The air-conditioner in the drawing room of 7, Race Course Road, was purring smoothly. Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, after a hectic round of evening meetings, sunk into the sofa with the air of a man largely at peace with himself. It was rare for him to get such free time. Okay, there was violence in Kashmir, the medical students continued to be on the warpath, the stock market was yo-yo-ing all over the place, there were a million demands, complaints, pleas, claims, inquiries, awaiting his attention, but even the most powerful (well, second most powerful) person in the country deserves a break, surely. It was at that point that he perceived his beloved wife of 48 years at his side with a glass of ‘aam panna’ in her right hand and an ominous-looking notebook in her left...

Gursharanji: Mai’kya ji, drink this aam panna. Changaa hai, good, for this weather. Tussi, you, don’t take care of yourself enough, it’s always kaam, kaam, kaam, kaam, work, work, work, work, for you.

PMji (taking a sip and permitting himself a joke): Changaa hai. Aam panna for the aam aadmi, a mango drink for the ordinary man!

Gursharanji (now very business-like, setting down her notebook and reaching for a pen): Now, hun, I need your dyaan, attention. How do you grade your performance after the dooja, second, year?

PMji (startled): But we have decided not to grade ourselves, Gursharanji. Remember all the trouble we had after we gave ourselves chhe, six, on 10 last year? This time, no grades.

... contd.