The TV Noose

          “Poor Sanju-baba,” I said one morning this week, “is going to jail. Saw him say goodbye to his daughters. Sad.”

          Sri Husband: “That nice young man from our colony? What has he done to deserve that? When did you see him and his daughters?”

          Patience, I told myself; the man is detached from what’s happening in the world. “Not that Sanju,” I said with controlled tone. “The Dutt boy.”

          Sri Husband: “Dutts? Haven’t seen any such name-plate in our part of the village. Which house? Where?”
          Patience, I reminded myself and prodded his memory: “Sunil and Nargis Dutt, remember? Old couple from Mumbai? Now dead?”

          Sri Husband, yawning: “That guy’s been in and out of trouble with the law for some decades. Why are you telling me about him now?”
          “You told me to see the news, so I did,” I countered.

          “Did you see or hear anything more important than that?”

          “Of course,” I said resolutely. “Salman Khan’s also in trouble. Something to do with the black-buck case. You know (in case he didn’t), the dead deer thing.” Offence is the best form of defence. I put forth my best ‘so there’ tone. I deliberately asked: “Do you know who Salman Khan is? Yes?”

          Sri Husband getting even, fired back: “Did you know the DRDO chief’s tenure being terminated? Did you know of the terrible fighting happening in Sopore, in North Kashmir? That the parents of the slain children in the Peshawar school protested Imran Khan’s visit?”

          “It sounds like Army-Air-Force-Navy stuff,” I said, putting on an intelligent expression.

          I barely heard a ‘yes’ hiss out of Sri Husband’s mouth, but did see him vigorously shake his head as if he meant ‘no’. Bad mood, I figured.

          Trying to cheer him up, I said, “I always watch Defence Forces related programs. But no child has fallen into any well anywhere in the country recently. No earthquakes, no floods, no riots even. Nothing happening. But I’ll switch on the set on Republic Day. Pukka.”

Silence. Must be listening. Seize the moment, I thought and continued: “The other day I saw the Defence Minister, our very own Parrikar, with the three chiefs. Those chiefs looked so strange, all ironed clothes and shoes and stuff. Our Goan blood, our Parrikar, demonstrated uniqueness. Half shirt was out of his pant, left side, half in, right side. Solid original look. Carefully mismatched chappals also. Sorry, sandals they were. No socks also. In all that Delhi cold, brave, no? That AAP Khejriwal fellow makes ‘bowaall’ about being simple like common man. Nothing to beat our Parrikar-style.”

Sri Husband: “You saw the three Chiefs and the Defence Minister? Where?”

Me: “On tv.” So dense he is sometimes.

          Sri Husband switched on the tv mumbling something about using one’s brains for things other than commenting on un-tucked shirts. Then he read the ticker at the bottom of the screen: “… younger person needed for DRDO post…”

          “Why do they want someone younger?” I asked.

          “Because people get jaded. One needs fresh blood in a job, new ideas, more energy. People retire at sixty, usually, in government jobs.”

          “How old are Parrikar? Modi? Jaitley?” I asked.

          Quickly, Sri Husband changed the topic. Does that when he doesn’t have an answer handy. “Do you know when Delhi’s going to the polls? The bye election in Goa?”

          “Heard of buying votes, but entire elections… too much, I say.” My voicing an opinion sparks a fuse in Sri Husband’s head.

          “It’s b-y-e,” he said, spelling it out loudly, “not b-u-y.”

There was no need to shout. But I wasn’t telling him that. I never do. I retreated to safer ground. “At what age do soldiers retire?” I asked.

He immediately went into lecture mode: “… there are sixteen ranks, so many categories, age of retirement varies…”

I was confused: “So it’s not sixty years, then?”
          “No,” Sri Husband said. “Not in the Defence Forces, exceptions being those at the topmost ranks.” He added, “There are professions in which there’s no need for retirement at all.”

“Like housewifery?” I asked.

“And acting,” he replied.

“I saw Amitabh today,” I said, following the acting-thread.

“Which Amitabh?” He.

“Amitabhji. Lamboo.” Me.

“Mr Bacchhan?” Sri Husband’s particular about saying titles and names correctly. Old world charm, fell for it years ago. “Where did you see him?”

“In the tv-noose, at Uddhav Thakarey’s photography exhibition.”

He, correcting a slip of my tongue: “News.”

Me: “TV noose-news, same thing. Ask Shashi Tharoor.”

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