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General

It Was Fine With Me Till I Was At Fault!

May 2009

EARLY MARCH: Ambitious sprouts in many for a seat in India's most August House of 2009, and five years onwards. It was fine with me. Irrespective of caste upper. Middle, lower, colour inherited or acquired, creed by cradle or conversion, the ambitious hop-step-jumped into the arena. It was fine with me. All were pip-squeak of speakers. It was fine with me.

MID MARCH: It was an Orange alert, between a blinking bright Red and a glowing Green. All were pointers to the prohphetic Yellow Disc which arched up from East to down West. And fluctuated wildly despite the folded hands of the ambitious that thus far and no farther. It was fine with me

LATE MARCH: The ambitious probables spewed speeches which made no sense to the audience, not necessarily the listeners. Nor could I comprehend. The times were beyond the ordinary. It were General Elections in a 62 years old India-- a nuclear club accredited democracy with its economy on an upswing. It was fine with me.

EARLY APRIL: Extempore outbursts by the ambitious, intoned as tablets with commandments of the yore, on what ails India was a magical potion which I swallowed. ! I was mesmerized. I was moved. I gave a miss to expose of potholes in Indian polity needing manhole covers. It was fine with me.

MID APRIL: From the pulpit of wooden planks, positioned on metal drums with minimal laws of centre of gravity, the steps of the ambitious racketed up the steps of stray bricks. He blew hot. He blew cold. The froth spouting forth the sore throat was word count unlimited. It was fine with me.

LATE APRIL: Looking within, I wondered if most Members of the Lower House Parliament were just venerable visitors who had courted by dame destiny, favoured by the principle of first past the post. And that what is sown at an opportune time, harvests at opportune time? I was fine with it.

EARLY MAY: I made a mental note, old though! How ambition, if realized, makes one esoterically virginal. For now, the ambitious can not see me, lost amidst the lot in the media gallery. But, I can see him. He can not see me taking copious notes. But I strain my ears at him. I was fine with it.

MID MAY: To the mental note, I added footnotes. The ambitious is picking up the perfume of being the vox populi. He is pleasing. He is appeasing. He is promising the Moon. All I have, under the Sun, is a quill, indelible ink and palm leaves? His concerns are sans a thematic crux. I was fine with it.

LATE MAY: The ambitious had made promises, cribbed against opponents, shed copious tears over problems plaguing the populace. Their well rehearsed pretensions had paid off. Their practiced howling had fine-tuned the slope via which they have skied to the seat. I was fine with it.

EARLY JUNE: It was a lull into which he had been lulled. The storm was upon him. Within the the ambitious soul was a crafty shylock with a whine. He wasn't making enough money. His pay was low, His perks even lower. Parliamentary credit couldn't offset his electoral debt. And the fault was mine.

MID JUNE: He was bemused at his brainchild which had co-sires. I was befuddled by the leaking bucket. In it was an unbathed baby. Afflicted by ambition as the ambitious are, his complain was that he no longer had supportive friends with shields; nor sworn foes with sabres. And the fault was mine.

END JUNE: He felt the suicidal stab. His opinion of being an opinion-leader was a chimera. His second confirmatory auto-diagnosis was that he was on a pyre and would and could not rise as a phoenix from the ashes. He was afoot on unextinguishable embers. And the fault was mine.

EARLY JULY: The ambitious politician was too busy woo-ing the masters of ministries that he had forgotten that there was a wife back home. His family shell was in a shambles. His romance was in ruins. His wife had switched off the shared family mobile he had left behind. And the fault was mine.

MID JULY: The ambitious politician had failed. His shots had missed the ministerial bull's eye. He glowered at me. He growled at me. “You in the media rested on bums while I did not rest on my laurels. You have no nose for no-news. Can't you see how lonely I am!” And the fault was mine.

END JULY: I don't have a list of do's and don'ts for the ambitious in the hallowed portals of Parliament. I have no clues to the sesame keys which open the caves to the Union Council of Ministers. His problems were, are and would be his problems. My problems are mine. And I am at fault? My foot!

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