“I’m
apolitical,” I said to Shri Husband this morning.
“More likely indifferent and ignorant
of what’s happening the games ministers/bureaucrats play. Good for you,” he replied.
I like it when I think he’s paying me a compliment, though it always sounds
backhanded. (People have told me he sometimes smiles, behind my back of course,
and even says nice things about me, but I have no proof.)
We were listening to the news on
television and what we were witnessing wasn’t connected to politics, but our
conversation veered that way. Someone on-screen was complaining about corporate
hospitals fleecing patients with unnecessary tests, yet another was cribbing
about poor public transport facilities. A third, who was fighting for all
primary schools to teach in the mother-tongue, was bemoaning the fact that
private schools were money-minded (this term, like ‘doing the needful’ or
‘prepone’ are Indianisms that accurately describe what one means/wants to
express. Love ‘em.).
I said: “While half the world is
discussing why Salman used the word ‘raped’ when he should have used ‘tired’,
and the other half is wondering why the governor of the RBI didn’t continue
longer and another half is aghast about the latest restaurant-killing in the
neighbourhood…”
Interruption. Shri Husband informed
me that ‘there can be only two halves, not three or more’ and that ‘halves are
equal, otherwise you have to call them parts’. He always does this when I’m
saying something worthwhile. As it is, because I’m a low-IQ-type, too much
mathematics makes me lose my train of thought.
In spite of the distraction, I
decided to get back to what I was saying before I talked about Salman Khan and the
Dhaka deaths: “I think…”
Interruption two: “Please don’t think,
it’s an effort for you.” Another interruption. Sad, my life, I tell you.
With some effort, I carried on: “I
know how thinks… sorry, things… can be improved.” I wanted to get back to the
common topics in the news: the state of buses/trains /schools/universities
/hospitals, etc. But there was another interruption, number three, in as many
seconds.
“You’ve graduated from thinking to
knowing? Good, good.” That touch of sarcasm was uncalled for, so I ignored it.
“There should be a law or at least a
rule that anyone who is part of the government, minister, secretary, peon,
party president… because party presidents matter to the government… member of
opposition, anyone at all remotely connected to or aspiring to be the tiniest
part of governing or opposing, must go to work by public transport.”
“Grow up, wake up, that’s
impractical,” said Bai Goanna. “Do you know it takes almost two hours to reach
Ponda from Panaji if you take a bus? By car it’s half the time and in an
official vehicle with red light and pilots, a fraction of even that. Important,
busy people don’t have time to spare. Discomfort aside.”
This is a conspiracy. Bai Goanna
starts talking like Shri Husband and sometimes takes his side whenever there’s
a debate. I had to disregard her, too.
“That’s the only way the VIPs will share
the experiences of the (wo)man in the street,” I said. “That’s one way of
making sure the buses/airlines run by the government are kept in non-rattling
condition and are punctual. Recently, a VIP’s flight was delayed because the
pilot was late because of a traffic jam caused by potholes/poor discipline/ too
many vehicles clogging the narrow roads... See how the dot gets connected?”
“Oh?” said Shri Husband. “You mean
dots get connected.” Whatever. Interruption four meant he was listening. I was
sounding impressive, even to myself.
Mood elevated, I raised the volume of
my voice: “If they want to hold office or get promotions, VIPs should declare
that they, spouses, in-laws, relatives, class-mates, neighbours, Facebook friends,
should go to only public/general hospitals for medical treatment. Private
medical bills should never be reimbursed.”
“That’s asking for too much,” Shri
Husband said. “Extended family and acquaintances might not share the person’s
philosophy, sins or booty.” But he quietly agreed with the suggestion that
‘they’ who are part of the government in any way, should go to general
hospitals. He said that in Mumbai, in the years gone by, and in Delhi, KEM and
AIIMS were the hospitals of choice for CMs and heads of institutions like the
Municipality. That way, he added, the hospital administrations were kept
well-oiled, and the public was assured that the treatments there were proper…
‘if s/he can go there, must be good’ would be the logic.
Happy that we were now on the same
page, I bashed on: “How about schools. No one should be allowed to stand for
elections unless they have studied in a government or government-aided school.”
“Impractical,” Shri Husband and Bai
Goanna chorused. “Perhaps there can be a clause that their children should
study in such schools. But that would infringe on personal freedom of choice,
no? Can be shot down in Court.”
“That,” I said triumphantly, “is why
there should be a rule/law to make it compulsory.”
“Trouble is,” Shri Husband mumbled to
no one in particular, “Everyone is an expert, with opinions. What law to make,
what rule to make… without knowledge, without consideration, just…”
Bai Goanna got into the fray, on my
side. ‘Yea,’ she said, agreeing with me, followed by a ‘na-na’ to Shri Husband.
Then added, going at a tangent, her own illustration: “Anyone who feels cows
should be cared for must compulsorily keep at home at least four adopted
strays. Netas must lead by example.”
Happy that I had her on my side, I said:
“We must write to the PMO. It doesn’t matter who’s sitting in the seat, the law
and rule must apply to all. As concerned citizens, we must DO something no?
Let’s start by giving advice.”
Interruption five. “Substitute the
word ‘advice’ with ‘suggestions’,” said Shri Husband. Last seen, he was shaking
his head from side to side with a scowl on his face, hitting palm on forehead.
I don’t know why.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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