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Gold-producing cows, intergalactic planes: Report from 5,000 BC for Futurewallahs

The 102nd Indian Science Congress was a serious affair where gold-producing cows and ancient intergalactic planes were discussed. Lucky for us, we discovered a blog from 5,000 BC that proves our ancestors invented everything and were superior in every way, writes Manjula Narayan.

comment Updated: Jan 12, 2015 14:33 IST
Manjula Narayan
Manjula Narayan
Hindustan Times
Indian Science Congress,Manjula Narayan,India

It's a fine day in 5000 BC and I've grown bored of flipping through the omnibus volume of Amar Chitra Katha that a feckless descendent has sent back in a time capsule. Maybe it's a generational thing but out there in 2015, people seem to have become, well, dumber. Yesterday, the Descendent Dude (DD) texted me in Pali, a language that hasn't yet evolved and has dropped out of usage in his time - why would anyone do that? - to say that a bunch of deranged fundamentalist Muslims killed some folks in an urban agglomeration called Paris. I was a bit upset cos, well, I had to figure out how to change the language option on the cellphone.

Don't ask me who Muslims are… or Christians. I'll have to look up Google and though DD did send me an Android phone, I'm too lazy to crank it up and get into the ether right now. I mean ever since 2025, the eleventh year of the glorious rule of their Great Leader, when some smart ass invented the time machine, the Descendents have been sending us their tech trash. One of these days, I'm afraid they'll turn up in person and insist I travel to the 21st century. It's a worry that's been haunting me ever since I stumbled upon Back to the Future on YouTube.

Anyway, this 'Beam the garbage back, Scotty" stuff is having serious repercussions on all manner of things here, not least employment among the Apsaras. Inoculated by access to future porn, sages no longer get distracted from their 100-year penance spells; Indra and the gods are glued to their Macs and are agitating for the celestial dancers to incorporate a strenuous new form called pole dancing in their performances. Imagine the hours of retraining the girls will have to go through. As the most famous Retrainer-in-Chief - a title bestowed on me after I managed a 500-year spell of meditation without using the loo even once - I'll have to develop a new training module.

(Illustration courtesy: Happily Unmarried)

I'd really prefer to kick back and relax with a glass of the finest Somras but it is not to be. Anyway, there's now a brisk inter-era smuggling trade in the damn thing and we, the Revered Ancients, aren't getting the best stuff. Blame the no-good trouble making Asuras with their dark skins, pot bellies, huge moustaches, booming laughter and urge to desecrate sacrifices. (I haven't tried that myself but it does look like fun. Lulz.) They now run all the outbound bootlegging operations, which has reduced their activities somewhat in the abduction-of-jhakaas women sphere: "What three things does drink especially provoke?…Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance…" As an Ancient I pronounce, when you want to impress, quote Shakespeare.

Ah, but I digress. I aim the hardbound ACK volume at the spotted deer nibbling at the cabbages in my kitchen garden - venison is not improved by a diet of patta gobi - and decide to take a spin in my udan khatola. They have these in the future too but strangely enough, they aren't as advanced. Like, until yesterday, the Doltish Descendent could only fly from country to country and didn't do the inter-galactic route. No idea why, yaarz; how boring can you get?

I mean I just read this cool book off the Net, it's called the Bible I think, that said: What has been will be again,/what has been done will be done again:/there is nothing new under the sun.

(Illustration courtesy: Happily Unmarried)

But the Futurewallahs are raving about their Mars expedition like we haven't done the same thing before. We've done EVERYTHING before, OK! Transposing heads, root canal ops with brass pliers, kidney transplants, Boeing 747s, test tube babies, boob jobs, you name it, we've done it. Heck, I do it every other day - intergalactic travel not the mammary enhancement I meant. Which reminds me, gotta pick up the helmet I left at the workshop on Mars. Wouldn't have remembered it if Doltish Descendent hadn't sent me a frantic text asking about the Mahabharata war and kings flying to Mars in helmets. Nasa, Nasa he kept babbling. I looked up the Mahabharata, which hasn't been written yet, and indeed it is full of nãsa so I ended up depressed. Forget the blood, tragedy, and bereft families, it was that small detail about the women having kids off divine men that brought me down. Divine men are hard to find. And then to deal with the naivete of DD who insists those half-divine warriors were the result of artificial insemination. Heh.

Anyway, also on the to-do list - getting me a new edition of Maharshi Bharadwaj's aviation manual at the chain bookstore on Saturn's rings. The palm leaf 's wearing out on the old one. But oh, it's now Rahukaal so I'll have to feed the blessed gold machine until the inauspicious time passes. Descendent Dude reveals his cohort continues to believe strongly in how the stars and planets affect lives. It would seem that some things are constant through Time - the mysterious workings of love, lust, astrology and bovines that pop out golden turd.

Sadly, the quality of metal passing through my mooing gold machine's posterior isn't 24karat any more and so she's being reassigned to the water divining department. Dear parched Modern Reader, who depends on tanker water, just slather on some herbs and bovine urine on your foot and voila! gushing streams will emerge from the barren earth.

OK phew, Rahukaal has been banished but there's a slight change of plan. Instead of an intergalactic shopping trip, I feel like a chukker round the North Pole in Nandivardhana - the DDs call it Nagpur. Changing names is a peculiarity of the Moderns that I'll never understand. The Aryan Homeland is now the centre of Bharatvarsha but not a snowflake to be seen. What is the world coming to? So glad I live in the enlightened Vedic age where the poles haven't travelled off course yet, but maybe sometime soon, I'll listen to the Dull Descendent and get on one of those increasingly popular package tours into the future. First off, I'd like to eat those exotic veggies - tomatoes, chillies, potatoes. Not sure I want to fraternize too much with the people with their absurd dress codes though. Looked up khaki shorts and lathis and something called the salwar suit. Really, I prefer my minimal bandeau bra and lower cloth sheath style. Sent Descendent a selfie and he smirked that I looked like someone called Poonam Pandey and that I'd be "booked for obscenity" if I "wandered down the street dressed like that. So cover up".

Huh? Not like I'm a delegate at the 102nd Indian Science Congress! Can't a woman dress the way she wants? Not in the future, no. Brr.

OK, time for take-off. But before I leave gotta check my fertility jar. Lately, the Maharshis have been going on about how I haven't yet had my quota of four bawling kids. "All this inter-planetary socialising will have to stop, babe. Grow up, have a family, settle down, become a woman. It's the way of the world," one venerable yogi with a Ramdev squint said.

Thank goodness for Vedic technology, though: the babies will nicely pickle in that jar until they're ready to be born, and in the mean time, I can escape to Mars, party like its 5000 BC, even maybe snag a demi god or two. Three cheers for the one thing that no one in the future's talking about… yet - Vedic Feminism, yeah.

(Illustration courtesy: Happily Unmarried)

First Published: Jan 11, 2015 12:06 IST