Yello, my dearest readers! By the grace of your jasmine-scented prayers and round-the-clock temple vigils, your favourite uncle Rangarajan is back, having snatched innocent life from the well-built jaws of death. Thank you! May your kitchens abound with the smells of bubbling rasam and freshly plucked curry patta.

With Lord Ayappa’s sanction I returned to work yesterday, but no sooner had I wiped my brow with the backrest towel and locked my tiffin box inside the table drawer, did I hear the familiar chirping bird call-bell. My boss, the hon’ble Ms Chandresh Kumari, Minister of Culture, wanted to see me. I cannot deny I had a spring in my step and the Shekhar Gupta-orchestrated Davos disaster was but a distant memory, as I strolled towards her office, taking in the smiles and best wishes of my colleagues along the way.

I knocked on her door and entered.

Ms Kumari looked up from the magazine she was perusing – Men’s Health. “Ah, Rangrajan, all well?” she said matter-of-factly.

Before I could answer in the affirmative, she continued: “We have work to do, Rangrajan. The order has come straight from Madam. By the way, she loved the brochures you had prepared for our ministry, especially those photos of Ajanta Ellora that you re-labelled as Italian renaissance carvings”.

I nodded my thanks, waiting for her to mention my other masterstroke, where I had credited Khajuraho masonry as being inspired by an old compatriot of Michelangelo called Berlusconi. But boss had other ideas.

“Rangrajan, I’ve been directed to shame Amitabh Bachchan’s Gujarat Tourism campaign. His silly breathe-ins are blunting our Bharat Nirman campaigns big time.”

“Oh”, I said simply.

“Here are the tickets – Air India, of course. You leave this afternoon. You will travel around Gujarat and acquire evidence to the contrary, i.e. you will breathe-in a bit of grime and filth. We’ve selected some slum clusters for you that are traditionally our bastions. Luthra will give you the details.”

“Oh”, I said, this time in shock.

“Don’t worry”, consoled Ms Kumari. “Rajdeep Sardesai will be accompanying you.”
“Rajdeep, madam?”, I asked. “That truthful, righteous, droopy-eyed man?”

“One outa three ain’t bad”, said Ms Kumari and smiled. I didn’t understand the joke but nodded and mumbled a polite ha-ha.

“Rajdeep will try and breathe-in as much of the real Gujarat as he can and make a documentary out of it. He’ll also need some stills from your side. The idea is, next time Bachchan breathes in some Gujarat it’ll singe even his nose hair.”

“Yes, madam”, I said.

“Dismissed.”

At the airport, dear readers, as I waited for the boarding call, my eyes fell on a crowd that had circled a heavily-garlanded man. Upon closer inspection I found that man to be none other than Mr Sardesai. It seemed his whole team had come to wish him good luck for this venture. “All the best, sir, seek the truth – Vijayi bhava!” they were chanting and hollering.

Suddenly, I heard a lady shriek “Rajdeep! Rajdeep!” on the PA. But it couldn’t have been the PA – PA only announces Air India flight delays and cancellations – and moreover I thought I recognised the voice. I turned my head and discovered that what I thought was the PA lady was actually Ms Sagarika Ghose whispering sweet nothings into her husband’s ear. I closed in, as by habit I am fond of eavesdropping.

“Be careful, darling”, Sagarika madam was saying, with tears in her eyes, “I’m so worried. I hope you’re carrying that bullet-proof jacket – Gujarat’s a lawless badland. And here’s some money for you to give to those malnourished children you’ll see scampering around as soon as you land in Ahmedabad. I also packed in Hema’s UV water purifier and an LED lantern – I’ve heard Gujarat has an awful water and electricity shortage. Be very careful of pocketmaars and Internet Hindus, darling. I hope you’re carrying your lucky billa? The one that has 2002 instead of 786 etched on it? Oh, I’m so worried, my sweet.”

At this point Mr Sardesai planted an affectionate kiss on Ms Ghose’s forehead and did nosey-nosey with her. I looked away. Soon the real PA lady announced boarding and we parted and departed.

Inside the plane I introduced myself to Mr Sardesai. He was very warm and affectionate, even asked the air hostess to make sure I got part of his business class jalpaan over to my economy class non-reclining seat by the emergency exit.

When we landed in Ahmedabad, Mr Sardesai was waiting for me at the baggage belt.

“Rangarajan”, he said, “I hope you know what the pogrom is?”

“Yes, sir”, I said, “You are to make a documentary and I am to take some stills of…”
“No, damn it! I meant pogrom, not program. Don’t you know what’s going on in Gujarat is a pogrom? Don’t you watch any news? Uff!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his pogrom clashes with Arnab’s progrom and so I kept quiet. Besides, I got terribly confused with this pogrom progrom program thing.

“Anyway”, he said, “Let’s begin our partnership on a good note”.

“Sure, sir”, I said, not quite sure what he meant.

“Come, I’ll take you to one of the finest Public Baths you’ll ever see.”

Public Bath? I narrowed my eyes at this point.

“Let’s get towelled up and sweaty, Ranga. Let’s get our spirits soaring. Hamam may sab…”

Truth be told, dear readers, I’m a bona fide married man with single wife and two single daughters. Ask lord Ayappa if you don’t believe me! Getting towelled up and sweaty is something I’ve never accomplished even with your aunty Vaijanthi, let alone with a droopy-eyed man. But before I could say anything, Mr Sardesai was pulling me by my wrist and next thing you know we were speeding across Ahmedabad towards lord knows where. I’ll tell you where, dear readers – a Public Bath!

The taxi screeched to a halt and CNN-IBN’s Gujarat Correspondent bid us goodbye and drove off before I could sneak back into the car.

“Come, Rangarajan, come”, said Mr Sardesai, pushing open the entrance door to Bhujangi Hamam Palace.

I followed in, dumb-struck, chanting Hanuman-Chalisa all the while. Inside, I couldn’t see a damn thing so foggy the hall was. Before I could get my bearings, two burly men peeled off all my clothes and wrapped me in a towel. When I opened my eyes next, I was standing in a shallow pool of steaming water and Mr Sardesai was already in it beckoning me further in. At this point even my Hanuman-Chalisa was over. I started on the Rig Veda at once.

I can’t tell you, dear readers, how the next hour passed. Try keeping your eyes wide open in dense mist and fog and you’ll know! Thankfully no one approached me or asked me to pick up a bar of soap from the floor. When my trauma was over, what do I find? Yes, that the attendants had mixed up my clothes with some rascal half my weight and height. I protested but no one listened, not even Mr Sardesai, who was now in a hurry to leave for some odd reason – perhaps it was Newshour and he also watched Mr Goswami.

Oh, the agony of wearing tight-tight trousers, and that too in mist and fog. Every time I took a step forward, I swear I could hear a centimetre of the seam rip. When, finally, I reached my hotel room I tore off my trousers and wrapped what else but a towel around my tired body.

Woe befall on Mr Sardesai to have put me through all this. As my revenge I now upload his doodle that he made at the PM’s editors meet. Here it is:

I end by telling you, dear readers, that my Gujarat trip ended the very next day. I woke up with sores and scabs all over my body and had to be rushed back to Delhi. Sadly, the only Gujarat air that I breathed-in was fog and mist of chlorine-rich soapy water. It is little consolation that Mr Sardesai breathed in the same. I pray to Lord Ayappa someone sprinkles some khujli powder into the next hamam Mr Sardesai steps in. Let’s see how his billa helps him then.