This steamy tumble into
chaos is for giggles, not gospel. Any hint of rising tensions, throbbing
markets, or unmet sexual desires is accidental. We’re not liable for your
fantasies about potholes or power cuts. Satisfaction not guaranteed.
Once upon a time, in the
chaotic sprawl of Mumbai – where the trains ran late, the rents ran high, and
the dreams ran on fumes – there lived a boy named Vikas. He was a lanky
20-something with a mop of hair that defied gravity and a job at a call center
where he convinced irate Americans that rebooting their routers was a spiritual
experience. Vikas was, by all accounts, an ordinary chap, except for one thing:
his girlfriend, Smriti, was mad at him, and he had no clue why.
It started on a humid Tuesday.
Smriti, a fiery graphic designer with a penchant for filter coffee and feminist
rants, had been dropping hints thicker than Mumbai’s smog. She’d sigh
dramatically over their WhatsApp chats, reply with “K” to his memes, and once, during a date at Marine Drive, muttered,
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
Vikas, ever the optimist, assumed she was upset about the overpriced vada pav
they’d shared. “I’ll get extra chutney
next time!” he promised. Smriti’s glare could’ve melted the Gateway of
India.
Desperate to fix things, Vikas
decided to take a walk to clear his head. He wandered into a narrow gully near
Dadar, where the air smelled of fish and unfulfilled promises, and stumbled
upon a peculiar sight: a white stray dog with a pocket watch tied to its
collar, muttering, “I’m late, I’m late,
for a very important date!” Before Vikas could process this, the dog bolted
down a manhole. Curiosity – or perhaps a lack of better options – prompted
Vikas to follow, and down he tumbled, headfirst, into a doghole of
absurdity.
Vikas landed with a thud in
Blunderland, a topsy–turvy version of India where the surreal met the
satirical. The sky was a smoggy orange, the ground a patchwork of potholes, and
the air buzzed with the sound of honking horns and election promises. Vikas
dusted off his jeans and gaped as the White Dog scampered off, shouting, “The Queen’s rally waits for no one!”
First, he met the Cheshire Chai–Wallah,
a grinning man perched on a floating cart, stirring a vat of tea that never
emptied. His smile stretched ear to ear, vanishing and reappearing like a bad
Wi–Fi signal. “Mitron! Welcome to
Blunderland,” he purred, handing Vikas a chipped glass. “Everything here is brewed: opinions, facts,
GDP numbers. Drink?” Vikas sipped the chai – burnt sugar and bureaucracy. “Ye
koi chai hai BC?" Vikas wanted to say. But remembering the fate of
others who had made such comments, he chose instead to say “Why is Smriti mad at me?” The Chai–Wallah’s
grin widened. “Oh, she’ll tell you when
the Sensex hits 100,000. Until then, enjoy the ride!” And with that, he
dissolved into a cloud of steam.
A loud ding! Vikas’ phone lit
up. “Text from Smriti: You’re always late. You
don’t even show up!” Vikas sighed. “I
just wanted things to calm down first.” “You’re in the wrong country for that,” said the dog.
Vikas trudged on, tripping into
a tea party hosted by Bakshesh the auto–wallah, a Marching Bureaucrat, and a
sleepy Traffic Cop. The table was a dented autorickshaw hood, piled with stale
vada pavs and stacks of dusty files. “Have
a seat!” bellowed Bakshesh, revving his engine for emphasis. “We’re celebrating the Un-Birthday of the 5-Trillion
Dream!” The Bureaucrat, scribbling on a form titled “Application to Apply,” nodded sagely. “Sign here, pay there, wait forever – it’s progress!” The Traffic
Cop snored, a whistle dangling from his lips, waking only to fine Vikas 500
rupees for “imaginary jaywalking.”
“Why is Smriti upset?” Vikas pleaded, dodging a flying samosa. The
Auto–Wallah cackled. “Maybe she’s tired
of waiting for the bullet train!” The Bureaucrat stamped a rejection on
Vikas’s question, muttering, “Not in my
jurisdiction.” The Cop fined him again for “excessive curiosity.” Vikas fled, clutching his wallet and his
confusion.
Next, he stumbled into a forest
of billboards – giant posters proclaiming “New
India Rising!” and “Digital Bharat
Rocks!” – where a Caterpillar in a khadi kurta smoked a hookah atop a
crumbling flyover. “Who are you?” it
wheezed, exhaling rings of smog. “I’m
Vikas, and I just want to know why Smriti’s mad!” The Caterpillar puffed
thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s fed up with
inflation eating her dosas, or the ED raiding her feminist book club. Or maybe
– she’s just mad. Ask the Queen! She's good with this sort-of stuff.” And with a cough, it vanished into the
haze.
The Queen of Blunderland ruled from a gaudy throne in a palace of red tape, surrounded by a court of yes-men and a pack of playing cards painted with party logos. She was a towering figure in a saree of gold lamé, her crown a jumble of satellite dishes and broken promises. Some had argued that she was not the ideal ruler for Blunderland, but it always came back with the quick rebuttal, “if not she then who?”
The White Dog knelt at her feet, panting, “The rally’s ready, Your Majesty!” Vikas, dragged before her by card–guards
wielding batons, bowed awkwardly.
“Why is Smriti upset with me?” he asked, trembling. The Queen’s eyes
narrowed. “Silence! In Blunderland, we
don’t ask why – we clap! She’s upset
because… reasons! Maybe the onions cost more than your salary, or the markets
crashed again, or the neighbors won’t stop fighting over whose God’s louder. Or
maybe – ” she leaned closer, whispering – “it’s because you don’t come when she needs you to!” The court
gasped, then applauded furiously, drowning out Vikas’s “Huh?”
“Off with his head!” the Queen shrieked, but the cards fumbled,
arguing over whose turn it was to swing the axe. “Form a committee!” one shouted. “File an FIR!” cried another. In the chaos, Vikas bolted, chased by
a mob of slogans – “Bharat Mata Ki Jai!”
“Acche Din!” – and a stray cow
wielding a selfie stick.
He ran through a maze of GST
forms, dodging tax notices and communal pamphlet wars, until he crashed into a
croquet match where flamingos were mallets and hedgehogs were balls. The
players – saffron–clad Hooligans and blue–turbaned Reformers – bickered over
rules while the hedgehogs rolled away, muttering about secularism. “Smriti’s mad because you’re clueless!” a
flamingo squawked. “Or because the Wi–Fi’s
down!” added a hedgehog. Vikas ducked a flying wicket and kept running.
At last, he reached a courtroom
where the Queen presided over a trial. The accused? A sheepish Wolf from
Gaonpur, muttering, “I only ate the sheep
because the boy didn’t cry properly!” The jury – a mix of Twitter trolls
and WhatsApp uncles – shouted verdicts like “Fake news!” and “Anti–national!”
Vikas, shoved into the witness box, pleaded, “Just tell me why Smriti is upset!” The Queen slammed her gavel – a
cracked mobile phone – and roared, “She’s
upset because Blunderland’s a mess, and you’re too busy chasing dogs to notice!
Case dismissed!”
Before the cards could grab
him, Vikas spotted a tiny door marked “Exit.”
He shrank – thanks to a dubious laddoo labeled “Eat Me* (Terms and Conditions Apply)” – and squeezed through,
tumbling back into the Mumbai gully. The White Dog waved from the manhole,
barking, “Next time, bring cash!”
Vikas staggered home, head spinning with flamingos, chai, and Queenly rants.
That night, Smriti called. “You’re late,” she snapped. Vikas, still
dazed, stammered, “I fell into
Blunderland trying to figure out why you’re mad!” She sighed, softer now. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He
pictured the Queen’s whisper – “You don’t
come when she needs you!” – and ventured, “Is it… because I don’t show up on time?” Priya laughed, a rare
sound. “Close enough. Next time, just
ask. And bring protection.”
And so, Vikas learned a Blunderland truth: Smriti’s anger was a riddle wrapped in a stale dosa, and all he needed was to see it – really see it – amid the potholes, promises, and pandemonium of their world. Blunderland faded like a bad signal, but the lesson lingered: in a land of chaos, Vikas just needed to come. Not answers. Just presence. And maybe extra chutney.
