ఒక బెంగుళూరు తెలుగు కథ

పగలూ ... రాత్రీ ...

ఐదారేళ్ళ క్రితం అనుకుంటా ... కోరమంగళా క్లబ్బు పార్కింగ్ లాట్లో జాగాలేదు. ‘రోజూ ఇదే తొందర’ అని వాచ్మన్ మీద విసుక్కుంటూ ఎలాగోలా మారుతీ కారుని రెండు పెద్ద బండ్లమధ్య ఇరికించి హడావిడిగా బార్ కౌంటర్ వైపు నడిచాను. ఆల్రెడీ ఎయిట్ ‘తర్స్టీ’ ... సాయంకాలం దాహం తీర్చుకునే టైమ్. రెడ్డిగారు మామూలుగానే కార్నర్లో ఉన్న బార్ స్టూల్ పైన చేతిలోని మెక్డోవెల్ బ్రాందీ గ్లాసువంక దీర్ఘంగా చూస్తూ కూర్చొని ఉన్నాడు. ఆతడిని పలకరించడం సుద్ద వేస్టు. రాత్రి పదింటికి మూడవ పెగ్గు పడ్డాకే అతడి నోరు పెగుల్తుంది. ఇద్దరమూ ఆ కౌంటర్ వద్ద రెగ్యులర్ కస్టమర్లమే. అక్కడ ఎంతోమంది కూర్చోరు. లాన్ టేబుల్సూ, ఏసీ బారూ మాత్రం బిజీగా ఉంటాయి. రోజూ ఒకేచోట కూర్చుంటున్నా మేమిద్దరం ఒకళ్ళతో ఒకళ్ళం మాట్లాడుకున్నది చాలా అరుదు. కానీ ఆరోజు నేను లేటుగా రావడం, రెడ్డిగారి రెండో పెగ్గు కాస్త త్వరగా పూర్తిచేయడంతో బాతాఖానీలో పడక తప్పలేదు.

"ఏమప్పా రోజూ ఈడనే సూస్తూ ఉండానూ ... ఏడా కల్సా?" అంటూ రెడ్డిగారే సంభాషణ మొదలెట్టాడు.

"ఇక్కడే సార్, ఆర్కియాలజీ సర్వేలో సూపర్నెంట్" జవాబిచ్చాను.

"అయ్యో అట్లాంగా? అంటే హిస్టరీ ఎమ్యే అసంటిదేదో సేసి ఉండుణ్టావ్", అని చప్పరించాడు. "ఈ కాలంలో మంచిగా ఏ డాక్టరో, ఇంజనీరో చదువకుంటే ఏదీ లాభం ఉండేదిలే".

నాకు కాస్త చిరాకేసినా, ఏదో పెద్దముండాకొడుకులే అని నిదానించుకుని, "ఎమ్యే మాత్రమే కాదులేండి సార్, ఆర్కియాలజీలో పీహెచ్డీ కూడా చేసాను ... ఏదో కాస్త పరవాలేదు లేండి", అని నన్ను నేనే సమాధానపెట్టుకుంటూ జవాబిచ్చాను. 

"ఐనా వేస్ట్. చూడ్డానికి తెలివుండా లైఫంతా వేస్ట్ సేసుణ్డావ్ గాదప్పా?" అంటూ చేతిలోని గ్లాసుని కౌంటరుమీద మోదడంతో ‘అది అతడి మూడో పెగ్గు మాత్రమే కాదేమో’ అన్న అనుమానం వచ్చింది. "మా సిన్నోడు సూడు ... ఆర్యీసీ సూరత్కల్లులో మెరిట్ సీటు వచ్చుండాది. ఇందాన్కనే ఫోన్ సేసిణ్డాడు", గ్లాసు ఎత్తి దానిలోని బ్రాందీని ఒక్క గుక్కలో గొంతులో పోసుకుని, బార్మన్తో "షెట్టరే... వన్ మోర్ రిపీట్" అని నావంక చూస్తూ, "నీదేమప్పా డ్రింకు? టుడే ఆల్ సెలెబ్రేషన్స్, వన్ మోర్?"

"థాంక్యూ సార్, కంగ్రాట్స్" అంటూ షెట్టీ అందించిన రాయల్ ఛాలెంజ్ అందుకున్నాను, ఫ్రీ డ్రింకు ఎందుకు కాదనాలి? "సో ... మీరేమి చేస్తారు సార్?" ఏదో ఫార్మాలిటీగా అడిగాను. దానితో మొదలయింది, గంటన్నరసేపు ఏకధాటిగా అతడి జీవితచరిత్ర అంతా ... బెంగుళూరు ప్రక్కనే ఆనెకల్లులో పుట్టి, మైసూరులో పాలిటెక్నిక్ చేసి, ఎనభైలో మైకో కంపెనీలో ఫోర్మన్గా ఉద్యోగంలో చేరి, అప్పటికి ఇంకో ఐదేళ్ళలో రిటైరవుతాడనగా డిప్యూటీ మ్యానేజర్ అయ్యాడు. ముగ్గురు పిల్లలు. పెద్దది ఆడపిల్ల, ఎమ్బీబీయెస్ మూడో సంవత్సరం. రెండవవాడు సరే ఇంజనీరింగులో సీటు వచ్చింది. ఇక మూడవవాడి గురించే అతడి బెంగ.

"ఏడ బుట్టిణ్డో ... అంతా మా ఆడోళ్ళ పోలిక. సిన్నప్పడ్నించీ సైన్సు మీన ద్యాస ఉండ్లా. పీయూసీ సేస్తుణ్డాడు. కాలేజీకి పోయేద్లే, పగలూ ... రాత్రీ ... ఏవత్తు సూసిన్డా ఆ స్నూకర్ పార్లర్లోనో ఇల్లణ్టే ఇంటర్నెట్ కాఫేలోనో... ఏంసేసేటికీ అంతుబట్టట్లే..." అంటూ చాలాసేపు వాపోయిన మాట మాత్రం ఇంకా గుర్తుంది.

ఆ తరువాత క్లబ్బులో చాలాసార్లు కనిపించినా, అతడి ధ్యాసలో అతడు, నా పనిలో నేనూ, పెద్దగా మాట్లాడుకున్నది లేదు.

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కానీ... ఇవాళ ఏమయ్యిందో నన్ను చూడగానే ఉత్సాహంగా ఎదురొచ్చాడు. "ఏమప్పా? చాలా రోజులైనాది నీతో మాటాడి. ఏను బేకు? స్కాచ్?" అంటూ భుజంమీద చెయ్యివేసి బార్ వైపు కదిలాడు. "షెట్టరే ... ఎరడు టీచర్స్" అంటూ బార్ స్టూల్ మీద బైఠాయించాడు.

"ఏంసార్, చాలా ఉత్సాహంగా ఉన్నారు? ఏమిటి విశేషం?"

"ఏముత్సాహంలేయప్పా... రిటైరయుండ్లా. ఇదే ఓన్లీ టైంపాసూ"

"ఓహో? ఎన్నాళ్ళయింది? మీ చిల్డ్రన్ ఇప్పుడు ఏంచేస్తున్నారో?"

"వోకె... ఇప్పుడే సిన్నోడు నన్నీడ దిగబెట్టి పోయిణ్డాడు. నైట్ డ్యూటీస్ ... ఉదయాన్నే వస్తాడు. పగలెల్లా ఇంటికాడే ఉండినా, ఏందో పనులు, ఫోన్లు. నమ్మల్కి ఏనూ కల్సాయే ఇల్ల. ఈడ్నించి పోయేటికి కూడా పర్మనెంటు ఆటో అరేంజి మాడిన్డాడు ... నో డ్రింక్ అండ్ డ్రైవు ... ఎల్లా వాణి రూల్సు ప్రకారమే పోవాలె ... హెహెహె"

"మరి మీ డాటర్ ... ?"

"ఆహ్ ... ఆయమ్మా? పెళ్ళిసేసి పంపించిణ్డాం. ఈడనే, హోసూర్ ప్రక్కల్నే ఆళ్ళ అత్తోరూరు. అల్లుడాడ్నే ప్రాక్టీసు సేస్తుండు. ఏం ప్రాక్టీస్లేయప్పా ... ఆయమ్మ పీజీకి అయిణ్డ కర్చు తీరేటికి పాతికేళ్ళు పట్టుడ్ది. నా గ్రాట్యుటీలో సగం దానికే బట్టిణ్డె. సిన్నోడు నాకాడ్ణే ఉండె ... అదికే స్వల్ప రిలీఫు..."

"సూరత్కల్లులో కదా ఇంజనీరింగ్ చేసాడు? ఇప్పుడే కంపనీలో ఉన్నాడు?"

"అదా...? ఆడు గాదప్పా ... ఆడు పెద్దోడు. పోయినేడే ఎంటెక్ అయ్యిణ్డె. నాయప్ప కూతుర్కే ఇచ్చి జేసుండాం. మద్రాసులో ఏదో కంపనీలో సేస్తుండు. ఆడి జీతం ఆడ్నే సరిపడ్లా. సిన్నోడు నాకాడ్ణ ఉండాడు గన్క సరిపోయె ..."

"అంటే ... మీ చిన్నకొడుకా? ఏమీ చదవకుండా స్నూకరూ, ఇంటర్నెట్టని తిరిగే వాడన్నట్లు గుర్తు? ఏం చదివాడేంటి?"

"వాణికి ఈ సదువులెందుకప్పా? ఆడిది నా పోలికె. ఆడే నూరుమందికి నేర్పుతుండాడు. కాగ్నిజెంట్ కంపనీలో అమెరికన్ లాంగ్వేజ్ ట్రైనర్. రెండు లక్షలు జీతం. ఇణ్టి ఖర్చంతా ఆడే సూసుకుంటాణ్డు. ఆమైలే నాకు నెలకి క్లబ్బు ఖర్చులకి ఇరవైవేలు ఇస్తాండు. అన్దుకేగదా స్కాచి తాగుతుండా ... హెహెహె... వన్ మోర్?"

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Baabooo, yeh pablik hai ... yeh sab maangti hai...

Yesterday … 

A Day at KGA

I happened to bump into an old acquaintance at the bank. It was late morning and as usual, I was in my shorts and t-shirt, straight out of my morning game. 

“Havvaaryoo saar?” he said in thickly accented English as he came into the manager’s cabin and promptly plunked himself into the chair next to me. 

The manager immediately rose to shake his hands – surely he was a very important customer – as even that small portion of his business which he transacted through banks is substantial enough to make any bank manager jump out of his comfortable seat. He was our local legislator and is well known for developing a lot of under-utilized land. I smiled in response and pushed my chair back from the desk, knowing that whatever discussion, I was engaged in, had come to an abrupt end. 

“Vaatt saar, playing gulf, aah?” he said looking at the sun-burned legs sticking out of my shorts and immediately followed up his query with another question, “Verr saar, Chalaghatta clubbu, aah?” 

“Huh ha … KGA”, I nodded. 

“Lucky people … you are, saar, hundred acres … land … and you people … enjoying it”, he looked up at the manager for his approval, who nodded promptly.

“Right in the heart of the city and only a few has access to it”, the manager said turning his tie knot and smiling affably, “the land can be made into something useful for the public … like an entertainment complex…?” he tapered off. 

“No … no, saar”, he butted in quickly interrupting the manager, “You know … price of land …here?”  He paused digging his nostril with his little finger, “Crores!”
  

“So… what do you propose to do?” I asked him. Even though I had tried to be genial, my eyes that were fixed on his little finger still busy exploring for some elusive irritant, must have showed my contempt.

“Anything saar … something useful, sorry. We can develop … lands into big IT Parks … housing layouts … public saar … for public.”

“How can you do that sir?” it was the manager interrupting him. “It is a lake bed, isn’t it? If you convert all lakes into concrete complexes …?” 

“Vaat naansens saar?” he almost exploded. “Where … you live?”

“Cambridge Layout”

“Ha ha hah … Own house aah?” he continued not acknowledging his perplexed nod, “So … you are living in … lake” he laughed again. “Cambridge, Domlur Layouts, HAL Third … all these … lake beds only, once upon a time. Population ... growing and we need lands … saar, Vaat?” he looked at me. 

Hydrological map of East Bangalore

“Sound logic!” I smiled encouragingly. 

He must have thought that my compliment was genuine and continued with his instruction. “You see saar, all this area … southeast Benguluru … long time back … small villages … middle of … agriculture fields. Now, tell me saar, where is agriculture lands?” 

“So… you mean to say that there is no need for water bodies, now that there is no agriculture?” I asked, a little irked by his logic and showed it. 

“No no… saar” he said a little defensively, “when … long time back … here … no city. All these lakes … feeded by natural hoḷé … only clean water … but now … so much development … only dirty sewage drain waters comes in them. Vaat use? Lands… saar, can use for public use, no?  

Farekjampul …” he continued. “Our Mejestic bus stand … long back … one lake. We developed many lake beds into BDA layouts and SEZs”, he said proudly.

 “They are useful, no … for pablik ? …  “But a gulf club..?”

 

This certainly made me wonder…  Am I supposed to feel guilty for being one of those that enjoyed the lush green expanse?

I began digging. Here are some facts… 

Challaghatta - Dry tank-bed before the golf course was made

The Challaghatta tank was once part of a chain of small water bodies joining Ulsoor and Bellandur Lakes. The erstwhile stream that connected these two lakes is today a sewage drain running true to its old course. The catchment area of this tank consisted of erstwhile farmlands which are known today as Indiranagar – HAL II & III Stages, Domlur Layout, Domlur II Stage, etc. All these areas were developed as residential layouts by the BDA even before the land was allocated to KGA. Later the land surrounding the golf course was developed into Amarjyoti Layout, Rustombagh and other residential and commercial developments including a large business park, turning the entire area into a concrete jungle. 

More than 50,000 fully grown trees

Only breathing space available in East Bangalore other than the Agram grounds is the golf course. 125 Acres of erstwhile Challaghatta tank is today one of the best sporting facilities in the country – venue of some of the most prestigious national and international events.

I have come across a certain set of pictures of the lake bed before it was converted into a golf course.  When the land was leased to KGA in 80’s, it was a large dry expanse with a few puddles of water. As the main water source drained directly into Bellandur, without a check, as the land use around Chalaghatta village had changed. 

There is more water retained round the year

The water hazards in the golf course retain more clean water today compared to the amount of water in the erstwhile tank bed. Treated sewage water from the neighborhood is used, reducing the pollution levels in the area.

More than 600 varieties of Trees

The bigger question raised by the so called activists, concerns the eco-system. It is only thanks to the founders of the golf course, and the vision of the likes of TP Issar, today there are more than 50,000 fully grown trees. There are 600 different exotic and native varieties of palms and tropical trees. The course is home to many avian species and aquatic fauna.

A proper census cataloguing the fauna will shut the detractors up.

Next argument is that the course is an exclusive domain of a few members. Is that really so? 

Let us look at the facts. 

Under different categories the membership is extended to students, proficient sportsmen, servicemen and temporary residents. The course has produced some extraordinary talent – some of the best professional golfers, of both sexes, hail from this course. The only Indian Open champion from South India is a home grown young man from Chalaghatta whose parents earned their livelihood from the course. Further, the course provides employment to hundreds of skilled and unskilled men and women from the neighboring area round the year.

But … who the hell is interested? 

My politician friend feels cheated. Prime urban land – at today’s prices, a veritable pot of gold … but only if the likes of him are allowed to lay their hands on it and develop it for public use.

‘Who’s the pablik ?’ I wonder

The Day of the Dog

The Day of the Dog

SAI PAPINENI

“Those were the days, when the world was as the great creator, the three headed Kerberus, had intended it to be…” Old Bitch began, lazily circling and tamping the soft leaves and rubbish into a cushion before settling down for a long Sunday predawn sermon. A lone streetlight in that narrow lane was still shining brightly. It is their favored place for their weekly gatherings that always followed a midnight feast, near the late night restaurant’s garbage dump.

I being half breed Pomeranian, greatly disadvantaged by the stature of my parent, was relegated to the most disagreeable corner crawling with fleas. My belly, well sated by a large leftover portion of chicken kebabs, desperately wanted to get back to my native territory – a beautiful tree-lined street in Defense Colony – and lie down in air conditioned comfort under the car parked in the porch of Wobbly Legs, ah! That is one humane biped, who had never failed to leave a nice little breakfast for me, every morning, properly wrapped in a flimsy plastic bag.

But … Old Bitch is a bitch.

She doesn’t like anyone in her congregation missing her weekly discourses – those who are mad enough will be doggedly hounded by her terriers – “Dog’s life!” a low snarl escaped my jaws. Immediately, I looked around to see if someone had noticed. Thank Dog! None of those Dylan’s dogs prowling around. I looked up at Old Bitch, perched high on the rubbish mound, as she continued with her gobbledygook extolling the virtues of canine race.

“Those were the idyllic days when we were simple pack living and sharing the pleasures of communal life. In our little dens deep in woods, we were all grey and had no disparities.

“Howl Kerberus…!

“There…! He was a great leader. We all hunted with him, – so strong we were then – and we could bring down even a mighty mammoth. Do you know mammoths?” she paused, scratching her flanks, “They were huge – even bigger than those gigantic city buses – and equally vicious. And, the legends say that it was our hunters that sent their species to extinction”

Entire congregation began to nod their heads LOL-ling their tongues, warming to the rhetoric.

“It was a historic blunder”, finally she launched into her familiar rant, “when some of our ancestors began to follow the bipeds. A false sense of comfort in bourgeois kennels and our eagerness to catch the attractive bones that they tossed at us sounded the death knell to a glorious phase in history. We were enslaved – they turned us into sentries to guard their misbegotten wealth. We became shepherds. Brother against brother – we gamely chased our own kind when they hunted. Mutely taking orders, faithfully, we even subjected ourselves to such heinous makeovers to fit their pockets.”

Shame! Shame!

The entire congregation responded perking their ears up.

“So far, our struggles to make a point, our attempts at reaffirming our dignity are largely ignored by bipeds, secure in their homes guarded by our own greyhound brethren. They even have the temerity to parade our Kennel Club members on leash, in spite of our noisy protests. Our occasional exultations after a few sporadic attacks by our belligerent brothers, terrorizing the biped puppies and defenseless oldies only serve as trivial entertainment, and no more. Those undignified cries of their helpless females, cornered by our playful adolescents are brushed away as harmless teasing. Even our loud concerted pursuits are ignored by those motorcyclists, reckless enough to keep coming back to our territories and disturb peace.”

A solemn gloom descended on the congregation interrupted by a few feeble snivels of despondence.

“Do not whine, my comrades in fangs”, Old Bitch gave a terse woof. “You are the fortunate ones. You live in a city, a city of future, the Land of Litter and Garbage promised by Kerberus, himself … a ray of light at the end of a long burrow of time …”

A collective howl interrupted her tirade as the lone streetlight flickered and died. A buzz of discontent at the failure of civic bodies followed as each one tried to adjust their night vision.

“Don’t you bitch” Old Bitch growled.

“The civic bodies of this city are peerless,” She continued furiously. “They are our allies in our struggle against the oppression of bipeds. We owe our numbers and freedom to them. Their acts of magnanimity are numerous – dark alleys, bumpy roads and unlimited supply of unattended garbage – and give us a tactical advantage over those two-legged freaks. I strongly denounce criticism of this city’s noble civic authorities.

“You better have down pat, comrades, they are dogs’ best friends,” she barked.

A lone yip reverberated in the stunned silence that followed. It was the leader of a stray terror outfit called Cubbon Pack, that made the long verandahs of a red building its lair, raising his paw rather tentatively as he began to speak.

“Comrade Old Bitch,” he raised his whimper to a howl, for everyone to hear, “I have terrifying news. The reactionary forces are gathering momentum under our own snouts. There is a new vixen in town that was stirring up hornets with questions which no one dared to utter, atleast not until now, are pricking the conscience of our friends. The civic powers that be are completely foxed by them. I expect some vigilant onslaught in the days to come.”

His words sent a chill down my spine all the way back to my tail.

“Hush” Old Bitch barked and grinned with her canines hidden, at her congregation terrified and looking up to her for guidance.

“Perk up your ears, you dogs. There is nothing to worry. No single vixen can make this city’s administration wake up from its slumber. Just go back to your home streets and do what you are best at, making more litters. I assure you, that the promised day is near.”

Then came the comforting words, settling my palpitating heart,

“Most importantly, we have our NGOtiators in right places, to safeguard our interests. They will ensure that one day …

“very soon …

“the city comes to us”.

All in the Game

All in the Game

It

 was a pleasant morning with a mild southwesterly blowing intermittent cirrus clouds across the course. Hiraki teed up a little high and with a smooth fluid swing sent the ball over the ominous looking water hazard, splitting the fairway into two equal halves.

“Goooshaaw, Yamamoto-san” shouted Aggarwal. Hiraki’s tiny chest ballooned with pride. First tee-shot always has portentous significance to early morning golfers. ‘A day well began’ Hiraki was smiling within. It was the day he was planning to meet the government representatives; his inner voice must have told him that the deal would somehow go through. That’s when he saw that immaculately dressed gentleman, colour-coordinated from floppy San Andrews cap to his shining black golf shoes, hurrying towards the tee-box.

“Ah there…! You’re just in time, mister Rao”, exclaimed Aggarwal.

Royal N Ancient … RNA, to his friends – Ramji Narayan Aggarwal is one of the oldest and loudest members of the club – always ready to lend a helping hand to fellow members. I looked up midway through my backswing promptly sending my ball sputtering through the lake. An inaudible curse escaped my lips. Hiraki looked at me with a slight nod acknowledging my distress. “Shigata nai” I muttered before tossing the driver to my caddie.

Aggarwal had not taken any notice, he was eager to introduce Rao to his new found acquaintance, Hiraki. “Yamamoto-san, meet mister Rao, an old friend of mine and a great golfer…” Introductions went on for a while with Hiraki’s characteristic bows in response the verbal flood from Aggarwal extolling his worthy friend.

I began to fidget. My tee-shot had not helped my mood much. “Gentlemen”, I interrupted gesturing at the other four-ball waiting behind us. Aggarwal grunted, conceding, as he moved to the ball already teed up by his caddie – it is too menial a task to bend down and tee up the ball – and a louder grunt followed as he heaved his weight behind the shot making the ball disappear into the trees. Rao’s shot that followed was decent, giving a semblance of competition to Hiraki.

My mood had not improved as I dropped another ball short of the water hazard. Another lousy day! My thoughts went back to the previous day – that began with a quaint plea from my son, who needed my help in getting his passport renewed, rather urgently – and my futile efforts to convince the authorities that the child’s trip to Australia to participate in an architectural design competition is of reasonable national importance.

Pillar to post!

Or is it water hazard to sand trap? I cursed once again as my ball faded right into the greenside bunker. “A double bogey at the best,” I said accompanying Aggarwal ambling lazily towards his caddie that had found the ball which appeared miraculously at the fringe of the fairway.

I had no qualms though – it was I that had asked Aggarwal to fix the game with Rao, explaining the predicament of Hiraki, whose firm is the only supplier of a certain cantilevers, deemed essential by the consultants for the superfast roadway connecting the principal cities of the state. At the request of the consultants, his firm had set up a hundred million dollar manufacturing unit and I was instrumental in locating it.

The project is essential for its future viability.

Everything was hunky dory until Hiraki’s predawn phone-call shook me up on the day before. His voice sounded to my sleepy head like a thousand May-day alarms going off at the same time. “The specs vanished in the final detailing document. It must be the consortium…”

My mind continued to wander adding three more bogeys to the card, as the four-ball continued through to the refreshment hut at the fifth tee – a long holdup, two groups waiting ahead of us. Aggarwal continued in his characteristic tenor forcing wit into his praises of Rao, recounting anecdotes from a long string of his feats. Even Rao couldn’t have made his own resume, more effective.

I smiled absentmindedly at the three heads huddled together and moseyed off with my phone to call a certain Ilangovan that can help me with my son’s passport. “Avaru baathroomla irukaamgu. Pinnaale phonu pamdumgo” a high pitched voice replied without masking her irritation.

The sixth hole is a short par three – just a well aimed pitch with a wedge across the water should get a par, if not a birdie. Hiraki and Aggarwal are already two up. ‘But … this is my favorite hole’ I walked confidently to the tee in spite of a wayward hook by my partner Rao. An easy swing and – Brrrrrrrrr – the phone began to vibrate. I was in two minds – to take a shot or the call – and duffed the ball … another ProV into the depths.

“Sawrree saar. My name ees Ilangovan saar”, he began.

“Yes… yes mister Ilangovan. I was trying to contact you for my son’s …”

“Teriyum saar. Don’t worry. Tomorrow passport coming saar, gaarentee. Just small fees for polees and my friend in awffees, saar”

“Okay … okay” I hung up, getting ready for my three from the tee box.

“Who’s that?” asked Rao with a smirk.

“Some bloody tout”, I replied, landing the ball next to the pin. An assured bogey, and a chance to halve the hole made me eloquent. “In this goddamned country … the processes are so convoluted, they don’t even exist. You know, how much I had to run around to get a simple passport renewed?”

“You’re right buddy.” Shaking his head vigorously, “This country is run by touts. It’s going to dogs for sure. There’s no place for decent folks like us” said Rao, who runs a very successful ‘tender servicing portal’ for government works that provides start to finish facilitation for its clients. And, he had assured my friend Hiraki a complete reversal of the process, of course, for a reasonable fee.

Disclaimer: The story is not a work of fiction and the characters are real and any resemblance to my golfing friends is purely intentional and not a coincidence.