Fraud

Fiction

Ramakrishnan wanted to retire.

“50 years is not the age for sannyasa,” said Saroja, his wife indignantly. She had been noticing some weird changes of late in her husband’s lifestyle. Ramakrishnan was the Managing Director of a major wing of a renowned corporate enterprise whose ostensible objective was to buy up the whole of India – from footwear manufacture to nuclear weapons manufacture. Yet he was becoming increasingly discontented over the past few weeks, Saroja had noticed.

“What will you do anyway after throwing away the job?” Saroja asked her husband who was sitting on the plush velvet sofa looking like a unique specimen of borderline mental retardation.

“I’ll go to a cave in Badrinath and become a fulltime monk,” Ramakrishnan said.

Saroja snickered. “Fulltime is any time better than the part-time monking that our PM, your boss’s thickest friend, did once.”

That landed like a boxer’s punch on Ramakrishnan’s cheek. Back then, when the PM spent a few hours in a Kedarnath cave which was equipped with all necessary luxuries like food, call bell, and phone, Ramakrishnan had ridiculed it as yet another historical fraud imposed on a nation of gulls by a crook par excellence. The PM was his Boss’s thickest friend, no doubt. That didn’t make the man Ramakrishnan’s friend. Ramakrishnan was no fraud.

“What will you achieve by becoming a fulltime monk?” Saroja asked without concealing her contempt. “Monks are the biggest frauds in the world.” She emphasised the word ‘fraud’ knowing too well her husband’s aversion to the very word. Her husband was of the opinion that most people are frauds in the world. “Look at our positive thinking blogger, Radhamani,” he said once about their neighbour-blogger who blogged with religious regularity about positivity and its accessories. Radhamani was the most cynical person around. If your cat lost its appetite one time, Radhamani would instantly conclude that the cat might have been poisoned by so-and-so (one of the many in the neighbourhood whom she hated with all her positive heart).

“Why don’t you start blogging for a change?” Saroja asked her husband once when she began to notice his mounting discontent and restlessness. His reply was: “Blogging? That’s a huge world of immense frauds.”

“Radhamani is not the only blogger, you know,” she tried to cajole him.

“I know quite a few others too,” he said. “The other day one of those travel-bloggers landed in one of Boss’s luxury hotels promising incredible publicity provided he was given a suite to stay in with his family and all the food and snacks throughout the day. The guy’s blog didn’t have even a dozen views per day.”

“Monking is not a solution,” Saroja said with a finality that came to her as naturally as sarcasm did. “If anything, it is another problem. Unproductive existence that seeks to suck the blood of gullible people who earn their livelihood by doing some backbreaking productive work and then seek moksha in their little leisure time.”

Ramakrishnan didn’t disagree. He was in no mood to disagree anyway. He turned on the TV.

The news mentioned about the farmers’ agitation that was entering the hundredth day. The news mentioned a 22-year-old girl being arrested for sedition because she dreamt about a better environment. The news mentioned a comedian being thrown into jail for a joke that he might have cracked if he was given freedom.

Ramakrishnan switched the TV off and reclined on the plush velvet sofa which felt like a nice monkish cave. He felt relaxed.

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