Raghu B is a writer who lives somewhere in Goa. He was once a brave man who spoke his mind and wrote what his heart dictated. Nobody knows how many books he sold and no one wants to count because in Goa, books rarely sell. If you print about a thousand copies you could place 500 in various libraries, distribute another 250 to friends and sell the rest, if you are lucky. That’s how it works.
This strange situation in Goa forced Raghu B to pen a few books in English, which were even more difficult to sell because most people here prefer a free copy. Raghu B had been honoured with awards at the state and central levels and received numerous felicitations at the village and taluka level.
Today, this proud man was a worried man. He was worried about writers and film makers returning their awards to the government.
“You must return your award too,” said Prakash C, a friend who had arrived at the writer’s house to convince him to join the movement for tolerance.
“Listen, Prakash,” he said, “if you want me to talk about intolerance, I am ready to do it. If you want me to call names, point fingers and generally make a nuisance, I am ready for it. But giving back the award is complicated.”
“How so?” asked Prakash C.
Raghu’s wife who had arrived with tea for all explained. “You see, along with the momento came a cash prize of Rs 1 lakh…..”
“Yes,” Raghu added, “if you want the momento, you can take it, but the cash will be a problem.”
“Don’t you know what John F Kennedy once said?” asked Prakash, “he said ‘don’t ask what your government can give to you, but what you can give back to your government.”
“It was easy for him to say that. He never had to give back an award,” Raghu weakly said.
Unable to inspire Raghu or elicit a proper explanation Prakash looked at his wife who was waiting for a cue to butt in. “We can’t give back the money because we invested it in a television, AC, a dining table, three buckets and two tumblers.”
“Can you imagine what a sorry figure I would cut entering the Secretariat with all that stuff?” asked Raghu.
“But you have to give back something to register your protest,” said Prakash.
“I’ll think of something,” said Raghu. He thought for a while and came up with what seemed like a solution. “Two weeks back I was felicitated by the Taluka Sevak Samiti. They gave me a shawl and a coconut. I could give back the shawl.”
Raghu’s wife looked worried. “I don’t think that is possible,” said Raghu’s wife, “I gave it to the maid.”
It was like a kick to the tenders for Raghu who stared at her with disbelief. “In that case I could give back the coconut,” said Raghu.
“That won’t be possible either,” said his wife. This was like another kick in the tenders. “I used the coconut to make fish curry three days ago.”
“And it was good, traditional coconut curry,” exclaimed Raghu, “I must say the Taluka Sevak Samiti is worth its coconuts.”
After they had finished drinking the hot tea out of railway station glasses, Raghu said, “Sorry Prakash, but I have nothing to give back. Why don’t you try your luck with Dutta? He is more liberal and generous.”
The suggestion angered Prakash. “Do you think this is a Narkasura collection drive for me to go from house to house,” he shouted and left.
On the way Prakash took a detour towards Dutta’s house. He explained the reason for his visit and Dutta promptly replied. “Why don’t you come back in 2020, the cash prize fixed deposit will mature by then.”
