For years now he has been trying to get the collection of his poems published, but no luck. Just now, for the umpteenth time, he has received the manuscript back from one more publisher. The reasons are usual, "Thank you etc for thinking of us. It’s great poetry, but unfortunately we publish very few titles annually. We are lucky if we publish one new poet every three years... best of luck with some other publisher."
'Some other publisher! Why not you dammit?' Ricky is furious. In anger he dances on one leg to the tune of the choicest expletives. You have to see and hear him to believe how rhythmic four-letter-words can really be. Ricky is unaware of his talent for dancing to the cadence of curses. Perhaps he will make a career out of it one day.
After dancing away his frustrations Ricky flops on to the sofa. He picks up the day's newspaper and turns the pages moodily, "It's here that I want my mug-shot blazoned with headlines proclaiming me a winner. I know I can beat them all... outsell them, if only the illiterate publisher would hire someone with enough literary sense to read and actually understand my works. All these fellows are good at is composing polite refusals…"
Suddenly he stops muttering. His eyes stare at a headline, "A poet-philosopher from Britain India
Yeah, tell me about it. The paper continues "Mr. Ross will be only too pleased to meet upcoming writers and poets in English. He can be contacted on the telephone number..." Ricky leaps out of the sofa, dashes to his writing table, opens the diary and notes down the telephone number.
Stretching his arm he picks up the telephone and dials the number. A short pause later, "Hello, may I speak to Mr. Ross please?"
"Who's this?" A crisp no-nonsense female voice hits him at Mach 8.
"I'm Ricky... er, a poet...and you?"
"Czarina Saxena."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me right...I’m the President of the Toff Club, no cultural do in the town is complete without me"
"Oh, that Czarina!"
"How many Czarinas do you know?"
"None other..."
"Perhaps you want to talk to Ed?"
"Ed... oh yes, Mr. Edwin Ross...
"Here is the poet himself."
Ricky hears whispers through the earpiece and then a deep guttural voice buffets his ears, "Hi! I'm Ross speaking!"
"Hello, Mr. Ross, I'm Ricky. I was wondering if you'd spare some of your valuable time to go through my poetry manuscript..."
"So you are a poet too?"
"Yes..."
"That's nice, looks like all the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus have migrated to India
"Pardon?"
"Nothing, just marvelling at the rich literary talent here."
"Thank you, but would you be able to meet me?"
"I'll certainly try. Too many prior commitments, you see. Give me your telephone number. If possible I'll contact you."
"O.K., my number is 666999."
"Well, that'd be easy to remember."
"I am looking forward to having you at my place for tea in the afternoon."
"That'd be fine. Goodbye Ricky, and thank you for calling."
"Goodbye Mr. Ross, hope you have a nice day."
"You too."
After replacing the receiver, Ricky isn't sure whether his invitation has been accepted or not. Nevertheless, he gets busy collecting all his poems and carefully placing them in a transparent plastic file cover. He hurriedly goes over to the computer and designs a logo and the banner for the manuscript.
After several tries, he feels satisfied with one design. The printout looks even better than what he had seen on the monitor. Satisfied, he places the design on top of the manuscript.
Just when he is preparing to go out the telephone bell rings. He bounds towards the instrument and sweeps the receiver off the cradle.
"Hello! Hello!"
"Is that you Ricky?"
"Yes..."
"I'm Ross, on my way to your place, could you give me the exact location of your house?"
"Well it's a pleasure..."
"Later Ricky, give me your location..." there was an edge to the voice.
"There's this sprawling Yoga centre about two kilometres east of the main road. Behind the centre there is a Children's Park. Right opposite the park's entrance is a cream coloured building with maroon doors. You can't miss it. The number is 333."
"That is good enough."
Click. The phone falls silent. And Ricky becomes hyperactive. He checks the fridge. There are enough Coke bottles and fruit-juice tetra packs. Biscuits, milk and other items too seem enough for two.
Rubbing his hands with glee he picks up the manuscript and kisses it, "Looks like your Nirvana is at hand... after a fifteen year wait. I'll show these stuffed shirts what happens when you laugh at Ricky's poems!"
He does a jig and turns on the music system. The room bulges out with Baba Sehgal's Punjabi Rap number.
A few minutes later the doorbell rings plaintively... struggling to be heard against the musical monstrosity. Ricky stops boogying, peeks out of the window.
"So soon?!"
He switches off the music and rushes to the door. A young bespectacled red-head, about thirty years old, is standing uncertainly at the gate, while the taxi in which he probably came is driving out of the lane.
"Mr. Ross?"
"Yes, you must be Ricky. And call me Ed, this Mister bit makes me feel a trifle old."
"Come in Ed."
Both of them enter the room. Ross looks around.
"This is quite a place you have."
"Coke or fruit juice?"
"Coke will be fine."
Ricky takes out a couple of bottles from the fridge, puts some biscuits in a plate and places them on the coffee table. Right in the centre of the table he has already positioned the manuscript in a manner that it couldn't possibly be missed.
Ross takes a long eager pull at the bottle. His cheeks bulge out with the liquid. Slowly rolling the chilled beverage in his mouth he gulps it down.
"Ah! I needed the stuff... but don't you have any beer or something stronger?"
"Sure... would the Pelican do?"
"Right now even a crow'll be good enough!"
"It's a beer brand."
"I know!"
Ricky opens a chilled beer bottle and pours it into a glass. Ross grabs it and eagerly gulps it down. Then unexpectedly bellows: "Results here; results there. Results everywhere. That's why I lost my marbles and now play with pebbles."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yeah that's the stuff I was putting up with for one whole hour. Never before has my sanity been tested so cruelly."
"You mean you went to a poetry recitation...?"
"Don't call it poetry... it was perdition of all things decent. And that Czarina told me there is great literary revolution going on in this ultra modern town called Chandigarh
"How do you know Czarina?"
"It must be my evil stars. We both entered the same haiku contest on the Internet. She won the first prize and I the second. E-mailed my congrats to her..." he takes another loud swig and breathes heavily.
'The experience must have been a real horror. The way Ross is quailing and wailing at irregular intervals.' Muses Ricky, 'This is one up on the perpetrators of the Raj. Using English to send the Englishman's legendary stiff-upper-lip aquiver. One poetry session with the toffs of India
"They should be tried for blue murder. I have seen the Queen's language assaulted before... but this is sheer butchery." Ross thumps the table hard enough to make the crockery jump six inches in the air.
Ricky thinks it wise not to show his manuscript at this delicate moment. He stealthily reaches for it but Ross notices him.
"What's that?"
"Nothing really."
"I remember now, you too are a poet and wanted me to see..."
"Let's forget it..."
"Don't you worry. I can take some more punish... I mean I can really do with some sensible stuff."
Ross snatches the manuscript and begins to read.
"Hmm... Love circa 21C, interesting... Pain, quite moving... and this one To My Valentine it is big, of Homeric dimensions. Well, well, well! At last, some readable stuff. Not brilliant... but readable."
"You think so?"
"Of course! Have you considered getting it published?"
"I tried but..."
"Failed! Don't you worry. You will get published one day. You got the spark."
Ricky looks quizzically at him. Is it the after-effect of the encounter with those poetasters, or is the beer too strong? I couldn't possibly be that good. It must be the heat.
"Can I take this manuscript with me?"
"Eh? Oh, sure. Please do." Ricky is pleasantly surprised.
"Fine then, I shall read it thoroughly, and let you have my opinion as well as tips. Would that be ok?"
"Certainly." Seeing that Ross is making to depart Ricky exclaims, "But you haven't had anything to eat yet."
"I did. And thanks for the drinks, they really saved me. After the Czarina show now I am to meet Sam Singh's versifiers. The beer has fortified me for the... Hrrmph... playing with pebbles after losing one's marbles. I wonder what next..."
Ross goes out of the room. Ricky follows him. An unoccupied taxi is available at the entrance to the children's park.
After seeing Ross off, Ricky returns to his room. He switches on the music and lets the Punjabi Rap bamboozle his senses. He gets up after a while and starts a concocted jig, rhythmically yodelling, "I don't believe it aha, aha!"
Next morning he wakes up to an insistent ring of the telephone. Could it be him? Ricky dashes towards the instrument.
"Hello!"
"Is this Ricky speaking?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"You are breathless!"
"I had to run."
"Run? Anyway, I am Justice Sam Singh." The speaker waits expectantly.
"Oh, The Justice Sam Singh? Well, it is an honour Your Honour." Ricky forgets to breathe.
"Well young man, yesterday Dr. Ross had dinner with me. While discussing the rather barren literary landscape here, he described you as a potential oasis. He is really impressed by your stuff."
"That's kind of him to say so. And generous of you to acknowledge..."
"Well young man, this Saturday I intend having you as Guest Poet at a symposium being organised by 'The Original Thought Club'..."
"Yes I have heard of the club. You are its founder president."
"That's right. You are bright. Well, we shall send a car to fetch you..."
"Why bother Sir, I'll catch a bus..."
"What!? And let my rivals snigger at my parsimony?"
Ricky surmises that here the Toff Club is the 'rivals'. Even though Justice Singh and Czarina Saxena are friends, they never let go of a chance to put each other down.
"Fine sir, I shall be ready when the car comes."
"Good, that's really good." There is a triumphant note in Justice Singh's voice.
After the call, Ricky becomes a bit thoughtful. Ed is Czarina's guest, yet it is Justice Singh who invites me for the poetry reading session. Does it mean that I am not considered good enough for the Toff Club where she rules supreme?
Suddenly the telephone rings again. Ricky picks it up moodily, "Hello..."
"Ricky is that you?" The imperious Czarina herself!
"Yes..."
"Now listen my lad, just coming from The Club meeting. They have decided to have you as the Guest Poet. Be ready, sharp at six this Sunday evening. My car will pick you up..."
"Thanks for the honour Czarina. But why send a car? I can come by the local bus..."
"And have The Club's name rubbed in the mud? Nonsense! Just be ready at six sharp." Click.
'All these years no one cared to give even a casual glance to my stuff and now suddenly I am a Guest Poet of the town's two famous literary clubs. It's all thanks to Ed. If he hadn't pitched in for me these bloated toffs wouldn't have even noticed my existence.'
It is a big car. Even though he is retired, Justice Singh does live in style ... chauffeur driven limousine, a retinue of servants and plenty of money to splurge.
A smallish creature, probably the Justice's Secretary, alights and rings the doorbell.
His turban is huge, almost overwhelming his slight frame. The ends of his moustache are waxed and point upwards...a rather futile attempt to look ferociously virile. He ends up looking like a weasel with a lion's mien.
The chap simply doesn't have the fearsome paraphernalia.
Ricky, who is watching from behind the window curtains, ambles to the door, opens it nonchalantly. His manner would have done a seasoned actor proud.
"Yes, what's it?"
"Are you Mr. Ricky, the poet?"
"I presume so... do you know any other Ricky the Poet?"
"Er, no. I'm Justice Singh who had called on you the other day."
How odd, thought Ricky, that today's justice be so puny and unimpressive. Marks of time...
"Oh! Please do come in Justice Singh. This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be sending one of your employees."
"Our club believes in treating genuine poets with due respect. I wouldn't dream of sending a minion to escort you to the function." The Justice pats Ricky on the back, "Mr. Ross says you are genuine talent - 24 karat gold."
"Would you like to have a drink, sir?"
"No, not at all. I think we should leave now. Your audience is waiting."
Both of them leave the room.
It is midnight . Ricky returns in high spirits. He is holding a huge silver trophy. He lays it reverentially on the centre table, goes to the door and waves to someone outside.
Moments later a car engine guns to life. Gradually, its sound fades away. Ricky watches the car disappear at the corner and closes the door.
He looks happily at the trophy. Suddenly, he begins to whoop and dance around the table on which the trophy is kept.
"At last, I have become the town's poet laureate. Tomorrow it will be the country and then? The Noble prize! Yes!!!" Ricky punches the air.
After cavorting around a bit more he lies down motionless on the sofa. Soon, his snores resound in the room.
A shrill arrogant telephone beeper wakes our poet up. The beautiful dream, in which the representatives from the Oxford University Press and the Faber & Faber are serenading him, with Harper Collins, Penguin et al waiting for their turn, vanishes. It takes him a few moments to realise that he is in his own room. The rose tints give way to harsh hot sunrays pouring through the windows.
Hearing the phone ring, he leaps to it.
"Hello?"
"So that senile flub took you to his ramshackle club?"
"Good morning Czarina. Yes it was nice of him..."
"What does that court jester know about niceties?"
"May I ask you something Czarina?"
"Go ahead!"
"Ed's poetry titles sound more like the whodunit stuff. Are you sure he is genuine..."
"My dear Ricky, this guy is a Professor in England
"Which University? And who are his publishers?"
"Obviously, the Oxford
"But..."
"Now listen, today evening my husband's official car will come to fetch you. There will be five commandos armed with the latest weaponry. So don't get scared. Behave as though you are used to all this. Then only the underlings will respect you."
"But why go to all that trouble...?"
"No trouble. My husband is the Chief Minister's Chief Secretary. You just do as I tell you."
"Ok."
Ricky feels a bit uneasy. 'It's all right to get VIP treatment. But you can never tell with these people-in-power. Worse than the Moghuls. If she decides to take offence over what I might or might not say or do, she will make my life impossible.'
Ricky goes to the bathroom.
Sharp at six in the evening three police cars with sirens blaring screech to a halt in front of Ricky's gate. Ricky jumps out of the sofa, but remembering Czarina's words, sits down once again putting on an air of indifference. There is a sharp rap on the door. He takes his own time to open the door. He sees one car and two jeeps at the gate. Five armed men dressed in camouflage fatigues are at his door. One of them comes up to him and says, "Sahib, we have come to escort Mr. Ricky."
"Oh, I see. Well, I am Ricky and shall come with you in a moment. Will you wait in the car for me?"
"No sahib. We shall escort you to the car and then escort the car to..."
"Well, fine. I'm coming."
Ricky locks up the room. Escorted by the commandos, he enters a car meant for VIPs. A bureaucrat's wife enjoys perks too, he mutters to himself as the cavalcade takes off.
It is midnight once again when our hero struts into the room. He is followed by a supporting cast of one commando grunting while lugging in a rather heavy trophy, which is twice the size of the one given by Justice Sam.
Its large gold plated bronze base has Ricky's name blazoned on it. The huge silver top is ornate with its two handles carved in the shape of dancing nymphs.
"Yes keep it near the wall right opposite the front door, so that people on entry should not miss it. That will do, thank you."
The commando walks out of the room briskly. Just when Ricky reaches the door he hears the procession zooming out of the lane. He closes the door.
This time he does not dance.
He swaggers up to the trophy. Then reads aloud the citation it bears, "Ricky - The Poet of Poets, Chandigarh
Wow! In just forty-eight hours I'm a celebrity. This is luck. And those publishers! Fighting like kids for candy. Tomorrow they'll be coming here to finalise the publishing deal. Wow!
Ricky stretches out on the sofa and slowly drifts into a happy sleep, the evening's applause still ringing in his ears, the eulogies doing the job of a lullaby.
Once again the telephone bell brings him back to the real world.
Lazily, he picks up the phone and drawls, "Who's it?"
"Ricky, it's me, Sam."
"Oh, Uncle Sam!"
"Not Uncle Sam, but Justice Sam Singh!"
"Ah, but you are so uncle like..."
"Ricky, I'm in no mood for small talk. I believe you went to the Toff Club yesterday..."
"I didn't go, but was escorted royally by a guard of real commandos. And The Club gave me a trophy and a title much bigger than what you gave!" No point in pulling punches, Ricky says to himself.
"I feared as much. Now listen son..."
"Son!?"
"Well, if I am Uncle Sam, then I can get paternal, no?"
"Oh, sure."
"She's cunning as a lynx. She's exploiting your immense talent to promote herself. You shouldn't forget that I had discovered you..."
"I thought it was Ed..."
"He too. But I was the first to give you a real public exposure!"
"She has arranged for publishers too."
"OK, tell me, did the commandos salute you?"
Ricky pauses, scratches his head and replies in a weak voice, "Now that you mention it, I don't think they did."
"Well!"
"Well what?"
"Ricky, I'm experienced in these matters. A soldier always reflects his superior's thinking. If the boss respects you the soldier will give you a smart salute. If the boss does not think much of you, you can see the curl of contempt on the corners of the soldier's mouth, while he gives you a perfunctory salute."
"And if he doesn't salute you?"
"That is as clear as Czarina's intentions. You'll be feted for her profit and then cast into the dustbin like so many others."
"You mean there were others before me?"
"Plenty."
"Oh!"
Ricky reels back under the impact of the ego-blaster. A tattered ego is an irksome burden. He gives out a sigh.
"You still there?"
"Well, yes, more or less."
"Be careful of that crafty Czarina."
"I'll certainly be."
"That's my lad!"
The click on the other side sounds like celebrations. As though His Honour has scored a point over his rival. ‘Am I being trapped? But what possible harm can come to me? I am, or was at least till yesterday, a nobody’. He shrugs and goes to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.
Just when he finishes his last cup of tea, the doorbell rings. Who could it be? Muttering to himself Ricky moves towards the door.
It's Ross with a hesitant smile on his face.
"Hello Ed, this is a pleasant surprise."
Ross moves towards the dining table, pulls a chair and sits down.
"I hope it's pleasant enough."
Ricky looks quizzically at him.
"What do you mean? But tell me first, did you have your breakfast?"
"No."
"I'll rustle up a cheese sandwich for you. Milk or tea?"
"Tea will be fine, thank you."
Ricky puts the kettle on the stove and than prepares the sandwich. Handing it to him he prompts, "You were saying?"
Ross takes a big bite, "Umm, nice, very nice. Cottage cheese? Humble but wholesome, my mother used to say. Ah yes, dear Ricky, there seems to be an amusing misunderstanding about my antecedents."
"Misunderstanding? I don't understand."
"Everybody appears to think that I am a tourist from England
"Aren't you?"
"No."
"But the paper said you were an Englishman."
"It's partly right. My great grandparents were from England
"It also said you had done your Ph. D..."
"From the Hull University England
"And your anthologies?"
"Self-published. Printed gratis in Bangalore
"The paper also said that it was your first visit to India
"Not my doing, trust me."
"But you kept quiet."
"No harm in that, if it helps me sell my stuff."
"Did it?"
"No, everybody wants the books free."
Stupefied by the revelation, Ricky gawks at him for a while. An entire range of emotions glides over his face. Then he gives out a chuckle, followed by another, and still another, snowballing into a resounding cachinnation. The walls shake and the room rattles.
Ross looks at him a bit worried.
"You ok?"
"I'm fine, just fine, my dear unwitting guardian angel. But tell me, why do you confess now, and of all the persons to me?"
"Actually, Czarina wants me to introduce her to my colleagues in the Oxford
"So?"
"I don't know any body in the Oxford University
"Did you ever give her the impression that you knew someone there?"
"My God no! She just presumed that if I have a doctorate from England
"Ah, Czarina's imagination is wonderful. And why have you come to me?"
"I saw today's papers where the Toff Club has given you the trophy. I thought you must have developed some sort of personal equation with her, as also with Justice Singh."
"Personal equations? I don't know. One slight miscalculation and they go awry."
"Still, Ricky, they are powerful people and it is always better to be on their right side."
"Yes. But how does one identify the right side? We all want to be socially acceptable, if not acclaimed. We go through so many simian contortions just to rub opinion makers the right way. Only to realise that we were actually stepping on their corns all the time."
The doorbell rings... harshly, persistently.
Ricky looks uneasily at the door and mutters, "Earlier telephone bells used to tinkle lovingly and now doorbells resound ominously. Is denouement at hand?"
He opens the door.
A slight, mousy woman of about fifty enters the room.
Her artificial hair-perms, the spindly dark-brown legs half covered with a trendy skirt and a rather generous use of perfume make her look like a caricature of the imperious woman of Ricky's imagination with whom he had conversed on the phone. Thanks to her regular appearance on the newspaper pages, it wasn't too hard to recognise her.
"Ah, Czarina, what a surprise!"
"I am sure it is... so your fellow con is here too."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
"Let me refresh your memory a bit Czarina. It was you who introduced Ed to the Press. You were the Godmother of this philosopher-poet from England
"Hrrrmph!"
"Precisely. By now you must have discovered that Ed is actually an Indian. Your dreams of getting published in England Oxford
"Shut up!" Czarina roars. Then she glares at Ross, who cringes a bit, "I wouldn't like you to darken my doors anymore. You, you... hrrrmph!"
She stomps to the door and calls out, "Hey you, come in."
A labourer enters, "Yes, memsahib?"
She points to the silver trophy, "Pick that up." Then addressing Ricky, "It can be put to better use than waste it on a shoddy versifier."
"Yeah, you can give it to the bureaucrat who lost his marbles."
"Hrrrmph!"
Czarina prances out of the room, followed by the struggling labourer.
Ricky can't resist a parting shot, "Hey Czarina, what happened to the commandos? Escorting some other troubadour recommended by an Anglo?"
Ross gives a long sigh of relief, "That was close."
"Ha, look at the pygmies strutting like power-drunk giants! Mired in snobbery and pettiness. They can't write a single original piece but somehow get published thanks to the cartel of bureaucrats and WOGs that has monopolised all creative outlets. Pilferage, vapidity and myopic vision stamp their literary repertoire. Yet..."
"I know what you mean. I've experienced it too. They are powerful but insecure. Perhaps that's why they hanker after cheap publicity."
"I wonder whether Uncle Sam too has discovered that you are an OOP."
"OOP?"
"Yeah, Orientalised Occidental Pleb."
"Ha, ha! Well, I am sure Czarina would have informed him by now."
Just then the doorbell rings.
"Here he comes."
Ricky opens the door. Justice Sam enters the room. He looks at Ross and chuckles.
"What's so funny?" Ross asks, a bit peeved.
"Nothing son. But I saw the trophy she retrieved from Ricky's room just now. Wow, it was something. She wouldn't have given it to Ricky if she'd not mistaken you for an Oxford Don and taken your praise of Ricky's verse seriously."
"Uncle Sam, aren't you angry?" Ricky looks relieved.
"Angry, for what? You are a good poet. Better than me at least. So what if Ed is not a pucca Brit, he is a poet too. Nobody can claim sole proprietorship on creativity, and it is certainly not class-specific. Ross, welcome to the club of ignored writers."
"Aw, thanks Justice Singh!'
"Uncle Sam."
"Ok, Uncle Sam."
"Now here is what I thought you both would like to read. It's fresh from the press."
"What's it Uncle Sam?"
Justice Sam turns to the door and calls out, "Ramu, bring them in."
A servant enters the room carrying two thick packets. Justice Sam hands one each to Ricky and Ed. Both of them open the packets eagerly.
Both are a bit confused, they are holding a copy each of the same book.
"This is the latest anthology of my poems. My son-in-law in America
"You mean it's published in America
"No, in India
"Even you need to pull strings?"
"Shh, in polite society we call it networking. Have you read the title?"
Both of them glance at the cover and read aloud, "When I lost my marbles!"
After Justice Sam leaves, Ricky and Ed sit down to finish their breakfast tea.
Ed browses through the book that the elderly judge has left behind while Ricky stares at the wall, moodily sipping his tea.
"Insufferable bore!"
"Eh?" Ricky is startled out of his reverie.
"This book. Full of stereotypes, cliches and sweet nothings in bad verse, and yet it gets published."
"Life is unjust... not fit for an underdog to live..."
"Snap out of it my friend. You never know what the next moment has in store for you."
"One more rejection slip?"
"Not always."
"But mostly."
"Perhaps. But I forgot to tell you. Yesterday I was in a cyber cafe. While surfing I came across a competition for unpublished poetry manuscripts. I e-mailed your manuscript as entry for the competition. Imagine winning two thousand dollars as first prize! The result is expected in a week or so. There's much to look forward to..."
Ricky perks up a bit, "Two thousand dollars! All is not lost then?"
"No, one can always salvage something valuable even from the worst of disasters." Ed pats Ricky on the back. They finish their interrupted breakfast in optimistic silence.
A week passes.
The doorbell rings. Ed opens the door. He is startled to see both Czarina and Justice Sam at the door.
"What're you doing here? I thought you had left for wherever you came from" Czarina makes no effort to hide her surprise and chagrin on discovering that Ed is still at Ricky's place.
"Please come in Czarina, and Uncle Sam."
Both enter. Justice Sam's eyes are twinkling with suppressed excitement. Czarina's are smouldering with suppressed rage.
"Where's Ricky?"
"He's gone to the cyber cafe to find out the results of an Internet poetry competition."
"So it's him alright!" Czarina fumes.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing very serious Ed." replies Justice Sam, "Czarina and I too had entered the same competition. When I checked the results on my computer I found that one Ricky from India
"Hurray! Ricky has done it. Why it's a great news! Isn't it simply great Czarina?"
"Hrrrmph!"
Just then Ricky barges in panting. He cries out, "Ed, Ed! Man you have done it for me!"
"Congrats Ricky! I'm proud of you son!" Justice Sam shakes the dazed Ricky's hands. Ed too pumps his hands and thumps his back. Czarina fumes, sitting on the sofa.
Suddenly she gets up and glares at Ricky. Her eyes become red embers of envy and hate.
"Damn you. You goddamned slimy skunk. You dared to go behind my back and enter the competition? What are your credentials? Who..."
"Take it easy Czarina. We are living in a free democratic country. I am not your serf!"
"Shaddup! You, you..."
She glowers at Ricky for a moment. Unable to control herself she turns her back and breaks down. Tears of defeat roll down her creased cheeks, washing down the layers of make-up that hid her sallow-skinned face.
"I... I'm sorry. I had come here to congratulate you Ricky. But somehow years of frustration..."
"I understand Czarina. No offence taken." Ricky pats her shoulder.
Slowly she gets up and leaves.
Justice Sam, Ricky and Ed watch a pathetic, forlorn spectre melt into the harsh glare of the sun outside.
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