An old man had no right to be optimistic. Men as close to
the grave as he should only be thinking of the number of people who would be
turning up at his funeral , shedding tears of formality, making their
attendance known to all and sundry.
He picks up the cracked mirror and holds it with awe and
pride. After all, he had given up all he had for this practitioner of
non-pretense and unflattering commentary. The mirror hands him a rose and tells
him he is most pretty. It then proceeds to draw his attention to a clearing in
his otherwise luxuriant mane. He frowns, and knits his brows in silent
disapproval. The patch bereft of hair had the shape of a dog-ear. The final
batch of brain cells sends out a proposal which sends the old man into raptures
of ecstasy, with an aftertaste of cardiac arrest.
He wakes up in the CCU, twiddles a dial, and tunes into Mann
Ki Baat. Make in India reminds him of the idea that put him here in the first
place. He yanks clear of all wires filmi style. He goes and incorporates a
company and calls it Bald, a hair transplant company for dogs. Its logo is a
dog-ear.Business goes through the roof. He is rolling in paper bills featuring a
bald, bespectacled man smiling at him. When he is bored of all the rolling, he
goes and pats a few dogs. One of the pat recipients takes exception, and
registers disapproval with a well-timed bite of the old man’s flesh.
The old man feels ticklish and wet. He picks up the mirror.
It hands him a rose yet again. Its redness is accentuated by the frothy red goo
dripping from his mouth. A wave of optimism washes over him. But he checks
himself in time. An old man as he had no right to be optimistic.
