I have never been glued on to the television more than this. Thanks to Tata Sky, the channels are in order and I can flip through them without some sepia toned group dance or ads featuring dentists interrupting the flow. I’m now in a state of numbness having done that. I haven’t been relieved by any of my favorite shows, to divert me into newer emotions. Barkha, Arnab and Vasu are invading my dreams.
The new message I’ve gathered is ‘Enough is Enough’ and balls to resilience. I’m in agreement with that. And like any average viewer I’ve been pondering over ‘How not to take this shit anymore?’.
I’ve always thought that it would be great if we had a nice dictator, one dude we can look up to, maybe someone like ‘Akbar’ or ‘Ashoka’.
The truth is we don’t have one. Instead what we have is a complicated system of a massive flowchart that sums up the country’s civics. And a simple word to describe this incorrigible nonsense -Democracy.
And then we line up the most uneducated bumpkins to choose from. Shuffle them around in a manner where the draw of lots can pick specimens like Deve Gowda and others of similar calibre to rule a nation. Only to make sure that the stain on your index finger morphs into a scar on your fate.
“jaago re’……done…..I’m jaagofied.
Following the system seems simpler than deciphering it. I did go to the voting booths the previous time.
My question was “Having arrived here, who the fuck do I vote for?” The only info I had was the pink or yellow pamphlets with photoshopped images of the local stars in my area. A guy who had a Xerox shop that flopped. Another dude who had managed to assemble the largest crowd for the local orchestra during Ganesha. An ex-rowdy. A guy who was tired of running his pop’s milk booth. A newspaper agent, since he already has a distribution network for his pamphlets. And other powder puffed clean shaven characters.
What an idiot I am to think that I could choose the PM.
“Sorry dude! You should only be worrying about who’s going to call the road roller to fill the pot-holes in your street.” said the man at the booth.
The PM just gets decided through a complicated process that’s beyond mathematics, statistics, tarot, nostradamus or any other form of calculation or prediction.
I kept thinking “Shouldn’t it be the other way round. I choose the PM. The PM then decides who should take charge of filling pot-holes in my street. I don’t know this chap who promises to summon the road roller. I’d rather choose more famous figures who I’ve seen on National TV.”
A guy who just earned himself a transistor with batteries, shoved me aside, jammed the beeper on some symbol and walked away with lesser confusion.
I still kept looking at my sad choices. What a waste of all the Tata Tea I drank. I voted for the cricket bat, just because it looked like the modernest symbol of the lot.
Some Assamese must have rammed the beeper on some symbol of a bamboo basket. Some Bihari would have pointed guns at someone and made him vote for the white dove. Some Oriya in some drunken state must have pressed the earthen pot. These pots, bats and baskets are then aligned to some fruit. And swung in the direction of some human anatomy. Then some peculiar calculations are made. And Deve Gowda is declared the PM.
Why is everything as complex as an agency’s studio rate card?
Why do I have to choose between buffoons and buffaloes?
I don’t want my precious vote ending up in some sleep deprived fatso deciding my fate.
The civics of this country has mind-fucked me. Why don’t they make it as simple as this?
1. 1 hour is dedicated on national television to every party to put out their manifesto in simple terms. Something as simple and measurable as our school impositions “I will not talk in class. I will do my homework on time. I will not copy.’
2. There is one CEO to this party. If this party wins, he is the PM.
3. He also lists out the key members of their parties with their bio-datas.
4. The same manifesto is printed in the newspapers.
5. Read through all the manifestoes, pick your favourite one and proceed to the booth.
Any other form of campaigning should be banned.
Once the elected party comes to power, his performance will be reviewed and aired on national television on a fixed date. A fair jury of eminent people should review these results and decide if they need to continue or be sacked.
They bloody well make sure that none of their members ‘fuck up’, if they want their party to survive.
No opposition party cock or minority bull.
And then if an attack happens, we can blame ourselves or maybe bad luck.
What’s sad is that this terror will end, and make way to a more familiar one. The politicians who’ve been shooed away, will now resurface, seated on some talk show, all set to spew bullshit. They’ll refer to the copious notes they’ve been taking on every possible loophole in this operation, and begin their finger pointing game. Just when this game begins to gain some sanity, the dentist and his toothpaste who’ve been kept at bay will make their entry back again. And before you know what’s happening, the host will run out of time.
We’ll shuttle between the dozen news channels to understand the complexity of the system. And succumb mid-way, as decoding that trash is beyond the capacity of any human brain.
That’s the terror that refuses to leave.
Dinchak Disco 
