It’s been about a year since my friend and I have been scouting through the internet and also our minds (yes we still do use them, at times) for a brilliant business plan – our very own success story that will take us to HNW (High Net Worth) status, magazine covers, page 3 parties. We, the scavengers of glitterati, have been so busy unearthing that elusive ‘b-plan’, that we have overlooked some of the most obvious.

It was at such a time when the world was hit by a slew of unforeseen and unprecedented revelations – Wikileaks leaking a quarter million “confidential” documents from the world over, the Open magazine exposing the now famous Radia-tapes. Just when we were still reeling under other Kalmadisque scale scams worth thousands of crores, in comes A Raja with rip-offs worth many more thousands of crores of Rupees!

Now my dear friend, if we do need a b-plan why don’t we think out of the (legal) box? The world of scams has never been better – we can firstly make a lot of money, people like Radia, Asange and Barkha Dutt will ensure our names are more household stuff than Surf or Nirma and people like Vir Sanghvi will capture our thoughts and etch them out for eternity in boring weekly columns. So here are a few ideas:

Step 1. Become an activist. Making noise requires very little skill. I could book us a ride into the Naxal underbelly or Kashmir for better staging. This will bring us into public view. If the situation gets desperate, we could throw in our weight behind such armed nincompoops, call them “freedom-fighters” – that will get us into at least one police station and at least a dozen national newspapers.

Step 2. Quit activism to start an internet-based business. But since we eschew hard labor as much as Jaya Bachhan avoids the parliament, here’s a simple idea. Let’s start a social network (no I got this idea before I saw the movie) call Farcebook (Mark, I know the resemblance is uncanny but you don’t hold the rights to the word “face”, really!).

Step 3. Position Farcebook as the official scamster network. “Farcebook helps you connect and share with other scamsters of the world. Swindle, snitch, steal, sin – all within our secure pages.” I can already see what a huge success story it’s going to be. Doyens of the hoodwinking industry will rival to connect with each other, increase their con-friends list, update the status of the latest CBI / ED probe against them. I can already see A. Raja’s wall “I hate Mondays – busy at an IT raid at one of my sixteen illegally built mansions in Chennai.”

Step 4. Commercialize. I do not want to wait for five years (like Suckerberg) to turn “cash flow positive”. Let the ads in asap. After all we will be dealing with some of the most cash-rich individuals of the country. Costly liquors, cigars, yachts, golfing resorts and Swiss banks are all welcome. Advertize with us and find access to some of India’s finest crooks and richest people.

Step 5. Blow the whistle. If at any point a powerful man tries to pressurize us, Governments try to threaten legal action, or if two Swedish women allege we raped them, we always have the option of whistleblowing and exposing to the public the dirty linen inboxes available at our disposal.

Step 6. Nirvana. Be the good guy, write a weekly column, go fishing. Scotch on the rocks.

So, now, would you still say you have a better idea?

The Kingly State

Rajasthan is a wondrous place, and also quite a myth buster. I recently spent a week in the crowning glory of Indian tourism (Kerala, please don’t mind) and what a week it was. Let me state this outright – in spite of what you might think, Rajashtan is not all sand. I went to the three cities that are supposed to be the vertices of a triangular desert region – Jaisalmer, Jodhpur and Udaipur. But heck, I have seen more sand in Gurgaon at DLF work sites. Jodhpur and Udaipur were greener than many a city I have been to, whereas Jaisalmer was more stony than sandy.

But the Mukherjee clan was not to be outdone. We had booked a trip to the sand dunes that also included a camel ride. Exotic, ha? Well, not so much. For where the poor camels met us, there was more grass than sand and even yellow pumpkins growing all over the place. The camel ride was a fifteen minute pelvic grind, or as my brother put more sordidly – a test for the testicles. And God never holds back a joke when you are in pain. Even as we suffered through the grassy desert, wondering how our backbones would give in anytime, a family of rotund tourists overtook us on a camel cart. All of them sat peacefully on a plane, cushioned surface, smiling cynically and sharing a snack even as their camel trudged on. The youngest in the family, a tiny round tot, went click, click with his camera, zooming in to take pictures of our pain-ridden expressions. Ironically the only thing I could find to throw at him was my camera. Too precious to be wasted, I told myself!

Now the promised sand dunes to which the camels took us was as much a desert as Rakhi Sawant is an actress. I can setup such a desert bang in the middle of a Chattisgarh forest. Just give me half a day and about twenty trucks and the naxals will have a desert of their own.

The other two important things to see in every city of Rajasthan are the palaces and the local song-and-dance. The palaces are grand and magnificent. They come with a bag full of interesting stories that one must definitely seek out. However, these stories might not necessarily pan out with what actually happened. In many cases the local guide will sing paeans of the bravery of their Maharajajis but history books might talk about how they acceded to Mughal or British rule. When convenient fiction is at hand, why bother yourself with reality?

Almost all key Rajasthan palaces are now boutique hotels, run by some of the world’s most select groups. So if you think you can see the entire palace for the rather sizable ticket cost, think again. You can definitely stroll in the garden, burn your soles on the hot marble porch, see the courtyard, walk through a photo exhibition of the palace. What’s beyond that wall, you ask? It’s the main palace which is now a BleepBleep hotel that charges two thousand rupees for you to enter just the coffee shop. No wonder only those who make a fortune out of the insanity of the masses can see the real insides of these Rajasthan palaces, and probably some TLC correspondents. The kings of yore have to make a living after all!

Absent sands and profiteering princes notwithstanding, the songs and dances of Rajasthan presented themselves to us in unparalleled variety and splendor. Almost every district, if not village, seems to have its own set of traditions and styles of song and dance. From the lady who danced while balancing nine pots on her head, to the one that picked up a needle with her eyelid, dances are extremely exotic, skill-based and once again steeped with stories, history, religion and culture. Much of the charm that is Rajasthan stems from these lovely songs and dances and the humility and grace of the performers.

My last station at Rajasthan was the Shikarbari of Udaipur – the hunting lodge of the kings and princes of the erstwhile princely state, now turned into a select resort. Situated right next to a small lake at the foothills of lush green hills, I was wondering why anyone would feel the need for a kill in a place so tranquil. At about four in the evening a uniformed guard let loose a bag of dried corn in one corner of the resort. The place and time are obviously well rehearsed because a large group of deer and monkeys start gathering around there from three thirty – like the town hall of the jungle. When the food was distributed all of them chomped away to glory. Some “cute” deer even ate out of the tourists’ hands while the monkeys kept a sly, watchful distance.

And then as the corn was getting over and we were making a getaway to an evening of more promise, one monkey tried to make away with a tourist’s purse. Were it not for the timely intervention of my brave mother who drove the monkey away with one swoosh of her own rather heavy purse, there would have been one richer and better accessorized animal in the woods. Not the right thing to happen in an egalitarian society I would say. Bravo mama mia! I also finally made my peace with the need to hunt. Who needs pickpocketing monkeys in a corn-rich forest?

The trip to Rajasthan is full of stories – a must-visit for budding authors and them that love stories. It is full of color, music, history and grand structures. With its friendly people (mostly), orientation towards tourism and natural endowments, it makes for a perfect candidate to sit pretty on the crest of the Indian tourism industry. What Rajasthan needs to watch for is its self-assurance and compliance – the only thing that can get in the way of its development as one of the world’s best tourist experiences. For those who haven’t yet explored this fine country – please pack your bags and land up in the country where almost everyone seems to say – padharo maro desh (welcome to my country).

Where was I born, oh mother?

Which house did you bring me to?

What roof lay over my cradle

And formed my first real view?

Why did we move place to place

With bag and baggage duly tied -

Wanderers in the modern world

With a constant home denied?

Where was the red-floor room where

The ants were very tough to spot?

Where did the thick ivy grow

In which the poor sparrow was caught?

Where all did I study and work?

Who were all my brothers there?

How many more houses will I own?

Are my travels born of despair?

..

No matter where and how much

I, the mad nomad, must roam,

Deep within myself I must

Nurture a place called home.

So be gone all you questions

From the alleys of my mind;

I have my final quest to begin

I have a home to find.

Published by The Banyan Trees

Even as you enter Juladih, you feel a Scorsese-styled fear and excitement. The ride through the jungles is rather bumpy. I do not know whether to attribute it to the mud path that leads to Juladih or the rickety old jeep in which I had travelled in the monsoon of 1999.

Now there could be only two reasons for a well-educated, Circuit-House bred boy to travel to a godforsaken place like Juladih – that he was totally out of his mind or that he was inquisitive. Fortunately the border between those explanations was so flimsy that I made frequent incursions on both sides and sometimes squatted right between them. So here I was on a wet morning on the bonerattle to Juladih. Mahesh, my driver had relatives there and it was for a marriage in this said family that we were headed.

What drew me to this particular wedding in the midst of allegedly Naxalite controlled woods was a promise from Mahesh – that I would see something I had never seen before or would after. No amount of coaxing would make him tell me what it was. He did not have faith in my metropolitan-seated, reality-beaten brains. And kudos to him for that!

Juladih was far less a village and much more an ensemble of twenty odd mud huts around a meager temple. Around this temple stood a gaudily adorned structure made from bamboo and cloth, where the main wedding rites would be performed. Large speakers drummed out latest Hindi film songs as a few semi naked children danced in joy. I was offered a chair, a specially “cleaned” plate, a bottle of “Swastika” water and felt like a buffoon for most part of the day. The wedding began about 7pm in the evening. I was looking forward to some relief from the attention – jeans clad men didn’t come to Juladih very often as I was made to understand. But now I was hoping they didn’t see marriages that often either. As the marriage progressed, I did not quite feel the respite I expected. People would still rush to me with sweetmeats, gush over me with bottles of water, turn the fan towards me. I can bet my eyes I saw the bride and groom glare at me from their position around the sacrificial fire.

Finally when the ceremonial seven circumambulations around the fire were about to start, Mahesh made an appearance. He had been elusive all day. I did not complain too much about his absence – didn’t want to seem like hapless Wooster without his man friday. But now here he came, wearing a sparkling clean pink shirt and a broad grin on his face. And he had in his hands a shield. I cannot say I wasn’t scared. I felt worried – what if I was at the epicenter of some human sacrifice scandal?

He knelt down next to me, handed me the heavy, heavy shield and whispered: “this is the part I was talking to you about. When the seven circumambulations are done, the priest will shout – there come the British spies, God save us. Well, sir that’s your cue. You have to lunge at the couple with this shield. The rest will be managed.”

“What?! But what if..”

“Do not worry sir. It is just another ritual. No one will get hurt. I will tell you the story later. It is fascinating! Wish you the best sir – look out for the priest’s exclamation!” And before I could utter even a conjunction, he had gone away faster than he had come.

I turned towards the couple circling their way around the fire. I had lost count. Were they on with the seventh? I looked at the priest with frightened anticipation. I looked for men with swords, guns, kitchen knives, anything. And then the priest, with seemingly rehearsed animation went –

“Look out! Here come the British spies, God save us!”

By now everyone had turned towards me. I felt like a naked Brutus on stage with Julius the priest shouting “Et tu Brutus” repeatedly at me. Finally a nudge from behind broke the spell – “run Sir!”

And I ran, lunging at the groom with my shield – the bride seemed too dainty to lunge at. And out came a sword from nowhere. I could barely get the shield up to my waist, leaving ample time and space for him to do away with my neck in one smooth swish. He just smiled and gave a slight twang to the limping shield with his well-oiled sword. And then he looked at his bride with the exalted pride of having belittled the city machismo and said:

“Come, my love. I have made you seven promises while we circled the fire seven times. Now we circle once more.”

And as he led her aggressively on the last, eighth circle, he said –

“I promise to protect thee from the foul foreigners,” sparing a special mean look at me as he uttered the last word.

Later that night over a bonfire and the most disgusting local wine I have ever tasted, Anil Munda, the oldest living member of Juladih and a not so distant uncle of Mahesh explained to me –

“We like to call ourselves the Ashtapadis. Nowhere else in the whole world will you see this that you saw today. Almost a hundred years back, when Birsa Munda, our tribal hero was leading a revolt against British occupation, Juladih was celebrating the marriage of one of its finest young men, Sunga. As Sunga and his bride were about to finish their seventh circle around the fire, many policemen streamed out of the bushes. Sunga would not let his marriage get disrupted. So he drew his sword, ordered the priest to go on and slew any British policeman that came his way. In all this confusion, he didn’t hear the priest’s call and finished eight instead of the seven circles prescribed by the Vedas.

As he stood over a heap of dead policemen, the priest admonished – “In all the hurry we have made an extra circle. The Gods might want you to track one back!” Sunga stood quivering with passion and looking at none but his wife said – “Priest, add one to your Vedas. The eighth pledge is one I make to my wife – I promise to protect thee from these foul foreigners”.

After that night, every marriage at Juladih has eight, not seven, circumambulations of the fire. That is why we are the Ashtapadis whereas the rest of the world is still Saptapadi. We believe that the scriptures that guide us must be subject to change over time.”

That night, as we drove back home through the dark woods that surround Juladih, I thought of the evening and I remembered the way the groom had looked at me as he made his last pledge to his bride. I wondered if the Ashtapadis of Juladih also progressively altered the meaning of the word “foreigner” as much as they chose to alter the Vedic practices. I wondered how the cold blade of the sword might have felt like.

I must first apologize for the break in updating ST. What can I say – IPL 3.0 was on. I was busy during the day reading all the news (while pretending to work) and the evenings were meant for watching the matches.

In the meanwhile, a lot has happened off the pitch in this IPL3. I managed to bribe a “thulla” in the Crime Branch and get the transcript of the call that made it all happen. And here it is:

Shashi Tharoor (ST): Hello Lalit, this is Shashi Tharoor.

Lalit Modi (LM): Wassa’ bro – you got me mah crack niggah?

ST: I’m sorry I think you have me mistaken – this is Shashi Tharoor.

LM: Oh so sorry Shashi, I thought it was an old friend who brought me my supplies.

ST: That’s okay – can happen to anyone. Now listen, I’m calling you from my meeting with Rendezvous Sports. We are all set with our bid for the IPL Kochi team.

LM: That’s a funny sound – what’s Kochi? Is it another word from your enormous vocabulary that I am unable to comprehend?

ST: I am talking about Kerala’s team in IPL. We have a bid ready.

LM: Oh! I thought only Ahmedabad and Pune were meant to win. That is why I asked the consortiums there to include my family members as “angel” investors. Angels hehe – like those winged thingies people say exist, but no one knows the truth.

ST: Yeah well we have put together a group of investors as well. Tu toda humara candidature ko “push kar”.

LM: Arey, that reminds me – how is Sunanda’s new nose doing?

ST: Cough! Lalit, we will discuss personal things when we meet in person. We just faxed you our documents – can you confirm you received them?

LM: Oh yeah – just came through. Now why on earth would Kerala want a team – the only player I know from there is that Sreesanth. And I have to pay Priety Zinta a lot of money to keep him on the Punjab team – helps raise our viewership by leaps and bounds that guy!

ST: Well, we wish to build a team of diverse people so finding our playing eleven shouldn’t be a problem.

LM: I see. Even your list of investors is pretty diverse I must say! Can I publish this? I always wanted to publish like you and here’s my chance. Please say yes!

ST: Well don’t all the teams’ agreements have a non-disclosure clause? We also put one in. So we’d rather that you don’t.

LM: Oops, you forgot to mention that I can’t tweet about it. Give me a minute – just logging in.

ST:  Lalit, that would be very inappropriate and unprofessional.

LM: Well, not my first time. You can save the whole situation if you throw your weight behind Gujarat and make the consortium sponsor the Ahmedabad team.

ST: But I am from Kerala! And that’s why I have been rallying for the Kochi team.

LM: Well I am from Jamaica but I head the Indian Premier League! Expand your horizons!

ST: Have you been smoking anything lately?

LM: Nothing deadly. Why?

ST (turning to his secretary): Jacob, this guy is high and on twitter. We are done for.

LM: Shashi, you there?

ST: Yes Lalit – please don’t tweet about the sponsors. At least get it whetted by BCCI as well. It’s dangerous these tweets – ask me. These days I get my tweets edited by Madam.

LM: Now you are pissing me off. I am going to add Sunanda’s name to the list of investors and claim you got her some sweat equity.

ST: What?!

LM: How do you spell it? S-U-N-A-N-D-A?

ST (hangs up): I am doomed!

LM (laughs): I am hiiiiiiigh!