Ratapani REJECTS Bhopal Development Plan: Citizens of the Jungle Lodge Protest

 

Ratapani REJECTS Bhopal Development Plan:

Citizens of the Jungle Lodge Protest

Sher Singh, the King of Ratapani Tiger Reserve, convened an emergency General Body (GB) meeting of his citizens and addressed them with an introductory growl and a non-threatening roar.

“Dear Citizens of our Great Jungle. Today, we have assembled to deliberate upon a most serious matter: the Bhopal Development Plan 2047, recently notified by humans. Minister for External Affairs will now brief you on the BDP.”

The Golden Jackal—smart, clever, well-informed and alert—rose, bowed to the King, and said,

“BDP is a very long document, monotonous to read and difficult to comprehend, with numerous Tables, Maps, Boxes, and more than a hundred acronyms. But we don’t have all night to go through all the details. So, I’ll present a brief summary.

The BDP is just like all previous plans by humans for themselves. It protects and furthers the interests of all stickholders.”

The Hyena interrupted. “You mean stakeholders?”

“No, stickholders; I choose my words with care,” replied the Jackal. As in जिसकी लाठी उसकी भैंस—Might is Right!”

“Why are humans still besotted with भैंस in this age of packaged milk delivered at doorstep in minutes?” tweeted the irreverent Myna, but swiftly silenced by a stern, censorious look from the Jackal who summed up the BDP:

“They want MORE of everything: land, water, energy, roads, buildings, factories, malls, hotels, clubs, entertainment zones.”

“Does it concern us?” Some of you might wonder.

“It does. It means LESS of everything for us: forest, land, safe corridors for movement, water, food, and even breeding space.

Moreover, humans have consistently demonstrated their failure to plan and live sensibly. Why else would they poison the land, water, and air which nourish and sustain all life including their own?

Therefore, we must OPPOSE and REJECT the Plan.”

Sher Singh signalled to Bhalu, the wizened Chair of the Cabinet Committee, to present the Draft Resolution for discussion, if any, and approval by the GB.

Bhalu rose to his full, imperious height on his hind legs and said, “The Cabinet Committee has unanimously recommended the following Resolution:

Our Objection, in one word: NO.

Our Suggestion to humans, in three words: Go to Mars.

Our Vision: To overthrow the hegemony of the greedy, rapacious Homo sapiens and Make Jungle Land Great Again!

“Feel free to voice your opinions and concerns,” the King told the GB.

Teetar toned down her shrill voice and said as softly as possible, “May I humbly submit that the concerns of the smallest of our citizens be kept in mind? Fireflies are blinded by too much artificial light at night; bees and butterflies are starved of wild flowers; porcupines have nowhere to dig burrows in the concrete jungle of men; ground-nesting birds have no grassland or shrubs in which to build their nests and raise their young. Why, even the shy earthworm is deprived of a tiny patch of land to till.”

Bhalu rose again. “Very valid points raised by the eloquent Teetar. The Cabinet Committee has indeed considered at length the impact of the Plan on all citizens of the Jungle, including trees, plants and grasses. The earthworm is covered in Annexure 4.”

“Annexure 4?” asked Teetar.

“Annexure 4,” Bhalu repeated, with finality.

“If we oppose and resist the humans, won’t they call us mutineers or jungle naxals?” asked the reclusive Porcupine.

“We answer to Nature’s Rules, and not to rules made by humans for humans. Let there be no doubt about this,” roared the King.

There was a brief silence. Thereafter, the Resolution was unanimously adopted.

Sher Singh spoke. “Now, let us discuss our Strategy to meet this fresh threat from the humans. Tendua, Chief of Counter-intelligence, Surgical Strikes and RAW, will present the proposed Strategy.”

Tendua, lean and agile, sprang to his feet. “After careful evaluation of all options available to us, the following Strategic Plan has the highest potential for success:

Direct Action: We are unable to submit a written objection, or even send an email to the notified Joint Director. True, some friendly forest officials are voicing our concerns, but the authorities unceremoniously dismiss them as junglees. Therefore, we must take Direct Action.

“After this meeting, we shall proceed to the gates of Ratapani Reserve and deposit huge mounds of scat to register our protest against the Plan. A Committee on Scat Logistics, under the Sambar, will coordinate the operation. Every citizen will contribute according to capacity, and the Bears are requested to contribute in bulk. Contribution from Jungle Safari elephants is also solicited.

After nightfall today, Flying Foxes (commonly known as Fruit Bats) of Kamla Park near Bhopal Taal will execute a top-secret stealth operation, the details of which will be shared after the success of the mission.

Surgical Strikes: Specially trained commandos from my army will launch guerrilla attacks, or surgical strikes, if you please, on human colonies carved out of our ancient jungle land. However, my commandos will NOT resort to any violence, but merely terrorise the humans.”

The Langur asked, rather timidly, whether “terrorise” and “non-violent” could coexist. Bhalu ruled that the Committee had always favoured dialogue, and the matter was not pursued.

After detailed discussion, the GB approved the following additional actions, over and above the military and sleuth action proposed by Tendua:

Non-Cooperation Movement: If the Scat Protest and the Surgical Strikes do not dissuade the humans from implementing their mindless Plan, citizens of Ratapani will BOYCOTT the Jungle Safaris. All animals, birds and even butterflies will go into hiding, maintaining complete silence. This would ruin the tourist economy of humans.

March to Bhopal: If our territory is annexed by force and our corridors are shut down, we shall proceed on a silent March to Bhopal on a designated date.

A revered Jain Sadhu who was in Ratapani jungles for chaturmas blessed the March, and graciously offered to lead it to dissuade humans from violent reprisal and coercive action. Sher Singh thanked him for his compassion but sought his blessings for the proud and self-sufficient citizens of the Jungle to fight their own battle.   

Our Protest will be entirely PEACEFUL and our March entirely NON-VIOLENT. Even if there is provocation or use of force by the oppressors, we will remain non-violent and be ready to sacrifice our lives, if needed.

(AI-image by CoPilot, basis Blogger's story and prompts)

Media Coverage: This will be a historic occasion, a March that the world has never before seen. Our junglee friends have assured that the event will be covered by the Guinness World Records, WWF and other sensible, sympathetic organisations.

At the end, Sher Singh gave a deafening roar and called upon the jungle citizens:

“Awake. Arise. Protest against the unjust, oppressive rule by humans. We have resolved to fight for our FREEDOM; for Freedom from Hunger, Freedom to Propagate, and Freedom of Movement are our inalienable RIGHTS.”

“What is ‘propagate’?” whispered the Langur.

“Ask the Committee,” whispered the Sambar.

The rest of the King’s roar was lost in the sound of a distant JCB.

---

Next morning, the office of the Joint Director, Bhopal Development Plan, received a large consignment at its gate. Work commenced only after the premises were thoroughly cleaned and certified fit for human use.

“This nasty protest is inhuman, uncivilised and unacceptable. It must be summarily rejected,” suggested the Receipt Clerk.

The judicious Joint Director sent a sample for forensic analysis. Upon receiving a report that the material had been deposited prior to midnight, he ordered:

“Objections filed by Anonymous Parties within designated date and time: RECEIVED.”

***

#Ratapani #WildlifeConservation #EnvironmentalSatire #BhopalDevelopment Plan2047 #humanwildlifeconflict 

A Modest Ravana: An Unusual Dussehra Story

Affluent Dussehra Samitis erect huge effigies of Ravana and the accompanying demons, their size perhaps a mirror image of the organisers’ egos and influence.

The tallest Ravana at Bhopal this Dussehra is a towering, imperious effigy of 105 feet. The modest Ravana I’m talking about is a little less than four feet.

“Uncle, will you give me some puttha, cello tape, and white paper?” Lucky asked.

“What for?” asked Uncle.

“We are making Ravana.”

“Check the washing machine area, the corner where discarded packing material waits for kabadi sale. Take what you need.”

Later, Lucky got the cello tape roll and a few sheets of white paper.

Lucky and Satyam got down to work, and twice a day—during the morning walk and after-dinner stroll—they reported their progress to their cardboard-and-cello-tape donor.

Two days before Vijaya Dashami, Lucky casually mentioned, “I’ll ask my Dad for 50 rupees, and Satyam will bring 70 rupees for the firecrackers to be stuffed inside the effigy.”

“We need a little help.”

“Go ahead. What do you need?”

“We’re making the central head. Will you please print the nine subsidiary heads?”

“Okay, remind me tomorrow after breakfast.”

Uncle was reminded. He downloaded a Ravana head from Wikimedia, got it pre-approved by the boys, and proceeded to print. Alas, his colour cartridge was spent. He tried to print in B&W, but a recent software update and laptop reboot had erased the printer settings, and the boys were getting impatient.

“How much would it cost to get the heads printed from the photocopier shop?”

“No idea, but a colour print costs 10 rupees,” said Lucky.

“Okay. Here’s my donation for the Ravana project.” Uncle gave 100 rupees. “Will this do?”

They got all ten heads printed—one in colour and nine in B&W—for 50 rupees.

(Ravana with his Makers- Lucky and Satyam)

“We spent the rest on more crackers,” said Satyam.

“Total cost of your project?”

“Less than 300 rupees.”

“Where is the venue?”

“The vacant plot next to H 84.”

“Time?”

“7 pm, so that after our event we may go to the Baghmugalia Dussehra maidan. This year, the effigies are taller than last year. Ravana, Kumbhakarna, and Meghnad are already standing tall.”

“Who will kill your Ravana?”

The boys hadn’t yet decided.

“How about making Sheetal and Shilpi Ram and Sita?”

Shilpi, who was present, grabbed Sita’s role; so, Sheetal, who was at home, would have to be Ram.

Chathi Lal, Shilpi’s four-year old cousin, would be Hanuman, it was unanimously decided. Chathi Lal had never been Hanuman, but he accepted the honour with a hesitant smile.

(Sita and Ram. Chathi Lal was AWOL, so his little sister joined in as the youngest of the Vanar Sena)

(Ram Leela Mandali)

Does evil come in different sizes?

What if the boys had made Ravana’s heads themselves, instead of downloading them from the net? Would some of them have looked a bit like the school bully, and a rather unkind teacher?

---

 

 

The Basket Weaver of Bittan Market

On the way from Shahpura to Bittan market, you may notice bamboo weavers at work on the pavement by the fencing wall of Paryavaran Parisar and the Regional Museum of Natural History. Migrant artisans, they have lived here for decades, making and selling bamboo baskets—once essential, now eclipsed by cheaper plastic products. They craft kites for Makar Sankranti, lightweight coir-and-bamboo slings for painters scaling tall buildings, and Ravana effigies for Dussehra—their annual week of brisk sales. The effigies vary in size to suit every budget. Affluent Dussehra Samitis of Bhopal commission towering Ravanas fabricated by artisans brought in from Jaipur and elsewhere, costing several lakhs. The humble bamboo weavers of Bittan market are never invited to such grand projects.

Among them, one figure stood apart. If you have lived in Bhopal for a few years, you might have seen her—a frail, diminutive, old weaver at work. Wrinkled, ebony-black skin; thick, curly, snow-white hair, unkempt for months, perhaps years, clipped now and then by her son or grandson.

Years ago, she sat with her family beside the boundary wall. Later, she was seen under the shade of a tree across the road, working alone. Did she choose solitude, or was she moved there because of the indignity of age and frailty?

By then, she was possibly in her eighties. Her back bent, her eyesight failing, yet her fingers remained sure. Every day she wove baskets—only baskets. Her family worked across the road and brought her food at mealtimes.

(ChatGPT read my piece, and upon my request created an image, and edited it further basis my prompts.)

She spent her days weaving, her nights inside a small, tattered tarpaulin tent beneath the tree. No one spoke to her. She spoke to none. Her work was a silent meditation.

Given bamboo strips, she wove them into baskets. Her family sold them. At what price? She had no idea.

Was she happy? Was she lonely? Difficult to say. The wrinkles on her face revealed nothing. Her eyes never strayed from her work. The world rushed past, unnoticed. The basket in her hands was taking shape. All was well with the world.

After the Covid lockdown, she was no longer seen. Her little tarpaulin hut had vanished.

On my way from Bittan market to Baghmugalia, past SBI, Shahpura, and Arera Colony, I often wished to stop, to speak with her, perhaps take a photograph. But I didn’t. Why intrude on her privacy, disturb her peace? Her family might have resented it. And the busy roundabout near Paryavaran Parisar offered no place to park.

I wish I had.

***

#Bhopal #BasketWeaving #StreetArtisans #IndianCrafts

 

The Secret Library

A forgotten storeroom, a mound of specimen books, and a young reader’s secret treasure. This is the story of a library that never existed—except for one devoted borrower.

It was a strange library, with a modest collection of about thirty slim paperbacks, neither indexed nor arranged in any order. It had no librarian, no catalogue, no borrower, and no 'Issue' & 'Return' Register. A secret library, with access to only a single reader.

No, the books were neither porn nor banned, subversive literature. Each was an anthology of select short stories, essays, and poems by eminent English authors.

Why, then, was the library secret? Because the reader and keeper had bought none of these books, but borrowed them from his professor—and forgotten to return them.

The Professor was erudite, a respected scholar, and a much‑loved veteran teacher. Every working day, he pedalled his old bicycle at an unhurried pace to the university, three kilometres from his bungalow. On weekends and holidays, he spent all his waking hours in the spacious veranda, reclining on a long chair with a stack of books on a little tea‑table beside him. He spoke little, even to his wife and sons, and only when necessary.

The young man, still in his teens, had begun college. On holidays, he walked to the Professor’s bungalow, nestled between the Medical College and the PG Hostel—not to meet the Professor, but his third son, a classmate.

They discussed books, syllabus, and miscellaneous 'study' matters, while a vigilant mother in the adjoining kitchen tracked their conversation as she chopped vegetables. Her son’s new friend seemed harmless, but was still an untested commodity. What if he had bad habits and corrupted her innocent boy?

When they stepped out for a stroll on the quiet streets of the small town, the boys discussed girls—cautiously at first, then with abandon. The innocent son relished his disciplined diet of only one fag a day.

During a long summer vacation, the young man was hungry for books but couldn’t afford to buy any, nor did he have access to a library. One day, he discovered in the Professor’s house an odd storeroom without racks or almirahs, its floor littered with hundreds of books—bundles toppled over by arrogant new arrivals. The books had formed a central mound and several subsidiary mounds, as though awaiting a bonfire.

"Why are these books on the floor? What are they, anyway?" he asked his friend.

"Oh, just specimen copies. Every year, publishers send five copies of each anthology they finance and publish, hoping Dad will prescribe them as textbooks. He’s Chair of the Syllabus Committee."

The Professor picked up one from the new bundles, glanced at the contents, noted that the currently prescribed books were better representatives of great writing, and dismissed the bundle to the store. He had no idea what happened thereafter, nor did he care.

The Committee’s policy was to prescribe new books only once every five years. Established publishers loved that; hopeful new ones didn’t, and kept sending five copies each year, praying for better luck. Textbooks, after all, are the bread and butter of publishing.

"May I take a look at these books?" "Sure, go ahead."

Every visit, he navigated the jungle, careful not to step on a book for fear of displeasing Ganesha and Saraswati. He picked one, browsed, borrowed, read, and returned it before taking the next.

How could he not fall in love with anthologies of fascinating stories, one‑act plays, and essays? One day, reading a humorous story on the bus, he laughed so loudly that fellow passengers turned to stare.

In each anthology, the icing on the cake was the brief but cogent 'Introduction' by the Chief Editor, usually a renowned professor—quite useful for exams and impressing the examiner.

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing these gems, and forgot to return them. His conscience never raised a red flag: he had borrowed just one out of a bundle of five. Who knew if the heap had twenty or more of this title?

After a year or two, a raddiwala was summoned to clean up the store, making room for fresh arrivals. He stuffed the decaying books into jute bags, paying a nominal amount since the cheap paper had turned brittle, unfit even for paper bags. Perhaps the chanazor garam vendor or paan‑sellers used it to serve customers.

Though he visited his friend’s house regularly for five years, the secret library’s inventory remained capped at thirty for two reasons. First, during his post‑graduation years, he enjoyed access to the well‑stocked university library. Second, the small bedroom‑cum‑study at E‑24/2, shared with his younger sister, had just two built‑in racks for miscellaneous items including their course books, and were already filled to capacity.

So, was it a stolen library? "No," protests the young man.

"A book is meant to be read, and I had read and re‑read these books. They had become dear to me. I couldn’t bear to lose my friends.

What if I sometimes forgot to return them? Didn’t I save my dear friends from a life‑term in that condemned cell?

My Professor is no more. But I guess he’d have accorded post‑facto approval to my Secret Library."

***

Postscript

Upon reading this blog, Madan- a dear friend- remembered his summer vacation days in the 1970s in Delhi, mostly spent in reading Jasoosi Duniya and similar books for 5 or 10 naya paisa a day.

I, too, recalled the books I borrowed from Ashok Badpanda, my classmate in Class-8, George High School, Bargarh for 10 naya paisa for two days. Failure to return on the due date had a penalty of 5 paise a day which was unaffordable. That might have taught me speed reading, to focus on the core story and ignore the verbiage; which came very handy in professional life.

I called Ashok and had a leisurly chat reminiscing those days of simple joys.

How many books did you have, Ashok? I asked.

"About 70, I guess."

"What inspired you to begin a library at that early age?"

"Well, I loved reading fiction, noted that many friends were hungry for books, and began my library by borrowing a few well-thumbed books from my father and his friends. I read Hindi fiction, too, and helped many friends to learn Hindi to enjoy the books in my collection."

I recalled my addiction for the dacoit series- Dasyu Nayika Meera, Dasyu Robin- and Chakranta- the detective series.

"Did I ever tell you that I read so many books from your library that I nearly flunked in maths in Class 8 annual exam? Also, the rent for books came from my meagre pocket money for snacks during the recess!"

 

A Surprise Visit

In a major tribal district of Madhya Pradesh, a young woman in a simple cotton saree, unaccompanied, walked into a police station one hot summer afternoon. The thana was forlorn and unusually quiet. She entered the Thanedar’s room to find the Inspector fast asleep, feet on the office table, rifle stacked carelessly in a corner.

“Thanedar Sa’ab,” she called. He was enjoying his siesta, perhaps after imbibing mahua, and roused himself most reluctantly after several calls. Still groggy, he asked, “Bai, bol, kya kaam hai? Sidhe kamre mein kyun ghus aayi? Koi katal ho gaya kya?”

“I’m the DM, here to inspect this thana. Where is everybody? Why are you sleeping in the office, and why is your rifle lying in that corner? Someone could easily steal it,” she said.

The startled Thanedar sprang to his feet, managed a hasty salute, and rushed out to summon his subordinates for the lady DM’s surprise inspection.

Afterward, she returned to headquarters and issued suspension orders. A few days later, the Chief Secretary circulated the incident to all District Collectors as an example of how field officials should be kept on their toes.

Sarita, a popular Hindi monthly, carried the story with the eye-catching caption: Lady DM visits Thana in guise of a tribal woman.

That was long ago. Recently, I asked the senior colleague, “Did you really go in disguise as a tribal woman?”

“No,” she smiled. “I was new in the district, and had left my jeep and staff a little away from the thana. How could the sleeping Thanedar have guessed the DM would walk in alone? There was no need for disguise.”

***

#TrueStory #CivilService #Governance #Leadership #MadhyaPradesh 

NAPOLEON DINED HERE!

 

NAPOLEON DINED HERE!

In 2000 on our way to Washington, I and my colleague broke journey for a day for a rapid tour of Paris, a city which neither of us had visited.

After checking into the hotel, we took a quick shower and headed for the city, where we boarded an open-to-sky bus for a group tour of four hours of the major sights of the city. When the tour finished at a city square, it was time for lunch.

We had eaten a sumptuous breakfast at the hotel and weren’t particularly hungry, but noted that the restaurants were filled with diners having a leisurely lunch over wine or beer.

‘How about lunch? Since we’d hang about the town till evening, why don’t we take a bite and then resume our sight-seeing?’ I said. My colleague agreed. We looked for a restaurant which was not too crowded and could serve us promptly. We didn’t plan to spend hours at lunch.

Let’s go in there, I said. 
‘Why? What’s special about that one?’
‘Read the signage.’
The bill-board announced in big, bold letters, ‘NAPOLEON DINED HERE!’

We went in. The interior was painted in bright red, possibly to proclaim its heritage, but was forlorn, with only a few tables occupied. Even the few guests who were dining didn’t seem thrilled about their meal. The high and mighty of France, and even regular tourists, no longer seemed to favour the joint.

The server led us to a table towards the back of the restaurant. Can we take this one, please, I asked, pointing at a table near the entrance and with a view of the busy road and the promenade? Sure, he said, though with some reluctance and visible annoyance.

Menu, please?
There, on your table, was his curt reply.
He had guessed that the two gentlemen unaccompanied by ladies were unlikely to spend much at lunch.

We picked up the flyer, as thin as the paper napkins on the table and looking rather cheap, and scanned the menu. Each item was prohibitively expensive, and even a modest meal comprising an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, excluding drinks, would cost at least €30 per head, which was way beyond our budget. Let’s have a beer and a sandwich each, I suggested. That would cost €28 for both of us, still rather expensive, yet cheaper than a larger meal.

We placed the order, which took quite some time to arrive. Waiting to be served, I read the little write up on the back of the flyer which told that Le Procope, Brasserie is the ‘Oldest Café and Restaurant in Paris, fonde en (Founded in) 1686, and Napoleon had dined at this restaurant. No history book might have recorded if Napoleon had indeed dined at this restaurant, but which tourist had time or inclination to do a fact check? Back at home, they’d have the bragging rights to tell family and friends of having dined in an ancient heritage restaurant at Paris!

The server brought the beer and the sandwich together; the beer being tepid and the sandwich rather soggy and slim, provoking my friend to observe that the sandwich might even be from Napoleon’s era. We munched it willy-nilly and guzzled our beer fast to end the frugal lunch and resume our sight-seeing.

When we finished, I beckoned the server for the cheque, with which he was ready. We were economy diners, and he wanted us out as fast as possible. I settled the bill (joint expense, joint accounting), leaving behind a ten percent tip with much disinclination owing to the below par food and the lousy ambience.

Before leaving, I asked the server, ‘May I keep a copy of your menu card, please?’ He pretended to be a bit startled, thought for a few seconds, and then bent down to whisper in my ear, ‘It is our policy not to give this to our customers, but for you I’ll make an exception,’ and he winked mischievously at me. I got he was much amused, and the Indian tourists who ate little and paid less than the fifteen percent tip he was expecting wanted a souvenir from the hallowed restaurant.

Since you plan to keep it as a souvenir, may I make a little correction, said my colleague, took out his pen and crossed from the banner headline one letter from a word, and putting a comma, scribbled a few words. 

The promo now read ‘NAPOLEON DIED HERE, after eating a sandwich!

***

 

 

 

A Tale of a Troubled Lamppost

Since when have lampposts begun telling tales, you might ask? Indian literary tradition permits animals and trees to tell moral tales—as in Jataka Tales, Panchatantra, and Kathāsaritsāgara—but never has such honour been bestowed upon an inanimate object.

If lampposts start telling tales, imagine the chorus and the cacophony—choked drains, cratered roads, pathetic municipal parks, dead traffic signals, and such.

Anyway, what’s your problem? Tell us, but be quick and brief. We don’t have all day for your groans and grievances.

Well, I’m an insignificant lamppost in a forlorn lane of a remote colony in the beautiful city of Bhopal. I do not expect you to be aware of my existence or be concerned about my fate. Why would you? You don’t live here.

But I’m troubled, and I’ve heard that sharing sorrow soothes the suffering soul.

What troubles me? The light has gone out of my life. For the last two months or more, I’m suffering in silence like a condemned convict in a solitary, dark cell.

To be candid, I’m a little jealous, too. I see my neighbours glowing bright, pampered and polished, while I languish in obscurity.

Aren’t all lampposts created equal and entitled to equal and fair treatment? Does the municipal authority favour only those in VIP colonies? Would you fault me if I feel like an orphan?

Darkness is depressing, but I also suffer from existential anxiety. Why have I not been en-light-ened? No, I’m not so presumptuous as to seek enlightenment like the Buddha; only a new LED bulb to deliver me from darkness. I don’t seek nirvana, only a bulb. Is that too much illumination to ask?

I worry about Bhopal Municipal Corporation’s financial status. Perhaps I’ve been sacrificed on the altar of austerity—darkness as budget discipline.

Am I temporarily in a dark phase of my life, or have I been marked as unserviceable and permanently decommissioned?

I’m concerned for the safety of unsuspecting pedestrians, many of them new residents of the colony, who are unaware of the regular movement of reptiles on this road, especially in the rainy season after dark. I’ve seen with my own single eye (no, I’m no cyclops) a young python rescued from here, a pair of adult cobras and their brood, kraits, checkered keelback, dhaman, and water snakes.

I’ve seen much else; the teen who fell to his death while attempting a selfie from the edge of the dam, folks who enjoy their booze despite the stench from the cesspool of untreated sewage and melt into the bushes upon hearing the police siren, and a few love-birds who can’t afford a hotel room.

Since your time is precious, and your patience might be running thin, I finish my tale here.

But before that, permit me to submit a humble suggestion for the kind consideration of the municipal authority.

Maybe AI can help. I may simply say, ‘HELP.’ I believe AI can understand spoken language, register my grievance, alert the concerned and track its redressal.

AI may also alert the Municipal Commissioner about all the ailing lampposts of Bagmugalia Extension, the entire Ward 55, and all of Bhopal; and help her track HELP requests pending for more than 72 hours (Call Centre guarantee for resolution of citizens’ complaints), one week, one month, or more.

Until AI comes to my rescue, I remain a forgotten post—waiting for light, waiting for help, waiting like citizens always do.

Yours sincerely,

Khambha No-xxx

(Illegible, the paint has peeled off and the number can no longer be read.)

Location – In front of H 82

Landmark – Near Laharpur Dam

Address – Bagmugalia Extension, Ward No-55

***

Postscript: 11/10/2026

Let There Be Light

When summoned to appear before God on Saturday night, Angel No. 55 in charge of street lighting in peripheral Bhopal was a little perplexed. Have I been found wanting, or is the Lord pleased with my performance and has decided to move me to Char lmli, 74 Bungalows, or Shyamla Hills? He wondered.

"Yes, Lord. A-55 is here at Your service.’

‘Why is that lamppost blind?’ God placed His index finger at a dark, gloomy spot on the zoomed virtual map.

‘Oh, that one! It needs a cornea implant, My Lord.’

‘Why haven't you performed the procedure?’

‘I've placed the indent with the Central Stores. Awaiting supply, Lord.’

‘Since when?’

‘Two months, maybe a little more,’ A-55 stammered a little.

God frowned and ordered, without raising His voice,

‘Go, get it done. NOW.’

‘O Lord, It's a Saturday, already dark. May I do it the first thing tomorrow, even though Sunday is a holiday?’

"Now,’ said God, and vanished.

A-55 located the storekeeper with some difficulty, was issued a cornea as an exceptional case, rode the special company viman with a hydraulic ladder, and arrived at the location a little before midnight.

‘Are you H 82?’

‘No, that's the house behind me.’

‘Are you the sad, sulking, stupid streetlight who filed a complaint directly with God without going through the proper channel?’  

‘No, Sir, I didn't. You are our maibaap for all I know.’

The lamppost got it. God had found time to read his story, and had correctly deduced that it was not a satire, but a prayer. A cry for help.

Angel 55 quickly and efficiently performed the procedure. God had ordered, ‘Let There Be Light.’

His obedient engineer who had executed the command with diligence and speed clicked a pic of the lamppost shining and happy and forwarded it to God with a caption: Lamppost’s vision has been restored, in compliance of Your command.

All night long, the lamppost sang the glory of God, thanking Him for His swift justice and infinite mercy, and for sending emergency aid to an ordinary devotee in distress.

Troubled no more, he was as happy as a government employee reinstated after a long period under suspension.

***

#Bhopal #CitizenServices #CivicIssues #AIforGovernance #PublicAccountability #UrbanGovernance #BhopalMunicipalCorporation #Satire