VIP

Three letters that can mean a lifetime of privilege, power and the ghastly perks that go with it. It’s a divide – between the greaser and the greased palm. The difference between the long wait for passports, PAN, IT refunds and the mother of all mother documents a.k.a ration card and having them delivered to your residence. From gun toting guards, slavish cronies to salaaming bureaucrats and the world at your feet in general. In short, an India represented by a tiny icicle on the proverbial iceberg tip.

I write this trapped in a leafy one way of my beloved Adyar, opposite a V.I.P showroom waiting for the Prez AND the CM to pass us plebians. And pass they did, after 41 and 22 vehicles respectively had zoomed pass my humble car. (Yes, I counted them to kill time). Against the pale full moon, the Ambys’ looked ghostly and were they fast! I wonder if the speed was to put the miles between them and the urban squalor or for kicks. My heart goes out instantly to the great residents of Delhi who have to put up with 534 such holinesses not to mention an army of other such elite.

Where does all this splurging really take us? Do they see the millions at the bus stop with no vehicle to drive? Cant they see the slums, the potholes and the giant hoardings promising manna from heaven? If they only rolled down the windows they could also smell the perfume that wafts from our rivers, or what is left of them. It seems criminal that a nation of overwhelmingly poor people should pay for these excesses.

Why do I write about this? Because deep down I have to stand up to what is ridiculous. Its time to think of a change, and its all of us who need to act. Remember, somebody soon has to pay the bill for this party, and I have a feeling its going to be my generation.