Thursday, January 29, 2004
The One with the discourse on Cutural Conjunctivitis
I wrote this one some two months back, as the middle piece in the Nov 3 issue of The Word - thats our in house college newspaper. Its about my roomies... I think its funny... kind of goes in with the art of living high... so here it is:
Good music and a dinner comprising entirely of dissolved java beans will induce anybody to sharpen his grey cells and embark on a Voyage of Truth. For those amongst you hopelessly uninitiated in journalist-speak, I mean of course the inconsequent postprandial tittle-tattle in a college hostel that passes for Great Political Discourse.
We were a diverse enough group. There was the Tam-bram Extraordinaire with holy white ash on his forehead, who treads the Rightist Path (every pun intended), unable to abide anyone with two Left feet. The Surd with the habitual twang in his dialect was on the sidelines, as was our friend Koirala from Nepal, mighty amused at the jungle we call home. Bringing up the rear was my Roomie, a Bangalorean with a tongue glib enough to choke you to death and then make you thank him for it, and of course, me, the Fanciful Columnist from Calcutta.
There was even a news report on the Discourse, complete with an opening sentence that promised the reader crème roulette, delivering instead stale bread:
‘On Sunday night, the Tam-bram declared that artists who parade their political connections on-stage are not to be respected. (Preferably, in bold.)
Koirala giggled in response, while the Surd started dancing the bhangra to show his solidarity.
However, Tam-bram’s allegations were met with an inspiring argument from the couch where Roomie lay sprawled, cuddling his cell phone. “I’d like to know how you can say something like that!” he charged, “Is it a crime to voice an opinion?”
Roomie then quoted paragraphs from Section 76,568 of the Incorrigible Penal Code to establish that Tam-bram could be arrested under Preventive Detention, for “propagating immoral thoughts” to helpless room-mates.
Koirala giggled in response, while the Surd stroked his hair, wondering what length of cloth he should buy for his turban.
The sight of the Surd and his hair infuriated Tam-bram, and he decried the mischievous moves of people with Left feet who were out to “destroy the nation” and decimate the dance-floors. It was clear from the red haze in his eyes that he had either popped a blood vessel, or been infected with conjunctivitis from the Surd.
Koirala giggled in response, while the Surd looked shamefaced all of a sudden.
A debate on the propagation of culture and conjunctivitis was forestalled, however, by the insistent ring from Roomie’s cuddly cell phone. Roomie then gave an apologetic grin and ran away, whispering code language into his phone.
Koirala giggled in response, but the Surd was still shamefaced about the status of his conjunctivitis. Tam-bram declined to comment, as he was busy scratching his eyes furiously.’
The moral of the story is to not even try looking for one – you could just leave that to people like us, who indulge in Political Discourse.
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