Last night, I spent an hour at a suite at the Hilton hotel on Park Lane where I was entertained by the son of an old friend, the late Prof. Bakul Joshi, whom I knew from my College days. The young man, whose name strangely enough is Gitanjali, appears to be- I am sorry to report- just as much of a homosexual as his notorious father. Moreover, he is married to a large German thug and was wearing some sort of 'Punjabi' suit with a trailing dupatta. Still, I must say the young couple were hospitable and produced a bottle of single malt from which they however abstained- probably because Gay peeps don't have the stomach for strong liquor.
The German- with whom I was able to converse in his own language because I was born in Germany- abruptly switched to English to ask why I was such a fanatical devotee of Narendra Modi. Oddly, I have never been asked that question before. For a moment I was stumped. Then, whiskey coming to the rescue, my natural Tamil garrulity reasserted itself. I said 'look, the central scandal of Shannon type Information theory is that 'surprisal' or 'self-information' is impredicative. There can't be a probability function for unique features. This means entropy is arbitrary, something your late father never understood. Be that as it may, what I am getting at is that Modi is like Mrs. Thatcher. He is sui generis. This means that people aren't able to see what is his uniqueness because, so to speak, it bedazzles them into thinking that it is something ordinary or unremarkable. Consider the fact that Thatcher was the first and last British Prime Minister to ride a camel to and from Number 10 Downing street. I recall your late father, who had just arrived from India to attend the LSE in 1979, coming rushing in to the Three Tuns bar in a state of great excitement. I asked him not to bother me because I was trying to focus on Amartya Sen's lecture on Social Choice theory. The stupid fellow said- 'but Amartyaji is lecturing in the Old Theater. You are sitting drinking in the bar. How you can hear his lecture?' I should explain, Bakul had got a first class in Econ from Elphinstone, but had a somewhat deficient understanding of General Equilibrium. I explained to him that the Arrow Debreu price vector is ubiquitous, instantaneously accessible, and contains all information. Since Sen works within an Arrow Debreu framework, it follows everybody can access his lectures from anywhere. Bakul still wanted to drag me out of the bar. He said 'Come and see! Mrs. Thatcher is riding camel down the Strand!' I replied 'my dear Bakul, I went to school in Finchley. Mrs. Thatcher was the MP for Finchley. We have seen her riding camel around the constituency for many years.' Anyway, my point is that Narendra Modi is like Mrs. Thatcher. The things which make him unique are things which we dismiss as ordinary or irrelevant.'
Gitanjali said 'Uncle, Mrs. Thatcher did not ride camel. I just asked Siri. You can check for yourself.' I replied, 'My dear fellow, in those days we didn't have camera phones or Instagram or CCTVs and so forth. No doubt for official engagements, Mrs. Thatcher used a limousine. But to get around town on informal occasions she used a camel. A boy fresh off the boat from Bhavnagar, like your late father, my esteemed friend, Bakul, would find it strange that a Prime Minister used this form of conveyance but asli Brits like me were accustomed to it. Indeed, I don't myself ever recall seeing Mrs. Thatcher riding a camel when I was at school in Finchley. But, the moment Bakul mentioned it to me, I knew I must have done so. Otherwise, I would have followed his example and quit the Three Tuns bar to go watch the spectacle.'
Gitanjali, who I am sorry to say was showing signs of 'kanjoosi'- miserliness- the besetting Gujju vice, in that he had ceased to refill my glass, said 'Uncle, does it occur to you that my Dad was pulling your leg or that he just wanted you to stop drinking and come out of the bar?' This angered me. I don't mind if boys want to dress up like girls or even if they get married to German thugs. But it is a ghastly sin to accuse your own late father of mendacity.
I rose up and took my leave saying in formal Hochdeutsch- 'Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. Ich bin ein Berliner.' Just then my friend, Bakul who was always late, arrived and took me off to dinner. His homosexual son, who, I am sorry to say, had a very big tummy, said he needed to lie down. The German thug went off with the fellow in a solicitous manner. Somehow, this reduced my enthusiasm for describing to the friend of my youth all the filthy homosexual practices I normally take pleasure in attributing to him. He too neglected to say hurtful things about the various types of dogs he believes make it a practice to sodomize me on the streets of London. The truth is we have both grown old. Still, at least the Nation is in safe hands.
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