My 200th, so to reward you for lasting so long (with me), I shall tell the truth for a change.
---
He can't be mixing that.
He is mixing that.
He is mixing yellow
Amul butter and milk, calling it delicious, and guzzling it.
I can panic on that, but, shit, it is too early in the morning, and, hey, it is just food.
It is not that kind of a day.
The emails says
"Enclosed herewith please find a photo of a prime suspect of terrorist
activities going on in Kanpur area. As per the intelligence inputs as well
as our close observation this man is mentally OK, but he is well trained
to act like a mad man. For past 3 weeks he is loitering near our main gate
only"
I can panic, but, shit, it is damn hot out, and, hey, an air-conditioned room is next only to
Varanasi to get blown upstairs.
It is not that kind of a day.
Boy, this big black of a bag sure looks like a big bomb. Are those cops a-watchin' me? The hand-held
Sundarkand is probably saving me. Is that politically incorrect? I can panic. But, shit, that judgement doesn't matter, and, hey, every day is that kind of a judgement day.
That Muslim guy is sure nice to ask a Sundarkand toter to look after his tote. A secular moment. A moment to preserve. A moment to die for. Hey, you think there is a bomb in his bag? I can panic. And, shit, I see no reason not to, but, hey, no real reason either.
It is not that kind of a day.
It is that guy. I am telling you it is that guy. That guy whose picture was in the e-mail. He is not begging. Just looking around. Taking it all in. Probably drawing mental pictures of where to plant the bombs. On trains. I am telling cops, dropping hints of teaching Newton at a University to not sound like a sock-kicking idiot short on shorts and brains, and they do react. Try to get that near-terrorist out of the station, "Go plant your bombs in the markets, you scum!", but he is not moving and the cops are gaining interest in that juice stall. He is just looking at me. Flatly, directly, unblinkingly. Memorizing. Will my flat be rubble by the time I get back? I should have that camera to my office. I can really panic now. But, shit, Que Sera Sera and all that Hindu jazz, and, hey, the train is here.
It is not that kind of day.
The special announcement is going on about a misplaced foreign-looking suitcase. I am trying to keep my balance and save myself from contacting "things" on the suspiciouslywet four sq. ft. of a moving toilet. I have my priorities. I can't keep track of every damn suitcase bomber out there.
Have I just endangered eleven bogies of my brothers and sisters by not panicking?
I can panic on that, but, shit,
there is that fat mid-30's bob-cut mama chewing gum and concentrating through the Delhi Public School's handbook. Page by page. Interspersing accented, but penetrating, calls. Her child's love is proof enough that blood ties penetrate even the most unappetizing hides. No, the girl opened her trap to let out vacuous Convented English. "He doesn't really like her. And my cumulative score didn't get me into
DPS, R K Puram, but that school's very political, and DPS Mathura Road is much more academically serious, No?" . She deserves her mom. Her mom, a bomb.
From the rear, the Surd's cell phone is rattling my ear, every minute minute, matched only by his neighbour's fog horn on the cell-phone act. The pink officer in front is officiating, hinting about SDO's helping her at stations. The guy in front, all taken in, is trying to entertain her little girl. Instead of chucking the shrieking brat out of the window. I will take that suitcase,
and, hey, I can live happily not having saved this lot's asses.
It is not that kind of a day.
But if that bob-cut mama turns one more page, just one more page, one little laminated leaf of the Delhi Public School's handbook, I-AM-GOING-TO-PUNCH-A-HOLE-THROUGH-THIS-SCREEN.
I am panicking now. And it is that kind of a day.
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Notes:
Sundarkand: A massively holy Hindu book.
Delhi Public School: A.k.a, DPS, is a famous chain of day cum boarding school. In Delhi they infest the R K Puram and Mathura Road localities. I had the extreme misfortune of going to the R K Puram dung heap. Very snooty, nasty place.
