when an elephant rode on a mouse

After tossing and turning restlessly in bed for a whole night, I finally made my decision. I would not drown the clay Ganesha in a bucket of water in the backyard. The reason, of course, was my mother’s winning argument: "We already have only 2 decent buckets in the house. If Ganesha sits in one bucket for a week, then how to wash clothes??"
So I checked the newspaper for alternatives they might have for ecologically concerned, but bucket-deficient people who had a Ganesha idol to dunk. Ulsoor Lake** was mentioned as one such solution. Images of shorts-clad jawans wiping sweat and green goo off their body while cleaning up the stinky, hyacinth filled, silted lake a year ago flashed in my mind. But I read on: "An area would be clearly separated from the main lake and will be set aside exclusively for immersing the Ganesha idols."
And so, the lake it had to be. Rather, the tank-in-corner-of-lake-generously-alloted-for-marrying-religion-and-ecology it had to be. So the idol securely placed in the leg-space of my Scooty, I rode my way to the said tank. All the while, I was painfully balancing my legs in the air (thanks to amma’s "Don’t keep your feet anywhere near the idol!"). I’m still amazed at how everyone on the road had the same reaction to my antics:
Absent looking around to find where the loud metallic clanging was coming from >> Realisation that it’s my bike >> Double take on seeing my bike gymnastics >> Idiotic, self-satisfied grin >> Ganesha idol noticed >> Instant look of forgiveness
Now, as soon as I parked my bike near the lake, a young man walked towards me.
I noticed that his pants were wet knee-down. I nodded and stepped aside.
He touched his hand to his lip, then to his chest, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. Then he lifted my Ganesha, faced it frontwards, stuck it to his chest, and walked towards the tank.
I scurried after him.
At the edge of the tank, he paused and gave me a brief, blank look.
I subtlely touched my handbag.
He turned away from me, and walked into the tank. He went upto a point where the water level was such that his pants wouldn’t get wetter. Now he turned toward me, but looked skyward. Dip, dip, dip. Thrice. Then he floated the idol away.
I looked into my bag and fished out a 10 rupee note. He took the money and went back to the parking lot. We hadn’t spoken even once.
I looked around. A middle-aged brahmin man, dry as a bone, his face purple, and his strained veins popping in a V-shape in the middle of his forehead, was hysterically yelling at a little boy (also wet knee-down) in tamil: "You are not supposed to touch Ganapati till we reach the edge of the tank! Who asked you to take it from me here itself?? Now I have to do puja from beginning, you dirty idiot!!"
He swung his hand violently towards the boy’s face.
I turned away. But I heard the sharp sound of hand on cheek.
I walked quickly towards where some more men wet knee-down were having silent conversations with more people bringing Ganeshas on bikes.
....
**The municipal corporation has put these little ads on street lamps all over town, that applaud Bangalore for being ‘The City of Gardens’, ‘The City of Lakes’, ‘…IT’, ‘…Pubs’, ‘…Parks’, ‘…Kempegowda’(courtier who planned the city). Although I love Bengloor with all my heart, I must confess that the corporation is a big fat liar. But I must say, they’re clever with colours. The City of Gardens board is green, the lakes board is blue, and the Kempegowda board is golden yellow- to signify royalty, of course.