It is ordained in the Vedas that this war, which may last for over 18 days, will end no less decisively. Unlike Kurukshetra, this is fought in New Delhi, but the evil forces trail all the way to Ahmedabad. But I couldn’t care less, for my end is destined to come on the day when the sun (or the moon, I forget which) is supposed to align in a special way with my horoscope. The memory’s failing, but I do declare that I leave this Secret Diary for posterity and for Hindutva, which I energised with my rath yatra 23 years back. Now my enemies—new pretenders pretending to be comrades—have felled me with their astras, the deadliest of all being the development astra. Verily, the lowly curs have brought me down. Now I, Hindutva’s pitamaha, have plucked a bloody arrow from my body scarred by a hundred cuts—its tip I use to write this diary. In fact, the back-stabbing Brutuses had conspired to do the dastardly deed on the beaches of Goa, where they sought to appease the gods with secret yagnas. But the lily-livered cabal was undone by the wholesome stink of feni (unpalatable to me too, accustomed as I am only to a cold drink called doodh). However, I escaped such a fate by avoiding Goa; the modern Kauravas underestimated my wile, forgot that I built their army from just two soldiers. Where was ‘Namodhan’ and his evil cohorts back then? Today, in my late prime, the blackguards dare to deliver their unkind cuts! Is this how you treat ‘Bhishma Pitamahas’ these days?
My ‘friends’ also didn’t reckon with the fact that Bhishma is a loner. Another friend who turned, the lowly Rajdurmuga from UP, announced that the elevation of Namodhan was the happiest decision of his political life. How many decisions had such lackeys made in their careers? Did I wonder why the conspirators did not stand by me? Simple. Selfishness. Cowardice. One of the stalwarts, Durjetley, never spoke up against that cricketing crook, while Dusshasan Naidu was scared of his future in the durbar. Sushmalika was bought with the promise of the Southern Mines when Namodhan took over. I had nothing to offer, except my Hindutva sermons, stones from the Ayodhya temple site and copies of my Jinnah book. I don’t mind the bed of arrows, as being considered second best to Atalji (who reserved the bed of roses) was akin to that. Then the rise of ex-acolyte Namodhan, who seduced me with a soft bed at Gandhinagar, offering honeyed delicacies like ‘fafda chutney’ and ‘khaman dhokla’. He engaged the best jadugars to mesmerise all with his development mantras that media sepoys lapped up. In my blog I narrated an anecdote about Hitler and Mussolini queueing before the Pope, begging an entry through the pearly gates. They ended up in hell. How? Because, in an instance of dashing wartime double-cross, the Pope had a PR machinery (to lobby before the almighty) headed by someone like Namodhan. His name was Dr Goebbels. He too went to hell.
The Mumbai-based satirist is the creator of ‘Trishanku’; E-mail your secret diarist: vgangadhar70 AT gmail.com
