Hello, dear readers! Your uncle Rangarajan this side. Quickly accept my jasmine-scented greetings so we can begin on this journey that we must undertake together on a horseback through the valleys of fear and rivers of uncertainty, stopping momentarily at the eateries of doubt and sleeping overnight in the dharamshalas of satisfaction.

Yes, dear readers, you guessed it. I’ve been reading one too many op-eds lately just to shape up my language and fiction writing skills. Your aunty Vaijanthi, who expresses herself irregularly, scolded me the other day, said my pieces should be well liked by everyone who reads them and not just the CBI and RAW.

“Aiyo, what happened, Mr. Rangarajan? You used to write so heartily and healthily,” she said imploring me to take lessons from those in the know. As a result, I now pore over The Hindu in addition to The Hindustan Times in the morning. During lunch, I peruse The Indian Express and while I’m having evening tea and rusk I enjoy The Times of India. When back home, I quickly study The Pioneer and before I go to bed I swallow Business Standard along with my sleeping pill. Your auntie is also very happy as she now gets more money from the raddiwaala. Never mind that my flesh is slowly turning into one mushy lump of opinion. That said, my communications skills have improved markedly as you shall see in the following true story that I now narrate.

A week ago, my boss, the hon’ble Minister of Culture Smt. Chandresh Kumari called me in her office. I knocked on her door and entered.

“Rangrajan,” she said looking up from the Men’s Health bumper issue, “I need a big favour.”

“Pleased to be of service, madam,” I replied.

“The High command is unhappy.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “What have I done?”

The boss looked at me as though a wasp had stung her upper-arm cellulite. Then she recovered quickly and smiled. “Nice one, Rangrajan! Now get serious.”

But I was serious. Anyway, I nodded.

“High Command is unhappy with all the negative publicity the dynasty is getting. Some people are cursing the dynasty too much, without realising what a great dynasty it is.”

Truth be told, I thought boss was talking of the Ming dynasty. You see, our ministry had recently entered into an artefact exchange program with China whereby our National museum would display their vases and their museum would display ours. It worked brilliantly until they discovered that our vases were all made in China. This was because the PMO couldn’t muster up enough courage to request the High Command to lend us some Chola period vases that our museum had lent her for decoration purposes back in 1993. In the end, I and Patwardhan had to run around Lajpat Nagar to procure some “period” vases.

“Very sorry, madam,” I said, “but I thought you knew that China had cancelled the exchange program. All our vases turned out to be-”

“What on earth are you blabbering about, Rangrajan?” said Ms. Kumari in an agitated tone. “I’m talking of our dynasty, not some Ming-shing one-two generation dynasty, you old fool! I meant the great Nehru-Gandhi Dynasty.”

“Oh!” I said, “Very sorry, madam. Of course.”

“Now listen. Kamal suggested something the other night that has since been approved by the High Command and stamped by the no command. This dynasty vilification seems to be carried out by these pro-BJP, right-leaning intellectuals. We have a list. Here are their names and photographs.”

Madam passed the file over to me. “Memorise the faces. Memorise the names.”

“Yes, madam,” I said.

“Good. Now – do you know how to play the violin?”

“I do!” I said beaming. “It has always been my dream to-”

“You’re a Madrasi, no? Which way do you hold it?”

“Er, upside down, madam. My grandfather had played in the Thyagaraja-”

“Yes, yes. Listen – hold it tonight the way it is supposed to be held. Like how white people hold it. You got that? And practice a bit of Vivaldi, Four Seasons.”

“Madam?”

“Here’s the plan. We need to spy on these fellows to know how their brain works and we can only do this if they all come together at one place. This is where Kamal comes in. He has managed to request the Gymkhana to invite these right-wingers for the Colonial night. I’m sure you know what the Colonial night is – it’s the talk of the town.”

“No, madam.”

“Uff! Every month, the colonials among us – the journalists and the politicians – get together at Gymkhana for a grand party. All very formal and stiff upper lippish. Candle-lit tables, soul-stirring music…a nice opportunity for journalists and politicians to network. You get it?”

“Er, yes, madam,” I nodded.

A great idea, I thought. What more could journalists and politicians want? Normally they never ever get to network with each other, isn’t it.

“Good,” said the boss, “Here’s a long Victorian skirt I borrowed from Karan. And this wig is from Suhel. Here, hold it. Careful! They want it back in pristine condition.”

“But, madam…?” I said, confused and concerned.

“You are going to the Gymkhana tonight dressed as a table violinist. Rajeev Shukla, who personally mans the Gymkhana entrance on Colonial nights, has been instructed by Kamal to let you in. All you need to do is to locate these anti-establishment conspirators, hear the plans they are hatching, and then report to me tomorrow. You got all this?”

Lord Ayappa! What was happening? I, Rangarajan, god-fearing, two-times-a-day-bathing Rangarajan, dressed as a lady violinist? Where was the benevolence of Lambodar when you needed it?

“Y-yes,” I mumbled.

“Good. I knew I could count on you. You have a good violin?”

“Yes, madam. It is made of dark-”

“Excellent. My car will pick you up at 9 tonight and drop you at Gymkhana. And take a selfie – I need to see the proof that you dressed up as a violinist.”

“Selfie, madam?”

“Oh, Rangrajan, you are so behind the times. Selfie, damn it! A self-portrait, a photograph clicked by you – from your mobile. Now leave. I’ve too much to do. Dismissed.”

All through the day, dear readers, your poor uncle practised Vivaldi. This was the easier part. The impossible part was stuffing your uncle’s body into Karan’s long skirt. How in Balaji’s name does he manage to do so every night before his show will remain a mystery. And Suhel’s wig, dear readers – what can one say. I’m sure Itchy and Scratchy had visited Thirupathi and donated their hair for this wig. Boss had forbidden me from applying coconut oil to my scalp and so it was sheer torture. Lord Ayappa, what was I getting into?

Anyway, this was the selfie that I took just before madam’s car came to pick me up:

At 9:30 pm precisely, madam’s car dropped me outside the Gymkhana club. I emerged from the car hoping no one would notice my ungainly appearance and ran inside the club and located the Colonial night banquet hall. So far so good. Just as I was about to put my right foot the other side of the banquet hall threshold, a hand clasped my shoulders.

“Kaun hain aap, mataji?” asked a gruff voice.

I froze. My bountiful lord, I prayed, safeguard my sanctity, hold me by your graceful hand and lead me out of this valley of fear. I turned around.

It was Mr Rajeev Shukla, wearing a suit that had the IPL logo on the breast pocket. I’m sure he had purloined it during one of the man of the match award ceremonies.

“Arey! It’s you!” he said, kindly, “Kamal told me all about you.”

“Oh!” I said and heaved a huge sigh of relief, taking care that the heaving didn’t dislodge those rascal tennis balls. “Thank you, Mr. Shukla.”

“Don’t worry about anything. After you are done, you are free to eat dinner also. There’s a vada-pav counter just next to the bar,” he smiled and held the doors open for me. I stepped in.

And there I stood, dear readers, in the middle of a cattle market with a violin in hand. The place was teeming with intellectuals and journalists and a few who were both and very many who were none. I recognised Ms. Sagarika Ghose straight away. She was having an animated conversation with Mr. Chidambaram and Mr. Ranjit Sinha, who had on his right shoulder a blue and yellow Macaw. I was frantically trying to spot the rightists, now that I knew their names and faces, and once the cigar smoke and kachuachap fumes had settled, I soon did. I pressed my cheek to the violin and slowly made my way through to their table.

At the right-wing table, I applied the bow to the strings. And the first of the four seasons was underway.

“Beautiful!” said someone. I glanced sideways. It was Mr. Kanchan Gupta, pulling at his pipe. His eyes were closed and his fingers were twitching as though he not I was playing the violin. “Beautiful” he repeated, “So bold and right.”

“Nonsense, dada!” shouted Dr. Chandan Mitra sitting next to him. “How can you enjoy it? This is pure Italian music.”

“Le quattro stagioni, Concerto No. 1 in E major, Op. 8, RV 269, La primavera, to be precise,” added Mr. Swapan Dasgupta proudly.

“Disdainful, isn’t it! I quite agree with Chandan,” opined Ms. Tavleen Singh.

“Hey, c’mon, cool it, people. It’s just music – Italian or Indian, what does it matter?” remarked Mr. Ashok Malik.

“Oh, yes, it doesn’t, does it, Mr. cool-it-people,” cried Ms. Tavleen Singh. “No it doesn’t – Italian or Indian – yes, what’s it to you?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant, Tavleen,” said Mr. Malik.

“I know exactly what you meant, Ashok – you and your velvet-gloved right hand,” retorted Ms. Singh, thumping the table with her right hand that wasn’t gloved in velvet.

“Tavleen’s right!” said Dr. Mitra, “We’ve suffered enough! Our people think nothing of coming under the influence of Italians and their music. Yes, that’s it! First you’ll like Vivaldi and then you’ll want to hear his son’s compositions, and then his grandson’s. You, Ashok, you – you are taking this country down. Oh, sometimes I wonder why I even bother…Namo, RaGa, what do I care…oh…oh…”

“Now, ease up, Chandan, old boy,” comforted Mr Swapan Dasgupta, “Ashok didn’t mean any harm. Indeed, if you look at the calibrated spread of Macaulayism through the narrow lanes of Tollygunge…”

“Stop it, all of you!” commanded Mr. Kanchan Gupta. “Is this how we’re going to achieve a Congress-mukt Bharat? We seem to be fighting among ourselves most of the time. And please-” Mr Gupta looked at me through his opaque glasses, “Behenji, ab aap please jayiyay. You are distracting us.”

I stopped – I was midway through L’inverno. “No Kanchan-ji,” I blurted, “I’ll stay and finish the concerto if you don’t mind.”

Stunned silence greeted my utterance. I realised that I had uttered it in my grumpy baritone voice! Lord Ayappa, what had I done!

“Jesus!” cried, Mr. Ashok Malik, “This lady’s a he!”

“Hey Ram!” said Dr. Chandan Mitra, “He’s a congi spy!”

“And to think I was almost attracted,” said Mr. Kanchan Gupta.

“By the whiskers of Macaulay!” said Mr. Swapan Dasgupta.

“Catch him! Don’t let him get away! I want him for breakfast!” thundered Ms. Tavleen Singh and leapt at me.

I shrieked and tried to run. My violin was flung high in the air, so was Suhel’s wig. The tennis balls, having surfaced from their hideout, were bouncing merrily on the wooden floor. Thankfully, dear readers, the only thing Ms. Singh could get her hands on was Karan’s long skirt, that tore away from my body as quickly as I tore away from that blasted place. I emerged into the night wearing only my underwear, my janehu, and my red lipstick.

Through Lord Balaji’s philanthropy, I made it home in one piece. All I could think of post my bath and thair sadam, was to somehow extract my revenge at these exalted columnists and intellectuals. I shall do so now by the powers vested unto me by my boss Ms. Chandresh Kumari.

Here are their feedback forms that went ultimately in the drafting of the Food Security Bill:

So there you have it, dear readers – my colonial night adventure. Light rays bounce off Lord Ayappa’s magnificent cornea and fall upon your uncle and that is the sole reason why he escaped a thrashing at the hands of Ms. Tavleen Singh. And as for the dynasty and the dynasts, I’d much rather have Ms. Singh deal with them –Ming, Chola or Nehru-Gandhi, I don’t care, thank you very much. What a pleasure to be a native and not a colonial!