XXXVII: Sarsuamma

Sarsuamma was now sitting on one of those aluminium chairs that the men had occupied in the morning, She was relived Daniel was safe, he was now sound asleep, Mohan had stepped out, Stella, the eldest daughter was doing her homework, while also keeping a watch on Daniel. 

Sarsu felt relaxed , even her stomach that was carrying her third child seemed a bit conducive to help her relax, She was reading The Hindu, after having just finished the Indian Express’s Sunday Magazine, where she was impressed with an article by O.V. Vijayan. She even liked a critical appraisal of the street plays of Badal Sarkar. 

Sarsuamma made a mental note to pen a letter to the Editor of the IE as well as try and meet Badal Sarkar and OVJ soon.      

As Sarsuamma went about reading through every inch of the newspaper - that’s the way she did it, that was her, she could read newspapers and articles for hours no end - her mind was analysing some startling facts.

India, esp. Urban India was basically made up of a country of the truly poor illiterate class or pusillanimous middle class or a class that can be called as the struggling class made of literate rural migrants, the rich hardly mattered since they were few and they couldn’t care less as to what happened to the country – for that matter any country.  

The rich, globally, can accept anything, by virtue of their state of mind, as long as they could have a status quo - ‘ so for them it was hey! Bring on the Hitler’s, the Mussolini’s, the Idi Amin’s, the Ceausescu’s, the Mao’s or for that matter the Lenin’s and the Stalin’s or even the Indira Gandhi’s, we'll do business with all of them, not for us morality, conscience and all such non sense – the rich would come, pay tributes, put people on the floor to do ‘whatever’ necessary - sweep, mop, polish, contribute handsome funds that each of them could 'sue' for their riots, mass murder pogroms, or secret racial cleansing or whatever.

The rich always had a bigger 'want' which they harvested by selling 'things' that satisfied those middle class 'wants', that way they could help sustain 'that' uncontrollable urge - to be in a position to tell any government ‘Please No Questions asked’  - just protect us, take this protection money, help us from losing our status , as Rich!

Sarsu smirked as these thoughts rushed though her mind. 

And an inner voice continued the debate   

Take the Americans – a voice inside her seemed to talk - its possible to think that the Americans as a Nation suffer from the same syndrome, the syndrome of the global rich. For most American diplomats at least the legacy of a rich America means ignoring a number of shit around. Be it on the ceiling or underneath or across all sides. What matters is an ability to convolute and bring something completely unacceptable to make the cut and then smoothly be ‘Amercanised’ ( at least by the diplomats) and hence all talk of the 4^th Amendment becomes mundane talk, for American diplomats outside America.  

America needs the money. No matter what. But, let not the world believe that’s the only motivation.

Maybe they do have something common with the good old feelings of Britannica.

Disagree ?

Ask them, non? No? ask them ?

Ask them - To stand up against Saudi Arabia ? Ask them ? C’mon that’s talking like an anti American?  OK, ask them to stand up openly against the South Africans? What about the African crisis ? Or even the Irish conservatives? Who still think Abortion as sin? Ask any of these American politician? Talk to them on Kashmir? Or Lebanon?  On Afghanistan ?

They will put you through a barrage of words so confusing you would have lost track by the time he/she had finished. America and Americanism – outside America – had become the de-facto standard of the way ‘how a rich society should behave’ – convoluted truth, ignore the passion of a Ben Franklin or a Lincoln or even Roosevelt.

What mattered was the great American ‘Status Quo’- Immunity. Backed by impunity. 

Which was so much close to the feelings of the rich and the gangrenous.  

Ok, Don't believe ? Ask Kurt Waldheim ? The U.N Gen Sec ? Don't be surprised if he was walking around with a suicide note.

Kurt Waldheim.. Kurt Waldheim. Kurt Waldheim. 

Badal Sarkar, Badal Sarkar, Badal Sarkar.

The names echoed inside Sarsu's head. Even as the door bell rang again. As she folded her Sunday News paper. 

So wither Daniel ?

The question hung. As she stepped forward to open the door.

It was Mohan. Looking drunk.