Ms. Draupadi Mokrashi and the price one pays

Polls over, report mailed, tickets confirmed. Some time tomorrow evening there should be a teeny pair of arms round my neck, accompanied by the truest possible outpouring of love - “Papa, did you get me some sweeties?”. At which point arms-round-neck stage will cease and investigation-of-pockets will start. Ah well. She might as well be a teenager already for all the conversation she has for me. Except when she’s been punished in school. THEN she importunes me on the phone (in between loud offended howls), “Papa, you come home right NOW!”

So tomorrow morning I have to get in a car at 6 to go catch a train at 7:30. Then find somebody in Delhi to have lunch with before I take a 3:30 flight back home. The whole bleeding day. If anybody needs venture capital for a teleportation project, I’m on. With an idea, even. If some molecules get lost in the process, it could double as a slimming cure. What if those molecules were from the brain, you ask? Considering my 98% theory (what, you don’t know that 98% of the world’s population just don’t USE their brains?), it wouldn’t make any difference to most of the users. Bound to be a winner. Any takers?

The point being, now that the polls are over and I’ve Done My Bit, this place, this room, the entire set-up seems to bite me in the ass. I want Out. I want Back. Home. In MY armchair with my feet up on the table, putting aside my laptop to accommodate a small projectile that makes loud demands to be cuddled. WITHOUT the bloody 3-stage travel schedule. Gah.

Meantime, a few photographs of the home-coming of Smt. Draupadi Mokrashi (from Shashi Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel ... D-mocracy, capische? One wonders how Mr. Tharoor himself will fare)

This man carried his grandmother to the polling booth. Touching. Inspiring. Intimidating.

Colours of democracy. I loved the sight of children playing on the lawns while their parents waited in line to vote.

Polling parties depositing EVMs and materials at night. About 2000 people in a gymnasium / stadium. Situation normal, utterly chaotic.

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Meantime, Amit Varma and GreatBong, who obviously read the news with unwavering attention, link to a story about our Mallu with the Mostest. I’ve always said that the fakeiplplayer’s biggest strength is the nicknames, and this story vindicates the one he’s made up for Sreesanth. Though I wish he hadn’t used “Boy George” for my friend JB. The height matches, but JB’s mane of white hair is bad enough without the mental picture of mascara, lipstick and that net veil thingy. Major mental kazoomba.