Mr. Brandolini's Assignment

ii. linguistically partitioned

ii. linguistically partitioned

  I’d rather watch Lok Sabha TV than WWE Smackdown, really. Not that it’s ever an option. And they’re pretty much the same thing, but the reason I’d choose Lok Sabha TV is the doe-eyed, pathetic Meira Kumar element and the occasional few utterances that bear some semblance to intelligent conversation. But apart from that, they’re both the same. Old men throwing tables and potted plants. Lunatics brandishing pepper spray. Screaming women. Fakery. Oh yes, the Indian Parliament is a wild, wild ride.

 It’s more of a wild ride when the government is doing things like passing the Womens’ Reservation Bill (oh, the scandal) or partitioning Andhra Pradesh, as was the case last night. That’s a big thing right, you can’t just draw a line in India’s biggest state with your arbitrary ruler and expect a few feathers not to get ruffled. And all that indignant ruffling and squawking was front-page news this morning. And will be front-page news till the elections, I expect. The Times of India had an absolute field day, citing the ‘mysterious blackout’ of Lok Sabha TV as some sort of weird conspiracy when I was sure it was just the distributor’s discretion or maybe his engrossment in what was going on.

 And thus, the 29th State of the Union was formed.

 My parents did not have any particular opinions on it – as was expected. I was vaguely hoping that there would be some sort of change in the general public, some charged intensity, some sort of national buzz, but there was nothing. The bus conductor picked his nose using my five-rupee note and Jürgen dozed on my shoulder, mumbling something about calculus homework. I thought unguarded, schoolgirl thoughts like mm, his hair is so soft, and felt disappointed when we reached school and he woke up.

 It was unsurprising that the privileged, expatriate kids I went to school with knew nothing of the situation. However, I was counting on Nina Reddy – she did not disappoint. After first period math, I was munching a blueberry muffin on the stands in the gym, trying to watch Jürgen play basketball without flinching. She announced her arrival with a strong wave of Burberry perfume.

 ‘Fuckin’ legislature.’

 ‘Tell me about it. Muffin?’

 ‘No thanks. Dude, all my friends are in Hyderabad and it’s in bloody Telangana now.’

 Nina was from Andhra. Her father owned a big swimming pool company and her mother was one of those comfortably overweight, boutique-owning page 3 socialites. Nina, however, was tolerable, and sometimes ridiculously good-looking. Like almost everyone in school, she refused to acknowledge the fact that we lived in the most humid metropolitan city in India and dressed like a character from a classier version of High School Musical every day – which included a two-layer top, unnecessary cardigan, jeans, and, ridiculously enough, Doc Martens. But that aside, Nina was sensible and fairly intelligent.

 ‘If you think about it,’ I said, ‘All the states are partitioned linguistically.’

 ‘Linguistics is a cover-up,’ she muttered, ‘and a lame one, at that. It’s all politics, and I can’t really figure out the motive. All I know is that I’m pissed off.’

 I nodded in approval.

‘I like that. So much pent-up ire.’

She grinned at me, leaning back on the stands with her elbows.

 ‘I think you just have a lot of pent-up ire so you like it when you see it in other people, Leens.’

 ‘I don’t have any pent-up ire,’ I said coolly. ‘I’m past that point now. I’m an optimist.’