Flipping through newspapers, my friend said: "Nothing exciting!" "What happened? There's enough to mull over," I replied. He added: "Complacence. Can't we send them all to Coventry?" "Whom?" I asked. "To begin with, policemen like you. The tribe should be sent to the 'Island of the Naked' so that they learn how not to give into temptations," he said.
"And what about journalists like you? We should pack them off to the jungles where they will have to fend off scorpions and snakes. Only then they will write about issues related to environment and spare the Uma Khuranas," I said and asked him if he had any plans for politicians.
"They should be made to spend sometime in universities and centres of excellence. They should learn how our academicians fight on trivial issues. They will learn to take up issues in larger interests. You know how party politics is, action begins with 1,2,3…!"
"All Blueline drivers should spend a fortnight in a mortuary; the Gen-X brats be bundled off to old-age homes to understand that they themselves would grow that old one day," I added.
With his tongue firmly in cheek, he added, "Lawyers should go to Pakistan, where they can at least learn to fight". "What about the bigots?" I asked. "To the abattoirs. Hopefully, they will develop an aversion to blood." While this discussion was going on, I remembered my days at Coventry in Britain. During my stay, I strayed into a sidelane and some people tired to snatch my camera. I looked for policemen to report the incident but was told that it was "no-visit area". Was it a part of our training to feel the helplessness of a victim? Or, were we to understand the real meaning of being 'sent to Coventry'? I still wonder.
"And what about the judiciary?" I teased my friend. "Hold on, for everything else judiciary hai naa," he said. I said: "At least, the middle writers need not be sent anywhere for they are already there, where they should be."