Sharmajee wakes up with a dull pit of foreboding in the base of his stomach. Something is not right with the world, Sharmajee thinks. But what?
Maybe the newspaper will help.
The newspaper tells Sharmajee that another girl was raped in Noida last night. That's not it, Sharmajee thinks. This went down in Sector - 106. I live in 44. Besides, it was probably the girl's fault anyway.
He turns the page.
Charred body of woman found in Zafrabad, reads the next headline.
Don't these women have anything better to do? And where the fuck is Zafrabad anyway? Sharmajee is getting impatient. He flips through the rest of the paper, finds yet more of the same, puts it aside.
Maybe the television will be of more help.
Sure enough, there's a rerun of last night's debate on Times Now. Sharmajee sat through the whole thing live but he sits through the salient points once again. Chetan Bhagat cracks one at Asaram's expense. Arnab laughs. Sharmajee laughs. Everybody laughs.
A harried-looking activist with frazzled hair tries to talk about the AFSPA but is shouted down once again. Good call, Sharmajee thinks. If the armed forces aren't sacrosanct, well, what is?
The pit of foreboding doesn't go away, however.
Sharmajee wanders outside and runs into his next door neighbour, Vermajee.
Vermajee is in the midst of an animated conversation with his tenants.
Sharmajee tries to slink by without catching Vermajee's eye - the latter took in a couple of young men last year, ideal lodgers until they turned out to be-
Sharmajee shudders and cannot complete the thought.
Then he catches sight of all the luggage the young men seem to be hefting out and decides to stay for a bit, after all.
"What's the matter?"
"They brought back 377," Vermajee offers by way of explanation. "Don't want any more trouble."
"That ought to show those busybody NGOwallahs," Sharmajee concurs. Then, turning to the young men, "Why don't you settle down with some nice girls like everyone else? You need psychiatric help!"
The young men are wise enough not to react. A small phalanx of upstanding citizens is starting to gather downstairs, and they will have to cut straight through the crowd to reach the gate.
There is no one willing to side with them this time.
Sharmajee makes sure the luggage is all gone before he turns back to Vermajee.
"Glad that's over and done with," Sharmajee says. "I mean, if our morality is not sacrosanct, well, what is?"
Vermajee says nothing. That's another wholly acceptable way of being an upstanding citizen.
Sharmajee goes home with the pit of foreboding in his stomach considerably smaller.
All is not right with the world yet, but
Baby steps, Sharmajee thinks. Baby steps.
Maybe the newspaper will help.
The newspaper tells Sharmajee that another girl was raped in Noida last night. That's not it, Sharmajee thinks. This went down in Sector - 106. I live in 44. Besides, it was probably the girl's fault anyway.
He turns the page.
Charred body of woman found in Zafrabad, reads the next headline.
Don't these women have anything better to do? And where the fuck is Zafrabad anyway? Sharmajee is getting impatient. He flips through the rest of the paper, finds yet more of the same, puts it aside.
Maybe the television will be of more help.
Sure enough, there's a rerun of last night's debate on Times Now. Sharmajee sat through the whole thing live but he sits through the salient points once again. Chetan Bhagat cracks one at Asaram's expense. Arnab laughs. Sharmajee laughs. Everybody laughs.
A harried-looking activist with frazzled hair tries to talk about the AFSPA but is shouted down once again. Good call, Sharmajee thinks. If the armed forces aren't sacrosanct, well, what is?
The pit of foreboding doesn't go away, however.
Sharmajee wanders outside and runs into his next door neighbour, Vermajee.
Vermajee is in the midst of an animated conversation with his tenants.
Sharmajee tries to slink by without catching Vermajee's eye - the latter took in a couple of young men last year, ideal lodgers until they turned out to be-
Sharmajee shudders and cannot complete the thought.
Then he catches sight of all the luggage the young men seem to be hefting out and decides to stay for a bit, after all.
"What's the matter?"
"They brought back 377," Vermajee offers by way of explanation. "Don't want any more trouble."
"That ought to show those busybody NGOwallahs," Sharmajee concurs. Then, turning to the young men, "Why don't you settle down with some nice girls like everyone else? You need psychiatric help!"
The young men are wise enough not to react. A small phalanx of upstanding citizens is starting to gather downstairs, and they will have to cut straight through the crowd to reach the gate.
There is no one willing to side with them this time.
Sharmajee makes sure the luggage is all gone before he turns back to Vermajee.
"Glad that's over and done with," Sharmajee says. "I mean, if our morality is not sacrosanct, well, what is?"
Vermajee says nothing. That's another wholly acceptable way of being an upstanding citizen.
Sharmajee goes home with the pit of foreboding in his stomach considerably smaller.
All is not right with the world yet, but
Baby steps, Sharmajee thinks. Baby steps.
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