Playing socks with SAARC

Darling Ma-hinder,

I had just been to the local tonsorial artiste to trim my shimmering locks and was still reeling under the vision of an 87 year old Chinese woman with large side burns and the hint of a reddish moustache who had sat for an hour under the salon drier. My emotional state at beholding facial foliage of such gigantic proportions could only lead me to conclude that the woman had been for years cultivating the growth with permissible chemicals and a strong fertiliser used in the more prolific vegetable farms of outer Australia.

And it was in this state of uncertainty and travail that I arrived at my humble abode and was to pour myself a stiffish 4 ounces of Bourbon add to it an ounce of sweet vermouth and top it up with a dash of my best angostura bitters and a little crushed ice and strain out an old fashioned Manhattan into a large cocktail glass.

Glass in hand I sunk into my favourite armchair only to open last Friday's newspaper and leap five feet in the air as if pricked on the trouser seat by a sharpish object like a bradawl or pitch fork carried on the shoulders of a less amiable member of the working class.

The news was not good. It is my considered opinion that no good will ever come of reading the news rags these days. A man had been shot dead, the news item read. These days of course it's not so much when you get killed as how you get killed and where. To my detriment I read on and was immediately sorry.

The dastardly deed had occurred in a barber's shop in some Colombo suburb. My knees clacked wildly together as I thought of that repellent Chinese woman with the facial keratinous matter and my own visit to the barber just this morning. I mean to say it took my breath away as I thought of the power that a barber has over his victim as he stands over you and you cower on a low chair - a sitting duck.

There he is with a large pair of scissors or knife in his hand and there you are I mean to say. Bare neck, hair swept back for easy access, ears flapping invitingly. And wearing a bally cape around your shoulders to boot, making it as easy as anything to clean up the bloody mess afterwards.

And it was in this state of emotional shock that Thellie came across information of your SAARC tamasha dear. I mean to say three banquets, over a thousand delegates and Boggles and Kohona fighting like two jealous females in a harem. What better formula for a successful summit is what I'm thinking. I mean to say darling at least now the hotel industry will pick up a tad. Though only with local custom paid for by local idiots in the name, style and firm of the Paradisian masses.

There is Boggles on the one hand, inviting his own men and your men and other ministering officials for five star meals provided by five star hotels for preparatory  discussions. The only people out of Boggles' loop are of course Kohona's men.

Kohona meanwhile not to be out done is having his own set of preparatory consultations and a Foreign Secretary's banquet for which there will probably be your men and Kohona's men but yes, you've' guessed it, no sign of Boggles' men and..er..women I beg to add.

Meanwhile your friend and colleague Ahmedinejad is a party pooper if ever there was one. Just as you planned your SAARC party there he was pulling out all the stops in Tehran and planning a NAM party of his own. And at the same time too..the bally wet blanket. And the upshot? The only foreign minister who might be in attendance in Colombo may be Boggles himself. All the other seven having toddled off to Ahmedinejad's oil party. 

May be you should send the word around discretely that he may have oil but you have oil cakes. And kokkis and aluwa too. 

The problem with you dear is that you never think. Was it any point you jumping the bally gun and shooting your mouth off about Cyanide pills attacking the city and imminent danger in the capital and what not. Your aim may have been to frighten a striker or two from a red trade union but these red fellows are tough nuts to crack dearie. They are fellows who can say boo to a goose when it takes their fancy and will break a coconut on their forehead if it comes to a push.

Not so the bally diplomutts. A little firecracker on Vesak will scare them out of their wits sending them scurrying into their luxury residences as they call out the names of their several local hand maidens and help karayas.

And Thellie has it on good authority that, what with the Jawans insisting on making a reappearance in Colombo, and bombs going off in Kabul and Afghans coming to town for something other than lending a rupee or two, and the Pakistanis not wanting to get a raw deal etecetera nothing is certain, least of all whether anyone would be attending the summit in the first place. And where would all that 2.88 billion smackers go then? Thellie has a fairly good idea dearie!

Little wonder you had to toddle off to Pasupati to wake up a couple of deities and whip up some divine support. And in the company of your new political darling as well. Tch Tch. Now Thellie understands why Baa-sil left in a moment of pique. But your motto of pawul poshanaya must never be violated darling and giving Nirupama Beliatte in trust for Naa-mal is only fair one supposes. After all one must live by one's family creed eh?

Anyway darling while you are in pooja mode you may as well offer up a banana and orange for Boggles and Kohona too. You can't have them squabbling in this manner like kindergarten kids when the guests arrive now can you?  It's all about keeping up appearances.

Tara for now.

Thellie