Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights (of late more the festival of smoke and noise), is a time of much fanfare and revelry, family reunions, a smorgasbord of mouthwatering delicacies followed by their inevitably unpleasant aftermath. Not to mention those inexhaustibly endless eardrum-shattering, nerve-jangling, asthma-inducing, blood-pressure-skyrocketing brazenly callous private firework extravaganzas, followed by their inevitably unpleasant aftermath of plumes of asphyxiating smoke.
The principal protagonists of our tale, wolves in sheep’s clothing, miscreants guised as heroes, Ramu and Somu, those puerile perpetrators of petty pranks, were having a blast, both figuratively and literally. They had coaxed, cajoled, cried and tantrum’d their way through to a small mountain of firecrackers. To add to the bonanza, they had managed to procure through clandestine channels, the holy grail of Diwali fireworks, “Fat Man” and “Little Boy” (rather insensitively named after the H-bombs that ended WWII). The so-called “Atom Bombs,” talked about in hushed tones of awe and reverence in boyish circles. Pre-pubescent boys ultimate claim to valor, glory and masculinity. With a quaintly worded but disturbing disclaimer: “To be use at your own ricks. Children to not alone using without adults be with them. [sic]”
Now Ramu and Somu, no saints themselves by any reckoning, were subjected to merciless taunting and ridicule by a higher authority. Anil and Sunil, their seniors in school, had been specially targeting them for verbal abuse this Diwali season, for want of their usual soft targets, smaller kids half their age many of whom had gone out of town for the holidays. Ramu Somu, being physically, mentally and temperamentally inferior to Anil Sunil, had no option but to meekly swallow bucketfulls of insults in a spirit of shamefully subdued submission. They seethed and bristled under the painful verbal barbs that were flung their way every time they stepped outdoors.
Fiery internal turmoil gave birth first to desire for revenge and then to Machiavellian stratagies to restore fallen and wounded pride to its right honorable pedestal. Ramu’s wit, which seldom sparkled in orthodox settings, readily found outlets in activities of a darker hue. Ramu on a mala fide mission was a force to be reckoned with. With Somu’s unquestioning loyalty, complicity and flawless execution in tow, the potency of the force was multiplied manifold, although their choice of missions sometimes bordered on the quixotic.
Now for the plan - as ingeniously simple as it was simply ingenious. Ramu the decoy, baits and lures victims to dark as a dungeon cul-de-sac, where Somu has planted “Fat Man” and “Little Boy” in dustbin, fuses lit, seconds away from apocalypse. Ramu Somu go into hiding, both don earplugs, and hurl choice epithets at victims to keep them from leaving. Then, cataclysmic explosions deafen victims and establish moral superiority.
As dusk fell on D-day, Ramu Somu’s anxiety mushroomed like illegal shanties on Mumbai’s beaches. If they were looking for reassurance from history, they didn’t find any, given that their most recent capers had all come a cropper. As the hour of reckoning drew closer, they managed to pull themselves together and rehearsed the sequence of events for the umpteenth time. With deep breaths and nerves jangling like jarring Bollywood numbers from the eighties, they departed towards their respective targets as confidently as overpaid Indian cricketers facing short pitched bowling on a bouncy wicket.
Ramu spotted Anil Sunil on the street and let loose a sudden and unexpected volley of insults, loud enough for passersby to hear clearly. “Pin heads, cowards, donkeys, eunuchs, why don’t you clap your hands and go around asking for money, at least you’ll accumulate some wealth that way, since you aren’t accumulating knowledge anyway. Kalpesh from your class was telling me the other day, the sum of all your collective knowledge can be fitted on a grain of rice, with ample room to spare. I told him he was being exceedingly charitable. You filthy street dogs, your bark is worse by far than your toothless bite. Standing there like shameless buffaloes hearing my insults. I bet you can’t even outrun me, you overweight pigs.”
The desired response was instantly elicited, and a furious chase ensued. Sandals pounded pavement, obstacles were shoved aside, man and animal with equal contempt and frenetic desperation. A mangy mongrel yelped away having its tail rudely stomped upon. Three juvenile hurdlers comfortably cleared a cow placidly stationed in the middle of the road, ruminating upon things of great import. Tomatoes went hurtling across the street, followed by their scurrying owner, apoplectic with rage.
The chase culminated in the Stygian cul-de-sac as by design. As Ramu had envisaged, it was darker there than a black cat in a cave on a moonless night. Ramu knew the locale like his backyard, thanks to prior reconnaissance missions, and blithely navigated his way to his hiding place. Anil Sunil were completely lost and groped about in the dark blind as bats, relying solely on their auricular senses. Ramu made meowing sounds to keep Anil Sunil engaged. Somu had stationed himself so as to have a clear view of the chase, having arrived early enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. This was a crucial detail since he was in charge of lighting the fuses.
As Anil Sunil were blundering their way through, the first bomb exploded. Right next to them. They literally jumped out of their skins in sheer terror, Sunil spoiling his favorite pants in the bargain. Anil, even in the midst of his own personal terror, could barely conceal a smirk. The explosion took out their respective left ears, leaving behind a funny high-pitched noise. Profuse swearing ensued. Then, the second one detonated, on the opposite side, this time taking their right ears out, and Anil’s pants were added to the casualty list, the restoration of parity bringing relief to Sunil even in the midst of his own ordeal. The shell-shocked victims fled from the battlefield as if chased by a pack of salivating stray dogs.
The plan for all intents and purposes had been a resounding success. After what seemed like a safe enough interval, two dazed shadows slowly trooped out from pitch-black darkness into the streetlight. Ears buzzing like a hornets’ nest and pants wet with fear.
In their delirious excitement and anxiety, Ramu and Somu had neglected to don the earplugs.
Ultimately though, this had the salutary effect that they were unable to hear the arrows dipped in insult that Anil Sunil, now deaf with rage, continued to shoot at them with impotent vengeance. By the time auricular services were restored, holidays had ended and softer targets had returned. Ramu Somu could be heard retelling tales of their absolute victory and their enemies’ ignominy in painstakingly embellished detail to anyone with half an ear.