Take a break. Mazaa aaya? Did you enjoy that? Must have. You only ever get to do it once every five years. Did it? Enjoyed it? How was it?

I’d never know. I’ve never done it. I don’t have it in me. To do it, you know. You need papers. Identity. NiradharCard. ThrivingLicence. WorthCertificate. Those sorts of things. I don’t have those. I don’t have it in me. To do it. You know. Come on yaar, samjhaa karo. All this collective business. Leave me out of it.

But you did it, didn’t you? Your duty? Do you have proof? Did you stick your finger up and take a selfie? Or get some other to photograph it? Your stained finger? As proof that you had done it? With all those percentages? 62. 67. 65. 59. 72. 68.5. 59. 73. There was also 14 and some minimal decimal somewhere. People are busy with other things. It is their right. To do. Or not to do. With me it is not even a matter of right. Or wrong. I am out of this. I have never had my fingers stained. I speak and clarify only on my fingers, mind you. My fingers have not been stained, never been. Wondering tangentially here about Mahadeb. What about you? Mahadeb? Did you? Ever? Get your finger stained? For such a thing? Are you listening? Can you? Where you are? Wherever you are? Alas we do not know where you are. And don’t know whether you hear us. Although we can hear you loud and clear whenever it is that you choose to speak to us. Anyhow. Do we deserve to know from you? Whether you stained your finger? For such a thing? We shall wait, we shall wait to hear from you. About a few things we have no option. We are reconciled. What is, is. What we get is what we get. I never even tried.

But I celebrate it that others do; this whole lovely variegated plural fair unfair dark light high low forward backward reserved unreserved northern southern western eastern gora kaala wheatish whitish bindu juslim kikh misai sickular fekular bhakt mukt jawan naujawan left right centre liberal blabberal aam amrud kela seb male female trans abcdeflgbyqrstuwe, the peepuls, bhai behen mitra and all that and sundry do. They all do. In large numbers. And having done, they raise their stained fingers as proof of having done it and photograph and advertise it. On Teetar. On Bacebook. On Hotsapp. On Wincetagram. On Dick-Dok. On What. On Not. On WhatNot. Don’t believe me? Go look. Go look into all these places I mention, and probably many more that a Luddite like me does not know of, and count the number of stained fingers raised. Count the number of those who did it, and are announcing proudly they did. As they well should.

Kiya?

Kiya!!!!!

How’s the hosh?

Hosh? Gosh!! What do you think? Once in five years. You can imagine. How’s the josh? There was josh. Now it’s gosh. Anyway. Since you asked:

Kiya. Ho gaya. Fingered it. With proof. On Focal Media. Go watch.

What does it look like?

Meaning?

What does it look like, the consequence of what you have done? With your fingers? Of all that fingering?

Let me see. It wasn’t me alone, you see. In this thing. There were many others, many multitudes. Doing what I was doing. You know. All that happens. You look at your options, and then you take your pick and finally deliver the jab. I mean finger it. At your chosen spot. Who knows who chose what spot to push their finger on. Who knows where whose sweet spot lies. You press your chosen one, of course you do, and that is your inalienable right in a mature dimocracee countree such as ours, but there are many you can choose from, multipul chwaaaise, as they say. You get to finger one, but you get to choose which one.

So who knows? Who can ever tell? Who made what chwaaaise? It was legally multipul chwaaaise. And what lies there looks a little hazy. And layered. And of differentiated hues. And certainly not clear. Smudged it is: smudged is what I can see. And you? Can you see anything? Clearly?

It may be a boast

For those ready to toast

But before you cut the roast

Picture abhi baaki hai dost.