This is your favourite uncle Rangarajan, dear readers. The mood is sambar today so I will forsake the traditional jasmine-scented greeting. Your uncle has become a victim of circumstance, and for this to have happened in the festive season is all the more puzzling. But the great lord Ayappa had other ideas. Yes, dear readers, it pains me to tell you the details, but tell you I must for posteriority’s sake. Right now I am uploading this article from the confines of Thihar Jail. You heard it right – Thihar – the one place I thought Balaji would never ever let me venture. Well, the good lord works in mysterious ways. This is how it happened.

A week ago, while my boss the hon’ble Minister of Culture Smt Chandresh Kumari was away on a fact-finding mission, I got a call. It was from my friend Anand Ranganathan who dabbles in squiggly wiggly stuff and had once helped me decipher our Prime Minister’s doodles. He also writes for Newslaundry, the very same dry cleaning agency on whose site I upload my doodles. Anyway, I picked up the phone.

“Is that you, Rangarajan?” he asked.

“Yes, it is, Ranganathan”, I replied.

“Why don’t we meet for coffee?”

Give directions”, I said. The office was empty, boss was away, and there was hardly any work. I decided no harm would come if I took the day off.

“Good. Come to Newslaundry. I have some business there. You can meet my friends and have coffee and samosas.”

“Where is it?”

“B-113, Sarvodaya Enclave. See you in one hour?”

“One hour. Sure.”

“See you then, Rangarajan.”

“Thanks, Ranganathan”, I said and put the phone down.

Now, dear readers, your uncle isn’t one who you’d call extremely superstitious, but the divine signals that I received during my ill-fated journey to Newslaundry offices would have compelled even a corpse to scamper for some extra firewood so as to hasten his reunion with the almighty. First, a large black cat crossed our auto’s path near Humayun Road. Then, the wedding ring slipped out from my finger at Lodhi Road. It hadn’t done so since the day your auntie Vaijanthi had slipped it on. A few minutes later, over Safdarjung flyover, my left eye began to flicker like a tube light. At the AIIMS intersection the autowala sneezed. I poked the rascal gently to induce a second one but to no avail. At the Hauz Khas red-light, a snake-carrying fakir got too close to our auto and the snake hissed menacingly at your uncle. Near the IIT flyover, I saw two for sorrow. The rest of the journey was spent chanting complicated shlokas that could cancel out each of these unseemly events. But it appears even the trusted shlokas weren’t enough, dear readers.

Upon reaching Newslaundry, I spotted my friend Ranganathan from a distance – he was conversing with someone who sported an unruly beard. Soon they were joined by another bearded man, except that this specimen, though tall and young, looked so despondent that I was certain he could only ever bring bad news. And I was soon proved right.

“Hello, Ranganathan!” I shouted emerging from the auto.

Ranganathan turned towards me and asked me to hurry up the stairs.

“Hey, Rangarajan!” he said, as I shook his hand, “Nice to see you, you old rascal. Meet Abhinandan Sekhri, co-founder of Newslaundry. He rummages through ladies’ handbags for mobile phones even as he interviews them.”

“Hello, sir”, I said warmly.

“Aap aaye bahar aayi, Rangrajan saab”, said Mr Sekhri mystifyingly.

“And this”, said Ranganathan, “is Ranjan Crasta, co-conspirator of Newslaundry Lite.”

“Pleased to be of acquaintance, sir”, I said.

Mr Crasta stared at me with such a morbid expression I had no option but to look away.

“Come, come”, said Mr Sekhri, “Ranganathan has been telling us all about you. Come inside and meet the rest of the team – Madhu, Rajyasree, Somi, Satyen, Sumit, Arunabh, and of course, Arunima.”

I had barely set foot inside the Newslaundry sanctum when five police cars screeched to a halt outside the entrance. Within seconds we were surrounded by a portly collection of policemen and officers.

“What the…” cried Mr Sekhri.

“Everyone outside!” shouted a police inspector as he guided someone in a safari suit to the front. “This is a raid!” he added solving the puzzle for us.

Mr Crasta and Ranganathan tried to slip away but were accosted by two men who appeared to have eaten whole goats just before they commenced on this raid.

“Kidhar jaave hai bhai tu?” asked one of them.

“Buri khabar tere liye, tau. Chal, side pe ho le”, recommended the second goat-eater, brushing aside Mr Crasta nonchalantly.

“Lord Ayappa! What is all this?” I thought. I would’ve thought more had my attention not wavered towards a policeman and his phone conversation. It appeared as though he was taking instructions but I couldn’t be sure.

“Y-yes, Mr Patel”, he was saying, “Ji-ji, ji bilkul. Don’t worry, Mr Patel. We will handle it as advised. Than-, thank you, Mr Patel. A-ha-ha, haan, sir. A-he-he, ji-ji, bilkul-bilkul…”

“What the…” repeated Mr Sekhri, scratching his beard.

“Alright, now listen up!” commanded the officer who was talking to Mr Patel on the phone a few seconds earlier. “I want everyone out of these premises in two minutes flat. Your offices are being sealed for gross anti-national activities. We have the authority to carry out this action. Arey, Trivedi?”

Trivedi – yet another burly rascal – pasted a large notice on Newslaundry entrance door. I clicked a quick photo of it when no one was looking. Here it is:

Trivedi then secured the entrance with a huge padlock, wrapped it in muslin, and squashed a chunk of melting Lac over it. “Done, sir”, he said afterwards beaming.

“Good”, said the officer and turned to face the collected Newslaundrians. “You are all being taken to Thihar. Right now!”

“What the…” said Mr Sekhri.

“Bring the handcuffs. Sansanwal?”

Mr Sansanwal, one of the two goat-eaters, stepped forward. Seeing him, the ladies shrieked. One of them, a Bengali, continued with the shrieking till such time it transformed inexplicably into Rabindra Sangeet. Alas, dear readers, your uncle could do nothing to help. Frozen stiff, I followed everyone to the waiting Innovas. Soon, we were speeding along the streets of Delhi, sirens blaring.

“Oh, man,” said Mr Roopak Kapoor, co-founder of Newslaundry, removing the cigar from his mouth temporarily, “How could they do this to us? We’ve paid every tax, every due, every-…Madhu, you need to approach the Press Council of India at once. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!”

“Are you mad?” said Ms Trehan, “Journos must be laughing their hearts out. This is exactly what the Indian media wanted – hamari dhulai. I wonder who is responsible for this…”

At that moment, Ms Trehan looked straight at me with her piercing eyes. “And who is this Madrasi-looking fellow?” she asked Mr Prashant Sareen, the other co-founder of Newslaundry.

Before Mr Sareen could answer, I replied: “Rangarajan, madam. Friend of Ranganathan. I had only come to drink some free coffee, madam. I swear on the multifaceted Lambodar, I have nothing to do with any anti-national activity! I am a humble, god-fearing public servant with pending pension and sundry retirement benefits. Please, madam, please get me out of here.”

“Stop screaming, goddamnit”, said Ms Trehan, “I’ll think of something.”

And think of something she did, dear readers. But only for herself, may the lord condemn her into munching soggy aaplams all her life! As soon as we arrived at Thihar, Ms Trehan complained of palpitation and insisted on a full medical check-up at a super speciality hospital of her liking. The authorities gave in reluctantly.

As she was being stretchered inside the ambulance, she winked at Mr Sekhri and said: “You can find me at Medanta, a hospital that cares, where the patient doesn’t have to be patient, because the doctors and nurses are, well, patient. It’s a super speciality hospital with all medical facilities that any patient might be in need of. Nestled under the Aravali range in a centrally located rolling meadow that is Gurgaon, Medanta was envisioned with the singular aim of bringing world-class medical care to India, at a price that is affordable. With round the clock patient attention, Medanta works on the guiding principles of care, commitment, and compassion. Cheerio!”

That was the last we saw of Ms Trehan. Meanwhile, before some high-risk terrorists could be shifted out from their cells to make way for us, we spent two days and two nights cooped up in a kirthan hall with tough-as-pavement mattresses to sleep on. While Ms Sen and Mr Sekhri kept themselves busy reading Das Kapital and Hajar Churashir Maa respectively, Ms Arunima did little else but gaze at the moon through the barred window, looking forlorn and lost. It was most upsetting to see such a chirpy young woman in search of true love and friendship. Was there no man in this lord-ordained universe who could offer a cosmic shoulder to this damsel in distress?

On the fifth day, Mr Sekhri got a brain wave. “What the…” he said and trotted off to make the one phone call we were allowed per day. He returned smiling like a bearded Cheshire cat.

“What? What?” asked Mr. Satyen Rao, Director of Clothesline as we huddled around Mr Sekhri.

“You’ll see…” replied Mr Sekhri.

An hour later, there was a huge commotion on our floor. We were asked to quickly assemble downstairs. Along the way, the staff that was so rude to us all these days stood to attention and some even saluted us. What in lord’s name was going on?

This was what was going on: The new Chief Minister of Delhi, Shri Arvind Kejriwal had dropped in. Lord Ayappa! So this was Mr Sekhri’s brainwave. I almost cried I was so overcome with emotion.

“Arvind, dude”, said Mr Sekhri to the new CM, “Meet the Newslaundrians.”

Arvind smiled warmly, adjusted his muffler and cap, and grabbed Mr Kapoor’s extended hands and said, “This is our fight! This is common man’s fight. I’m so proud of you.”

Mr Kapoor was speechless.

“Jailor saab”, said Mr Kejriwal, “I want you to extend to these media revolutionaries every possible amenity.”

The jailor placed his hand on his heart and bowed.

“But Arvind, dude”, protested Mr Sekhri, “All this is fine, it really is…but get us out of here, bro. Pronto.”

Mr Kejriwal placed his hand on Mr Sekhri’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Abhinandan. We have already started the process of getting you out. Through an SMS poll we asked Delhites this question: Should Newslaundrians be released from Thihar? SMS ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to 08806110335. As soon as Dr Yadav processes the results, we’ll let you know.”

“What the…” cried Mr Sekhri.

“Dutay raho, dost,” comforted Mr Kejriwal, “Ye hum sab ki ladai hai.”

This was four days ago. There hasn’t been one word on that rascal SMS poll yet. I have lost two kilos of body weight. Mr Sareen refuses all food, Mr Crasta all water. Ms Sen sings We Shall Overcome all day long. Ms Arunima Sharma by now knows the exact diameter and luminosity of the moon. The New Year approaches but our hopes die with every passing minute.

As my revenge on Newslaundry – trapping an old man like me into this mess for no fault of mine – I now upload their feedback forms that went into formulating the Food Security Bill. Here they are:

Dear readers, if there is one thing I ask of you, it is this: get me out of here. Send a million SMSes if you have to, I don’t care, but your uncle needs you more than he needs the benevolence of Lambodar at this critical juncture. May the bountiful kindle in you the spirit of SMS democracy; may liberty shine upon your uncle’s bald head with the first rays of 2014. Godspeed.

 

*****

Author’s note:

 

* The feedback forms – unlike as on previous occasions – have been filled by Newslaundrians themselves. Not by the author.

** This is the author’s 100^th article. He wishes to thank everyone at Newslaundry, and in particular Rajyasree, Abhinandan, Madhu and Sunayana. And to the readers – jasmine-scented thanks as always. Happy New Year!