On November 9, the morning after Prime Minister Narendra Modi
unleashed the DeMo demon among his subjects, I, like any middle class citizen
wasted no time to lash out at the move which, I believed, wreaked of
foolishness. Rendering 85 percent of the currency in circulation was as foolish,
if not more, than any other such act piloted by the man who makes it a point
every time and all the time to proclaim that he is the “Prime Servant” of the people.
As soon as I made my thought vocal, came a retort, in the form
a question, from none other than a friend for several years. His question ran
thus: “Tell me how many sacks do you have?” Obviously, he meant how many sacks
of black money I had at home. I laughed with an embedded shock, as he went on
talking of the benefits of demonetisation, which was already taking the form of
a real demon for people like me.
I asked him: What would people who earn their daily wages do
to gulp down at least a black tea before settling down to rest that night? Pat came
the answer: Why can’t they use their debit cards to pay for their tea? My heart skipped a beat. As
soon as I recovered, I tried to control my pain, telling myself, “Oh sorry, I never
knew I was talking to a bhakt”. I should have realised that the depth of foolishness can never be
gauged when it comes from the prime servant’s servile lot.
As year 2016 rushes to let go of its earthly existence, I tend
to rewind on this episode, time and again, and again. Every time the episode
plays on the back of mind, I realise nothing is more stupid that talking to a
bhakt.
And, that is what 2016 taught me, and the gratitude for making me learn
that, goes to the man who unchained DeMo to inflict pain on you and me, making us all
stand in long winding lines in front of banks to lay our hands on the currency
notes we earned the hard way.
2016, to me, has been a year of realisation. A year that upped
the benchmark of tolerance in me. If I weren’t so tolerant, just imagine the
plight of a sanghi who advocates the use of plastic money by menial labourers
who get paid in Rs 500, Rs 750, and Rs 1000 after toiling all day under the blazing
hot sun.
Prime Minister Modi is, no doubt, an honourable man. He left
his home and family to serve the people of this vast country. The gallons of
tears that have flowed down his cheeks stand testimony to the fact that he
cares for his countrymen. His tears never stop. Whenever a new policy springs
up his hat, tears well up in his eye cavities, so as to let his people know
that he lives, and weeps for his people. When tear drops start to take shape in
his eyes, his sevaks in various parts of the country, and outside of it, huddle up
together with the Achche Din chant reverberating inside their souls. Unity
in diversity, in the most challenging of times, indeed.
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All images sourced from the web
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So, what we see now is that DeMo from NaMo has made India
unified. Look around, and you see plastic money and Internet money hollering
from all around about how they have helped the Prime Sevak realise his dream of
a cashless existence. The saffron glasses I'm forced to wear reveal around me
the good new days that have dawned. Virtual reality has taken a giant leap.
Mankind, in turn, has been very grateful to the whims and fancies of the man
who’s seen the world - well almost all of it.
As the vision fades following the dumping of the saffron-hued pair of spectacles, reality plays in full force in front of my eyes. The daily-wage labourer seldom goes to work as
his master doesn’t have the change to pay him by end of day. Shops that thrived
on the not-so-frequent sale of chai and snacks have downed shutters. The old
man who worked all his life to save money has been left spending hours in the
sun waiting for his turn at the ATM door. He collapses before his turn arrives, and yet,
DeMo is manna from Dilli for the bhakt.
As I tend to counter the Parivarwala Dost yet again, he
reminds me of the sacrifices of the soldier standing guard at the border.
Before he finishes lecturing, he bumps into a soldier on vacation standing in
queue for the money he has earned risking his life at the border. He changes track and tells me how the
reputation of Aamir Khan, a Muslim, should be made to bite the dust through a well-orchestrated beating down of his latest film. He tells me again on how
important his boss in Delhi is, and would be, for years to come. He goes on to
narrate the manner in which his Khakhi-trousered brethren have been protecting
my nation from being hijacked by the external powers swooping in from all
around. He reminds me of surgical strikes, and how they call for obeisance to the
Delhi deity from Gujarat.
And yet, I smile. I graduate later to laugh him off. I have
turned tolerant to the core. My tolerance level has reached a new high that the bhakt who spat out all these nonsense, remains a
friend. Dear 2016, I thank you with all my heart, for making me tolerate stupidity.
Even as I wait for 2017, I hear of a calendar with the
deity’s face engraved on all pages coming in to all our homes. 2017, I know
Achche Din aanewale hai. Even as I stay hopeful of seeing new multi-hued,
graphic rich currency notes, and the megalomaniac calendar, and listen to the umpteen number of man ki baats, I
wish I could stay smiling when the next bout of "mere pyaare deshvaasiyon" call reverberates all through the new year. Pardon me if I laugh out loud.
Here’s wishing you bahut achche din ahead!
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