2022: Past looks at present

What would journalist Lillian Ross write if she were to profile Elon Musk for 'The New Yorker' today?

Tunak to Sunak

The fat man took his morning Scotch and had a sumptuous breakfast in bed and started fuming. "Sunak," he said. "What kind of name is that?"

Obviously, he could not understand. Sunak. It was beyond him. He was familiar with Gandhi and Nehru, names he abhorred. He had taken a fancy to Jinnah, their rival, and had played an indirect yet sinister role in cutting the country up.

"Now," someone said, "Sunak came from the part that went to Jinnah."

"How could that bloody be?" he said, his dander up.

Somewhere, during one of the many revels he had participated in, he had listened to a song that went something like Tunak, tunak, tunak, tunak…tun…ta..ra..ra…Multiculti, he was told. That song was a multiculti gift. The word had made him rage again. What the hell was multiculti anyway? And now it is Sunak…Sunak…That, too, is multiculti.

Sir Winston could not wrap his bald head around these things. He picked up the phone and barked: "Get me another drink."

"Yes, Mr Churchill," said the timid voice on the other side.

And then the phone went dead.

Vladimir vs Volodymyr

"Oh Anton," his sister Maria said, "Crimea is again with Russia."

Sitting at his blue desk in Yalta, he was confused. Wasn’t it with Ukraine the other day, he wondered. He told Maria the whole thing was so bizarre that he would not be able to capture the complexities even if he wrote a play. And he had written some of his famous plays here. And some intelligent stories too. When he wasn’t writing, he was planting trees.

"There will be more surgery," he told Maria. And some years later, after the annexation of Crimea, when Vladimir attacked Volodymyr, Anton was totally confused.

"How can Vladimir attack his namesake?" he asked Maria.

Knowing no answer, Maria replied that Volodymyr was Jewish. That left Anton at sixes and sevens. History told him that it was Adolf who had a beef with the Jewish people, not Vladimir. And then Anton, being a consumptive, coughed badly and spat some blood.

"So much blood," he said.

Instead of disturbing his sister again with some questions, Anton went back to his blue desk and thought of writing a story. And he wrote the story, throwing up blood intermittently. The story, titled 'Vladimir versus Volodymyr', appeared under his surname Chekhov.

He read it once again at the blue desk, and went outside and planted more trees around his White Dacha.

Does Elon have elan?

"You should write a portrait of Elon Musk, Lillian," said William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker and her clandestine lover.

"Bill," she said, "Papa was different. He had his quirks and oddities, but one could still pierce his wounded persona and go down the depths of his soul and write something illuminating."

"Lillian," Shawn said, "Musk is like the Papa of business. He just scooped up Twitter. Just that he doesn’t have grace under pressure. Or, if he has, he doesn’t show it."

"Bill, this 40-character-and-public-square business is beyond me. I would rather be in an Italian piazza than circle this digital public square."

"Musk," Shawn said, "is like a berserk bull in a bullring. Am sure Hemingway would have told you about his exploits with the Pamplona bulls in Spain."

"Yes," she said. "Papa said he went there nine times."

"You," Shawn said, "may have to go there 2-3 times. And you will get the scent of him."

"Of Musk," Shawn elaborated. "Remember The Red Badge of Courage," he said. Lillian nodded. "That was a John Huston production. A picture that almost went haywire. All you need is a bit of that courage," Shawn said. "Musk and his 40 characters. Many more," he said.

"Okay," Lillian said. "The Many Characters of Elon Musk."

Di-alectics

"Ah mummy, you are here, too," Diana said when she saw Elizabeth. The queen wrinkled her nose and Diana couldn’t let it go. "This isn’t Windsor, Mummy."

"Where’s Dodi?" Elizabeth asked.

"Nowhere," Diana said.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, we have separated," Diana said.

"Good Lord, you just can’t stick around with anyone," Elizabeth said.

"I tried sticking around with your son, but he stuck around with someone else," Diana said.

"Philip…Philip…I just can’t take it anymore. Where is he?" Elizabeth asked.

"Out," Diana said, "riding a carriage."

"God, these men," Elizabeth said. "Don’t know how long the royals will survive. These men," she said again, exasperatedly.

"Why are you after my kid?" Elizabeth said. "Your kids are brawling on Oprah and Netflix."

Diana tried to deflect. "At least it’s out in the open. Their dirty linen. With yours, it was all hidden. I was getting smeared with all the dirt," Diana said. "No one else."

Elizabeth started to walk away. "Mummy," Diana said, "there is no prime minister waiting to meet you. You don’t rule the roost anymore."

"Philip…Philip…" Elizabeth shouted and shuffled away.

The He-man and Xi-man

Mao was worried. His big brow was furrowed. He scratched around. There were many questions that troubled him. But one was paramount. He would have written another Red Book just on that. Anxious, he took himself to Confucius.

"Master," Mao said.

"Yes," Confucius said.

"Master, I am mighty worried."

"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated," said Confucius.

The master was given to speaking in aphorisms. Mao was more confused.

"Master, I would like to ask you a question," he said.

"Study the past if you would define the future," Confucius said.

Mao was now really bugged.

"Master," he said, raising his voice a notch.

"When anger rises, think of the consequences," Confucius said.

"Master…master," Mao said, almost tearing up. "I want to know if or not Xi would keep my photo in Tiananmen Square. Or will he chuck it in the dustbin?" Mao asked, his voice breaking.

"He who will not economise will have to agonise," Confucius said, his face marked with Zenlike stillness.

Mao was now in a flap.

"Master," he said angrily. "The photo. The photo."

"Silence is a true friend who never betrays," said Confucius and walked away.

Mao now perhaps had his answer. With tears streaming down his face, he too quietly walked away.

The jefe and the footballer

Fidel was roaming around in his olive fatigues, preparing for a lecture he was supposed to deliver to a gathering of the mighty in the upper reaches. When he couldn’t get a word right, Fidel stopped suddenly. And a fat man came from behind and almost shoved him to the ground. Pissed, Fidel managed to find his footing and turned back to give the fat man a piece of his fiery mind. And then he saw the fat man was no one else but Maradona. The great Maradona. The hand-of-god Maradona. The coke-snorting Maradona. The drink-fuelled Maradona.

"Hola," said the footballer.

"Buenos dias," said the revolutionary.

"Who’s the greatest?" asked Maradona.

"What?" said Fidel.

"The greatest?" asked the footballer.

Fidel kept mum.

"He or I?" the footballer asked. And huffed.

"That kid is good," Fidel said. "You were a poet," Fidel said. "He is a novelist."

Maradona, breathing normally now, looked at Fidel.

"Ah, come on Diego, I don’t have the time to waste on this," Fidel said.

"He or I?" Maradona asked.

Fidel shouted a name. "Gabo," he said. "Gabo."

When Garcia Marquez came running, Fidel pointed to Maradona and said he has a question for you.

"He or I?" Maradona asked again, looking at both of them.

"Damn it, Diego," Gabo said, "you will never get out of this labyrinth."

And then both Fidel and Gabo walked away.

Hail the Unveil

"You are still moving around without a veil," the ayatollah said. "You stupid woman." She showed him the middle finger. "Mahsa," the imam said, "you still haven’t learnt a lesson."

"You can take your lessons and teach them somewhere else," Mahsa said. "You took the revolution away from its revolutionaries," Mahsa said.

"What in the name of God are you saying?" the ayatollah said.

"You were in Paris when the Shah was hounded out. And then you got into a plane and zipped down here and usurped the revolution and gave it a different colour. You put a veil on it," Mahsa said. "You veiled the revolution," she said again.

The imam got agitated. "I will issue a fatwa," he said.

"No one listens to you anymore," Mahsa said. "Look at the mess. There are protests everywhere. Everyone is throwing away their hijab and lopping off their hair."

"Wrong," said the ayatollah.

"Things change, Mr Khomeini," Mahsa said. "Remember what Rumi said. 'If the light is in your heart, you will find your way home.'"

The imam just shrugged and smirked.

"We have the light and we will find the way home. It’s time you pack up your revolution and move away." Mahsa again showed him the middle finger.

The ayatollah, weary and tired and a bit panicky, began to gather his flowing robes and walk away, tut-tutting.