Wheelchairs and miracles

They are sending that Tharoor fellow for the phoren bijit. Surely you know as many big words as he does, no?” asked Misser Ji, my neighbour.

- K.C. VERMA

“Well...,” I responded, “It would be splendiferous indeed if for some idiosyncratic reason I were chosen for the peregrination. I would have gasconaded about that ad nauseam. But the littlest cogitation will amply bespeak that Dr Tharoor’s sesquipedalian and discursive skills are unparagoned. He is a magnolius choice.”

“Eh? Whatever. But boss, you are an excellent negotiator! Didn't you persuade that chaatwala who sits outside our condo to serve seven golgappas per plate to residents, instead of the six he gives to ordinary customers?”

I had to admit that the golgappa negotiations were among my greatest diplomatic triumphs, yet I wondered if such an achievement alone was sufficient for someone to be selected as an emissary of Bharat. Misser Ji and my other neighbours were certain that it was. It is this unwavering loyalty that makes the otherwise insufferable life in a condo worth living!

Fortunately for the izzat of our condominium, an American friend invited me to New York to his son’s wedding at about the same time that Shashi and others were gallivanting around in those parts. I was elated, yet apprehensive because of the horror stories I had heard about the inefficient Indian immigration authorities and security staff.