The Cynic

Somewhere towards the end of last month, India celebrated Maha Shivratri. Daddy to the most loved God of Hindu mythology, Ganesha, and no less loved himself, Shiva is said to be the coolest of the mighty Brahma-Vishnu-Mahesh trio. Easily invokable. Easily bribed. Fun loving and rather offbeat. And while he probably celebrated his birthday peacefully up there at his snowy Kailash Parbat residence, his  mortal devotees down here took it upon themselves to throw him (and themselves, while they were at it) a wild, wild birthday bash. And so I was jolted out of my bed at 4 a.m., because apparently that's when the hosts decided to begin. Begin they did. And that's when I realised that it was much too loud. That they had erected loudspeakers across the colony on every second electric pole. That I was in for trouble. Happy Budday, Shivjee , I thought bleakly. There was no point trying to sleep, and so I sat up and waited for it to end. I'm no music critic, really, but I can t

Like everyone around me, I, too, was vying for a rendezvous with the political queen of the season, Mamata Bannerjee. Although Mamata didi herself was too busy with her 'work', I got lucky and bagged a date with her very loyal maid of twelve years, Shanta. "So tell me about her," I said. "Not about Mamata the politician! Ofcourse there she pretty much  has it all under control. The UPA has been rendered virtually useless, as Congress wriggles and twitches and squirms to find some way, some way to get through with the reforms it wants to pass. Mamata, on the other hand, gleefully watches them try their hardest. No, tell me more about Mamata the person. What is she like at home? What does she do on her time off?" Her favourite pastime, Shanta informs me darkly, is watching her keeda jar. "Kedda jar?!" "Keeda jar shaab, keeda jar," she said darkly. "She has all these wriggly worms collected from all over the country. She carries