“So what next folks?” Whispered the fledgling leftist rebel. He wore a Che Guevara T-shirt and a cheerful face. He didn’t possess the solemn visage of a sophisticated left-liberal. His hair wasn’t long, he didn’t wear spectacles. He didn’t smell like a rodent and had no fancies for sling bags. “What do we do now folks?” Chintan the young lefty spoke again.
“First things first boy, stop FOLKING us. We are not folks. We are Indian Leftists, we are called comrades and that’s what you call us. COMRADES. Com because we are communists and red because red is the colour of revolution. COMRADE. Is that clear?” Sayantan the senior lefty blasted. He looked every inch of an Indian leftist. Messy hair, unkempt beard that had more salt than pepper, big horn-rimmed spectacles that to a certain extent accentuated his small lifeless eyes. He wore a khaddar kurta and smelt like a Billy Goat.
“Okay okay, Dada Comrade, I get your point, we are Indian leftists. But my point is what do we do next?” Chintan yielded without much of a fight. As a leftist student union leader, He only disrespected the status quo but held the old Indian leftists in high esteem.
“Much better. See folks Yakub Memon is dead. RSS is not doing Ghar Waapsi at this time. Maoists are out of news. There is no statement by Modi which we can modify into a misogynist rant. So we are motiveless pretty much” Sayantan Dada sighed. Underneath his glasses, his eyes winked frantically.
“What should we broadcast then? Should we carry on with Yakub Memon case?” Asked Fatima, prime time reporter of a leading news channel.
“Yes sister, for now keep dragging the topic. That’s what we Indian Leftists excel at. Maybe yack a little bit about Vyapam too but do not over drag Vyapam, Congressis haven’t given a clear go ahead and do not mention Lalit Modi at all, that rascal has started releasing photos of THE family with him” Old Comrade explained.
“Shucks” Said Fatima.
“What about our NGOs comrade dada?” Asked Ranjana, whose Bindi covered most of her forehead. “I am broke. I have no money. I went to L’Oréal the other day, they say that they cannot give me the poor and irritated look unless I shell out twenty grands. Is this what we have come to?” Ranjana sobbed inconsolably.
“Don’t cry my child, we’ll get some foreign backing…I’ll get you some money to make you look poor again. This Fascist government is killing us. They have sealed our accounts. But big daddies in the US and Europe have pledged support to Indian leftists.” Sayantan Dada consoled.
“Okay comrades, give me a cause to revolt against. I have a frigging college union to feed” Chintan’s power of endurance broke down.
“You can join the FTII protests in Delhi. I know you are unqualified to do that but who cares? You failed all your papers last year but again we don’t care. All you need to say is that Gajendra Chauhan is unqualified to head FTII. Is that cool?” Sayantan Dada excelled at the art of solving problems.
“And Fatima, get them maximum coverage. And invite Ranjana for a TV debate on this issue. Get her some money from your production house or tell them we’ll protest against them.” Sayantan Dada solved two problems in one go.
“Sounds good” Fatima said and Ranjana chuckled.
“Beer on me” said Fatima.
“Oh! I totally forgot, we are in a bar. I’ll have an Anarchy beer” Said Ranjana.
“Me too” said Sayantan
“I want Anarchy beer too” said Chintan.
“Same here” said Fatima.
The waiter served them pints of icy cold Anarchy beers, and over a round of chilled beer began a hot discussion of disruptions, bandhs and dharna.
“To Revolution” Said Sayantan holding his beer like a trophy.
“Viva la Revolucion” said one and all.