Didi’s plans go awry – black money rears its head (satire)

Didi woke up to a new day after the wonderful evening spent in the company of celebrities of the silver screen. She personally handed over to them her paintings that are high value items – she had sold them to arrange finances for the historic campaign that brought to power.
But – there was gloom around her because there was a sea of housewives outside her house. They were badly affected by the sudden decision of scrapping old bank notes.
It was a real shock to these housewives because they had accumulated quite a lot of money in their secret piggy banks by diversion of funds allotted to them by their hubbies to take care of family expenses.

The amounts in these piggy banks came in handy for extra expenses and, keeping it secret was a sort of game that they played with their hubbies. It was an expression of saying in their way that ‘I too care’.
They were now at a loss of how to keep their treasure trove a secret.
Didi gave them a patient hearing and assured them that she would take up the matter with Delhi.
By the time they dispersed, there was another delegation that had arrived at her doorstep.
They were small time traders who dealt in the goodies of winter – goodies like nalen gur and joynagarer moah. All of a sudden they were stranded because there were no buyers. They wanted Didi to buy off their items and help them out. They suggested that she could store the products and sell them off through her well-oiled machinery as she did for potatoes.
Once again Didi assured them to look into the matter and explore possibilities of helping them out of this predicament.
By the time they left, there was a third group of people. They were the organizers of the exhibitions that are held during winter.
And – behind them were members of various syndicates. They did not know how to take care of the accumulated black money. They wanted her advice.
Didi immediately called an emergency meeting of her confidantes and, within no time, they arrived. There was Moo Cool, Patro Chatto, Show Van, Omit Misra, Dee Wreck, Golla Sen and, Chandi Ma. All of them appeared to be off mood. They had missed their Sunday special lunch of mutton dishes. None of the shops accepted Rs 2000 notes as payment towards of 1-Kg of mutton worth Rs 500 – they just did not have the change to give back! (to be continued …)


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Fuchka Festival in Kolkata and selfies (satire)

Didi was in top gear. She had won a battle and had returned land to the farmers. She had ousted an automobile manufacturing company from her land, had uprooted the buildings and had returned the land back to the farmers. It was a promise she had made and, she had fulfilled it.
‘I think this calls for a celebration,’ Patro Chatto said in a low voice. He had, of late, come closer to Didi and he loved to bask in her glory.
‘Let us arrange a festival,’ Didi said. ‘We have ilish festival and sandesh festival, let us organize another interesting festival that has universal appeal.’
‘We can go in for jhal muri festival,’ Dee Wreck suggested. ‘It is a unique product of Bengal and has taken London by storm. I have seen rave reviews in the social media. We can use the opportunity to woo the British to come to our city.’
‘That is a good idea,’ Fear Had said. ‘I know you also love jhal muri. The other day you were having jhal muri in front of Victoria Memorial with one of your guests and it became hot news. Just like the hot jhal muri.’ Didi gave Fear Had a hard look.
‘I have a better idea,’ Omit Misra cleared his throat. ‘It has a mass appeal because it is loved equally all over the country.’
‘What is it?’ Didi asked.

‘Fuchka,’ Omit Misra replied and wiped his glasses. ‘It is also known as the golguppa or pani puri. Whenever I get a chance, I have several mouthfuls.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Didi was serious. ‘I’ll invite my friends from Delhi and Mumbai to set up stalls for variety.’ ‘What about the venue?’ Show Van asked.
‘The Milon Mela,’ Didi said. ‘That is where we hold all festivals.’
‘But – it is a huge area. Can it be filled?’
Didi grinned.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she chided him. ‘There will be stalls for selling fuchka and golguppas and pani puris. Then there will be a section on cookery where experts will come and talk about how to make fuchkas. And – there will be books on fuchkas. I will write one book of poems about fuchka. The possibilities are unlimited.’
‘When do we have this festival?’ Dee Wreck asked.
‘Get hold of the oldest fuchka man and his date of birth. That will be the date,’ Didi said. ‘He will probably be from Bihar. I will honor him on the occasion and my fans will increase. I will also declare a holiday on that date so that everyone can make a beeline for Milon Mela to enjoy fuchkas.’
‘There is one problem,’ Patro Chatto mumbled.
‘What?’ Didi asked.
‘Can you take selfie while gulping fuchkas?’ (to be continued …)


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Didi hates to have blood on her hands (satire)

Didi was in a brainstorming session with her core group consisting of her Man Friday in the form of Moo Cool and Abhi Shake, Dee Wreck, Omit Misra, Patro Chatto and Show Van.
‘Why don’t we put a stop to these road accidents on the flyovers? I don’t want blood on my hands. It is sad when young lives are lost due to these accidents,’ she said.
‘It is the fault of age,’ Abhi Shake remarked. ‘The two wheelers are powerful and these youngsters want to show off to their friends.’
‘And heap miseries on their families?’ Didi asked. ‘Is it fair?’

Just then the police Chief Soor O’Jeet entered with a group of his officers, all of them were serious. Didi looked up and waved them to the chairs.
‘I have called you to discuss how to prevent road accidents involving two wheelers,’ she said. ‘Rash driving is a dangerous trend and it must be stopped. What do you suggest?’
‘Actually, these boys love to race on empty roads,’ Soor O’Jeet said. ‘They want to follow their counterparts of Delhi and Mumbai.’
‘I don’t want their blood on my hands,’ Didi repeated. She was firm.
‘Most of them are from influential families. They love to mix their drinks with sped and zoom about at night. Especially when the roads are empty. They love to have fun.’
‘And get killed,’ Didi said. ‘No – I will not tolerate this. You must end this madness. Make flyovers out of bounds after 10pm.’
Soor O’Jeet was at a loss for words. He must say something that would please Didi.
‘Actually, to monitor that aspect, I could have checks at the entry points,’ he said. ‘For that I will need more men.’
‘There is no shortage of manpower,’ Didi said. ‘Give the responsibility to the local clubs. Thy will gladly accept it. After all, I am giving them donations. That problem is solved. Any more problem?’
‘I want speed guns,’ Soor O’Jeet said. ‘Those guns will help identify overspeeders.’
‘Give your request to Omit-ji,’ Didi said. ‘He will arrange necessary finance. Anything else?’
‘Breath analyzers,’ Soor O’Jeet said. ‘Most of the youngsters drink too much. Breath analyzer would catch them immediately.’
Didi looked at Omit Misra.
‘Omit-ji,’ she said. ‘Please sanction necessary funds to Soor O’Jeet. Remember, I do not want blood on my hands.’
Omit Misra nodded, removed his glasses, wiped them and put them back. Didi feels he is a magician and can do miracles, he can create something from nothing. And, he cannot disappoint her. (to be continued …)


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Didi reveals the other side of the bribe controversy (satire)

Didi loves to turn the tables on her opponents. She knows that there are two sides to any coin and revels in using the logic to her advantage. The latest is the pre-poll sting operation that had sent jitters up her spine. She had put up a brave front but, in her heart of hearts she was not sure about the integrity of some of her partymen.
But – once she came through victorious, she knew that she could give her own interpretation of what people had seen in the sting videos. It was the logic of ‘is the glass half empty or half full’.
‘What do you think we should do Moo Cool?’ Didi asked.
‘We should pay them back in their own coin,’ Moo Cool replied.

‘Do you believe that our members can really take money like that?’ Didi now turned towards Abhi Shake.
‘No,’ Abhi said. ‘Our members are well off. Most of us are crorepatis. We don’t need such money.’
‘What about Show Van? Do you mean to say that those videos are not true?’
‘Yes,’ Show Van replied, panting. ‘Those are a part of a big conspiracy to discredit us and show us in poor light.’
‘But – truth has prevailed,’ Patro Chatto added. ‘We must get to the bottom of this affair. Let us put the CID on the job. They can unearth the truth.’
‘Let us put the facts straight,’ Dee Wreck opened his mouth. ‘I have studied the reactions in the social media. People have questioned the timing of the sting operation.’
‘Anyway,’ Moo Cool now added. ‘The videos show money changing hands. There are some dialogues. In my opinion, it is all photo shopping. There are experts who can put another’s face on another’s body. And – insert dialogues. The dialogues sound lifelike. Like the ads on TV. The voice of the celebrities who endorse the hair oil or face cream sounds just like him in any language. It is the beauty of modern day technology.’
‘Then let us call our police chief and tell him to go ahead,’ Didi gave her verdict.
‘He is already here’ Moo Cool said. ‘He is waiting in the outer office enjoying hot pakoras with his favorite tea. He is once again his bright old self waiting for your orders.’ (to be continued …)


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Monsoons and Didi’s flipflops aka Hawaii chappals (satire)

It was raining cats and dogs and Didi had to be escorted from her car to her house by Abhi Shake who protected her with the umbrella. Of course, only her head was protected because when the rains are accompanied by gusts of wind, the clothes will get wet – as well as her trademark Hawaii chappals. Abhi had a standby pair of chappals and, once she entered her house, he dutifully placed the dry chappals at her feet.
Didi was pleased and rewarded him with a smile and it did not escape Moo Cool’s eyes. Neither dirt it escape the gazes of Dee Wreck, Omit Misra, Show Van and Patro Chatto.

They had been waiting to meet her and seeing Abhi Shake with herm they knew that Abhi had stolen a march over them. ‘I don’t see some of our people,’ Didi murmured as she occupied her throne.
‘These sudden rains must have delayed them,’ Moo Cool said.
‘It is monsoon time and it will rain. Does it mean we will not do our regular work? Do we not have our lunch and dinner?’
Moo Cool did not have a ready answer. He wanted to say that rains meant khichdi – piping hot khichdi with a dollop of ghee and begun bhaja plus omelet but he checked himself. Unless he knew her mood, he just could not open his mouth.
Suddenly the kettle of tea arrived with a basket of onion fries or piyaji – there were two boys who worked in the nearby restaurant. It supplied the tea and snacks.
Didi took a sip of tea and glanced at the bunch of papers on her desk. There were the daily newspapers and some mail of importance that she needed to go through.
It was Omit Misra who finally dared to speak.
‘How do we celebrate this time?’ he asked. His question was not addressed to anyone – he just wanted to start a discussion.
‘As usual,’ Moo Cool volunteered a reply.
‘There are reports that others may take over some areas,’ Dee Wreck said. ‘I have been studying the social networking sites and get a feeling that things are not as rosy as we would like them to be.’
‘Rubbish,’ Patro Chatto shifted his bulk in the chair. He had put on a lot of weight and, this time, he must get a home gym to ensure that his weight was in check.
The ringing of the mobile phone drew all eyes on Show Van. He listened and his face lit up with a huge smile.
‘It is the man from the Embassy,’ he said.
‘Which Embassy?’ Didi asked.
‘The Chinese Embassy,’ Show Van said. ‘They want to know about the Durga Puja and their travel plans during the festival.’
‘Tell them that Nabanna will keep them informed,’ Abhi Shake said.
‘And – one of them has developed Hawaii chappals for the monsoons. It is covered and the feet won’t get wet. They want Didi to try it out.’ ((to be continued …)


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Didi is allergic to anything red (satire)

Didi has, of late, gone into a shell – those in her close circuit say that she is seeing red. There is a saying – don’t show the bull a red rag. And, that is just what is happening. She is having a tough time to keep her cool.
Therefore, when she summoned her close aides over to her house for a cup of tea, they all spelt trouble – they knew she was in jitters. So were they. The future looked bleak until some miracle happened.
‘Has everyone arrived?’ Didi asked as she glanced over the grim faces in front of her.
Moo Cool, Abhi Shake, Dee Wreck, Omit Misra, Patro Chatto, Show Van and Fear Had – all were there. Smile was forbidden in her presence and, if she cut a joke, the others could, at best, smile. Just stretch the lips to smile.
‘Has the instruction been given to destroy all red paint?’ she asked Show Van.
She was greeted by a nod.

‘What have you instructed?’ she looked at Show Van.
He squirmed under her gaze.
‘All paint factories have been told to stop production of red paint,’ he said. ‘No one can dare to paint the town red now.’
‘I have also written in the social media about the ill effects of red – we do not want anyone to see red,’ Dee Wreck said as he wiped his thick glasses.
‘I have also sent out word that beetroots should not come to the markets,’ Moo Cool added.
‘And what about Patro?’ Didi asked him. ‘Have you told the schools and colleges? Especially the arts college. They love to dab in red paint.’
‘All schools have been told to ensure that children do not use red color tubes. The tubes must be removed out and deposited with the class teacher who will have to destroy them,’ Patro panted out the words. He always panted when he spoke – it was his huge body.
It was Omit Misra who now spoke.
‘One red will still remain,’ he said. ‘And – we just have to bear with it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Didi asked. ‘We have removed all traces of red. How can any red still remain? I think you are mistaken.’
‘No,’ Omit Misra smiled. ‘That just cannot be wished away. It is an international affair.’
‘You mean the Chinese and the Russians?’ Didi asked. ‘They are being taken care of by our friend Moody.’
‘I mean the red lights at traffic signals,’ Omit Misra said. (to be continued …)


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Rice on rooftops – a masterplan (satire)

Bengal is known for its intellectuals, its coffee house culture, its Ilish, its corner tea-shops, its power of speech, its ability to cope with innumerable road blocks and traffic jams – and, the wonderful ability of Bengalis to tolerate nonsenses.
Therefore, when Didi brought up the subject of growing paddy on rooftops, her disciples looked at one another. It was a Sunday and they were all there, closeted in her hut. The empty tea cups strewn about on the center table was proof that they had been there for quite a while.
‘Paddy on the roof?’ Abhi Shake tried to suppress a grin.
‘Well – many people grow tomatoes and chili on balconies,’ Patro Chatto said. ‘So – paddy on rooftops may not be impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible,’ Moo Cool added. ‘Where there is will, there is a way.’

‘What about the cost effectiveness’ Omit Misra the economist was serious. He was having a hard time trying to balance the scales. When expenses go beyond earnings, anyone dealing in money matters will age before time.
‘I have seen photos of people who have planted mango trees on the roof,’ Show Van added.
‘Yes,’ Dee Wreck joined in. ‘I had seen it on TV – some place near Nagpur.’
‘Have you all finished your side talks?’ Didi asked.
There was pin drop silence – when she opens her mouth, others have to play dumb and follow the golden rule of ‘speak when you are spleen to’.
‘When I look at the skyscrapers in the city, I feel sad,’ she said. ‘The roofs are not fully exploited. They remain barren with only TV antennas and hoardings of ads. No one goes there to fly kites. I want to change all that, I want them to grow their own paddy.’
‘But – all of them do not eat rice,’ Show Van said.
‘Let them grow both rice and wheat,’ she gave the solution.
‘You mean the people who live in those high rise buildings will agree? They know nothing about farming,’ Show Van said.
‘Why should they know farming?’ Didi asked. ‘Regular farmers will do that. I will ferry them to the spots every morning and bring them back. I’ll use choppers. And – I’ll announce that skyscrapers who agree will get tax rebate.’
Poor Omit Misra sighed – more headaches for him.
‘Then we must draw up plans to first transport soil on to the rooftops,’ Mo Cool, the practical man said. ‘For that we will need huge helicopters.’
‘I will borrow them from the air force fellows. Their machines are idling and they will not mind. Moreover, I’ll ensure employment for the farmers.’
‘Don’t worry Didi, you will succeed,’ Dee Wreck grinned. ‘I’ll prepare my write-up for the Facebook – ‘Rice on Rooftops – a masterplan.’ It just cannot fail.’ (to be continued …)

(Image courtesy wikimediacommons.org)

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Didi discusses industries with Moo Cool and Omit Misra (satire)

Critics may talk ill of her but Didi knows that she is unstoppable – she has swept aside all opposition and over the last four years, she has woven a web of magic. She has promised her people the Moon and believes that it is within her grasp.
She was closeted in her humble house with a few of her trusted lieutenants like Dee Wreck, Omit Misra, Show Van, Fear Had, and Moo Cool and was trying to evolve new strategies for the future.
‘We must ensure that we project our positives in the industrial sector,’ she said.
‘Agreed,’ Omit Mitra wiped his glasses. ‘We have held several get-togethers with industrialists. They were happy with our arrangements. Especially the sweet dishes – they loved the tastes.’
‘What sort of business potential can we expect?’ Didi asked.

‘Well – it could run into crores,’ Omit Misra replied. ‘But – there could be a hitch.’
‘What sort of?’
‘It is the health aspect,’ Omit said. ‘The days of people gorging on dozens of rasogollas have gone with the wind – winds of change.’
‘I see,’ Didi was serious. ‘What about the pickle industry?’
‘That is OK – but the competition is stiff,’ Omit admitted. ‘Pickles from North India have already captured a major portion of the market.’
‘Then our cottage industries like mat making and hand fans.’
‘Today those are out of fashion, it is now the age of carpets and air conditioners.’
Didi now looked at the others.
‘We must promote our industries,’ Didi was serious. ‘We already have Gourav Danguli working on it through TV – let us organize some more industry fairs.’
Her lieutenants looked at each other – they dared not speak up in front of Didi. They knew that the trips to Singapore and London did not prove to be up to expectations. Neither did the local exhibitions and fairs.
‘Don’t you have any new ideas?’ Didi prodded them.
‘I am writing a book on how to play the game of politics,’ Moo Cool said. ‘If Dee Wreck can market it properly, it would rake in crores of rupees like paintings.’
‘What all have you revealed?’ Didi was curious.
‘It is all about how to keep everyone guessing,’ Moo Cool smiled. ‘It is full of tension, emotion, intrigue, and suspense – there are thrills galore and the ending is a surprise.’
‘And – what is the name of your book?’
‘‘Double G – the Guessing Game’,’ Moo Cool gave his patent smile. (to be continued …)

(Image courtesy wikimediacommons.org)

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