Greetings, my gentle and kind readers. Mere words can never convey what my south Indian accent can, and so you can never measure my horrible despair and illness as I write this. Horrible doesn’t sound as horrible as haaawribble, trust me. Try it.

For all you know – but you don’t know, oh how can you – tears are falling from my eyes at break-neck speed right now – yes, dear readers, this may be my last blog, my last ever jasmine-scented humble offering at your feet. There is a good chance that your dearest uncle, Anand Rangarajan, might die soon. Anyway, I have left it on Balaji – my fate is in his hands. No, not that ineffective medium-pacer Balaji, but the great lord himself who resides under Sheshnag’s multi-fanged awning.

Yes, my fellow countrymen and women, I am suffering from pneumonia. I am typing with trembling fingers and I am coughing with such ferocity that the male nurses here are scared to even come near me. Admittedly, this is a blessing for my left-over health because most of them look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, especially when they grunt: Raang-a-ratzunn, I weel be back.

Thank lord Ayappa that I haven’t yet gone senile, but believe you me I am very near that historic landmark. It is midnight and I am in ward no. 12 at the Spital Hospital in Davos, Switzerland. I have been bedridden for almost a week now, and it was only yesterday that I was shifted from the ICU. Oh, how I miss my country and her noise and her heat and her uttapams. How I wish someone could Speedpost me a fistful of my country’s soil so that your uncle can kiss it and slowly transfer it from one hand to another like filter coffee and depart for the heavens a contended man.

If I do not recover then take this blog as my sworn affidavit. It accuses NO other person for causing the untimely separation of my soul and body but that Fabindia kurta-wearing Hercule Poirot who otherwise goes by the name of Shekhar Gupta! For, truth be told, he is the Kamdev who lured me through snow-filled alleyways and ancestor-remembering icy winds, all the way to my Davos deathbed here. He is my nemesis! May lord Shiva’s third eye open and reduce his walking-talking to a 1 kilo heap of smouldering ash that can then be sprinkled over all the lawns and corridors he has set foot on. Yes, dear readers, I accuse none other than Mr Shekhar Gupta for my present state and future departure.

So how did I land up here in Davos, and why do I blame Shekhar Gupta? Well, it is a long story, but as is the case with my life, I will cut it short.

Two weeks ago, my boss, the hon’ble Ms Chandresh Kumari, Minister for Culture, called me in her office.

“Rangarajan”, she said, “There is good news.”

“That’s great, madam”, I said, thinking that the brochure that I had lovingly drafted and prepared for our ministry, and which I had sneaked among a bunch of culture files meant for 10 Janpath, had been appreciated by the High Command. Well, this was good news, indeed. I was delighted – the Italians sure know a thing or two about culture.

“Rangarajan!”

In alarm I realised I had been day-dreaming and not paying attention. Ms Kumari had uttered a whole paragraph and I had let it whistle through my two-ended ear canal. I apologised and shuffled nervously on my feet.

“So as I was saying, the High Command has decided that this year the winning contingent of 243 people who will represent India at the World Economic Forum in Davos would be ours. That’s right – the Ministry of Culture will be at Davos in full force. And this includes you, Rangarajan. So pack your bags. We leave tomorrow night. All formalities, vide apropos visa etc, will be taken care of, don’t worry. Ah, Davos! You know where Davos is, don’t you, Rangarajan?”

“Lovely place, Madam”, I said. In reality, I had no idea where this damn place was. Because she had mentioned visa, I knew it couldn’t be near Vishakhapatnam. But could it be, heaven forbid, in Burma or Cambodia? The name sounded very Chinese. Anyway, what Ms Kumari said next cleared all doubts.

“Ah, the Alps; Ah, Switzerland; Ah, World Economic Forum; Ah, Kamal Nath; Ah, Mittal, Murthy, Montek; Ah…”

I knew at once that Davos was in Switzerland. Lord Ayappa, Rangarajan was going to the Chopra country! This really was good news.
Here is where, dear readers, I have cut the long story short and omitted three full paragraphs relating to our travel to and arrival at Davos.

The hotel where all 243 of us – the winning contingent – were being put up was like Thaj Mahal, I’m not joking. God-promise! Everything was perfect, except the name: Hotel Steigenberger Belvedere. People on deathbed don’t lie and neither will I – it took me one whole day and half a night to practice its pronunciation. Curse the Swiss! Let me see them pronounce the name of my nephew: Parinjaraykara Veerraghavan Pullakutti Ramachandran.

Anyway, after the winning contingent had overfed itself on government expense in the main restaurant of Steigenberger Belvedere, the next morning, as has been my routine for the last 56 years, I woke up at 5:15 a.m. and took a cold-water bath. And as is the south Indian custom, once I had taken that refreshing cold-water bath, I stood at the threshold of my room in nothing but my towel, bare-chested, parching my sacred thread of water, sucking water out from my ears with the help of my pinkie, and generally waiting to see a sight or hear a familiar voice.

And that is the precise moment, dear readers, when Rahu and Ketu and Shani came unannounced and ruined my life.
Note it! Note that moment in time – 5:49 am – for that is when I was suddenly pulled by my wrist and brought in front of a rolling camera by my nemesis Shekhar Gupta.

“Good morning, Mr Narayana Murthy. Welcome to Walk the Talk”, he said and motioned the cameraman to start rolling and me to start strolling.

I was so shocked and out of my wits that I actually started strolling. I was like a zombie. I didn’t even realise that I was wearing only a Steigenberger Belvedere towel and that my salt-and-pepper belly was gently wobbling to the rhythm of my stroll.

Shekhar finally let go of my wrist – he loves touching his guests in a friendly, joking manner – and said: “Nice to see you at Davos, Mr Murthy. Tell me: is Montek correct in assuming that our GDP will be 5.542% this quarter, down from his earlier estimate of 6.751%?”

Yes, dear readers, this blasted walking-talking rascal had mistaken me for NR Narayana Murthy! Was it my thick and opaque glasses, or my upturned lips, that made him think I was Narayana Murthy, I don’t know. What I do know is that, despite my complete ignorance of economic and world affairs and constant stuttering – not to mention my rabbit-in-front-of-headlights look – he loved my answers and constantly gave me a thumbs-up sign.

Before long, we were out of the hotel, through the lawns, and into the snow-littered streets of Davos. And all this with me in nothing but a towel! Lord Balaji only knows how excruciating was my walk, my talk, and my shock. When we returned to the hotel after one full hour, I was a frozen slab of ice – there were icicles formed on the bristles of my considerable moustache, I promise. And what does this walking-talking Kamdev do? He pats my bare shoulder, brushing off some snow that was covering it like he was removing dandruff, and calmly gets into a car along with his wretched cameraman and vrooms off into oblivion. I was lucky that even the concierge of Steigenberger Belvedere mistook me for Narayana Murthy and bowed and let me in or else I would’ve collapsed right there in the hotel portico.

Within three hours of my harrowing experience I was hospitalised. Within a day I was diagnosed with pneumonia. Within two days, all these Schwarzeneggers were scuttling around my lifeless state with syringes and oxygen masks and what-not, scaring me even more. I thank the lord that my Indian genetic make-up and immunity – that naturally withstands the onslaught of a thousand diseases the Swiss wouldn’t even know the names of, let alone be able to pronounce them – my Indian immunity was able to bring me out of the ICU successfully. If I was a white Narayana Murthy look-alike (although the chances of that happening are slim) I would surely have died.

So pray hard for your uncle Rangarajan, dear readers, pray that he emerges unscathed from his traumatic experience and returns red-cheeked and smiling to his motherland. Meanwhile, I promise that for your sake I’ll not let my tormentor Shekhar Gupta off the hook so easily. Step 2 of my revenge will be lodging an FIR at the police station nearest to any of his seven farm-houses. Step 1 is the uploading of his doodle that he made at the Editor’s meet. Here it is:

It is nearing dawn, dear readers, and I am exhausted through all this writing. The church bells of Davos toll relentlessly to welcome the sun god, but to my ears their echo appears as though one dear reader among you has taken the trouble of walking barefoot to Sabarimala, and having reached, is sounding the sanctum-sanctorum bell again and again and again, in the hope that his favourite uncle Rangarajan may kick pneumonia in the shins and return home by the first available Air India flight. May the all-merciful lord hear your prayers, and may Rangarajan live to upload another doodle.