It was well past midnight. Early enough for the creatures of the night to be fooled by the sudden pale brightness of the sky.

Sunshine would be a welcoming reality, the cyclic dawn of morality. That is, if it didn’t rain cats and dogs, beef and mutton.

The weatherman said it wouldn’t. But nobody gives a flying fudge anymore to what the sate-owned weatherman says. He’s usually a bit too apocalyptic about his forecasts these days. Always waiting for that “great flood” to pour in and all over. Such a born-again Jesus-freak baboon butt!

But the nirvanaoid Buddhists of the land always seemed to be at peace. With themselves, themselves and themselves. Only. Boring bald malts them.

They were at war with the land’s Aryan-phallic-caste Hindus. Both threw fresh veggies at each other. And they too waited in their rocky religious canoes for the “great flood,” so that they wouldn’t have to water their magic veggie gardens so often. They could then just float around and do a lot of nothing. Fantasizing to perhaps just meditate and reincarnate themselves back as carrots and peaches in the lovely Madhuri Dixit’s hanging gardens.


They had started to take the morbid, melancholic weatherman’s forecasts rather seriously. As seriously as they did their respective carrot soups … and as frantically as saffron-clad Hindu bombshells landing smack-dab over old Muslim mosques, and bald Buddhist cucumbers dropping like pecker-shaped missiles over red communist tomatoes guarding the peaks wrapped around slippery Tibet Snow bottles.

“Free our spiritual cucumber, or face the wrath of the great flood,” the Buddhists told the godless tomatoes.

And the Hindus were busy jamming hard on their own lil’ divine bull. Busy making curry out of the Muslims of the land.

The weatherman was weary about the Muslims. And the Muslims were weary about almost everything.

“We too are apocalyptic,” they told the weatherman. But the truth was, they were just plain old paranoid. However, they too had started to believe the weatherman’s mapped ranting about the “great flood.”

“It shall rain today,” said the weatherman. It didn’t.

“It’s a CIA conspiracy!” said the Muslims.

“Doom, death and destruction are just round the corner!” screamed the weatherman.

“Great day to kill a few Palestinian camels,” said the Zionists. “And to attack a few mosques”, added the Hindus.

“Soup, anyone?” asked the Buddhists.


And then night fell flat across the damn land. And finally, so did the goddamn rain.


“Doom, death and drowning are just round the corner,” screamed the weatherman.

“Has to be the FBI,” said the Muslims.

“Great day to kill some Sikhs,” said the Hindus. “And to go mount some Tora Bora women”, added the Zionists.

“Pickle, anyone?” asked the Buddhists.

The post-modernists on the right sides of the World Trade Center and with their IMF rhetoric, and their genetic teenaged brat packs in baseball hats, “I Love NY” T-Shirts, and McDonald’s deals in their overfed tummies and freckled hands, loved the rain.

“Kya scene hai!” said one of them, though brown and from HBO’s Mumbai.
“How utterly cute,” said his 21st century Dravidian girlfriend.

“Who’s sponsoring it?” asked daddy (aka pithah jee). He was obviously concerned about foreign investment in the land where he was a post-Cold-War capitalist pig.

Mom (aka ami jaan) really didn’t give a damn as such. She was too busy making Maggie Noodles in Marina’s Bitchin’ Kitchen on BBC: Food and scrubbing her new French silverware with Extra Power Vim.

“RAW agents!” said the Muslims.

“Roman cesarean doom!” said the Jesus freak weatherman.

“Great day to drown some Bengalis!” said the Hindus.

“Baked tomatoes anyone?” asked the Buddhists.


That “great flood” soon followed the heavy rains. It came gushing in.

Everybody saw it on CNN, BBC and bloody ZEE. The event sponsored by McDonalds, Starbuck, Nike, MRF Tires and Lado Soap made the post-modernists so very happy.

“Doom!” said the crusading weatherman. Actually he too wanted to get sponsored.

“Pepsi!” said the Muslims. They’d already been sponsored.

“Coke!” said the Hindus. “7-Up laced with cyanide for the Mecca Cola Palestinian bastards!” added the Zionists.


Everything that was anything right up till something that was really nothing, drowned.

“Doom! Said the post-modernists. “No more hope for any foreign investment! Downsize it, right-size it, do something, please!”

“Pithah jeeeee!!” screamed the brat pack.

“Great day to say great day” said the Buddhists. They were safe. They had painted their tinds with Robiulac Weather Shield.

“We really need a Jew to stop this flood,” said the American President via satellite. And all of a sudden he was re-elected.

“These floods, Mashallah! Mashallah!”” said Osama, in a video address on Al-Jazeera-TV.

“These floods,” said the American President “has to be Osama!”

“We need help!” said the Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists of the drowning land.

“Don’t worry,” said the American President. “Floods are no problem. Food and medicine are on their way … and 70 F-16s and 30 B-52’s and 39 Tomahawks and ......”

“ ……… Mashallah, mashallah”