Napunsakism?

© 2013 IAM. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/19/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3477-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3476-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3475-6 (e)

Library of Congresss Control Number: 2013920956

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Glossary

Thank you for the people of India; for those who have crossed my path – indirectly inspiring the thoughts for this book; to those who might be inspired by this book.

Thanks,

IAM

Preface

Napunsak Revolution of India is a modern satire that compels one to reflect on where India is heading as a nation and a democracy. It is a gripping tale, narrated by the lead character, Alfred Colmer, a young entrepreneur from the United Kingdom. He settles in India, sets up a mall on his ancestral land, and goes on to become India’s youngest billionaire.

An Indian gave the land to his grandfather during the British regime. However, the only connection that Alfred has with his family’s past is his grandfather’s diary, which delves into the depths of the social fabric belonging to the era of heroes and the era of losers.

Alfred chooses to give everything up and becomes a backpacker to discover the real India beyond the ornate travel brochures and plush itineraries. He forms a core team who combine performing arts with a well-etched strategy to set things right, manoeuvring through the channels of bureaucracy, corruption, and lawlessness.

The journey lands Alfred Colmer in a grimy mess of interacting with the five Ps which seem to screw up the democracy of India—priests (religion), principals (education), police (law), politicians (governance), and press (media). Having zeroed in on these, Alfred Colmer sets out to form a core team that will shake the nation from the slumber of complacency through the alacrity of a live news show staged on roadsides called, Tamaacha Times. (Tamaacha means ‘slap’ in Hindi.)

The Tamaacha Times is much more than another street theatre dishing out the latest news and sarcastic skits. The performances eventually become a platform for people to express their angst and resolve to set things straight. They bring local issues to the fore and offer practical solutions. The lawmakers can do nothing to stop this revolution, as it is led by a bevy of housewives, students, and executives from every age group and walk of life demanding the basic rights of every citizen.

The five Ps, feel threatened by this revolution and congregate to find a way out from this nuisance. They approach Alfred Colmer and his aide, Layla, luring them with the charms of wealth and power. When everything else fails, they try breaking up this revolution which empowers Indian citizens with the aphrodisiac of a common goal—to make the country corruption-free.

Alfred Colmer and Layla, a ballet dancer, form a group consisting of roadside musicians, performers, and regional writers. It is also a place for philosophers and professors abandoned by the literary world; painters, sculptors, and graffiti artists with the fire of rebellion in their bellies; dancers and actors with a spark of angst in their eyes and the thunder of anger in their lithe limbs; and singers and hosts with rage in their voices.

The goal of Tamaacha Times is to stir up a non-violent revolution which practices what it preaches. It shakes people from their comfort zone and throws them into the world, ready to face the bitter truths of the nation head-on. It makes one ponder questions which are often swept under the carpet to keep living in the delusional world of a shining India.

The five Ps become the sworn enemies of Tamaacha Times. These antagonists fail to realize that there’s much below the surface of street plays and news skits. A backup plan of igniting a revolution that would change the way people perceive the five Ps proves to be the only hope for Alfred Colmer when his revolution falls like a house of cards. Layla eventually betrays Alfred Colmer at a time when he needs her the most. Soon, each member of the Tamaacha Times ditches Alfred, leaving him in the lurch and making him embrace a world he despises.

As a billionaire, Alfred Colmer has romanced money up close and personal, but the mistress called power is for a stranger to him. He gives into the temptation of the five Ps, hence spelling the doom of the revolution. It is now called ‘napunsak’; that is, impotent. But, like the saying goes, ‘Change is the only constant’. The Napunsak Revolution of India gives way to yet another change—the backup plan of Alfred Colmer.

The backup plan reveals the other side of Alfred which no one else is aware of, and to a certain extent, neither is he. Who is the real Alfred Colmer? Does a nation known as a Third World country have the potential to return to what it once was, deemed the golden sparrow of the world? The story asks what it will take to bring the glory back to a nation which requires revolution at a grassroots level. A stranger warns Alfred that he will be betrayed, and the people who betray him would be the last ones he’d suspect. Will Alfred Colmer ever realize the dream of India he and his grandfather aspired to? Will the populace discover strength in themselves through the revolution as a napunsak revolution? Continue reading to embark upon the exciting journey of Alfred Colmer, India’s youngest billionaire and perhaps the leader the nation deserves.

Chapter 1

It’s often said that the darkest hour of the night is right before dawn. The saying proved to be true in my case but with a twist—the brightest hour of the day is before dusk. When I needed freedom the most, I was incarcerated. I was arrested under the charges of instigating violence, threatening the top leaders of the nation, and illegal drug trafficking. They also accused me of sexually exploiting a woman who had come for an interview at my company and a volley of other charges.

I called up Sumeet, whom I still trusted as a friend and colleague, but his cell phone was switched off. During my stay in India, I learned that no one will protect you as long as you are an alien. Any mean person can betray the trust you gave him at any given point of time. I missed the sketch guy who used to warn me through revealing the bad traits of people in his sketches. I wondered where he was at this hour of crisis. He could have warned me about this incident, but my overconfident behaviour didn’t earn his trust.

My appointed so-called lawyer didn’t divulge who betrayed me. I wanted to know the person’s name but had no way of figuring it out. The court sentenced me to lifetime imprisonment—that is, fourteen years.

A lifetime imprisonment, milord? I asked, aghast at the proceedings. I have just one wish before I am thrown behind bars.

The judge asked me to express my desire clearly.

I looked at everyone in the courtroom and said, I want to narrate my story as a testimony.

But you have already been sentenced.

It’s just a simple request, milord. Maybe it will shed some light on this case, I said.

The court does not need any more insights into this case.

But the nation does.

There was a huge clamour. Everyone cried out in my support. The judge struck his gavel, yelling, Order, order, at the top of his voice. And then he said, You may proceed.

I looked around and bowed my head towards the judge for considering the request, which he could have easily dismissed given his power and position. I saw the sketch guy walking in with his charcoal and sketchbook, and this gave me hope for his patience towards me. I could still recall the day I was sitting at home in India, where my story starts.

Sir, there’s an invitation for you, my maid, Savita, informed me.

Throw it away! I growled, unmindful of the fact that this invite could lead to a eureka moment.

I dialled a few numbers on my mobile in a desperate attempt to strike up a conversation to kill my dull loneliness. This effort served no purpose other than to instigate me to drink yet another peg of Old Monk. The invitation card fluttered in the wind, annoying me to no end, and then it fell on the floor.

Savita! I told you to throw this thing away! I yelled.

There was no response, so I picked it up and tossed aside. The word ‘ballet’ caught my fancy. I remembered how I used to marvel at the sight of ballet dancers in London, and I called up and confirmed my attendance.

It had been over a decade since I had gone to a ballet. The slender limbs of beautiful women transform into flocculent feathers, and feminine grace ensnares the senses, as if there are a million fingers that want to feel the body of a living human before their soul leaves. I fell hopelessly for a dancer called Layla.

Her name was no secret from me, as almost everyone in the audience was sighing and crying out her name. I had to meet this woman. She was more than the dance she was performing. She had style. She had grace. And she had attitude and oodles of oomph.

Can I take a few minutes of yours? I knocked on the dressing room door and spoke in the most polite tone, almost begging.

Are you from the press?

Nope, I said, sighing about being put into a bracket of the dreadful five Ps which were swindling the proud Indian nation.

No fan boys allowed, sir, she quipped.

I am not a fan boy, but a slave.

A slave of what?

Your dance.

And… ?

Your beauty. I took a step further.

And?

Your grace. I was drawing near to her now. The faint perfume of lilac blended with her sweat and enveloped the green room. I never knew female perspiration could be an aphrodisiac until then. I had the most passionate erection of my life, and it was so visible that her eyes glanced across my groin and she smiled.

You seem too happy to see me, she remarked.

I sat beside her, embarrassed to no bounds. I knew my nose must have turned red. Whenever I get a sudden hormonal surge, it does that.

I must look like a clown! I said, and I bit my tongue in further embarrassment, picking up a rose from a bouquet beside me and offering it to her.

It’s difficult to figure out whether your nose is redder or… she said, teasing me.

She looked at me in the eyes and asked, What’s your name, Mr Red Nose?

We both broke into laughter. She played with her hair for a while, looking at me seductively. The moment seemed to last for an eternity. She suddenly held my hands and in her lap for few seconds and then suddenly stood up, as if jolted by lightening.

What happened? I asked.

"Your eyes tell me that you want me, and I am surprised that I am even entertaining a stranger in my green room.

My blood pressure skyrocketed. I mustered up the courage and said in a single breath, Look, lady, I admit to being completely smitten by your charm and your carefree attitude. But let me make it very clear that I have no intention of having sex with you.

Do you think you could actually do that if you wanted to? Who do you think you are—some James Bond type? Do you think you’ll be able to display gentlemanly (or not-so-gentlemanly) charm, sweep me off my feet, and get to screw me? Get out of this room, or else I’ll have to call security, she demanded.

I was struck by this sudden change in her attitude. The woman who was floating with me on a reef a few seconds before was now warning