Aap ka Manpasand

I miss the 1980s.  

It was in the Bangalore of yore that I delighted in being the third person on a phone line, when I picked up the receiver and found a cross connection. These were utterly fascinating: I would listen in for a bit and then ask, “Excuse me, which one of you has loose motion?  This is Doctor Sharma speaking’ and wait for the response.  Sadly, not once did this ruse work, despite a heroic attempt to mimic a doctor.  
And then the BSNL phone service got boringly efficient, much to my dismay.  The private operators too don’t give you a cross connection even if you are willing to pay for it.  But recently, a new invention has brought charm back to existence again.  I am referring, of course, to the tethering of the phone to the sound system in the newer cars.  

Last week, a chap parked in front of my house and made a call on his phone-cum-sound-system.  The ringtone sounded like distant thunder.  The moment the other fellow came on line, they began to quarrel and I craned my neck to receive better audio.  

Evidently, the fellow at the other end was a stock broker who had, sometime ago, recommended Manpasand Beverages – a juice maker – and the guy in the car had punted on it.  Apparently, the problem is that it isn’t just the stuff inside the Manpasand tetra packs that is fluid, it’s the stuff in the balance sheet too.  
So, these two chaps went at each other, the broker defending himself, and it was most enrapturing to hear, so I listened intently, making mental notes and silently cheering when points were scored.  

The fellow in the car had a clean shaven, fine North Indian face.  From the voice and the Hindi, it was clear that he had spent three quarters of his life in Delhi and, judging from the volume,  the remaining quarter in a maternity ward for frogs.  
Once he had hung up after twenty minutes of mutual recrimination, I opened my gate, walked over and tapped on his car window.  
‘I agree with you,’ I said, ‘The broker was wrong to suggest this.’
He seemed surprised, almost agitated and said that I should not have overheard their conversation.

What stupid logic.  It’s like announcing in front of a child that the ice-cream tricycle is coming and then getting worked up that she heard it.  ‘I did not interrupt you or defend the decision, both of which the broker did.  Also, remember I am agreeing with you.’  As you can see, I was justifiably indignant.  
But, I must say, he wasn’t impressed and said something about regretting having used the sound system.
‘Please don’t say that,’ I pleaded, ‘I found the conversation most interesting and you’d ruin an afternoon if you turn it off.  Do use the parking area in front of my house anytime to call your broker.’

Besides, I wanted to ask him about a couple of invectives he had used that I had not heard earlier, one of which seemed a very musical word to summarise the stock broker’s father’s ancestry, but before I could enrich the vocabulary, he drove away.

The problem nowadays is that it’s hard to find someone who is not a spoilt sport.