ashokbhatia

There is no doubt that there is in Delhi all that life can afford. Someone who is tired of Delhi is tired of life itself. The city and its surroundings are littered with relatives and friends of all hues, sizes, and shapes. There are localities which are replete with old memories. Besides glitzy malls, shopping areas and historic monuments, the city still retains many of its green areas. Street foods which suit all palettes and pockets and are from various parts of the country are readily available.

All this is not to say that there are no aspects of the metropolis which one does not hate. One loathes its teeming millions, its smells, its noises, its buses, its taxis, the mind-boggling variety of vehicles on its roads, its endless traffic snarls, its highly polluted air, its beggars trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with an optimistic vim, and its crowded pavements with aggressive sellers pouncing upon one to peddle their stuff. Commuting is a hassle, though the metro is a great boon to the citizenry.

During the peak of winter, when a smog envelops the city and its surroundings, and the sun goes AWOL, the pleasure of munching on roasted peanuts and gorging on either baked and spiced chunks of sweet potatoes or delectable carrot pudding is also snatched away from its hapless denizens.

But help is not far away. The prospect of meeting a bunch of fans of P. G. Wodehouse invariably drives the blues away. It makes one develop nerves of chilled steel and venture to crawl out of one’s multi-layered quilt. It infuses the inner being with a mirthful warmth, spreading light and sweetness all around.

And if the meeting gets held at a place with a unique ambience where one could even tuck into an Anatole-ish spread, the grass outside looks greener and the flowers swaying in a gentle wind blowing mentally transport one to the gardens of the Blandings Castle. One realizes that God is in heaven, and all is well with the world. More so, since there happens to be a gallery of modern art just next door, and there is no Honoria Glossop around to exhort one to not only look at the ghastly objects on display but also pass some intelligent-sounding comments about the same.

Rupert Psmith, who had coordinated the event, was already present, along with Eve Halliday, the affable lawyer. Having given up on fish business, being a fake poet, and then providing secretarial support services to Lord Emsworth, he had developed a passion for photography. His lens captures the eternal beauty of flora and fauna. While others got busy with much back slapping and what-ho-ing, he quietly went about using his lens to create a visual record of the boisterous proceedings.

Eve continues to be as strong and compassionate as she was when we met her last at Blandings Castle. Having had quite a few adventures in her life, she had decided to lead a relatively quieter life in the company of Psmith.  While maintaining her dash and vigour, she decided to become a lawyer, to gainfully deploy her honesty, sympathy, and intelligence to assist her clients in seeking justice. Setting the tone of the party was the work of a moment for her.       

Mrs. Spottsworth was amongst the first ones to show up, to check out the kind of mischief we were up to. This was her maiden attempt at joining in, and a fulfilment of one of her long-held pious intentions. One is not too sure if she is still interested in psychical research or if she uses a Ouija board to communicate with departed souls. One does know that she had been a lion-tamer of very young kids at a prestigious school in the city. However, she was humility personified when she pointed out that it was she who had got tamed instead, having had the opportunity of learning quite a lot from her wards.

Yours truly was the next one to troop in, looking like a stuffed frog. As is my wont when unduly elated in the exalted company of Plum fans, I guess I enlivened the proceedings somewhat by croaking intermittently.   

Willoughby Scrope (Willy, in short), yet another legal eagle to grace the occasion, was the next one to pop up. The group was pleasantly surprised to find that besides looking some prominent beaks in the eye while advancing his cogent arguments in favour of his clients, he also happens to be an author. He gifted a copy of his recently published book The Sterling Bull and Other Stories to all of us. It turned out to be a nice collection of some juicy stories from his earlier days, written in a lucid manner, with a dash of Wodehousean humour.

When food was being ordered, Willy solemnly declared that he had recently turned a pure vegetarian. The group was left wondering if his predicament was similar to the one faced by Gussie Fink-Nottle who was once barred from making his stomach a graveyard by Madeliene Bassett.

The conversation that followed covered a broad sweep of Plum’s works. Empress of Blandings. Lawyers. Heliotrope pyjamas. Kids who demand protection money from their would-be stepfathers. Butter slides. Blackened faces. The precise number of cats in Bertie’s room when Sir Roderick Glossop came for a spot of lunch. The head of a fish, staring up at Bertie in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology. Shoplifting leading to a shift from Madison Avenue, NY, USA, to a dilapidated country house in the UK. The propensity of millionaires from across the pond to scout around for stately mansions in Queen’s land. The castles where in the summer the river is at the bottom of the garden, and in the winter the garden is at the bottom of the river.

While delectable food was being put down the hatch, all advice rendered by Laura Pyke about fat-soluble vitamins was forgotten. Luckily, Doctor Murgatroyd, who might have cautioned the group about the perils of greed winning over prudence on the dining table, including but not limited to spots appearing on our chests, was singularly absent. Doctor Hailsham, had he been present, would have taken a jaundiced view of the gourmet food being gobbled up. He would have instead recommended either parsnip or seaweed juice, followed by stewed lettuce. Perhaps, even some potassium broth and grated carrots, followed by a refreshing cup of dandelion coffee.  

On quite a few occasions, when the ripples of laughter emanating from the table crossed a certain decibel level, one could notice other customers seated nearby raising their eyebrows a quarter of an inch, an art which they might have learnt from Jeeves. The hassled waiters heaved a sigh of relief when the group ventured out. Goodbyes were said and phone numbers exchanged, followed by another photo shoot.  

(From left to right: Willoughby Scrope, Yours truly, Mrs Spottsworth, Eve Halliday, Rupert Psmith)

Those who are turning green with envy upon reading this account need not fret. They would do well to brace up for the next gig, which may get planned around February 14, 2024.

(Note: All allusions to characters of P G Wodehouse here are purely arbitrary and subjective and are not intended to offend any of those who spared the time to join in and make this gig a memory to cherish for a long time. Permission to use photographs is gratefully acknowledged.)

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