Sans Malice…                          Gurugram: Newspapers are my favourite bed-time reading. I saw the news wherein the Speaker of the Lok  Sabha had been accused of tax evasion. ‘How disgusting’, I thought, ‘even the Speaker?’

Before I drifted off to sleep, my last mumbled sentence was, ‘I do not think there is anyone honest in politics’.

“Attention all above 18 years”, the public announcement blared, “Please assemble at Truth Square at 10 O’clock on Sunday morning. The computer will select the most honest person for the post of the Prime Minister”.

A giant computer screen overhead almost hid the sun. My wife and I stood close within a half square metre.

“In a while the computer will point a pencil beam on the chosen person. In the meantime, certain statistics”, the announcer said time-fillingly.

“_Assembled here are 64,37,76,904 persons. They cover 16.2396 km by 10.4863 km, all standing… males outnumber females by 5,48,97,352… age-wise distribution is… _”

I recognised the person pressing against me from the left. He was a feisty battler for probity. I had always admired his crusade for honesty in public life. Space scarcity did not allow hand shaking; we exchanged smiles.

Suddenly, I was blinded by a powerful beam of light. I could feel the reformer trying to push me and come under the light, but it was too late. My name was already flashed on the screen.

Loud cries of ‘Congrats’ went up as I was lifted and swept away by the human ocean. I could see my wife’s anxious face small away into the distance. I heard my shirt buttons snap as raised arms carried me towards the stage in the centre.

I wondered how I fooled the computer. All the incidents of my dishonesty in the past came in flash back…

At 10,  I was already a keen horse rider. In winter our horse was fierce and frisky. Only my eldest brother could control him. One morning I wore my brother’s breeches and cap and mounted the steed on the assumption that the animal would mistake me for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. In less than three minutes I found myself lying in a manure pit, as the animal galloped away, gleefully bucking the air. My attempt at cheating was unmistakable; animals are not as dolt as humans…

At 13,  I was a class VIII student. One day I got late on return from the neighbouring village school because of sports and had to cycle back on the 4 km dusty spoor in dark through dacoit-infested area.
My body was awash with goose pimples. I thickened my voice and conversed with an imaginary companion telling him of my World War experience on the French front. ‘We’ even loudly kept passing a pistol from one to the other. I was certainly not being forthright with the dacoits…

As a young Captain I had hurt my right wrist in bayonet fighting practice. The hand would begin to tremble uncontrollably without provocation. One evening, I was scootering for a dinner date with my companion on the pillion. “Let me see your injured hand”, she cooed into my ear as I halted on a light signal. Cheatingly, I gave her the wrong hand. But, it too started trembling on being held by her…

I was already on the stage with my shirt buttonless and one shoe missing. The computer rained synthetic petals from top as security men cordoned me off from the slogan-shouters. Before I could tell anyone about my record of deceits, I was already installed as the Prime Minister.

As a first act I had to part with my pet dog Caesar. (‘No foreign connections’, my advisors told me firmly). Annoyed, my two children left me along with the dog to stay with their grandmother. After a few days my wife too shifted out as she found the house too suffocating with all that security. She was sweet enough to promise that she would stay in touch.

I was left alone in my official residence, with seven telephones and my ubiquitous security officer Inspector Viall. All my calls were monitored.

My mornings started with a half-hour yoga session on how to keep smiling without being pleased. This was followed by training lessons on subjects like ‘the art of verbal circumvention’, ‘speaking without saying’, ‘double-meaning talk’, ‘knack of back tracking’, ‘technique of hearing without listening’ etc.

The man I hated most was V.Jill. He never let his eyes off me. Even when I had a bath I feared he might be furtively peeping through the key hole.

One day, lawn-walking (the only place I was allowed to walk) I decided to lean against the boundary wall and flex my spine. “Excuse me Mr Prime Minister”, V.Jill said as I was about to put my hands on the wall, “In between, there are metal bricks that are electrified”.

Whenever I switched on the TV, the giant wall-sized screen showed only me. I was bored. I demanded to be taken for a movie. Taken there I was, but I was the only one in the hall with three gunmen guarding the doors and V.Jill holding the projectionist at pistol point.

I was permitted to call the children but I found they were not keen to talk to someone who had abandoned their dog. My wife came to meet me a few times but stopped as she found frisking at the gate humiliating.

One day I told V.Jill I was lonely and was in want of company. “Yes Mr Prime Minister”, he said dutifully, “which breed of dogs you like the most?” If it wasn’t for the fact that he was always armed and I wasn’t, I would have wrung his neck. Under the circumstances, I merely turned away and inaudibly muttered, “any breed other than yours”.

Every word I had to utter was written down for me. Pauses for handkerchiefing and coughing, were also scripted. I was not even allowed to coin my own abuses for the Opposition.

Once during a public speech I saw some familiar faces on the left side among the audience. Joyed up, I kept looking at them often. Later, I was severely admonished. “Your left-of-centre look might annoy the Americans”.

One Sunday morning, I noticed a lot of commotion at the gate. I came out and saw my mother being denied entry. On that occasion I put my foot down and demanded that she be let in immediately.

She walked towards me slowly, looking back and mumbling curses. I felt sorry for her. My heart wanted to rise to my throat but the bullet-proof vest prevented any such emotional exertion.

We sat in the lawn surrounded by gun-totting men. “I hope you are alright”, she asked, with genuine concern.

“Well, yes and no”, my political training made me say automatically.

She raised her arm to pat my cheek. Two guards rushed in with their carbines at the ready. She understood and lowered her hand.

“Look”, she said, ”I have brought some ‘kheer’ for you”. Oh, how I loved ‘kheer’ and who else would know it but my own mother. My mouth was already watering as she took out the tiffin. I hungrily snatched it from her.

“Excuse me Mr Prime Minister”, V.Jill said, as the first spoonful was on its way up. “You can’t be eating untested food”. The hurt on my mother’s face was only too obvious.

I couldn’t take it any more. I got up furious. I thought of throwing the tiffin on V.Jill’s face. But I did not consider it worthy of the honour of being spattered with my mother’s ‘kheer’. In frustration I kicked the chair furiously.

The water jug at the foot side table crashed and I woke up with a start. Despite the sub-zero temp.  at 14,000 feet, I was all perspiration.

But happy that it was only a dream (1989)……                                                            …….Lt. Gen. (R) Raj Kadyan 

*pics credit-Google,  prokerala.com, isha.sadhguru.com