Parking puts paid to the Lord’s sermon

night shifts are hard enough and the last thing you want at the end of one is a flautist at the window, within an hour of hitting the pillow. but that was my luck at four, this morning...someone was serenading me in right earnest. wrong number, i groaned before a kindly urge made me get up to direct the krishna kanhaiya to his gopika. hello, friend, i called into the mist.a diademed head sporting a mischievous grin returned the greeting, hello, arjuna, tired? what an unearthly hour for a charade, i thought! my interlocutor seemed to read my mind. ah, time, he sighed, you have made even krishna a stranger to arjuna. krishna! arjuna! lord above, the man's audacity was beyond measure. i slammed the shutters on him. but then, he struck such a horrid tune that i flew at his feet. hey bhagwan, what's the provocation for this visitation? now, that's like my arjuna, he said , leading me to a corner of the yard where four jades stood hitched to an ornate chariot. you see, he began, i have come with the paraphernalia of our mahabharata days. i agreed, the horses looked ancient. he then passed a bundle of clippings from the times of india, saying, see, why i came? but i had to disappoint him. of course, you can't see, he agreed, you belong to these times...but look, i, krishna, must descend on earth whenever good is at the mercy of evil. which seems to be the case now. aha, i said, and what do you propose doing? the stranger flashed a most beatific smile, why, recite the gita, of course! adding, with some help from you, dear arjuna... i swallowed. once. twice. o, i only want you to find me a suitable setting, some kind of a level reciting field between two battle-ready sides, he assured me. why, that's no problem, i said, pitch your stuff anywhere along the international border. but he objected, people these days aren't as disciplined as the kauravas and the pandavas were. what if someone took a pot-shot at us? no, find me a safer spot. so, i racked my brain for inspiration only to realise i had lost it in the municipal corporation office, my last beat. well, chandigarh's mc councillors are your safest bet, i offered, problem is there are no clear battle-lines between them. most spend the year battling their partymen. o, that's alright, said the stranger, that will keep them from bothering us. now, where did you say we might find them? sector 17, the city centre, i said. the stranger could have jumped for joy. o, that's just as i would like it: a captive audience for my first sermon of the 21st century, wow! come, let's go, and he cracked his whip. you want to ride that thing to sector 17, i expostulated. well, what's wrong with it, snapped the stranger, didn't we together ride it for 18 days in the mahabharata? i counted to 10 to calm myself and then argued thus: your chariot is not built to an approved design, nor registered, besides, you don't have a licence to ply it. that could land you in big trouble with the cops. the stranger looked amused. i continued, your horses are half-dead, your cart bulky and without pneumatic tyres. you could be in trouble with maneka's men. arjuna, he laughed, what's vishwamitra before me! grrrrr... i said, haven't you heard of spca? you might dodge them but the cops will still suspect you of carrying explosives in that monstrosity. you could be in under poto! really, he said, conjuring a disc with a serrated edge, they'll have to contend with my sudarshana chakra first. good lord, i hissed, you'll send us up the scaffold. do you have a licence for that thing? the stranger looked strangely crestfallen for once. well, arjuna, what do you suggest, he spoke at last. um, i went, unable to check the homo avaricious in me, we could go there on my bike. it's pretty close to my office, so you needn't pay for gas...but parking is another thing. say, have you a rupee to give me? the stranger slumped into a posture we have learnt to associate with arjuna on day one of mahabharata. arjuna, he said, where would i get a rupee from, my pujaris take away every paisa my devotees leave me... abhilashgaur@indiatimes.com