Trumping A ‘Second Opinion

For want of more productive activity, I found myself in the attic, armed with broom, dustpan, and a misplaced sense of virtue. The attic, that mausoleum of forgotten ambitions, coughed up its usual relics: sweaters that had shrunk into handkerchiefs, a transistor that once thought it was the future, and—miracle of miracles—an old Times of India.

Now, I never read the paper for its news. News is like milk: it curdles in a day. What I hunted was nectar, the weekly wit of my guru, Jug Suraiya. Wednesdays and one other day (the calendar still sulks about which) were sacred, for they brought “Second Opinion” and the Busy Bee buzz. Jug’s sting was satire, his honey was humor, and together they made the paper edible.

Khushwant Singh was there too, spinach on the plate—good for you, but hardly dessert. Jug, on the other hand, was tiramisu. He gave us Dubyaman, that superhero with George W. Bush’s brain. Imagine Superman with kryptonite lodged permanently in his skull, convinced that American military might could solve everything from terrorism to traffic jams. Dangerous? Certainly. Hilarious? Absolutely.

But here’s the kicker. When I look at today’s floating images, I wonder: did Jug have a premonition? Or did we, loyal readers, pump so much hot air into Dubyaman that he inflated, donned a red tie, and began tweeting at 3 a.m.? Dubyaman, reborn, rechristened, and re‑elected—Trump.

The resemblance is uncanny. Dubyaman believed in shock‑and‑awe campaigns; Trump believes in shock‑and‑tweet. Dubyaman had the Pentagon; Trump has the algorithm. Both wield power with the subtlety of a sledgehammer and the grace of a bull in a china shop. And both remind us that satire sometimes stops being satire and starts being prophecy.

We used to have editorials where editors put forth their views. Now we have “debate–debacle,” where two talking heads shout past each other until the viewer’s head spins faster than a washing machine on rinse cycle. Jug’s “Second Opinion” was never a debate. It was clarity wrapped in wit, a mirror held up to society that made us laugh even as we squirmed.

Cleaning the attic, I realized newspapers today rarely give us that. They give us breaking news, but not breaking insight. They give us headlines, but not headway. Jug gave us Dubyaman, and in doing so, he gave us a way to understand the absurdity of power.

Dust settles, but wit endures. Dubyaman may have been a cartoon, but he lives on in flesh and politics. Trump may be real, but he often feels like a cartoon. And true Journalists like Jug Suraiya, Behram Contractor better known as The Busy Bee, remain the bridge between the two: reminding us that laughter is the best editorial, and satire the sharpest sting.

So here’s my second opinion, borrowed shamelessly from my guru: If you want to understand the world, don’t read the headlines. Read the cartoons. They tell you not just what happened, but what will happen. Dubyaman was yesterday’s cartoon. Trump is today’s headline. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow we may find ourselves back in the attic, dusting off another prophecy disguised as a joke.

And when that attic door creaks open again, don’t be surprised if the next superhero we find has our own brain—because satire, like dust, always settles on us first.