Bhavagangamma’s Brigade.

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A Deja-Brew Of Emergency, and Revolution.

I sit at my chaikhana, the scent of boiling tea and old arguments curling into the morning air. The temple square hums with the usual chatter—pilgrims, vendors, and the occasional revolutionary who has lost his cause but found a good cup of chai.

It is June 12, the 50th anniversary of Indira Gandhi’s conviction. Strange, isn’t it? The Indira bashers, the ones who once sharpened their words like knives, are silent. No celebrations, no grand pronouncements. Perhaps they have grown weary, or perhaps they have found new tyrants to critique.

Ranganna, the old revolutionary, sits across from me, stirring his tea absentmindedly. His fingers still bear the scars of the Emergency—ink stains from pamphlets, bruises from police batons.

“Where are your comrades now, Ranganna?” I ask, watching him.

He sighs. “Some returned their awards, some returned their voices. And some… never returned at all.”

I chuckle. “Ah, so the thinkers have stopped thinking.”

He smirks. “Or perhaps they have started thinking too much.”

I sip my tea and muse on humor as resistance. During the Emergency, satire flourished in whispers and coded metaphors. The so-called parallel cinema emerged—films that spoke in shadows, in glances, in the spaces between words. Where are those filmmakers now? Some staged grand protests, but I wonder—did they also stage their own silence?

A familiar figure approaches, his turban slightly askew, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Nasruddin Hodja.

“Ah, Hodja,” I say, “where have you been hiding?”

He grins. “Hiding? I have been free! Free to agree, free to obey, free to stay silent. What more freedom do I need?”

I chuckle. “You have been listening to the government again.”

He sits beside me, his presence shifting the air. “Did you hear about the finance ministry’s latest trick? They can block your social media if they suspect you of financial fraud.”

“Ah,” I say, “so now even our thoughts must be audited.”

Hodja laughs. “Soon, they will tax our dreams. ‘You dreamt of rebellion? That will be fifty percent GST.’”

I pour him tea. “Tell me, Hodja, how is your wife?”

He sighs dramatically. “Ah, my dear Zuleikha. She says I am too clever for my own good. I say she is too wise for mine.”

I smile. “A perfect match, then.”

The square grows quieter as the sun climbs. I think of Kabir, of his poetry that captured the absurdity of existence.

I stand, raising my voice just enough for the gathered souls to hear.

“I burst into laughter whenever I hear that the fish is thirsty in water. Without the knowledge of Self, people wander to Mathura or Kashi, like the musk-deer unaware of the scent in his navel.”

The words hang in the air, an invitation to think, to question, to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Hodja tips his cup toward me. “Well said, Bhavagangamma. Now, let us see who dares to answer.”

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