This is the second story in the series.
To know more about how this series came into being as well as to read the first story, kindly click here.
“Ahh! Splendid!” said Penardun, sipping the filter coffee. “Mangalore is heavenly!”
“Hmmmm…” grunted the Dagda as he stuffed his face with the croissants and creme brule, syrup dripping from the corner of his lips, the only remnant of the tarts he had devoured earlier.
Presently there was a hullabaloo and several dhoti-clad, staff-totting men walked in, shouting incomprehensible slogans. The Dagda eyed the surroundings warily as the shop emptied. A bald gent with an oily moustache stepped forward aggressively, and roared “Jai Shri Ram!”.
“Huh?” exclaimed the Dagda, trying to decipher his foreboding demeanour.
Penardun edged closer and whispered “I think they’ve heard of you and are here to welcome us. Can’t you see the garland in that guy’s hand?” gesturing towards the priest.
“Eh? I can’t see any damsels.”
“You know they are a traditional lot”.
The foreman gesticulated animatedly, pointing towards them with a queer look on his face. The guy with the garlands stepped forward, giving one each to the Dagda and Penardun, and then pointing to the other.
“I think they want to make us exchange these garlands.”
“Bloody Racists! They wouldn’t touch us themselves!”
“Calm down, dear brother, I am sure this is all just an Indian custom.”
The Dagda was made to clasp a metallic necklace on Penardun and apply a red powder on her forehead before the men showed any signs of leaving, and as they did shouting what could be best described as praises to some gluttonous farm animal. The shopkeeper now neared, cowering in fear.
“Are you alright, sir? Terrible…terrible state of affairs in this country, I am so sorry…”
“Oh don’t get so worked up! It was quite a rousing welcome!” said Penardun.
“But surely you know that both of you are now husband and wife?”
The Dagda choked on his pie. Penardun shrieked in horror.
The next half an hour was dedicated to enlightenment regarding the antics of this self-proclaimed watchdog organisation that curbed the freedom of the plebeian, and couldn’t be brought to shame, even with the ‘pink-chaddi’ campaign. The initially murderous Dagda now burped calmly.
“I believe a lesson is in the offing. “
“Saali kutti!” said a fervent youth while another one of his cronies smashed a Dom Perignon on the counter, “Teri jagah mard ke jooti ke neeche hai!”
The bald Muth-a-leak hit the dance floor, and then a bimbo displaying ample cleavage.
“Saalli Baanjh!!! Kalankini!” bellowed he.
The Dagda neared, bearing in hand the Harp. Muth-a-leak looked scornfully while his comrades shook with mirth. Ignoring, the Dagda strummed the Music of Ecstacy, watching bemusedly the vandals swaying to the soothing tunes, carrying out a burlesque, and stripping to their dhotis.
“Ready?” he said to the media-men in tow.
“In a sensational expose on Valentine’s Day, the vandals of Sri Ram Sena, who till yesterday used to beat up innocent pub-goers were discovered dancing. Incredibly, they were sporting the same pink underwear received by them last year…”
The Dagda switched off his TV and hi-fived Penardun.