Sathish Vellinezhi | Photo Credit: Sathish Vellinezhi
I have some scary news. Look, I don’t think I should share it with you. Initially, this was supposed to be a humor column. You know humor columns? You read them, find nothing funny, correct the grammar, and vow never to read them again. This column was supposed to be one of them. How it turned into a historical critique and civic infrastructure perspective is beyond my limited understanding. So, as is customary, I must begin all correspondence with you, dear reader, by offering an unconditional apology.
Although my wife, who is a direct descendant of Temujin (known in history as Genghis Khan), believes I should share what I know or in this case what I know you want to know. Still, to be fair, this is very private information. Also, it is both personal and embarrassing. Also, this is not a grey area. This is a black or white piece of news. News that cannot be changed, it is final in its presentation. Like, when you say, “This person is dead”. Once he is dead, he is dead. He cannot come back to life.
When a person has an ugly secret, like an extra mole or pimple, you should try to hide it according to social law. However, if someone finds out about your extra pimple, the best defense you have is to attack. Shout from the rooftops about your extra pimple, highlight it in your DP. Create a page for it on your Facebook. Set up a set of followers for it on Insta. Thus, keep the power to expose your secret, away from the culprit. In this case, the culprit, (as always), is my wife.
Oh, and this extra pimple? Well, here it comes. Please stand up and hold on to something. Preferably, no elderly relatives. If you feel like doing this, please make sure it is two elderly relatives. Safety in numbers. Coming back to the horrible secret, the hidden shame, before my wife publishes her column, here is my extra pimple. (For those who are too impatient, please understand that the pimple is a metaphor, and if you please keep quiet for two minutes, I will reveal the secret, or in this case, the bean). On August 7th, I turned 53. Yes, that’s right. Five decades and some change. Now, I’ll give you a few minutes to let all the laughing die down. Please take your shot. As my son Mikhail reminded me, “There’s no point crying, it could be worse, you could be 54”.
It is with a heavy heart that I open up to you this embarrassing news. I hope it is both healing and brings us closer. Oh, and please do not send congratulations or abuse. Instead any material gift would be greatly appreciated.
The author has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.
