Moneyman Sing, the uncrowned king of Chaostan, came back from his latest September jaunt determined to abdicate. He was fed up with the rich kingdoms arm-twisting him into swallowing stuff he couldn’t even explain to the nobles in his court (and the commies outside of it), he was getting tired of the general from Borderstan hounding him for a peace treaty wherever he went, he was sick of being at the constant beck and call of the empress from Janpath and her band of dimwit sycophants, and, yes, the chaos in Chaostan was killing him.
Having packed his bags for the Himalayas he wrote a terse resignation letter and went to see the empress. He was kept waiting for an hour before he was escorted into the durbar hall, a tiny, windowless room with two doors and an enormous wall-to-wall desk between them. The only other furniture was an armless chair on the visitor’s side and two enormous throne-like monstrosities on the other. On one of the monstrosities was seated the heir-apparent, wearing a crown. Moneyman’s crown.
“How are you, beta?” Moneyman enquired in his most avuncular voice as he took his seat.
The beta took about half a minute before coming up with a “Hmmphh.” Worse than his mother, thought Moneyman. He’ll need a teleprompter, nothing less.
The empress waltzed in presently and apologised to Moneyman for keeping him waiting. She had to get her six-by-fours ready, she said. She then cast a glance at the heir-apparent and frowned. “Beta… you must not wear that… that thing… when Uncle Sing… comes calling,” she admonished gently before sitting down. The beta thought about it for a whole minute before slowly removing the crown from atop his head. He then placed it on his lap, almost defiantly.
“Madam, I don’t want to be king,” Moneyman said abruptly. “I can’t…”
He was interrupted with a stern look from the empress, who now began reading from one of her cards. “Today I want to talk about my beta. He went to Amethipuram recently, put his ear to the ground, and came back with a splitting headache.”
“Was it an insect or a rumble of discontent?” Moneyman almost sniggered, despite himself.
Mother and beta looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in unison before the former continued reading, “Now he’s saying he doesn’t want to inherit anything less than a rich superpower. So I want you to go to cloud nine and ask god to make us a rich superpower soon.”
“Why don’t you go yourself, madam?”
“I have tried many… many times but that… that guardian angel he keeps… keeps stopping me… at those gates… when he sees these,” she said, waving her six-by-fours. “And he keeps… keeps lecturing me about… thinking for oneself. I cannot understand him… at all. I mean… I am always thinking… thinking for myself, no?. Myself and my… my smart beta who is going to be… be a world leader one day.”
The empress picked a different card and started reading from it: “All these years we’ve been on the wrong path. We should be hanging out with the rich kingdoms, not Africa, for instance.”
Moneyman shook his head. “Madam, the rich kingdoms, always bullying us, are doing nothing for Africa,” he said, shaking his head some more. “Maybe we should help. Africa looks up to us.”
“No, Moneyman, no,” she said firmly, and continued reading. “Hereafter, like we’ve been doing, we hang out with the poodle from Englistan, the rooster from Gaul and, most of all, globocop. They are the key to our destiny.” Then, looking up, she added, “I do not want to hear of… of Africa… I mean… I do not even know where… where Africa is. Beta, do you know where… where Africa is?”
The beta took only five seconds before opening his mouth to say, “That’s an easy one… mamma mia.” But he took fifteen seconds more to come up with, “Africa is north of Antarctica.”
“See… see how… how smart he is,” the empress gushed, brimming with pride. “He is going to be… be a world leader one day.”
And so, despite the economist in him telling him to stay on the ground to get things done, despite the resignation letter still in his pocket, Moneyman Sing found himself on cloud nine. He knew he was doing the wrong thing. And he was right.
“Superpower? Are you out of your mind? You have to get civilised first. Yes, I know Chaostan was once a very civilised place… but that was when Patliputra was the centre of the world. Look at Patliputra now! Look at Chaostan now! Forget the chaos for a moment, what about all that noise? You’ve got doctors with the loudest horns in their cars, truckers who use air horns in narrow city streets… Do you know what happens when you use those horns like that? I can hear them up here! And what are those reversing horns? The car manufacturers provide three mirrors… and two lights at the back… and I have provided two eyes… and yet they have to make such a devilish racket?! Civilised kingdoms are trying to make cars more silent… even aircraft… whereas you would put reversing horns on jumbo jets if you were making them.
“Or take that latest abbreviation out of Chaostan… CDTs. Which civilised kingdom ever heard of countdown timers at traffic lights?! Earlier, you had uncouth behaviour when the lights turned green, now it starts a good ten seconds before. Is that your idea of progress? Or take those highways you are finally building… what is the use when half the drivers stick to the rules and the other half sticks to the median like some devil-given right? I will have you know that some of the most fervent of invocations and the vilest of abuse emanates from the highways of Chaostan.
“So you see… for Chaostan to become Indiastan civilisation will have to intervene in a big way. Civilisation starts with education. And you can start anywhere. You can educate the truckers so they can teach the doctors, for example. You have to make a million such starts… different starts… and then over time every single subject in your kingdom will have become civilised.”
Moneyman moaned and said, “Oh bhagwan, it’s going to take a long, long time.”
God nodded in complete agreement. “Yes, so forget about the superpower part,” he advised. “You can get rich sooner. Let’s see… at your present rate of bumbling along… what do the numbers tell you?”
“At least a hundred years, my lord.”
“Right, and if you were to be down there doing something… if you could make a difference… you might get there in ninety-nine.”
Moneyman Sing came back to Chaostan in a hurry, unpacked his bags, tore up his resignation letter and picked up the phone. “Madam, I have good news and bad news,” he informed when the empress came on the line. “The bad news is it’ll take some time to become a superpower. The good news is we’re going to be rich in ninety-nine years.”
“Oh my poor beta, oh my poor beta, oh my poor beta, oh my...”
“Madam, if you don’t mind, I have work to get done. Good night.”
“Okay… good night… and…” Moneyman heard cards being shuffled for a while before he heard, “Ah, here it is… Good night and sweet dreams.”