please, this maybe make or break for the Sandwich Party. You’ve got to do something.’
Col. Jagee: ‘Your right. Sorry, what was I thinking? I’m the President; I need to steer the ship. Got it? I’ll run on the treadmill first, then get me that message.’
Shampoo was about to protest, but he was too late. The treadmill had started with Col. Jagee astride it, sans clothes, but proudly wearing his beret.
In the early hours of Wednesday morning, across the length and breadth of Bey, Col. Jagee mounted his last stand. Okay, okay, that sentence came out all wrong, Col. Jagee’s cut-outs were mounted on stands and placed all over the city. Placed where they could do the most damage—near schools, in front of hospitals, on top of bridges, on the main road, in the lobby of residential buildings. His supporters roamed the streets with their one-time offer i. e. basically you are offered a chance to support and vote for Col. Jagee’s party. This offer is made to you one time only after which the supporters would break your legs. This was a very sensible way to garner support and you will be surprised at the number of people who’d prefer not to have their legs broken, and instead choose to support Col. Jagee. As political ideologies go, avoiding breaking your legs is as good a one as any. It was not an original idea. Stalin and Nicolae Ceausescu used it this century and Caligula and Nero were amongst the earliest and most deadly exponents of this craft. First Bey, and then across GYAANDOSTAAN, this last stand played out. Sadly the one thing Col. Jagee’s supporters couldn’t do was actually go in the following booth with the citizens and ensure their loyalty. The polling booths were manned by the army. The army was still recovering from the man who made himself a self-styled Colonel. Sandwich Party goons armed with hockey sticks and kitchen appliances were no match for the machine gun-wielding men in fatigues.
We must now leap forward. You and me are together, dear reader. Trusting in each other in an expression of blind faith. Democracy is without doubt two things. First, it is the most boring form of government, futile and apathetic, and second, it is the slowest, the longest, the most-time consuming process since the institution of marriage.
The electoral process is so long in the execution that we have proof today that no one single person on the face of this earth knows the entire process down to the last comma. The one person who apparently did, a certain Theodius B. Clyde of Great Britain, hung himself to death, upside down, just to escape the tedium initiated by the democratic electoral process. So, dear reader, if I get your affirmation—and please feel free to check with the other readers first—we will then skip this process and land our story back forward (yes, a paradox in terms) to the Bigger House of Parliament in Bey, GYAANDOSTAAN.
It is the day after the elections, noon. The Parliament is full, the press and many supporters are crammed in. Under GYAANDOSTAAN law (which as you know is based loosely on Alexander the Great’s gift to good governance and law titled ‘Don’t Drink and Diatribe’), the public prosecutor is the man who announces the Grand election results. The man in question in our story, let me remind you, is the man with that tropical fruit in his name, Mr Gomango Bosh.
The Sandwich Party was conspicuous by its largely absent population. It looked like chutney without the bread. Hardly a healthy-looking Sandwich.
Col. Jagee cut a solitary figure. Only Shampoo and two of his legal advisors sat near him. Shampoo had already saved his bacon once that morning, as the Colonel had entered parliament without his pants. An oversight, or undersight, depending on perspective. Be that as it may, he was now well ensconced in a white shawl that belonged to the canteen lady. But what he really had on that day was a scowl. What the canteen lady had on was unmentionable.
The Ball and Socket Party looked like a group of young bulls in season. Bursting and full of energy. Ray Chow had his lucky sequined bush shirt on. The one which had pictures of two white rhinos in the throes of passion.
Mr D’Souza, still disgruntled with his celebrity status in China and nowhere else, had on his lucky cap. Paul Huskee and Colleen Connor sat holding hands with even greater expectation than the rest.
Gomango Bosh: ‘It’s been a lightening elections. Congrats to the sitting government for putting on such a good show. Even the Beyside School Elementary’s election process involves a whole week, so this is the fastest election since Alexander the Great voted for himself in 334 B. C. And now for the results.’
While Gomango paused as a good orator should, Col. Jagee fiddled with his pen. Then, in the universal sign of a person feeling the pressure, he started pulling at the shirt and licking lips. Which would have gone unnoticed if they were his own. Paul Huskee said a little prayer and Gomango continued.
Gomango Bosh: ‘Communists: total 1, same as last time; Independents: total 23, down 17 from last time; Ball and Socket Party: 202, which means they have a simple majority and must be invited to form the new government.’
Parliament was on its feet. All were cheering. Sandwich Party members were rushing to switch sides as all good politicians should do in a functioning democracy. Col. Jagee started banging his head on his desk and yelling and yelling, ‘Cheaters! Liars! It’s all fixed.’ A real irony as cheating, lying, and fixing is what he had dedicated his life to. Meanwhile, his legal aides started whispering something to him. Shampoo heard it and was horrified. Col. Jagee got that gleam in his eye. He let the shawl fall to the ground as he rose bare legged and alighted Gomango Bosh’s now vacant podium.
Col. Jagee: ‘Hear, Hear!!! I declare this election result null and void!!!’
It took a few minutes but the celebrations stopped.
Col. Jagee: ‘The Ball and Socket Party is disqualified under Article 17 C, para 4 (II) which states: If the leader of a political party is enjoying an illicit affair not solemnized by marriage, then in the case of his party winning, he and his party are disqualified, and the second placed party may form the government.’
There was a huge silence in the room. It was so quiet that even the pins didn’t bother dropping. Everyone looked at Paul Huskee and Colleen O’Connor, the illicit love story.
16
You’ve all seen the stories. Watched the movies. You know, I’m speaking specifically of the point in them when something remarkable happens. In King Kong, it was when Mr Kong realized he loved the girl. In The Big Boss, it was when Bruce Lee realized he was in the wrong movie. In this case, that point is now—that melodramatic, irrational, unbelievable moment that changes the situation from an almost hopeless one.
Parliament was in a state of shock. Euphoria was switching drastically downward to disbelief, despair, and finally fear. Ball and Socket MPs were sweating and softly swearing. Independents and Sandwich Party MPs who had sold out took it one step further and started choking themselves. Shampoo was for once at a total loss, having been caught
out by this development. Only Col. Jagee leaned his chair back and put his bare feet on the table. An act of a man who was very much in charge. As he gazed at the dazed minions around, he thought of all the wonderful things he’d do to all the traitors and cynics. His clean thoughts included mangled body parts and lots of terrified screaming. He smiled his happy smile, wriggled his toes, threw his head back, and then it happened! The front doors were flung open and a shadowy figure, with a long grey beard, escorted by a veritable platoon of bodyguards entered. There was an audible gasp of surprise, excitement, and relief (though the last one was from those who had been choking themselves relentlessly and needed to take a break). The man walked with his proud posse, right to Paul Huskee’s chair. Then, putting a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring manner, he patted him like one would a nervous puppy. He then gradually moved to the podium and began to address the gathering.
‘Oh my God!’ Col. Jagee looked like he had seen a ghost which was perfectly natural, as he clearly had. ‘I’m back,’ said a voice from way down below hidden in the longest, thickest beard since man evolved away from sheep. Now the hall was alive and excited. There was a buzz, though later that proved to have come from the vacuuming lady who had begun her shift, oblivious to all.
Jay Huskee: ‘I’m Jay Huskee and I’ve been missing for over a year. My story is sad to tell, a teenage ne’er do well.’
Then realizing he had broken into the lyrics of his favourite song from Grease (the musical), he stopped and started again.
Jay Huskee: ‘All I remember is this and that, less this and more that, but I owe GYAANDOSTAAN an explanation. So I thought of one on my drive here from the airport. On that particular night, I was leaning on my balcony window when I heard the sound of a rhinoceros charging a building. This confused me as there was no rhinoceros in GYAANDOSTAAN, and no other building next to ours. I leaned out of the window to see what I could ascertain, and I heard the sound again. Only I could find no rhino on the main street at the time. I leaned further, then sourced out the sound. It was coming from behind me. Right behind me. I screamed in terror and looked behind, and in doing so lost my bearing and with it my balance. As I fell out of the window, one thing became clear. The rhino was actually Mr D’Souza sneezing. As I fell from the balcony, many thoughts clouded my head. Chief amongst them was, Had I remembered to switch all the lights before leaving? I also seemed to remember the words to the second verse of the French National Anthem, something I’ve never able to achieve before. I also remember seeing the look on Mr D’Souza’s face, and I did recall thinking to myself that he did look like a rhinoceros. But that still didn’t explain the mystery of the building or buildings nearby. As luck would happen, I fell into an open truck filled with seaweed. The seaweed cushioned my fall which is why I would like to dedicate the rest of my life to saving seaweed from extinction which I was told may happen by March 3037 A. D., but definitely by July 16 of the following year. At this point I lost consciousness, not from the fall but as a consequence of the seaweed aroma. (Keep in mind in Pupric or GYAANDOSTAAN, seaweed may be spelt without the hyphen and is pronounced as “Khurshid”. ) When I woke up, I found myself on a ship bound for Oceania. My only companion at this point was the seaweed. Later on, I was introduced to the Captain. This introduction took all of three days due to the language problem. The Captain of the ship, whose name was Oleg, or possibly Peter, was Russian. The crew was entirely Vietnamese, except for the chief engineer who was from Somalia, but with no criminal record.
Netagiri Page 13