Anna Kournikova

guess ex-tennis stars also dream. Like the other day, me and Enrique (Iglesias, my booty boy) checked into the Sherry-Netherland hotel on New York’s Fifth Avenue and after a few martinis he began to talk about a Gandhian who had gone on a fast to push for an anti-corruption bill in India. “You know the strange thing,” En observed, “is he has the same first name as you—Anna!” Well, I thought that was rather cute and surfed the net to know more about this other Anna. What I read was amazing. Amazing enough to skip dinner and call it a day. And as I drifted into sleep, I had this dream which I would like to share with the world. So here goes:

It was a mundane Monday morning and I found myself on a bench in Central Park surrounded by a huge crowd—the usual motley crew of New Yorkers of foreign origin. “Anha! Anha!” they chanted, waking me up from my slumber, “bring back our pal Bill. Bring Bill back!” I was a bit fuzzy so I asked the most vocal guy (an Indian grad from IIT Bombay who now sells horse chestnuts in downtown Manhattan ) “I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” I said, “who or what is this Bill?” He took his time but finally enlightened me: “Madam Anha, we want Obama out. We want Bill Clinton back.” I couldn’t quite digest it since I knew Clinton had already completed two terms and was no longer eligible for another stint. But the crowd was adamant: “Anha, we’re all fans of Fleetwood Mac. Which is why we want Bill.” With that everyone broke into Don’t Stop (Fleetwood’s song used during the Clinton presidential campaign).

Anyway, the crowd was by now getting restless. “Anha, please promise to fast for us,” they screamed. I assured them I would skip breakfast. “Anha,” they pleaded again, “serve the nation.” I obliged by standing on the bench and serving two aces—one hit an old man who had come all the way from Oklahoma and the other a child from Cincinnati. Then someone cropped up and gave me a Gandhi cap with the telephone number (212-9219469) of the local Ms Donald’s outlet embossed on it. After I donned the cap, I sat down to fulfil my promise of not eating breakfast. This triggered off another bout of sloganeering. “We want Bill! We want Bill!” they said as Bob Dylan mysteriously emerged from the multitudes and sang The Times they’re a-Changin. And Art Garfunkel rendered a stirring version of Bridge over Troubled Waters. Incidentally, a rather disgruntled Paul Simon sang his 1980 hit, One Trick Pony, even as the crowd jeered since they thought the song was being caustic about the bring back Bill movement.

This was when I woke up. I was not in Central Park but in the hotel suite. And Enrique was snoring (on D minor as usual). But I was too excited and woke him up. “Anna,” he said groggily, “let me sleep.” I surely was cut up with his attitude. “Don’t ever call me Anna. It’s Anha,” I said. But he was already snoring again....

(As imagined by Ajith Pillai)