Hi Guys,

Something different, this week... I'm still working on the next story arc for Good God! Hopefully, I'll have it in place by next weekend. In the meantime, so as not to disappoint my regular readers, I am posting a humorous piece I had written last month for an essay competition. No, it didn't win. The judges had very little taste. Here it is, enjoy!

(I also did an artwork for the piece, which you see below)

Poltu/Pen-slinger

Salut les gars

malheureusement, je ne suis pas encore prêt avec le prochain arc narratif de Mon Dieu! Peute-être ça sera en place le weekend prochain. Voilà une pièce humoristique que j'ai écrit le mois dernier (malheureusement seulement en anglais).

à semaine prochaine

Poltu

The B-B-B-Bangalore R-R-R-Rocks fusion rock concert was r-r-r-rocking, but very unsteadily.

Scant minutes ago, a gentlemanly activist from the Save the Kannada Language Forum had taken to the stage and had enquired, very courteously, why the poster said ‘Bangalore’.

“Why are you besmirching the fair name of our fair city by rendering it as the invading foreign barbarians had rendered it, many eons ago?” as he put it.

We are translating rather freely here, you understand. Being a Kannada activist, he spoke, of course, in that beautiful language whereas we are constrained to reporting these events in the foreign invading barbaric tongue.

“Bangalore – illa, Bengaluru – houdu!” added the activist, putting the whole thing in a neat nutshell.

“But it doesn’t,” protested the compère, One Robin. No, he wasn’t a bird. That was his name: One Robin.

“What doesn’t?”

“The poster. It doesn’t say Bangalore.”

“Excuse me,” said the activist, whose name, not that it matters, was Suresh English.

To avoid confusing our readers further, we shall henceforth call him Suresh. This isn’t quite accurate, because his name really was English, because his dad failed in that subject lower kindergarten three years in succession, before dropping out in disgust. It was his dad’s name that was Suresh, but as is usual in these parts, it was stuck to the front of the son’s name, which was English, which was ironical because it was the dad who had failed in it. But let’s just call our courteous activist Suresh and move on, shall we?

Now where were we? Oh yes, Suresh – or rather, English, but let’s not go there – said ‘Excuse Me’. Or rather, since he was speaking Kannada, he said ‘nimag ondishtu’, and he said it courteously, for he was a courteous activist. Language activists in other parts of the country, making the same point, would have screamed their silly heads off. But here in Bangalore – or Bengaluru, if you prefer – one does not do these things. Even language activists are polite and well-mannered.

“Excuse me,” said Suresh, indicating the large poster hanging at the back of the stage, “there is says – Bangalore Rocks.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“But – great mother goddess Durga – it says so as clear as daylight, in letters forty-five centimeters high.”

“Forty centimeters. And it says: B-B-B-Bangalore R-R-R-Rocks.”

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing at all. B-B-B-Bangalore is different from plain old Bangalore. Like chalk and cheese.”

“Or tamarind and tea leaves?”

“If you prefer.”

Suresh considered the point. There was some justice in it.

“But in that case it should be B-B-B-Bengaluru.”

“B-B-B-Bengaluru R-R-R-Rocks?” Robin made a bird face. “It isn’t somehow, you know…”

“That is how it must be.”

“You wouldn’t prefer B-B-B-Bengaluru R-R-R-Rockus?” said Robin, who could on occasion be as cutting as the next bird.

Suresh brightened.

“Exactu! I was about to suggest the same thing myself. One does not r-r-r-rock in this city. One r-r-r-rocus.”

“One does?”

“Always. This is known as the city that rockus.”

“And how,” said One Robin, in the same sarcastic vein, “does one rocku? Not with the guitar and the drum, I should imagine?”

Suresh coughed, and indicated the musicians on stage. There were, besides a drummer and a guitarist, a woman twanging the veena, a gent tinkling the tabla, another gent with a bundle of bamboo flutes he seemed not to know what to do with. Not to mention a fourth gent whose function, as far as anybody could make out, was to stand around looking decorative.

“Ilnodi!” said Suresh, which is Kannada for “Voilà!”

“Err… yes. We are conducting sonic experiments in Fusion Rock.”

“F-F-F-Fusion R-R-R-Rock,” corrected the guitar, one Guy. No seriously, that was his name: Guy Guitar. R-r-r-rockers call themselves anything, n-n-n-nowadays.

“That is how one rockus,” said Suresh smugly. “With one veena, two tablas, several flutes and one chap standing around decoratively.”

“Can we get on now?” said Vani the veena impatiently. Veena players, as you know, sit cross-legged on the floor, and sitting cross-legged can make one very cross if there is not much happening.

“As soon as you change the poster,” said Suresh.

“But dude,” protested Robin, “we can’t change posters in the middle of a concert.”

“Take it off, then.”

“Can’t. It has our sponsors name on it. They’ll kill me.”

“Cover it with a shirt,” suggested Suresh, who was nothing of not resourceful, “or better still – tell that decorative chap to stand in front of it.”

Everyone brightened. The audience too, although one could not see it in the darkened auditorium. The audience, by the way, had maintained a tactful silence all this while, as Bangalore audiences do. They knew one of necessity takes the rough with the smooth at f-f-f-fusion r-r-r-rock concerts.

“This,” murmured the audience, “should resolve our impasse.”

They were in any case getting rather fed up of the chap whose job it was to stand around looking decorative, since he kept getting in the way of all the other chaps who were filming the concert on their mobile phones, which in effect was just about everybody, excepting one rather old-fashioned middle-aged fuddy-duddy who had come with the curious plan of actually enjoying the music. The previous generation had such quaint notions.

With the decorative chap safely at the back, reasoned the audience minus the funny old fogey, we can film unhindered.

The decorative chap moved dutifully to the back. Decorative chaps, not requiring any special skills, know they can be replaced at any time and are as a result unusually cooperative.

‘B-B-B-Blor R-R-R-s’ spat out the poster.

“I dunno… doesn’t it sound a bit rude?” said One Robin.

Suresh English nodded in agreement.

“Move left,” he said – or rather “Left madi!”

‘Bangalore Rocks,’ intoned the poster.

Suresh frowned.

“Right madi,’ he said.

“B-B-B-Bang R-R-R,” suggested the poster.

Robin giggled. The audience tittered. Suresh frowned deeper.

“Arm spread madi,” he commanded.

‘B-B-B-Bang,’ expostulated the poster.

Suresh brightened.

“Houdu. Exactu.”

Robin brightened too.

“That looks rather cool, actually.”

The audience nodded approvingly, as did Vani, Guy and the others.

The decorative chap did not. He looked crucified.

“Jeez, dudes,” he said plaintively. “I can’t go through the rest of the concert like this.”

“Why not?” said Robin in surprise.

“I mean, you know…”

“What?”

“I mean, I look such an idiot.”

“So?”

“Besides, my arms are already hurting.”

“Oh, don’t be such a namby-pamby,” said Guy, who could on occasion be as vicious as the next guitarist. What’s more, he knew words like that.

“I’m not. You try it.”

“Lissen buddy,” said Guy dangerously, “Lemme tell you something. If you don’t do as you’re told, we’ll get another chap to stand around looking decorative.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to ––” said the decorative chap hastily.

“Actually, I never could figure out why we needed a chap to stand around looking decorative,” said Dogg the drummer – no relation to Snoop Doggy – breaking in for the first time.

“Me neither,” said Vani of the veena.

“Us neither,” murmured the audience, not counting the silly middle-aged chap who’d come to enjoy the music, who rather liked the decorative chap – unlike the other chaps on stage, he at least stood around looking decorative in key.

“Guys, guys!” cried the decorative chap. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’m not complaining. Promise, I’m not.”

“We thought you were.”

“No, I’m not. There was a moment of discomfort, but it passed. I’m rather enjoying standing like this with my arms spread out, don’t you know?”

“I can solve your problem,” said a gravelly voice from the door. A baton clacked on the concrete floor, a portly figure clambered onto the stage.

“Oh no, not another activist!” moaned Robin. “What are you? A morality minder? Someone from the anti-sound pollution league?”

Then he caught sight of the newcomer’s khaki uniform and cowboy headgear.

“Oops. Sorry officer. Is it lights-out already?”

The policeman indicated his wristwatch.

“I am afraid so. It is closing time,” he said regretfully, for the Bangalore policeman is nothing if not civil, and speaks in complete, syntactically correct sentences – unlike his Northern counterpart who expresses himself in abdominal grunts. Our policeman’s name, by the way, was Mahesh. Constable Mahesh. Constable was his dad’s name, which was odd because it was Mahesh who was the constable. But let’s not get into all that so close to the end of the story.

“Oh no! Can’t we do just one more song, please officer?” said Robin.

“Sorry. No singing after 10:30 PM. The law.”

“We weren’t singing. We were having a discussion on linguistics.”

“No linguistics discussions after 10:30 PM.”

“Jeez, what a city!” said Robin like a bird that had drained the bitter cup. “Anywhere else in the world you can rock all night long.”

“But this is not rock,” pointed out Suresh mildly. “We have already established that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Rock – rocku, whatever, dude.”

“No, not whatever. Rock one may, as you suggest, all night long. But it is different with rocku.”

“You mean…”