Winston Checks In!

Being incessantly stalked by a specter is spooky. Especially during the Halloween weekend. I would have thought that the unfriendly neighborhood ghost who had been mooching around had realized that I, a devout Indian Hindu did not carve out pumpkins into scary shapes, did not dress myself in strange costumes to make myself look like something which goes bump in the night (I manage that perfectly well in my normal clothes, thank you), nor did I encourage trick-or-treating. Which if you think about it, is more about tricking people into giving you treats. But this was no ordinary ghost. It was a foreign one. For a person who had drifted into the world of the living from that of the dead without a valid visa, drifting across the seven seas to India from the great kingdom of Great Britain was child’s play. Brace yourselves for this was my encounter with Winston (Churchill unfortunately), checking in to check with me, when many of us hoped that he’d checked out for good.

He gave me quite a turn, popping up out of the woodwork, more lugubrious than ever, a pink jowly face, tiny glinty flinty eyes, a cigar clamped in the bulldog jaw. Of course, smart Aleck that I am, I initially attempted adroit escape by ducking into doorways, accessing uninviting alleys and locking doors and windows. But the persistent wraith that he was, he had no difficulty seeping through walls, oozing through the flooring and generally making a nuisance of himself by materializing through seemingly solid brick-work. Finally, I realized that the only way to rid myself of this unwelcome presence was to confront him.

“What are you doing here, Sir Winston?”, (umar me tum se sau saal bade hai, izzat to deni padegi ne ben? An imaginary Modiji popped up, wagging a stern finger!) I hoped I sounded off-putting and formidable. “This is India, or what you left us of it. NOT your favorite holiday destination. And to be honest, we are not too chuffed to see you either. You are the one exception to our list of ‘Atithi Devo Bhava’. Anyway, thank God that you pitched up in Mumbai. The good citizenry of Kolkata would have lynched you, dead or not! The unfortunate victims of the Bengal famine still haunt the place. There is no room for another ghost, even an infamous one as yourself”, I was quite pleased with my opening salvo.

He flickered unhappily. “Cut to the chase, girl”, he said. “You Indians are taking over everywhere. Every time I turn around, there you people are. From Uruguay to the United Kingdom and from Norway to New Zealand, every place is overrun with you. But the reason I am here is because I can’t go home! I have been happily haunting my corner of 10, Downing Street for decades, not a care in the world when, I am rudely ousted from my place by the sudden arrival of a large loud chappie wielding a huge sword and sporting not just a bristly beard but also a terrifying turban. Calling himself the real owner of the Kohinoor! Saying that he rules the Punjab! And to rub salt, or rather onion and garlic into my wounds, the aroma of fish-and-chips and Yorkshire pudding is replaced by Sambhar and Sarson da Saag. For these smells to waft through South End is one thing, but Downing Street! It’s all thanks to that young upstart Sunak! He has turned it into Teen Murty Bhavan, thanks to that spouse and those parents-in-law of his!”

I smirked. “Well played Karma, well played”, I murmured, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that I was winding him up. “Why blow your top, Sir Winston? And why choose India to manifest? At least three other countries are fighting over themselves to lay claim to Rishi Sunak’s ancestry: Kenya, Tanzania and that infernal country you Brits birthed, Pakistan! A thorn in our side for the past seventy- five years. You could have materialized in any of them. And Sunak himself identifies as a Brit. Born in Southampton! Educated at Oxford! A member of the Conservative party! It is your party literally. And I don’t think, despite all that Trevor Noah says, Sunak is going to sell Ye Olde Country to India, at least not yet, not unless he has to!”

I don’t know if ghosts can shudder, but he looked like a candle guttering in the wind. “But he is a practicing Hindu! The next thing I know will be a cow ensconced in my old bedroom in Downing Street! Wanting hay at all hours! Mooing it’s head off until it does MY head in. And who is going to muck it out, pray? I cannot be a barnyard ghost. Not at my age!” He quivered with indignation like a half-set jelly.

“Well, a good bit of this your own fault. Brexit and Britain for the British has led to everything gradually unravelling at the seams. The United Kingdom is on its way to becoming the Untied Kingdom. Prime Ministers may come and Prime Ministers may go, but the economic downturn goes on for muuuuuuuuch longer, pardon my poetic license for mutilating Tennyson’s poem, ‘The Brook’. Food and fuel prices are up, share prices are down and you have had three different people on the job in less than as many months. Not English! Not Cricket! Not done! Someone has to wade into the muck (of human, not bovine creation) and take charge. Sunak, who doesn’t seem to mind getting his hands dirty, seems to be the man for the job at least for the moment. Remember his exploits in keeping you people afloat during the lock down for the Pandemic? If you will be at the beck and call of Uncle Sam across the pond, you will have to pay the price. And mind you, Mr. Putin is in an even more belligerent mood than he was in February! He is holding Europe to ransom and has no compunctions about it”.

I knew I had ranted enough, but could not help rubbing it in some more to this unapologetic champion of the supremacy of all things bizarrely British, who spoke with a superciliousness about ‘The White Man’s Burden’ which made me long to smack the cigar from his mouth. “Well, Rishi Sunak has moved in lock, stock, barrel and dog. So, deal with it. If Chicken Tikka Masala can be the national dish, a brown Hindu man can be the prime minister. I am sure you know that vanilla ice cream is nothing without chocolate sauce. For once, judge the chap by his deeds and not the color of his skin or his ancestry! I am sure you folk with your sense of democracy and fair play will not hesitate to give him the boot if his performance as prime- minister is below par.” He sneered disdainfully. “Oh, we will do it, don’t you worry. As you pointed out, Sunak is a British citizen who will work in Britain’s interests. You people are taking credit where none is due. How do you folk say it, “Begani Shaadi Main Abdullah Diwana!”.

Despite myself, I was impressed by the old coot’s obstinate beliefs. “Well, you seem to be picking up the lingo well, for your age”, I replied. “In spite of what you think of us, we Indians are far more pragmatic. We know better than to expect any concessions as a nation just because a man whose skin color matches ours rules the roost in a nation of pale men. We are just witnesses to the wheel of time coming full circle and as the popular ad says, we’re loving it!”.

He seemed to be growing more and more vaporous. “I am thinking of checking back in into my old haunt”, he said. “This is still unfinished business.” I could not help a smirk of my own. “Well, a Hindu might well be the final arbitrator in the appointment of the Archbishop of Canterbury”, I said by way of a parting shot and as Sir Winston Churchill checked right back into 10, Downing Street, wondering what on earth was the world coming to, I now waited hopeful that perhaps the wraith of Harry Winston, the famed jeweler would check in with me with carrying a tangible twenty carat diamond on a platinum chain in his ethereal hand for me to keep as a keepsake!