The More The Merrier

When I first read about India’s momentous achievement in becoming the country with most humans in it – Population Amrit kaal - I thought immediately, of course, of Balappa.

Since it’s unlikely that you know him – we all have our weaknesses, so don’t blame yourself – he is a farm hand around our area and works a couple of days every month at Random Rubble.  Balappa belongs to an itinerant tribe called the Pujarees, about one of whom Kenneth Anderson, of tiger-hunting fame, has written an entire chapter in encomium (which is about the only non-fiction that he wrote in his life).  He’s in his mid-thirties (Balappa, not Kenneth, who lived in the mid-thirties.  There’s a subtle difference and looks like you haven’t had your morning coffee).  Balappa is slim and wiry as most tribal folk tend to be, and a strong, silent soul with a gentle, but otherwise nondescript, face. 

 
I like the guy because he actually works unlike most other mid-thirties fellows in our area who are philosophers and economists and have a Grand Theory for Everything.  So, when I read this Population Amrit Kaal bit, I congratulated him heartily because he has done more than his bit: he has, hold your length and breath, thirteen kids (when reports last came in).  

His elder brother, Chandrappa, has, in contrast, a meagre eight, after which he threw in the towel and– in the immortal words of Seenappa – ‘got himself stopped’ at the local hospital (damn these doctors for spoiling the show).  Of his other brothers, I sadly know little, but if he ever consults me on a possible location for a family reunion, I will recommend Eden Gardens in Calcutta as the only option that comes to mind (the Grand Colosseum too, but I am a Make-in-India guy.  So is Balappa, by the way.)

The story - and the kids - does not stop here.  His elder son, who is now a sprightly twenty, has two kids as well (also when reports last came in.  A lot can happen in forty-eight hours).  You and I now know from this family history (and histogram plus trend line) that the son has a fair chance of beating his parents’ (otherwise) enviable record (I am taking bets, drop me your odds).   Ananda, in whose farm, Balappa and his Indian Premier League live, is convinced that he knows the root cause.  “Sir, you and I, we talk so much.  We both have two kids each.  He hardly talks!” he says, rolling on the floor laughing at what he is convinced is ultimate dodgy risqué humour. 

 
Now, as a hobby economist, I know that giving girls a sound education is the only long-run solution (assuming Balappa thinks there is a problem, that is), so I have long tried to get him to put his kids in school.  In the past, I have sold private equity to unsuspecting victims, so I can sell pink ice to Eskimos and bisibele bath to MTR, trust me.  I can even sell Amrit kaal to you.  

Balappa will always listen to me with a smile of deference and nod his head in complete agreement with everything I say.  But when Balappa meets me the next time, it is with the news of a new addition to his IPL.