James Bond, fascinates everyone. Remember that the real James Bond is a mid level British Civil Servant, who is significantly paid higher than his Indian counterpart. But not really enough to afford the lifestyle Bond seems to be able to have. He gets to drive Ferraris, speedboats, owns and operates many gizmos, romances sexy babes in bikinis, wears shiny white suits.
One day in the life of Desi James Bond starts like this. Wake up to Bhajans from next door; Azan sounds from nearby mosque. Shouts of kabadi vendors and chirping of the rare bird resonate in Delhi’s desolation. He gets inside the mighty small kitchen of the small unimaginatively built CPWD house and makes tea for the whole family. He shakes the sugar bowl and stirs vigorously after emptying the contents into the cup. Not exactly vodka Martini, thought Bond as he proceeds to wake up his son, well in time for school. Morning ablutions come next and a brisk walk in the park among Yoga practitioners who watch Swami Ramadev on daytime TV and other elderly walkers. Bond had a quick shower after that and observed himself in the bathroom mirror. The paunch is showing and the hairline has receded alarmingly. Ursula Andress (Undress ?) wouldn’t be impressed, Bond murmured to himself. In one hour he is ready for office in CGO complex. The world has to be saved from marauding spies, terrorists, assorted wheeler-dealers, thought James Bond as he set out.
As he got into his car, he remembered his first journey in a newly purchased Maruti 800 car 10 years ago in Madras. He had started out in a red T shirt, jeans and dark glasses. Liberal dose of perfume was dabbed on armpits and behind the ears. The AC was on full blast in the car giving relief from the brutal coastal heat outside. Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69 was playing inside loudly. He got out of the Govt colony and manouevred out into the road. No one was following him except the cycle rickshaw carrying steel rods. Immediately a blue Ambassador car hit James Bond’s car and the bumper of the new Maruti went flying exposing its’ front light fittings and bare panel. Anyway James Bond got out of the car and a million dark faces from nearby shops and slums stared back at him and abused him in choices gaalis in Tamil. The abuses in a classical language like Tamil sound quite sweet to the ear- James Bond has a bare recollection …. Start with O…a and T…y…i. something which signified as one who indulges in unnatural and incestuous sex acts with close members of the family. James Bond, shrugged it off, got into the car and drove away. Cool as a cucumber, this guy Bond….. Nothing rattles him much. Gaalis just bounced off like water on a duck’s back.
Ten years later, Delhi’s streets are a breeze as he veers in to the streets in his 6 years old Maruti Zen swearing at the biker who cut across his route. The windshield comes down in a jiffy and smooth words are thrown at the helmeted bike driver whose return abuses in Jat accent could not be heard since the helmet’s visor stifled them a bit. One- Love, Advantage James Bond, he thought as he turned into the BRT corridor. The morning hours are busy near the slums outside the colony. The water Lorry has arrived and there is great activity as the unwashed bare-chested children of Delhi’s jhuggis start out on another pleasant day, defecating on the streets and jostling for water. Buckets were lined up and kids were indulging in cute banter. They hone and polish abuses to such refinement that the MCD schools in Delhi cannot give you the kind of education that the streets provide.
The cheek of Delhi administration, thought James Bond as he got into the main road. They really intend to segregate buses, cars and cycles into separate lanes. He zigzagged cross various lanes (except the cycle lane since it is segregated physically to the footpath. Another late day at office thought James Bond as he sidled close to a DTC bus. A huge blob of dark red liquid shot down from the bus and fell on the top of the car. Bond could hear the loud thud as it fell plonk on top of the car. Thanks to Delhi weather, Bond thought. It is either too hot or too cold as a result, of which the windows are always up. These liquid attacks can’t get to me thought Bond as he swerved into his Office complex, narrowly missing a chartered bus from sidelong collision.
Ramlal was waiting with paan stained mouth greeting him and taking his bag plus Tiffin carrier. (Which contained exactly 2 chappatis, one sabzi , one dal and curd. The missus must have measured it in calories before packing them lest Bond should go out of shape. Why do the Ramlals of the world have to wait in the portico to pick up his Boss’ stuff? It is all about body language, thought Bond. Desi James Bonds are out to save the country from food crises, poverty, insensitive village clerks, corrupt cops and famines. They can’t be spotted carrying their Tiffin box and bag like the Mango people. (Translation- Aam Admi). What would the millions of subjects think of them? Hence Ramlals are necessary to carry stuff, arrange tea, carry files and generally materialize whenever Bond presses a bell. They spend the rest of the time spitting red chewed betel leaves on the white walls, drinking endless cups of tea and smoking bidis in the corridors.
A dull day in Office. File after file were sent up & down with suggestions, recriminations, admonitions and mostly with no comments, just initials. They seem to multiply in number as Bond worked his way through the piles on his table. Some decisions required pretty deep thinking. No cliff hanging moments. No nuclear weapons neutralized agonizing which button to press and which wire to snap, thus saving the planet and pretty babe hanging to his arm. No underwater acrobatics sending murderous sharks to partake in meal largely consisting of the flesh of Russian mafia dons. No betrayal by the Mata hari who would take Bond up the garden path near Qutb’s tomb and betrayed him amid tears. Happens only to the British Civil servants, muttered Bond as he wound up Office and drove precariously home through Delhi’s streets. An evening is spent in son’s homework, watching TV news and synchronized hip shaking by actresses and models in movie clips. The missus calls out for dinner. Another day goes by, thought Bond as Bhajans start sounding from the neighbour’s house signifying an end to the day. James Bond thought deeply whether to fix a strong whisky before dinner. The missus’ reproachful face changed his mind. He had dinner and slept. In the night he had pleasant dreams of wearing shiny suits, driving a Lamborghini and visions of a beauty in skimpy bikini coming out of the sea. He clarified to her that he wasn’t bird watching but just watching…. (To be precise he almost said line maroing) Must have been another time , another place… Bond woke up to another day…
One day in the life of Desi James Bond starts like this. Wake up to Bhajans from next door; Azan sounds from nearby mosque. Shouts of kabadi vendors and chirping of the rare bird resonate in Delhi’s desolation. He gets inside the mighty small kitchen of the small unimaginatively built CPWD house and makes tea for the whole family. He shakes the sugar bowl and stirs vigorously after emptying the contents into the cup. Not exactly vodka Martini, thought Bond as he proceeds to wake up his son, well in time for school. Morning ablutions come next and a brisk walk in the park among Yoga practitioners who watch Swami Ramadev on daytime TV and other elderly walkers. Bond had a quick shower after that and observed himself in the bathroom mirror. The paunch is showing and the hairline has receded alarmingly. Ursula Andress (Undress ?) wouldn’t be impressed, Bond murmured to himself. In one hour he is ready for office in CGO complex. The world has to be saved from marauding spies, terrorists, assorted wheeler-dealers, thought James Bond as he set out.
As he got into his car, he remembered his first journey in a newly purchased Maruti 800 car 10 years ago in Madras. He had started out in a red T shirt, jeans and dark glasses. Liberal dose of perfume was dabbed on armpits and behind the ears. The AC was on full blast in the car giving relief from the brutal coastal heat outside. Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69 was playing inside loudly. He got out of the Govt colony and manouevred out into the road. No one was following him except the cycle rickshaw carrying steel rods. Immediately a blue Ambassador car hit James Bond’s car and the bumper of the new Maruti went flying exposing its’ front light fittings and bare panel. Anyway James Bond got out of the car and a million dark faces from nearby shops and slums stared back at him and abused him in choices gaalis in Tamil. The abuses in a classical language like Tamil sound quite sweet to the ear- James Bond has a bare recollection …. Start with O…a and T…y…i. something which signified as one who indulges in unnatural and incestuous sex acts with close members of the family. James Bond, shrugged it off, got into the car and drove away. Cool as a cucumber, this guy Bond….. Nothing rattles him much. Gaalis just bounced off like water on a duck’s back.
Ten years later, Delhi’s streets are a breeze as he veers in to the streets in his 6 years old Maruti Zen swearing at the biker who cut across his route. The windshield comes down in a jiffy and smooth words are thrown at the helmeted bike driver whose return abuses in Jat accent could not be heard since the helmet’s visor stifled them a bit. One- Love, Advantage James Bond, he thought as he turned into the BRT corridor. The morning hours are busy near the slums outside the colony. The water Lorry has arrived and there is great activity as the unwashed bare-chested children of Delhi’s jhuggis start out on another pleasant day, defecating on the streets and jostling for water. Buckets were lined up and kids were indulging in cute banter. They hone and polish abuses to such refinement that the MCD schools in Delhi cannot give you the kind of education that the streets provide.
The cheek of Delhi administration, thought James Bond as he got into the main road. They really intend to segregate buses, cars and cycles into separate lanes. He zigzagged cross various lanes (except the cycle lane since it is segregated physically to the footpath. Another late day at office thought James Bond as he sidled close to a DTC bus. A huge blob of dark red liquid shot down from the bus and fell on the top of the car. Bond could hear the loud thud as it fell plonk on top of the car. Thanks to Delhi weather, Bond thought. It is either too hot or too cold as a result, of which the windows are always up. These liquid attacks can’t get to me thought Bond as he swerved into his Office complex, narrowly missing a chartered bus from sidelong collision.
Ramlal was waiting with paan stained mouth greeting him and taking his bag plus Tiffin carrier. (Which contained exactly 2 chappatis, one sabzi , one dal and curd. The missus must have measured it in calories before packing them lest Bond should go out of shape. Why do the Ramlals of the world have to wait in the portico to pick up his Boss’ stuff? It is all about body language, thought Bond. Desi James Bonds are out to save the country from food crises, poverty, insensitive village clerks, corrupt cops and famines. They can’t be spotted carrying their Tiffin box and bag like the Mango people. (Translation- Aam Admi). What would the millions of subjects think of them? Hence Ramlals are necessary to carry stuff, arrange tea, carry files and generally materialize whenever Bond presses a bell. They spend the rest of the time spitting red chewed betel leaves on the white walls, drinking endless cups of tea and smoking bidis in the corridors.
A dull day in Office. File after file were sent up & down with suggestions, recriminations, admonitions and mostly with no comments, just initials. They seem to multiply in number as Bond worked his way through the piles on his table. Some decisions required pretty deep thinking. No cliff hanging moments. No nuclear weapons neutralized agonizing which button to press and which wire to snap, thus saving the planet and pretty babe hanging to his arm. No underwater acrobatics sending murderous sharks to partake in meal largely consisting of the flesh of Russian mafia dons. No betrayal by the Mata hari who would take Bond up the garden path near Qutb’s tomb and betrayed him amid tears. Happens only to the British Civil servants, muttered Bond as he wound up Office and drove precariously home through Delhi’s streets. An evening is spent in son’s homework, watching TV news and synchronized hip shaking by actresses and models in movie clips. The missus calls out for dinner. Another day goes by, thought Bond as Bhajans start sounding from the neighbour’s house signifying an end to the day. James Bond thought deeply whether to fix a strong whisky before dinner. The missus’ reproachful face changed his mind. He had dinner and slept. In the night he had pleasant dreams of wearing shiny suits, driving a Lamborghini and visions of a beauty in skimpy bikini coming out of the sea. He clarified to her that he wasn’t bird watching but just watching…. (To be precise he almost said line maroing) Must have been another time , another place… Bond woke up to another day…
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