Literary Diarrhoea

(This is a story my father wrote in his blog on 2nd March, 6 days before polling day. How true it sounds now! Haha, i bet even he didnt think it would become a reality.)

The PM looked exhausted. It had been a grueling campaign, and last night as the results came in, the news had not been good all the time. Expectations and disappointments.

His advisors had been with him since early that morning. How should he look. How should he project himself. What should he say. What questions should he expect and how should he answer them. He was sleepy and just wanted to hit the bed.

He stood and faced the reporters and all who had assembled in the room, and smiled weakly.

“ Asalumualaikum, and a very good morning. I am your PM again this morning (scattered laughter). Yes, last night the results of the election came in, and Narisan Basional has been given a strong mandate to govern this country yet again. We thank the people for the confidence in us, and we promise we will not disappoint you.”

Those present looked at each other. They did not look convinced.

“But it is also a fact that we have not done as well as we hoped. We no longer have the 2/3 majority in Parliament, which we have had all along. Also all the MDC candidates lost. We are deeply disappointed. The Dinnian community now has no representation in the Government now. Even their leader, Masylevu who was the sole minister in our Government lost. But all these will not weaken our resolve to be the Government for the people, of the people, and by the people”, he stopped, swallowing on realizing how hollow this sounded.

“The people have spoken. It is their decision. But we will not forsake the entire Dinnian community just because some of them let us down. We will appoint someone to take care of them. We will make sure they get what they deserve”.

One of the Dinnian reporters present looked up. Was it his imagination, that this sounded rather ominous?

Those present applauded half heartedly. The reporters were ready to ask their questions. But the PM’s eyes were half closed. “No questions”, announced the official. And that was it.

At his palatial mansion, Masylevu sat around in sullen silence with his oversized companions. Several bottles were on the table in front of them. In their alcoholic stupor, each was plotting his own revenge on those who had brought their idyllic existence crashing down.

On the vast lawn of the ex-MP, the group of Mubis sat, sipping their sickeningly sweet syrup. How could this happen ? This was their country, and these lowly Dinnian coolies, who had come here to escape their wretched country, who deserved nothing but the lowest contempt, had thrown this glorious reign into disarray. They fumed within themselves, inconsolable at their loss.

Government office canteen. The Government staff , all coincidentally Mubis as usual, looked thoughtful. What did the PM mean when he said he will make sure the Dinnians will get what they deserve? Did he really intend to reward the Dinnians for what they had done ? In their minds they knew exactly what the Dinnians deserved. And the Government machinery will ensure this.

The group of Dinnian friends were at the Temple. They were all smiles. At last, they had made a statement. Everyone recognised them. Life looked rosy. They looked up at their dilapidated Temple. And the pathetic School next to it. Soon these could look very different. Soon, their lives would be transformed. Their future was assured. We are Lamaysians, they thought proudly.

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