The French Connection By Randeep Wadehra

I gawked. My chin dropped to the floor – almost. It doesn't happen often. But one is left absolutely flabbergasted at the spectacular sight of power and pelf locked in glitzy coitus. But then, one shouldn’t expect anything less in New Delhi, this ancient land's mod-medieval capital.

Fragrant French perfumes, sparkling French wines and delicious French cuisine triggered off orgasmic ooohs and aaahs. It was one of those parties where the famous and the infamous, the rich and the fortune-hunter, the power-seeker and the powerful meet to undo the popular mandate that, according to the naïve, makes our democracy work.

No matter which political party wins elections the same set of people have their fingers in the pie – the politician and the sycophant, the tycoon and the tout... It was here that I met my long lost acquaintance, nicknamed the VIB, or Very Important Busybee. Whatever the occasion, our man had the knack of being on the right side of the powerful. He could be wretchedly ingratiating or patronizingly disdainful while promoting himself. Chief Ministers came and went but our man could never be evicted from the corridors of power. The uncharitable found in him a limpet’s likeness.

Not that he cared.

Presently, he was exuding an exotic aroma.

"Hi! You are looking like a bouquet and smelling like one too" I complimented him.

"Aha, Mon Cher! It is so nice to see you after such a long time" he responded.

"Mon Cher?" I repeated, puzzled. Too much of the heady French stuff perhaps!

"A term of endearment I learnt in Paris" he explained.

I was still confused, "Paris?"

"Arre Baba, I am just back from an official tour. I went to Paris to study its architecture, culture and, ahem, other things."

"Who sent you?"

"CMji, of course!" he proudly caressed the tuque he was wearing as if it were some sort of fleur-de-lys.

"You mean the Chief Minister himself...?"

"Yes!" his chest ballooned to the bursting point reminding me of bloated toads.

"I didn't know you were an architect, or...actually what are you?"

Peeve replaced the smile on his face.

"My dear VOP, I have inherent talent for town planning" he said a trifle coldly. I surmised that 'VOP' stands for very ordinary person.

I bumbled on regardless: "And what have you learnt?"

"Everything. Soon Panchkula will become not just Paris of India, but of all Asia. Standards shall be set..."

He was referring to the new township that had come up in the famous Chandigarh's vicinity.

"For instance?" I had to interrupt.

"Water! Clear, sweet! Likewise, the air; it will be fragrant. When you want to give your sweetheart a little present you will walk up to the perfume counter and the salesgirl will softly suggest: 'Morning in Panchkula'...In fact I am given to understand that the town has already begun to resemble the French capital."

"Huh?! Since when?"

"Ever since CMji has become its MLA."

"Oh?"

I was still mulling over the significance of this piece of disinformation when he exploded a bombshell.

"Anyway, I am planning to visit Panchkula soon, and would be staying at your place..."

"Wha...?"

"For old times sake. Moreover I want to have the feel of the place at the grassroots level to give feedback to CMji."

This was another of his traits. Never failed to invite himself to your place if it suited him. Your opinion in this regard didn’t matter. It was taken for granted that you would indeed feel honored and grateful at having such a personage as him for your guest.

He then proceeded to consult his French pocket diary. After several 'umms' and 'ahs' he pronounced, "CMji will visit Mata Mansa Devi shrine next week; I'll take French leave then."

Only a politician or his acolyte can combine piety with political expediency. The most famous shrine of our township would play host to the most notorious of living species – the politician's aide.

Sure enough, the following week a Peugeot arrived at my door. French perfume invaded my room, trailed by desi Black Cats. After ensuring comfortable quarters for his entourage, the two of us settled down to discuss just about every topic under the sun.

French wine flowed freely and French tartines were munched with delicate gusto. If you don't believe that gusto can be delicate you need lessons in French etiquette on the sands of French Riveria. After a dinner of French chops followed by French pastries, my honored guest became a bit sentimental about the Parisian moon when he saw the Indian one peeping into our room.

He broke into a soulful rondeau, and the street dogs howled in agony.

It was well past eleven, and we turned in for the night.

Hardly had I settled down into my bed when a familiar rumble of incantations began. The Mata's devotees had begun the ritual of invoking Her blessings. Since I am used to all this, I merely buried my face into the pillow. Suddenly the rumble burst into a frenzied crescendo. The sky shook and the earth trembled.

"What's happening?" the bewildered VIB burst into my room all shaking and shivering.

"Aw, nothing," I waved my hand casually, "this happens all the time during nights..."

"Every night?!"

"Almost."

"How do you put up with this?"

"This is the Indian Paris at grassroots level my friend! And you are at the receiving end of Jagrata at Notre Dame de Panchkula! Wait for the real high notes." I couldn't restrain the jibe.

"Are there no noise control laws...?" he asked groggily.

"Ask your CMji."

"Humph! Am I going to suffer this all night?" Clearly he had never considered this possibility earlier.

"We enjoy this blessing round the year."

"Mon dieu! Have you got a sedative?"

I was quick to oblige. Soon the pill had its effect and he sank back to sleep.

Meanwhile, outside there seemed no let up in the devotees' enthusiasm. I tossed around in my bed for a couple of hours before sleep overtook me.

However, for the second time on that dratted night I was rudely shaken up by my guest who stood over my bed raving and ranting like one gone berserk.

"Hey, VOP, get up! Something terrible has happened!" he cried. Startled, I rose immediately. His disheveled appearance conveyed the impression that he had run headlong into a cyclone.

"Whaat...what's happened?" fear gripped me, shook me and sent me hurtling into a jitter-storm. Hair stood up on their ends, a million ants slithered up and down my skin and cold wave turned my spine into an icicle.

"Pakis have dropped a biological bomb!!!"

"Oh how… No it can’t be..."

"Believe me. Can't you make out the terrible stink? I'm suffocating!"

"Stink?" I raised my nose up in the air, threw my nostrils wide open and took a deep breath.

Then it hit me. The familiar earthy odour.

"Oh that! It's no bomb man, but a routine happening." I smiled at him reassuringly.

He didn't seem to place much confidence in me. He bellowed in a mix of fear and anger, "How can you smile at this hour of peril?"

I calmed him down and took him to the window that faced the site for the proposed park, better known to the area's residents as the Loo with a View.

And lo! There sat row upon row of humans performing a perfectly natural function in the time honored tradition, with peeled posteriors and covered faces.

My guest's face was a sight. Here was something Paris didn't have. The stark brown bottom line can be a very unnerving scene, especially when silhouetted against pre-dawn darkness.

"This is the Indian Paris-at-grassroots you always wanted to see." I had to needle him.

He left without as much as a bonjour! His feedback to CMji was certainly going to be pungent.

This story first appeared in The Indian Express, Chandigarh.