Chintu, the snot-nosed eight-year-old from next door, has this endearing habit of floating in and out of our apartment. Not a single day passes without him wandering in, casually inspecting our fridge for a snack, and taking a banana or whatever else that isn’t nailed down.
Yesterday, he sauntered into my study while I was watching the news. The TV anchor, clearly operating on fumes and hyperbole, was breathlessly announcing the imminent use of nuclear weapons, with dramatic footage of fighter jets and tanks rolling across the screen.
Chintu burst out laughing. “Uncle, why are you playing my war video game?” With a shock, I realised that in this age of deepfakes, old fogeys like me can no longer distinguish between reality and algorithmic mischief.
Embarrassed, I quickly flicked to another channel. There, a suited diplomat, a half-naked astrologer, a kathak dancer, and a retired general were screaming and apparently fighting over a cooking gas cylinder.
“Why do they all shout at the same time, uncle?” Chintu asked innocently.
Illustration: Job P.K.
Out of the mouths of brats, indeed, cometh wisdom. I had no answer. Desperate for respite, I switched to an IPL match. The commentators were marginally less hysterical, but a smug ticker informed viewers that noise in the stadium had hit 121 decibels. Grok, my AI sage, informed me that this level is ‘Dangerous: can cause permanent hearing damage in nine to 30 seconds’.
Enough! I switched the TV off, shooed Chintu out, and escaped to the condo park where old fogeys like me gather every evening. We grandly style ourselves the “FourEss”—the Samosa and Serious Study Set; but we fool no one. We remain a bunch of sad old retirees with little in common, except having time on our hands and a weakness for samosas.
Timir, the daft duffer from upstairs, was already parked on his favourite bench, muttering incoherently. “Such a shameless generation! Why open a dessert named after a fallen woman? Can’t they call the mousse something decent?”
Everyone ignored him, as usual.
Recent events have prompted Brigadier Sharma, our resident fauji, to claim expertise over more than just matters military. To his formidable repertoire of tactical wisdom, he has added oil trade, sulphuric acid, strategic affairs and strategic timeouts. With his cap slightly askew—the one with the single embroidered star—he pontificates on Gazprom, sour crude from Venezuela, the Serena Hotel in Islamabad, the DRS and the art of blockading blockaded waterways, all in the same breath.
Our resident Bihari, Misserji—freshly converted to cricket after one of Lalu’s progenies expressed interest in the game—clashes regularly with the brigadier over IPL tactics. Kani Babu, poor soul, still struggles to differentiate between the teams. “They all wear similar coloured pyjamas,” he grumbles. “I keep mixing up IRGC, MI and IDF.”
Binnoo summed it up beautifully: “The world’s a crazy place! The Saudi Royals are against bombers. The Rajasthan Royals are against bouncers. The US is against Iranian ships docking in Sri Lanka. The Punjab Kings are against docking of match fees. And the American people are against kings!”
As the conversations swirled, Timir piped up again: “The new generation coins such crude names—no finesse whatsoever!”
Mazhar Bhai and Basu meanwhile started arguing whether there was a ceasefire or the fire continued. “If there’s no breakthrough, China will win,” said Mazhar. “If they don’t breakdown, Gujarat Titans will win,” said Binnoo. “Forget it,” drawled Basu, “Didi will shaartainly bhin!”
Unable to follow the conversation, Bhatti, in his usual whining manner, complained, “Epic Fury, Fist of Fury, blind fury? Why is the Pope involved in the war? Will someone tell me what’s happening in the world?”
Mazhar Bhai roared with laughter. “Arre, no one tells me what’s happening even in my own house! And you want a briefing on global affairs?”
Gopu added cheerfully, “Remember Op Sindoor of last year? One channel reported that INS Vikrant had attacked Karachi and then sailed on to capture Lahore. Now the same channel claims the United Nations is stockpiling nuclear weapons to discipline rogue states.”
Timir piped up once again, “Will anyone please explain why a dessert named after a woman of easy virtue should be opened?”
That’s when it hit me—a perfect epiphany. I recalled the closing scene of Orwell’s Animal Farm, where the exploited animals peer through the farmhouse windows in horrified confusion, unable to tell the pigs from the men, or the men from the pigs. We old fogeys, huddled before our idiot boxes, also live in an Orwellian world. We can no longer distinguish Trump’s war from the IPL, or the IPL from Trump’s war.
Our Kafkaesque bewilderment is complete—video games, lungi-clad cheerleaders, guided missiles, hysterical TV anchors, white cricket balls and aircraft carriers capturing Tehran have all blended together to form an absurd creamy smoothie of nonsense. Human behaviour seems recurringly disorientating and overwhelmingly alienating. In this brave new world, there is no constant, except surreal logic and quiet despair. And maybe samosas!
I lingered longer than usual on the park bench last evening, letting the babble wash over me until dinner time. As I rose to leave, Timir’s plaintive voice floated after me one last time: “Is the dessert called ‘whore mousse straight’ open or closed?”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com