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|The Prime Minister (standard:other, 4717 words)|
|Author: Rattan Mann||Added: Apr 14 2005||Views/Reads: 2381/1531||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A novel about a madman whom the children call 'the prime minister' for fun|
The Prime Minister A novel Part 1 - Newton's third law: the action Rattan Mann Chapter 1 Dedication: To Rashmi who is still too young to understand fully how her uncle can love her more than Maria. And to Maria who did not live long enough to see how her dad's works have finally started to tumble out of his closet. " Where would you like to be shot?" they asked him. " Anywhere except in the heart." the nut replied. So they shot him in the heart. " Till the last day of his life this idiot could not call a spade a spade, and a club a club. Everything was a heart to him. No wonder he lost the game. If he had given a more sensible answer he might have lived a little longer. Who knows the president might even have pardoned him." said the little hero, the leader of the mock firing squad, amazed that already at this young age, he could accomplish so much with so little - kill two birds with one stone, enjoy a game and kill a man by merely twirling his fingers into the shape of a mock but smoking gun. But it was no game for the idiot. It was all very real to him. He really fell into the gutter. Thick bubbles of dark mud, mixed with human and animal excrement, began to rise from the bottom of the sewage and cover him from head to toe like an army of black cockroaches on a food-gathering expedition. An intolerable mixture of stench and stink rose in equally thick but invisible bubbles in the otherwise fragrant evening air. " He is drinking urine!" A shocked murmur ran in the crowd. " No! Not at all! He is eating shit!" An equally shocked protest followed. " It is actually cow-dung that is in his mouth!" suggested still others who were not yet shocked enough to think rationally and observe keenly. " Horse-dung, I say! Who dare challenge me?" flared up Tutu, a very dangerous muscle-man, equally feared by those living high up in the sky-scrapers, as well as those living down below in the jhuggis in the backyards of the sky-scrapers. To some he was terror-incarnate. No doubt, without provocation or warning, he reached for his pocket. The next moment, knives were flying out of dozens of pockets. Daggers flashed in the fading twilight. Blows were exchanged. Cries of anger and pain, and screams of frightened women were heard. Without rhyme or reason, suddenly everybody was at everybody else's throat. Urine and shit, cow-dung and horse-dung became instant slogans, battle-cries, and rallying-points of the unruly mob which loved nothing more than lawlessness. People went wild with fury, and were willing to kill or die, make their or someone else's wives widows and children orphans to prove their allegiance to shit or urine, cow-dung or horse-dung. "Lovers of Mankind! Guardians of civilization!" suddenly a voice of reason arose above the mad battle-cries, and a man moved quickly towards the center-stage to grab attention of the crowd. He was Pupu, another feared-by-all-hit-man in the payrolls of the sky-scrapers. As soon as he reached the center-stage he raised his arm like a great dictator and an immediate silence fell over the crowd of urchins from the sky-scrapers as they waited for their leader to speak. Click here to read the rest of this story (439 more lines)
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