Mamata Ke Aanchal Mein

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 them with her everywhere. She collects them and then stuffs them into this small jar shaab, its her keeda jar. There's no space for the poor souls to even breathe. Its like a miniature Kaala Paani for worms!"

I gulp. She goes on.

"Didi loves it when they bang their heads together and see the stars. Sometimes, when she's very bored, she also lifts the lid of the jar for a bit, and watches them struggle excitedly in a bid to escape. And when they're halfway out the jar, she slams the lid back on and smothers them to a paste."

She pauses ominously. I think of poor balding Dinesh Trivedi. Integrity, he'd said. Voice of his conscience. Poof! What rubbish! What had he been thinking, huh? Which worm's conscience speaks out so loud? Ab ho gayye na squish squash. Tch.
That's how didi is, after all. One-nation-no-discrimination types. Apni party? Congress party? What difference is it anyway? Worms are worms. All of them squirm the same way!

"Roshogulla?" she offered. I shook my head.
"Sometimes," she continued,"she also likes to throw in a troublesome lizard or a big spider to torture the poor worms."
Oh oh oh. I could so imagine her throwing in an oversized spidery Mukul Roy into the ministry just for the heck of the harassment he was to the others.
"And then," said Shanta,"as the poor lives thrash about in desperation, she sadistically sings Tagore's 'Where the mind is without fear' to them. Oh shaab, Tagore she loves! She was even going to change her name to Rabindranath until she realised its too tough and un-motherly for the crowds. She stuck to 'Mamata' then. 'Mamata' 'didi'-see? She has done sabki mother-sister ek, no?" she piped up.

"Rashogulla?" I shook my head.
"What is she to do shaab? She's lonely. She is afraid." Shanta lowers her voice to a conspicuous whisper and I lean closer to listen in. "Something of a psychopath," she informs me grimly. "She's right about CPI shaab," she shrugs. She's paranoid but she's right. Even I work for Brinda Karat."I raise my eybrow. "Part-time, shaab, part-time!" she corrects herself hastily. "Rashogulla?"she asks, this time more desperately. I shake my head again.

Her face falls a little. And then brightens up again.
"Didi ki rally aayegi on TV." she beams. "You wanto watch?" I smiled and nodded. She gleefully switched on the TV, and there Mamata was, shouting, of course.

"Deenesh Treevedi <bangla bangla bangla>"
The crowd nodded.
"Railway budget jonta <bangla bangla bangla>"
Nod Nod.
"Mookool Roy meeneeshter <bangla bangla bangla>"
Nod Nod Nod.
"CPI Conshpirashy!"
Vigorous Nodding.
"NO!" she growled, one finger raised, her lips puckered into a ferocious 'O', as if someone had stuffed an entire golgappa into her little mouth. Only it wouldn't have been a golgappa, maybe a rashogulla. And by no means had it been forced into this Bengali lady's mouth. Who had ever been able to force anything down Mamata Bannerjee anyway, I thought, as I popped a rashogulla into my waiting mouth. Shanta beaamed.