Sorry, dear readers – no jasmine-scented greetings from your favourite uncle Rangarajan today, only jackfruit-scented cries of anguish. Omnivorous clouds hang low on your uncle and the website on which he made the grievous bodily error of uploading Annexure A of the Food Security bill. It was a fatal mistake. As a result, the full power of the State, its intelligence and other agencies (not Gas) are after your uncle’s blood. Not even the benevolence of Lambodar or of his genteel whiskered carrier can save me now. There is all likelihood I may have to flee India and move to Gujarat.

“Why-why, what happened uncle, tell-tell?” – you seem to be asking me. Alright, your uncle will tell you.

A week ago, my boss the hon’ble Minister of Culture Chandresh Kumari gave me some files and asked me to hand them over in person to Shri P Chidambaram. “You can take my lal-batti to the North Block, Rangrajan”, she said. I agreed to her generous offer.

As it happened, all Ministry of Culture lal-battis were unavailable. I paced the Shasthri Bhavan porch up and down for at least an hour but without success and was about to hail an auto when my eagle eyes spotted an MEA lal-batti slipping away in a cloud of smoke. I jumped right in front and pleaded with the driver to stop and thankfully he did. He must have seen the telltale vibhuti-swipes on my forehead. He rolled down the tinted window and greeted me in Tamil and motioned with a jerk of his neck for me to hop in. I did.

To my horror I found the lal-batti full of gents – two in front and three in back. How in Ayappa’s name was I supposed to fit in? After a prolonged eye-contact, the fellows in the back shifted their bottoms grudgingly. They adjusted and so I fitted. All of them were serious-looking gents, except for the one whose thigh I had appropriated as a cushion. He was quite friendly towards me. I smiled and extricated my arm from under his armpit to shake his hand.

“Myself, Dhingra”, he said, by way of introduction. “External affairs. Going South Block. Giving file Home Secretary. Urgent. You Ministry of Culture?”

I don’t know which school Dhingra went to when he was a boy, dear readers, but he sure could thank his stars his path didn’t cross with our English teacher, Dharmalingam sir. The sounds of the whiplashes alone would have woken up half of Thrissur. Anyway, I warmed up to Dhingra and before we knew it we were telling non-veg jokes and slapping each other’s thighs and punching each other’s stomachs. All this bodily contact made our files drop to the floor of the car.

“Hahah”, cried Dhingra amid peels of laughter, “Rangrajan, very naughty you are, hain bhai?”

“Hahha, Dhingra, stop it – you are too much!” – I responded, while picking up the contents of the file and placing them back in the folder. And in such merriment and jollification did our journey continue. At the Rashtrapathi Bhavan premises, I was first to get off and I bid Dhingra and the driver a warm goodbye.

Just as I was about to get inside the North Block, my eyes spotted a loose sheet peering out from the folder. It had a letterhead but it wasn’t of Ministry of Culture. Now that’s strange, I thought. Perhaps my papers might have got mixed with Dhingra’s during our jollifications. Curious, I stopped to have a look. And nearly died of a heart attack!

My head started spinning, my fingers started trembling – oh, dear readers, it was as though I had read my death warrant.

It was a letter addressed to the Prime Minister by Shri Ashwani Kumar, the ex-law minister and now PM’s envoy to Japan. All well and good, you are thinking. Why, then, was uncle’s head spinning? Dear readers, I am uploading the letter so you can see for yourself why. Here it is:

So you see? I am done for – the CBI and RAW would be tracking my every move from now on. Lord Ayappa – what have I done to deserve this?!

I rushed back to the Ministry of Culture and confronted my boss. “Madam!” I pleaded, “Save Rangarajan, please, madam! I was only following your orders…”

“Get a hold of yourself, Rangrajan”, said Ms Chandresh Kumari. “I’ll ask Thaps to interview the RAW chief. They’ll fall in line, don’t you worry, son.”

“Th-, thank you, mother”, I said, visibly relieved.

“Meanwhile, I expect you to carry on as before and upload Annexure B.”

“Are you sure, madam?”

“Of course! Annexure B is journalists, no?”

“Yes.”

“All the more reason, then. Just one thing – is Shekhar’s feedback form in there?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, save it for later. There’s too much heat on him right now, poor egg. Perhaps we can trade it for some favourable news – elections are round the corner.”

“But, madam…”

“Dismissed.”

There you have it, dear readers. I don’t know about others but by uploading these Annexures, I for one am certainly following Journalism of Stupidity. Here, then, is the Annexure B of the Food Security Bill:

So long, dear readers. I hope my next upload will be from this pooja room where I’ve placed my computer/printer/modem, and not from Thihar Jail.

The bejewelled eyes of Lord Balaji stare at me from the Prestige pressure-cooker calendar above, but I don’t know for how long. You are my strength, dear readers, you are the onl-…Aiyo, Balaji! Someone’s knocking at the door! The knocks are getting louder…Oh, Lord, have mercy on-…No, don’t, Vaijanthi – don’t answer the door! Oh, no, I can see that your auntie’s answered the door! I now hear footsteps, dear readers! Strong and menacing footsteps…No, no, don’t lead them here, Vaijan-…