Rewinding the entire life, during my last breaths

Hospital bed.

My lungs are throwing a fit. Geeta whispers, "Hang in there, honey. My Dad's supposed to call anytime. He needs your advice. His piles flared up again..."

I start to gasp, and look away...

"Be nice to Dad. Let him take your new designer undies, at least now?" my wife continues. "He's been asking you all these months."

"You know Dad loves you, don't you?..."

I rewind to many years ago. To one afternoon when Dad and I were alone at home, and to many such subsequent afternoons... My crotch freezes.

Geeta shakes me up. "Where are you lost? Listen, give Dad your stuff. I swear it would fit him just fine. Sis says you and Dad have the same size."

I stay quiet...
I know Dad and I have the same size...
I know how Sis knows that...

My lungs stop. I can't breathe. I am happy I am going. It's getting over, finally.

But Geeta dangles an oxygen mask. "Die another day, honey. We never tried Roleplay 81B from that book Animal Sex. Ok, quick. What would you wanna be – the tiger or the deer?"

Coming back to Kolkata

What, u haven't seen a street kid in your life, huh?

Not in the pink of health

Red line

Touch and go

Rain pane

The lady

Hair and there

The tea drinkers

Dada Boudi

Fashion police

Pay first...

The Hindu and the Muslim - Religion will follow you

Excerpts from an article by Shahina K K in the Hindustan Times on Oct 4, 2008. Parts of a write-up by Shahina on The Hoot, a media watchdog portal, were used by "The Indian Mujahideen" in its terror email relating to the Delhi serial blasts of Sept 13, 2008.

In the excerpts below, Shahina, a self-professed agnostic, describes her state of mind following this shocking discovery and what followed afterwards, and what she fears MIGHT follow...

• "...Our friends initially responded as if it is nothing but rather a minor crime of plagiarism that we need not worry about further. In fact as they explained later, they had been trying to shrug off the acerbic realization that what we call terrorism is some where very near our doorstep.
  
  "However their arrival at my place was followed by a call from Sevanti Ninan, the columnist who edits The Hoot. Even though it was not unexpected, I had felt a tremor while being informed of the enquiry by the Maharashtra Anti Terror Squad about me. They contacted Sevanti and she told me that it was impossible to hold back whatever information they wanted about me...
  
  "...but living in a metro stricken with terror, it was altogether a different ball game. Here even my name matters. The heaviness of a Muslim name could make life miserable in Delhi. No matter whether you follow religion, religion will definitely follow you.
  
  "I have been waiting for the bootsteps at my door any time. My friends say the investigators might have been monitoring my cyber activities and telephone calls. It is hard to live knowing that you are under surveillance. For the last two weeks we had been in touch with several of the authorities to clarify my position on the whole episode.
  
  "One of the top officials we met during the course of this, a gentleman who amazed us with his extremely polite manner, asked, So, you’re a Muslim?” I wanted to respond with a big NO, and to shout from the roof top that I am agnostic, kept away from the clutches of religion even from my teens.
  
  "But I couldn’t. I gave him no answer. I was skeptical about the political correctness of such an answer through out my life.
  
  "Am I doing wrong by turning my back on the millions of innocent people who follow religion, bearing the brunt of what ever have been done in the name of religion? My partner who is, by birth a Hindu had been cajoled to claim the same in front of that officer, in order to prove our secular credentials in a city where we are nothing more than names.
  
  "It was for the first time, religion intruded into our life together. We had not hesitated even fraction of a second to leave the column for religion blank in the birth registration form when our son, Anpu, was born..."

---------------
In today's highly polarised atmosphere of "they" and "us", The Hindu and the Muslim series is a conscious effort to record, and dissect, "Hindu-Muslim encounters" (including the ones done by police) and look for patterns...

The Hindu and the Muslim - Actually aunty, I am...

One evening in 2004.
One of my closest friends, a "Muslim", comes home. "Hi, hello" etc, "namaste aunty" with my mother...

My mother: Aapka naam?
My friend: (tells his name)
(Then the usual exchange to get the pronunciation right)
Mother: Aap kaha kaam karte hai?
Friend: Aunty, Ashish ke saath. Same office mei...
Mother: Kaha se? Dilli se hai aap?
Friend: Aa... Nahin.. Bhopal se... (almost in a confessional tone) Actually aunty, I am a Muslim.

---------------
In today's highly polarised atmosphere of "they" and "us", The Hindu and the Muslim series is a conscious effort to record, and dissect, "Hindu-Muslim encounters" (including the ones done by police) and look for patterns...

The Hindu and the Muslim - Koi comment hai?...

Delhi.
7.45 pm, evening before Id in India.

I (to a "Muslim" acquaintance): Kal ka kya plan hai?!
Acquaintance: Meeting friends, and then we will go out somewhere!
I: New clothes and all!
Acquaintance: Yes!! Hamare Kashmir mei to aaj hi Id mana liya gaya...
I: Woh kaise? Chaand dikhna chahiye na pehle?
Acquaintance: Pakistan mei already chaand dikh gaya na... To isssliye Kashmir mei mana liya gaya...
I: Ohhh!...
(A few seconds of silence. I am fiddling with my cellphone)
Acquaintance: To kahiye? Koi comment hai aapka iske baare mein?...
I: Comment kya hoga? Jo hai, so hai...

--------------
In today's highly polarised atmosphere of "they" and "us", The Hindu and the Muslim series is a conscious effort to record, and dissect, "Hindu-Muslim encounters" (including the ones done by police) and look for patterns...

The Hindu and the Muslim - Party hai in Nizamuddin

A barber's shop in Delhi.
10.30 pm, night before Id.

A man enters with his child for a shave. He's in a coloured baniyaan, printed shorts and hawai chappal. Fair, toned biceps, sleek cellphone... His child is fair, like him, and is saying "Papa, papa..." every now and then. The man responds with a "Haan beta, haan beta" every time.

Cellphone rings.

Man:
Haan, kahan hai tu?
Sunn... Aaj raat ko milte hai... We're going for a party. After that...
(brief lull)
Nizamuddin mei kahin... Woh Nitu ki koi friend hai uske wahan party hai...
(brief lull)
No No No! Not Muslims...

----------------
In today's highly polarised atmosphere of "they" and "us", The Hindu and the Muslim series is a conscious effort to record, and dissect, "Hindu-Muslim encounters" (including the ones done by police) and look for patterns...

Man ka laddoo

This is a demo script I had once written for the producers of Galli Galli Sim Sim, a cartoon show on TV. Through one of the show’s characters Boombah, a vegetarian lion, this script aims to encourage children to achieve anything and everything using the power of imagination. Enjoy!

Man ka laddoo

Boombah and his friends are camping outside a sweet shop, eyeing a jar of laddoos on display. Boombah wants a laddoo but he’s got no money.

BOOMBAH SINGS:
Mein hoon Boombah
Is galli ka sher
Chakhna hai mujhko
Please… please… laddoo ek!

Boombah longingly points to the laddoos.

BOOMBAH'S FRIENDS SING:
Laddoo baitha jar mei
Gud ki chaadar saath mei
Jao Boombah jaldi jao
(smacking their lips)
Ummmmm…
Chaat chaat ke laddoo khao!

Boombah maps the size of the jar with his palm and then looks at his own giant figure.

BOOMBAH SINGS:
Jar hai kittttna chota
(Gestures at himself)
Aur mei hoon kittttna mota
Ab kaun si tarkeeb lagaun
(shows the tip of his finger)
Ke ittnnaaa sa ban jaun
(eyes shut, smacking his lips)
Aur chaat chaat ke laddoo khaun!

A fly comes in, sits on Boombah's nose. He tries to crush it but misses completely and ends up hurting himself. Boombah's friends giggle… The fly enters the jar and sits on a laddoo.

BOOMBAH SINGS:
Woh dekho choti si makkhi
Pankh laga phrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Idhar udhar udti phirti
(showing the fly’s size with the tip of his finger)
Agar ho jata uske jaisa
To laddoo khata
(dances a bit)
Phir naachta!
Gaata!
Khush rehta!

Boombah breaks into a jig; friends join in. They dance until they can breathe no more.

BOOMBAH'S FRIENDS SING:
(excitedly)
Boombah tumhari nikal padi
Laye hai hum khush khabri!
Ban sakte ho tum ittttne chote
Jaise macchar, makkhi ya titli!

BOOMBAH SINGS:
Kaise kaise… batao kaise?
Kaun si tarkeeb lagaun
Ke chaat chaat ke laddoo khaun?

ONE FRIEND ANNOUNCES:
Hoshiyaar hoshiyaar
Aankhein band karo
Sab ho jao taiyaar
(Waves a twig like a magician)
Choo mantar jadoo mantar
Sach hogi har baat
Jo hai man ke andar!!

Boombah closes his eyes and enters the imaginary world.

THE OTHER TWO FRIENDS JOIN IN:
(They all sing)
Boombah baitha dukaan mei
Man mei chaha aur
Ghus gaya laddoo ki jar mei
(Boombah is seen inside the jar eating laddoos. He is very happy)
Khata laddoo
Khap khap khap khap…
Subah shaam jab chahe
Tab tab tab!

Boombah opens his eyes. He is completely thrilled by the imaginary feast of laddoos and is smacking his lips.

BOOMBAH SINGS:
(Showing his size)
Dekho mei tha kitna mota
Man mei socha
Aur ho gaya itna chota
(Like a magician)
Choo mantar jadoo mantar
Ghus gaya jar ke andar!
Kha sakta hoon laddoo khap khapa khap…
Subah shaam jab chahe
Tab tab tab!

Boombah and his friends leave the sweet shop dancing. The jar of laddoos is now empty.

Don't point fingers, it's bad manners

Jyoti Sanyal, former dean of the Asian College of Journalism (ACJ) in Bangalore, died of a cardiac arrest in April this year.

To say that Jyoti Sanyal (centre in the photo) knew the English language inside out would be an understatement. Or to snatch an idea from his Statesman stylebook Write It Right, it would be "stating the obvious".

In my nine months at ACJ, and afterwards, I never found Sanyal stuck for want of the right word – written or spoken. I used to be as much kicked about his razor-sharp intros (scribbled in red ballpoint ink on my newswriting exercises) as his manner of speaking.

During the daily swipes that he took at English language newspapers, Sanyal never wasted time or vocabulary on unnecessary civilities. Blunt was his way. He would call a spade a spade, and often a bit more!

No wonder that quite a few of my batchmates would routinely get pissed off. Here's a rewind to the ACJ classroom of 1998, to the “vocabulary” of Jyoti Sanyal.

Shitrag – First day in class, first salvo against substandard journalism. This was Sanyal's common noun for English language newspapers. Not one paper escaped the tag.

Who wrote this piece of shit? – A question Sanyal would regularly throw at us, especially during critiques of the ACJ lab journal. Unable to explain the use of that unnecessary adjective or wrong phrase, the culprit could do little but fumble.

Face first, arse later – This had nothing to do with the human anatomy. Sanyal was merely telling us how to put names and designations in copies – always, the name first and designation later.

This is Baboo English! – “Baboo English” was Sanyal’s dig at 21st century Indian English written with a 19th century colonial hangover. The commonest example he would give was the practice of putting a "subject" in official letters. My admission application to ACJ had run with the subject "Request for ACJ admission form". The teacher in Sanyal lost no time in correcting me

Handout journalists – A reference to reporters who churned out reader-unfriendly stories from government and police handouts, ignorantly picking up and adopting hackneyed expressions and clumsy sentences along the way.

25 – The maximum number of words the intro of a copy could have. A Lakshman Rekha that we dare not cross! I started my ACJ stint with 40-word intros and steadily improved… Towards the end of the course, when I sometimes managed to say it all in about 20 words, Sanyal would don his editing hat, carefully strike off a few words and say, "It's 15 words now. What do you think? Can we tighten it further?”...

Don't put the cart before the horse – News first always was Sanyal’s mantra. Especially in legal copies where reporters have the habit of prefacing important judgements with the name of the judge.

Never point out, it's bad manners – While quoting in copies, Sanyal wondered why journalists would unnecessarily make officials and ministers "point out", "mention", “stress”, “add” or "opine" when one could simply "say" things. His take was when reporters write "so and so pointed out", they actually mean "so and so said"…

"In any case, never point out,” Sanyal would say, his index finger pointing very much at you. “It's bad manners!"

The fashionable tourist

Buns 'n' Roses

Red and White

The Rajnikanth fan, and his fan...

Style bhais

A dressing down for Shivraj Patil?

Aaj ka goonda Raj

Big Bang draws a blank

Alarm bells for Deve Gowda

Gyan-di-giri meets Gandhi-giri

freeHAND by Ashish Mukherjee

Gyan-di-giri meets Gandhi-giri...

Bathing damsel, burning Dalit

In 2006, a medical student in Delhi caught India’s imagination with her intense protest against the government’s move to provide 27 per cent reservation to Other Backward Classes (OBCs) in institutes of higher education.

The girl, one among hundreds of protesting students, bravely stood up to a volley of police water cannons, shouting slogans for equality and fairness in the education system.

Her defiance was so full-bodied and full of life that media cameras wouldn’t stop clicking. She was labelled the “face” of the anti-quota agitation.

More than two years later, on April 29, 2008, a six-year-old Dalit girl Kamlesh was brought to a Mathura hospital with life-threatening burn injuries all over her body. It is alleged that an upper caste man had hurled Kamlesh into a pit of burning garbage, right in front of her mother’s eyes. He was angry that the two had dared to pass by his home. For a day or two, Kamlesh became the “face” of atrocities against Dalits.

Could the two protagonists of India’s raging caste war have known each other? Most unlikely… But if they did, what would one say or write to the other?

Dear Doctor didi,

My name is Kamlesh. I live in Tarauli village, about 50 km from Mathura.

Mathura, if you know, is famous for pedas. It has many temples, and many important trains stop here.

Didi, I am a six-year-old girl. Don’t be misled by the name, I am a girl. In my part of India, where you may never have been, boys and girls often take the same name. Kamlesh, Komal, Lakshmi for example.

It’s no big deal. In my part of India, names don’t matter. We are known only by our caste…

So I am ‘Kamlesh’ only to my parents, friends and the community. The upper caste Thakurs of Tarauli call me a Dalit. They hate me; warn me not to show up in “their areas”. By mistake, if I happen to cross their paths, they shoo me away.

“Oye Dalit ki bacchi, chal bhaag...”

My name is Kamlesh, but I insist you call me a Dalit. Believe me, this will make our relationship eternal. Upper castes and Dalits in everlasting hostility. Can anything be more natural, more permanent?

Didi, how are you? Are you still busy with the anti-reservation agitation? Why don’t you come and see me? I am in Mathura these days, at the Swarn Jayanti Samudayik Hospital.

Ma and bapu brought me here on the night of April 29 with 50 per cent burns. A Thakur had thrown me into a pit of burning garbage. He was furious that I and my mother had entered the lane leading to his home.

I burned with the garbage, crying and shouting in pain. By the time some kind villagers pulled me out, the tall flames had cooked my tiny body parts. My arms – shoulder to fingertips – chest, stomach and legs. My forehead too…

Check the photo if you don’t believe me.

The hospital doctors are doing their best to save me. They have put me on a clean bed, given medicines and dressed up my burns.

Didi, you too are studying to be a doctor, right? Then you must come here.

You can examine my wounds…
Feel my burnt flesh…
Smell the rotting skin…
Listen to my shrieks when the nurses change the bedsheets…
Watch me struggle to swallow food, and then throw it all up.

You can learn how to console a patient’s family…
Learn to give out hope when there is none…
Tell ma and bapu, “Oh, she is responding well”, even when you know just how many days I will hold on.

You can see “50 per cent burns” in real…
“50 per cent burns” beyond what medical books can teach…
“50 per cent burns” – Living, breathing, until dead…
Good practice it would be for a budding doctor.

Didi, I used to be a beautiful child. “Soooo cute, soooo sweet!”, as they say in your cities… I’m no longer a pleasant sight. My disfigured body sets ma wailing every now and then. But you can handle it. You’re brave.

You’re brave. I have seen your newspaper photos from the anti-quota protests in Delhi. You and your friends, in doctors’ robes, braving police water cannons. Drenched to the bone, every droplet on your skin screaming defiance. Every strand of your hair disheveled in protest.

Even those powerful water jets, known to blow bodies apart, couldn’t break your spirit. Yet I say you people are fortunate. When Dalits protest, the upper castes don’t drench us with water. Rather, they cut it off.

They don’t let us near the village wells; they bolt the sarkari taps and the handpumps. They tell us, “Drink moot (urine), why do you need water?”

And if that doesn’t shut us up, there’s always a butcher’s knife to hack us with, a burning pit to throw us into.

Didi, you upper caste people are fortunate.
For what’s a blazing water cannon in front of a bolted tap?
What’s a blazing water cannon in front of a butcher’s knife?
What’s a blazing water cannon in front of a burning pit?

I hear that these days there is much debate going on over this reservation thing – whether 27 per cent of the seats in IITs, IIMs and medical institutes should be kept for OBCs.

I can imagine the anger at your educational rights being taken away. Some of you are even worried that quality will be compromised. That a first-rate AIIMS or IIT will be invaded by "second-rate" OBC students. That a first-rate AIIMS will produce "second-rate" doctors.

Yes, some of these second-rate doctors will come to our second-rate Dalit villages, but we'll be happy.

For ask a Dalit father and he will say – Give me a second-rate doctor any day. Right now, we have none…

Ask a Dalit mother and she will say – Give me a second-rate doctor, because you give my children first-rate burns.

Ask a six-year-old Dalit girl and she will say – Give me a second-rate doctor, but please don't give me 50 per cent burns.

Yours truly,
Kamlesh

Stung by a Cricket

Sept 26, 2007. Mumbai airport. Security room. 8:14 am.

Jeet gaya bhai jeet gaya India jeet gaya,
Haar gaya bhai haar gaya Pakistan haar gaya…

“Louder, you jerks!”

The men in khaki clear their throats and go all out against the Neighbour once again: Jeet gaya bhai jeet gaya India jeet gaya; Haar gaya bhai haar gaya Pakistan haar gaya…

“Louder, louder, like a true Indian,” says their Leader, his eyes trained on someone at the back of the group.
(A couple of heads have turned too. The gaze is fixed on Salim. But I swear it's just a coincidence.)

Galli galli mei shor hai, Har Pakistani chor hai...

The chanting reaches a crescendo. Salim too sings, and loudly! Just then, the Men in Blue touch down on the tarmac, Twenty20 World Cup in hand. It’s an Air India flight but there are no bird hits, tyre bursts, technical snags or rodent alarms. The next second, all TV channels are on the cricket story, like always flashing BREAKING NEWS at one go…

Suddenly, everything seems to be falling in place.
Suddenly, the "one nation" dream seems to be taking shape.
Suddenly, India’s future seems picture perfect…

Mumbai, 9:30 am.

The 30-odd kilometres from the airport to Wankhede cricket stadium is still damp in parts with last night's beer. Thousands had been trooping in here for the past two evenings to celebrate India's victory in the first T20 World championships. The team had mastered the "chauka-chakka-clean bowled-chauka-chakka-clean bowled" version of the gentleman's game.

In the finals at Johannesburg, five runs from a certain defeat, Sreesanth hung onto a sitter from Misbah-ul-haq to walk into the hall of fame. "Those Pakistanis" went home defeated, and commentator Ravi Shastri and Bharat desh went hysterical.

We were world champions again, I was told…

In a sense, Sreesanth was expected to shine. The dude always has something special stored up for Johannesburg. In January, playing there against the South Africans, Sree was shown a million times on TV. He was frog-jumping down the pitch towards pacer Andre Nel, wielding his bat and mouthing some war cry. Like a character from Ram's vaanar sena…

Sree – a blast from our mythological past...

Sree – never short of that EXTRA energy (6-WB-4-WB-WB-6-WB-4-WB-WB-6-WB-WB-4)…

And now we were back in Johannesburg, and we were world champions again…

Soon after India won the cup, a few fans at Marine Drive got a bit drunk and smashed beer bottles on parked cars. Fingers immediately pointed towards the “foreign hand”… The ISI escaped blame only because the crime didn’t quite measure up to its demonic image.

Whodunit. Could it be "those North Indians", someone asked, and Mumbaikars willingly agreed. Enemy no. 2 if not 1…

In Bandra, a girl was groped during the all-night fan frenzy. (This largely went unreported in the newspapers as most crime reporters had been temporarily moved to the cricket beat. Every possible angle of the T20 win had to be covered, and news editors were taking no chances.)

Sept 26, Mumbai.
10 am. (C)rush hour…

Pregnant commuter trains. Bloated BEST buses at acute angle 60 degrees. Packed subways, breathless bodies inside. Mumbai is marching towards Wankhede stadium to welcome the T20 champions.

Nostrils pitched against armpits. Crotch against arse. Parachute oil against Keo-Karpin. Reebok sneakers against Relaxo hawai. It's a long and arduous journey. But Mumbai is marching towards Wankhede stadium…

The classrooms are empty, so are the railway ticket counters. No dhakka-mukki at the stock exchange! Padlocks at Sulabh shauchalayas. Everybody is marching towards Wankhede stadium...

From every galli and nukkad, men, women and children are spilling out, like red ants on a sugar trail. A million footfalls per square centimetre. Like that epic scene in 2004 outside Delhi's 24, Akbar Road where a "supreme sacrifice" was made with "such amazing grace".

Mumbai, 12.30 pm.

Feacal expressions on some fans’ feeble faces. Pungent air in the crowd, letting out dinner secrets (curd rice, paav bhaji, butter chicken, prawn koliwada, khichdi). Pungent air… like H2SO4 in school chemistry labs…

Feacal expressions on some fans’ feeble faces… Thankfully, they find a blind alley by the roadside and make a dash. The early birds grab positions behind neat mounds of garbage, where they can answer their true calling in private. The rest park their bums by the open drain or under streetlights.

On the main road towards Wankhede, Team India rolls in… Dhoni's boys, in official blue jerseys, are perched atop an open-top double-decker. It's a BEST bus, the trademark red skin peeled off overnight.

From its shining body now emanates the fresh smell of sparkling blue paint (and Lead, bit by bit).

Lead – atomic number 82, Latin name Plumbum, symbol Pb…
Lead – that Chinese toys, lipsticks and sparkling blue paints are made of…

Lead – the velvet-footed killer, oozing off the blue BEST bus into the air and dust, tiptoeing into wildly dancing, gesticulating bodies where it might one day shut down the brain or the kidneys, or both…

The skies open up. It begins to rain…

Rain + Lead + Pungent Air = H20 + Pb + H2SO4 = The new chemistry of cricket.

2 pm. The action shifts to Wankhede stadium.

Wankhede – a goldmine of cricketing history, the home of Sachin Tendulkar…
Wankhede – often the playground of Shiv Sena one night before India-Pakistan matches…

Dhoni and his boys get down from the bus, do a victory lap and go up to the dais. The netas are occupying the front seats, so the players quietly settle in the back rows. (It's a BCCI felicitation ceremony.)

Officialdom takes over… Long speeches (with even longer pauses), garlands (marigold only), Bharat Mata ki Jai (and some Jai Maharashtra too), a darshan of the players (handshakes, bear hugs like brothers long separated), photo-ops…

Big cash awards are announced. A crore and a car for one player. A couple of lakhs each for the others…

Each cricketer is then interviewed by each and every TV channel. The journalists have an important question – what was the team’s gameplan against world champ Aussies.

"Ummm… Well, the boys decided to just go out there and enjoy their game…"
"Oh, we just thought we should forget everything (about the Aussies) and give our best…"
"It was time to play aggressive cricket (and pay back the Aussies)…”

The Aussies, who are in India for an ODI series, respond a few days later on the field.

Sept 29, Bangalore. First ODI.
Commentator: "Here comes (Mitchell) Johnson charging in at Tendulkar… Strikes him on the pads!... A loud appeal! He’s been given out! Sachin’s gone for a duck!!!..."

The rain gods save India.

Oct 2, Kochi. Second ODI.
Sreesanth plays the jumping Jack… Australia win by 84 runs.

Oct 5, Vishakapatnam. Third ODI
Sreesanth puts in some EXTRA energy. Australia win by 47 runs.

Rewind to Wankhede, whispers on the dais… A BCCI babu informs that some “jealous” Indian hockey players are upset with the felicitation of the cricketers.

Word spreads fast. We are told some hockey stars from the Asia Cup-winning team are going on fast. Their coach is on national television, ranting against the neglect of hockey and demanding some dough for his boys.

National sport! Factional sport!... The media is sensing an opportunity.

"Get me Shah Rukh, get me Shah Rukh,” screams the news editor at a TV channel far away in Delhi. "Shah Rukh’s film revived hockey in India. He may have something to say."

Shah Rukh's phone rings… The secretary answers: "Oh sorry, Shah Rukh saab can't talk hockey. At the moment, he intends to promote world peace. Om Shanti Om.” The line disconnects.

Time's running out. The desperate news editor decides to try the "Chak De girls"… That firebrand rainbow hockey team in that Shah Rukh-blockbuster.

Phones ring. The line gets through to two Chak De girls. Their newly appointed secretaries inform that both the stars are busy with inaugurations. One is cutting the ribbon for a new bathroom at a sports club in Nerul, the other is launching a vada paav stall in Chowpatty.

The rest of the Chak De gang isn't taking calls… The news editor can’t figure out why. He picks his cellphone and tries again…

Behind him, on the wall, the muted TV screen of a rival channel starts flashing BREAKING NEWS: "Chak De girls sign up for a billion-dollar Hollywood film on women's cricket."

The newsroom falls silent. My morning alarm goes off.

I realise it was just a dream. Disappointed, I pull myself out of bed and pick up the newspaper.

Bhajji slaps Sreesanth at IPL match, the headline reads.