'Let him write what he wants. The good thing is none of our voters know English. I was telling the Education Minister that we should ban all English-medium schools in the State. We should teach children only in Hindi. If we take away the bamboo, how will the flute play?' (Laughter.)
'And also Urdu. Don't forget our Muslim voters.'
'Yes, of course, Chief Minister Sahib. Urdu is equally important. In fact, I am brushing up on my Urdu these days. Iqbal Mian has been teaching me Ghalib's poetry. Would you like to listen to a few couplets?'
'No… no. I have to go for the inauguration of a primary school. Just remember, Jagannath, I have managed to save you for now, but if Vicky is convicted even I won't be able to do anything for you.'
'Don't worry. That eventuality will not arise.'
'See you at the Cabinet meeting tomorrow.'
'Yes. See you, Chief Minister Sahib. '
'Hello. Rukhsana?'
'I am not talking to you, janaab. I sent you five hundred text messages. You didn't respond to even one. '
'Arrey, what can I do? The whole day I was busy in that wretched State Development Council Meeting which the Chief Minister is so fond of.'
'How can a meeting last a whole day?'
'It can if you have a room full of prize idiot bureaucrats, each one droning for hours about roads and bridges and schools and orphanages. Sometimes I feel it was a mistake to go into politics. When I have to travel hundreds of kilometres every day through dusty villages, when I have to listen patiently to ignorant farmers wanting me to ensure that the monsoon does not fail, when I have to sign endless files about matters that don't concern me remotely, I realize the price one has to pay for being in politics.'
'Then why don't you quit?'
'Easier said than done. Politics is a bitch, but it is like government. You crib about it but you can't do without it either.'
'And what about me? Can you do without me?'
'Arrey, you are my nasha, my addiction. Listen to this couplet which I composed in your honour: "Although love's pangs may fatal be, there can be no way out Without love too this heart would grieve, for want of things to grieve about."'
'You have become quite a poet. Looks like my love has made you a real Majnu.'
'Indeed… "Love has made me good-for-nothing, Otherwise a useful man I used to be." '
'What can I say, janaab, today Urdu poetry is flowing from your mouth like bullets from a gun.'
'Don't talk about bullets, darling. This is the story of my life. The moment I try to become romantic somebody brings up the subject of guns and spoils the mood.'
'I am sorry.'
'Forget it. Tell me, how was your day?'
'Good. I went to the beauty parlour. Got full waxing done. Also facial. My body is like silk. You will find out when you touch me.'
'I am dying for that. Sumitra will leave for Farrukhabad on Friday. I will come to you on Saturday and stay the night.'
'Why don't you divorce your wife? She is only causing you grief.'
'My children are no better. I have a son who has had a penchant for getting into trouble ever since he was a kid. And a daughter who adamantly refuses to marry. With great difficulty I have managed to get her engaged to an excellent boy from our own caste, a Thakur belonging to the royal family of Pratapgarh, but she keeps postponing the marriage. Her favourite pastime is to chat with the sons and daughters of the sweepers and washermen who live behind our house. My biggest fear is that one day she will decide to elope with some street loafer and grind our family's nose in the dust.'
'Don't worry about something that might never happen.'
'Guruji says the same. You and Guruji are the only people who understand me.'
'But you don't understand me. For months I have been asking you to take me on a foreign trip, but you never oblige.'
'Arrey, when there are so many pending issues to be sorted out in this damned place, where is the time to think of going abroad? This is the problem with you. You are never content with what you have.' (Sob.)
'Jaaneman, have I upset you? Look, I am giving you a kiss.'
(Kissing sound.)
'Dad?'
'Yes, Vicky?'
'Is it all set?'
'Yes. But I have asked for judgment to be postponed till 15 February. That is when the inauspicious period will end, according to Guruji.'
'So I need not worry?'
'Not as long as I am around. But have you ever thought how much grief you've given me? How long can I keep bailing you out of trouble?'
'That's what dads are for.'
'You are a real motherfucker; you know that, don't you, Vicky?'
'Well, from a purely technical point of view, that would be you, Dad, wouldn't it?'
'You bas-'
(Disconnect.)
7 The American
TODAY IS the happiest day of my life. Even better than the day Vince Young led Texas on a fifty-six-yard touchdown drive against USC in the game's final minutes to give the Longhorns their greatest ever victory in the Rose Bowl.
I am finally going to India. Land of maharajahs and mutton curry. Home to elephants and kangaroos. And to the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. Sapna Singh, who will become my wife in two weeks' time.
I really dig Indian weddings. Just rented that flick Monsoon Wedding the other night. I love the way Indian girls dance and the wild music simply drives me crazy.
My mother's a great believer in marriage. She's had four already. But she wasn't too keen on my marrying an Indian. 'They're dirty, they're smelly, and they speak bad English!' was her verdict, till I showed her Sapna's pictures. Since then she's been broadcasting all over town that her son is all set to marry Miss Universe.
Me and Mom are closer than ticks on a hound. We've been this way ever since my pa ran off like he did, leaving Mom and me all sad and alone, and so poor we didn't have a pot to piss in. After he disappeared we had to sell the ranch and all the cattle and move to a run-down old trailer, where we lived for six years till Mom married that nice man from the Welfare Office and we moved into his house on Cedar Drive. I really don't think much of my pa. I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. But no point getting all worked up. Not on the day I will finally meet Sapna.
How I met my dream girl is one heck of a story. I'm convinced that all marriages are made in heaven. And it's God who decides who will marry whom, and when. So he makes some guys, like my old school mate Randy Earl, who have no trouble at all in scoring with girls. And then he makes some, like me, who, well, have to wait a bit longer, being shy and all. Guess I was just born that way. Not that I am bad looking or ugly, like Johnny Scarface, my foreman. His mom probably had to tie a porkchop around his neck so the dog would play with him. I'm just your ordinary sort of guy. Mr Joe Average. I'm five feet, seven inches tall, and Sandy, my-tenyear- old niece, says that if my face was a little rounder, my nose a bit smaller, my hair a shade darker, and my weight fifty pounds lower, I'd look just like Michael J. Fox! But not to worry, I am working on both my height and weight. I've been using KIMI, the scientifically developed height-increasing device by Dr Kawata which promises to make me three inches taller in just six months, and I'm regularly taking the Chinese Miracle Slimming Powder which I bought off the Home Shopping Network.
Anyway, Mom was getting seriously worried about me turning twenty-eight and still being a bachelor and had begun wondering whether I might be gay, till the folks at International PenPals fixed all that. In return for a nominal membership fee of $39.99 (payable in four instalments of $9.99 each), they gave me the addresses of seven beautiful girls who wanted to become friends with me. Now that's what I call too much of a good thing. I mean, try juggling seven girlfriends all at once. The girls were from all over the world, including places I didn't even know existed. In ABC order, I had Alifa from Afghanistan, Florese from East Timor, Jennifer from Fiji, Laila from Iran, Lolita from Latvia, Raghad from Kosovo and Sapna from India. I wrote to all of them, introducing myself and asking them to reply. And they wrote back, each and every one of them. There was one problem, though. Three of them didn't know good English. I mean it's kind of difficult to carry on a decent conversation when you receive a letter which says, 'Daer Larry, Braenbooking a hello you too. Mares fioggicku. I wanna lioxi plean. Amerika goot place for a leev. Loov you.' Some of the letters were, well, too perplexing. The girls from Afghanistan, East Timor and Iran just talked about the political problems in their countries. And the one from Fiji asked for my credit-card number in the very first letter. Now that I thought was being too upfront. The girl from Latvia was more modest. 'Hello Larry. I'm Lolita,' she wrote. 'I am sixteen years old. I want to be friends with you. Call me on 011-371-7521111.' I thought she was a bit young for me, but you can't tell how deep a well is just by measuring the length of the pump handle. So I called Lolita up. I think she must have a bad case of asthma, because all I got was heavy breathing for, like, five minutes and I freaked out when I got my phone bill and found that the call had cost me $57.49. So that was the end of my friendship with Lolita. Eventually I was left only with the girl from India, Sapna Singh. She wrote me the most wonderful letter, telling me of her brave struggle against cruelty and oppression. She was so poor she didn't even have a telephone. It brought tears to my eyes, made me remember my own struggle to become the best hi-lo driver in Texas. I replied, she replied back. Two months later we exchanged pictures. Till then I had considered Tina Gabaldon, Miss Hooters International 2003, to be the best-looking filly in the field. But one look at Sapna's photo and I knew I had been wrong. She was the most beautiful girl in the universe and I fell head over heels in love with her.