I need to buy a horse. I have taught in a Delhi University college since 1989, which means I have many well-wishers, but not enough money. If wishes were horses, I’d have owned one by now. Why do I want a horse in the first placeIJ I wish to gift it to my boss. He somehow looks incomplete sitting on a vice regal chair. A horse would befit his stature. Before I forget, I’d need a pair of guns too, perhaps the peacemaker colt from another era. And a holster to sling them at the side, to lend that edge to his swagger. With guns and a horse, he can do with alacrity what he has set out to; ie, to clean this messy town called Delhi University, rid it of vermin who will not submit to his badge.
In two years time he will ride into the sunset, alone. He is therefore in a hurry. He says he has to clean the mess before he leaves. He does not trust the guy who’ll take over from him. He’s the quintessential lone ranger, the lawgiver who trusts no human; his faith is rested only on the two things that sling by his side. If he had them that is. Which is why I wish to gift him the horse, and the guns.
My boss believes the townspeople in this wild place are lazy and petulant. They wile way a few hours at the saloon, then make a load of empty noise in the town square. They resist authority, corrupt young minds, take back fat paychecks and are basically naysayers. Ironically they are, like him, all lawgivers. They are his deputies. This ought to be a place where folks like to be in. After all, it’s a town full of deputies, which is why it’s called Delhi (DU) And apparently people do filter in, coming from all parts of the country.
Usually they hang around for three odd years, sometimes five. If they have work to do beyond five years, they often end up as deputies. The boss does not like things around here (why does he hang out here thenIJ But shhhh, I did not say that). The boss wants change. At night he dreams the words ‘change’, emblazoned bright across the horizon. He wants to get there and grab ‘change’. He is insistent, childlike almost, on change. It is his raison d'être, the apotheosis of his being. For using such language, I’d get thrown out of DU. We’ve been asked to keep it simple. And well packaged.
The changes he wants are fundamental, or so he believes. He wants to redesign entry and exit cards. If you want to do everything and learn nothing you can enter. If you wish to exit simply dumb, you can leave after two years. If you wish to add some polish to your dumbness, you can hang out for three. But if you wish to seriously stand out and not fit into anything, except perhaps in some distant shores which have peculiar entry policies similar to my boss’s ideal, you are welcome to stay for four years.
The boss believes the town’s not too crowded. The deputies differ. In any case till date all lawgivers have only carried harmless pens to go about their work, good for no more than a threatening jab in the air. The guns I’m trying to get for my boss are intended to change the equation. Of course, some of us will get guns too, after he has his set. But not everyone. The ones who look up at the skies will remain holding pens. The ones who go about with their heads bent will carry firepower. Guns are more useful in their hands. They never look up. So they will fire at anyone when ordered to.
I greatly admire my boss. He is one of unwavering conviction. His will to power can kick-spur anything, like getting a constitution for the town framed in two hours flat. He listens to none. He acts, then (at times) thinks. He is the need of the hour. He is the Great One, he who has the ‘final solution’ for DU. He is not a piffling fool. His motto: To give good laws, you must be willing to bend a few.