On Black Bucks And Bada Khanas
See, see, says the Minister, as his minions nod in violent agreement, it is an Opposition conspiracy to finish me, they think I wouldn‘t have noticed a wild fish when I see one, but I am too clever for them.
If the Black Buck ostensibly shot by Salman Khan in 1998 had not been born when he shot it (?) the old ‘deer’ would have died by now of old age. There has to be some statute of limitations on these cases. You cannot keep a guy on tenterhooks for longer than a life imprisonment. Fine the fellow and move on.
And since he had his case come up last week again and was causing all that commotion outside the courts, the whole shikaar scenario is up for grabs again. Even the army and the paramilitary forces have stopped flinging 90 grenades into ponds and knocking off the occasional sambar, chinkara or cheetal for a roast on the spit because the GOC is visiting the brigade and it is ‘bada khana’ night.
Politicians are running so scared they won’t even go near a forest and if you show them how wild the urban night life is, they fall apart.
Consider this scenario. Minister and wife arrive at this big do in their honour given by local bigwig seeking licence to build highrise in which one apartment will go to Minister’s son-in-law and the table creaks with the weight of the din-din and the host says, Shall we eat? and just as they are about to tuck in, one of the little flunkies sidles up fawningly and whispers in the Minister’s ear. The Minister then says, What is this?
Chicken, says the host. And this is mutton, made to our traditional family recipes.
Yes, says the Minister, but what if they are wildlife?
Why would they be wildlife, says the host, I bought the chicken in the market and the mutton is from the butchery.
But can you prove it?
Well, sir, I didn’t go personally, I sent the cook and I must say I don’t think they trap chickens.
Ah hah, says the Minister, so this is a trap to trap me (Ministers and other sundry politicians do speak like that) you think I was born yesterday (they are also inclined to deliver such incandescent insights)? I am too smart for them (they also have such delusions). His wife looks upon him with pride.
Of course not, O Honorable One, says the host, these are not wildlife shot in the forests…
So, says the Minister, you shoot in the forest, do you? I will have a case put up against you, don’t you know it is against the law?
His wife nods vigorously.
But, says the host, now breaking out into a sweat, you don’t understand…
I don’t understand, says the Minister. He says I don’t understand! I take one bite, one itty little bite, and the press will go wild, you know what these journalists are like, they are monsters. I will be finished, I will have to resign, you want me to resign?
Perish the thought, says the host, where would the nation be without you? I tell you what, we’ll remove the dishes and bring in the fish.
There is a little more sidling and fawning and Minister is now on a roll.
Is it wild?
I beg your pardon, sir?
The fish, is it tame fish or is it wild?
It‘s from the sea, it is fresh.
See, see, says the Minister, as his minions nod in violent agreement, it is an Opposition conspiracy to finish me, they think I wouldn‘t have noticed a wild fish when I see one, but I am too clever for them.
Oh, Learned One, chorus his entourage, enviously eyeing the fish cutlets.
His wife says, We should never have come, they plotted against us.
Meanwhile, the host, seeing the concrete vision of his highrise evaporating into the ether, falls upon his knees, and in a burst of inspiration, says, Sir, sir, I have the bill to prove the chicken is tame, it was bought here, in the bazaar, the chicken makhani is safe to eat, please don’t go away, I will be ruined.
The Minister says, Out of my way, you Opposition party scoundrel.
At which point the host runs inside, pulls out a gun and shoots the prawn masala. Then he shoots himself.
As he lies there sprawled upon the ground, the Minister says, See he has a gun, I knew he was a hunter.