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July 17, 2008 It was early morning when my mobile phone rang. I was immersed in the newspaper with a cup of tea in my hand. My letter to the editor had been published and I was fondly going over it for the nth time. Seeing my name in print gave me a unique thrill. “Hello”, I blurted out, irritated on the interruption. “Mr. Bhatnagar?” a voice asked. “Yes. What do you want?” my voice clearly showed my anger. “I am speaking from Rashtrapati Bhawan (Presidential Palace in India ). Madam President will talk to you,” the voice said. “What…what… President…?” My anger melted into stammering as I rued having answered the call rudely. “This is Col Rao ADC to the President. Madam would personally talk to you. Please stay on the line.” I was taken aback; perhaps I had not heard it right. But he did not give me any time to recover. There was a pause before a woman’s calm and dignified voice came on the line. “Mr. Bhatnagar, this is me, the President. Sorry to bother you early in the morning,” a polite voice said. I could not believe my ears. Was it really the first citizen of the country talking to me? “Good morning, madam. But I can’t believe that I am really talking to the President of my country,” I replied as if in a trance. “Relax, Mr. Bhatnagar. I am one of your fans; how, don’t ask me. Please have a cup of tea with me today in the evening – maybe at 6 pm. Hope it suits you. My ADC will make necessary arrangements. See you in the evening,” she said and the phone went dead. I could not even express my thanks. I looked at my mobile phone in utter disbelief and kept holding it lovingly for a long time; it had brought the greatest news of my life. An invitation from the President; she says she is a fan of mine! Even powerful people queue up seeking appointments with her but without much luck. And here, a lowly unknown retired teacher, living in oblivion, had received an invitation from the President herself. What luck! The phone rang again - voice of Col Rao. “As desired by the President, I have made arrangements. Please let me have your address. An official car will be at your house at 5 pm sharp to take you to Rashtrapati Bhawan. Please cooperate with the security personnel.” Col Rao appeared to be methodical and by saying ‘as desired by the President’, he gave it all an air of detachment and the typical color of a military command. I was in the seventh heaven, almost floating on air. I felt like yelling from my balcony to the entire world. With a nagging fear tugging at the back of my mind, I only hoped that it was not a hoax like the lottery winning emails flooding my spam inbox daily by the dozen. Maybe there was something wrong; some kind of mix-up. The development was too good to be believed. Setting aside my fears, I spent about an hour in an extra ‘close shave’ and shower. The high anticipation of meeting the VVIP had killed all my appetite for breakfast and lunch. Putting on my best clothes, I started waiting for the car from 2 pm. Unable to sit still, I kept checking my watch repeatedly. Time had slowed down and was testing my patience. I kept pacing my living room with the excitement of a young boy going on his first date. Indeed, this was going to be my first visit to the Presidential Palace. I had seen it only from outside or in pictures. My mind kept conjuring up myriad images of the President talking to me. What shall be the topic of our talk, I wondered. I must have guzzled four liters of water during the period. At last, a shimmering black limo arrived. The security personnel accompanying the liveried driver checked my identity carefully and worked on me thoroughly before allowing me to slide into the plush back seat. With blaring siren and flashing red beacon atop its roof, the car covered the distance in hardly 20 minutes which would have taken a common man at least an hour in Delhi ’s traffic. Today, I was a VIP and I enjoyed it. Col Rao met me at the gate of Rashtrapati Bhawan. I sat patiently in AC comfort of the reception area for about half an hour, when I was briefed about the protocol of meeting the first citizen. At 6 pm sharp, I was ushered into the study, where the President was busy shuffling through some newspaper clippings. “So glad to meet you, Mr. Bhatnagar. Wow, you are a prolific writer; I was just going through some of your letters written to newspaper editors - quite a volume! You have solutions to almost all the problems the country is facing today - nuclear deal, foreign policy, falling dollar, inflation, commonwealth games, coalition governments, terrorism, Noida (name of a town in India) murders and what not. Your today’s letter especially has convinced me that a man like you should be made the Prime Minister (PM) of the country. You know, under the constitution, I can appoint anybody as PM for six months. I feel you can fill the bill admirably,” she looked at me expectantly. I could not believe the fast paced developments taking place around me. My head was spinning; I felt like having a heart failure and collapsing. Steadying myself with a hasty gulp of tea, I stammered, “Me the PM? Madam is it a joke?” “No, I am serious. The present PM is on his way out; his allies have withdrawn support to him on the nuclear deal. Col Rao will contact you shortly,” she said and rose from her chair. The meeting had ended in precisely five minutes. Reality was now slowly sinking into my head. I was becoming the Prime Minister of the largest democracy on earth! The names of my near and dear ones and of my friends and neighbors popped up in my head and started jostling to find place on the list of ministers. Col Rao ushered me out and left me at the reception, saying that no vehicle is made available for return journey. What - I wondered aloud – shall the future PM board a Blue Line bus? Vowing to show him his place after my crowning, I hastily rushed out to a blast of hot air slapping my face. Trundling down the Raisina Hill (site of Presidential Palace), I hailed an auto (a three wheeled cheap cab). The unshaven beedi (a crude cigarette) -smoking guy spat out a trail of dirty red saliva and looked at me knowingly. “Interview say aaya? (Coming from the interview?)” he enquired. “How do you know?” I asked quizzically, giving him a close look over. “Yesterday, I was there in the study of Rashtrapati Bhawan.” “Really?” I asked unbelievingly. “Yes…they are holding interviews to recruit a PM – not a regular politician but the one who could think out of the box. My qualifications and skills are impressive, you see. Only paanchvi pass (a fifth grader), I can cheat and con the entire population of Delhi . My ten years’ experience of cheating the passengers through a non-functional meter and simultaneously dodging the pot holes and the police is my forte. This is what they call multi-tasking and thinking on your feet. They said they wanted a man like me who could take the entire nation for a ride. I believe I have a fair chance…” he explained with an air of self-assurance, “anyway, where do you want to go?” he asked as an afterthought. As I mentioned my destination, he sped away barking an abuse at me and saying he does not go that side. I resisted the temptation of throwing my shoe at him; he had refused to take the future PM as a passenger! When I reached home after about two hours, having pictured myself as the next PM surrounded by my council of ministers, and switched on the TV, all the channels were replete with Breaking News: Chunni Lal, auto driver from Ballimaran, Chandni Chowk (a Delhi locality), had been appointed as the next Prime Minister and he was taking oath tomorrow evening. Feeling cheated and upstaged, I flung my mobile phone at the TV, barely missing the screen. Good for me, otherwise the also-ran PM would have become poorer by a few thousand rupees! ------------ About the author: Mohinder Bhatnagar from India is a prolific writer and has been writing since the age of twenty. Having been in varied careers like academics, taxman, banker, lawyer, editor, writer et al, he has seen life in its varied hues. Currently located in New Delhi (India) and working as an editor and writer, he has widely traveled to UK, US and Canada. Email: mkbhatnagar2000@yahoo.co.in Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
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