GAME OVER

Fwooooosh.... Boom!!! Singh Sa'ab took in the magnificence of the closing ceremony. He watched the rockets tear up through the anthracite sky before they exploded into a spectacular display of bright, colourful fireworks. Except, it wasn't quite as spectacular as he perceived. Ordinary at best. In fact it was more of a Shweeeee... Phat. A pathetic, shrill farting sound punctuated by, well another fart. Singh Sa'ab was of course mighty pleased with the show. Especially since he had netted a neat 62.50 lacs on account of his little kickback in the buying of the 'patakas' (he insisted on referring to them so, even when placing the order with the confused 'pheena' exporter in Guangzhou).

"Lauda!" Sheeba-ji heard Singh Sa’ab saying to her. "Mine wasn't in working condition. The wife had been after me for some time about it. I just got a new one now." Sheeba-ji was no prude (a prune perhaps), but this sudden confession by her junior in rank but probably senior in corruption left her flabbergasted. "The Missus will be also pleased with it." At first Sheeba-ji's jaw had dropped, but as the penny dropped she was already thinking less about Singh Sa’ab’s new Skoda, and more about her own impending purchase. A perky new set of tits to replace those saggy old thailas. "Have to rush for my dentist appointment" she lied. "Good luck with the Laura. I suppose Mrs. Singh will enjoy it more with a driver!" Sheeba-ji could be quite wicked when she wanted.

On the way to Inner Wellness (a known but incongruous name in cosmetic surgery), Sheeba-ji zipped down the lanes earmarked for the participants and officials. She gloated at the stationary traffic in the other lanes. Poor ordinary cunts, she thought. Suddenly the car came to a halt. "Kya hua Anil!? Gaadi kyun rok di?"

"Ma'am aage baraat jaa rahi hai."

A wedding procession in the CWG lane! Her bodyguards and usual coterie of suck-ups were not with her today, as she was going for a very discreet consultation. Only her trusted driver Anil was with her, but he was way too meek to handle any situation. "Fuck them! I'm going to give them a piece of my mind!" Out she jumped, and ran ahead towards the baraat. Where the fuck are the police she wondered!? Little did she know that the groom's brother and friends had been paying off the cops every hundred yards to go for a little urine passing while they passed araam se through the VIP lane. Their private baraat lane on which they jamaoed poora haq. After all, it was their tax money with which it was made. Well, somebody's tax money.

Feverish Bhangra. High decibel Bollywood music blaring through phatta hua speakers. Shiv Mohan Brass Band blowing and beating their instruments furiously. The entire procession wreaked of whiskey. Definitely Punjabi she thought. Such a crass build-up to a sacrosanct ceremony. "Who is charge here?" she shouted. No one heard. She tried to get the attention of one of the more respectable looking young men. He didn't look respectable any more when he started doing vulgar pelvic thrusts at her. "Get this baraat out of the way" screamed Sheeba-ji.

The young man composed himself and answered in his most sophisticated manner. "Hain?" It was as if Johnny Walker had opened a distillery in his mouth. "Come on aunty ji, shake it."

"Shut up! Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You're my sexy sober aunty who needs a stiff one. BOYS!!"

Out of nowhere a bottle of black appeared. Then a hand. And a funnel. Glug! Glug! Glug! Before she could say madarchod she was whisked off her feet and plonked onto a set of Punjabi shoulders. The arms attached to the hand with the funnel were obviously very long, as they continued to force scotch down her throat. She felt her tight ass begin to loosen up. She even found her shoulders bobbing voluntarily to the beat of Munni Badnaam Hui. She was beginning to enjoy the sensation. But the boys were bored of her by now. They flung her off and she landed on a patch of grass in the wide divider area of the road. THUD! That was a sound she had anticipated. But she also heard a splash. She was in a puddle. Bastard MCD! Last day of the games and they had already started slacking. Zooooon! Where the fuck is Anil? Zooooon! A mosquito was hovering around her forehead. Sheeba-ji was way too shit faced to swat the little fucker. But she smiled knowing it would just be a harmless bloodsucker. It was late at night and the dengue mosquito preferred daylight. Fuck you mosi. The mosquito probably smiled back as it effortlessly slid its proboscis into her temple. I'm the malaria variety. Fuck you too!

Sukesh-ji drove up to the entrance of the games village. The guard saluted him and let his car pass through. He pulled up at the river end of the complex. A brand new Skoda stood in the deserted parking lot at the back. Sukesh-ji stepped out and was greeted by the proud owner of the shiny black Laura. The greeting was a stern, bordering on hostile sat-sri-akal.

"So Singh Sa'ab, new car?"

"Chootiye, kaam ki baat kar."

"No need for gaali galoch, ji. We have both profited aplenty. Tomorrow the inquiry will start. Let's work together now and cover our asses."

They negotiated. They argued. They exchanged numbers, probably of lawyers and hawala operators. They pointed to the flats as if discussing who will get which after the games. At one point Singh Sa'ab grabbed Sukesh-ji's collar.

From the top floor of tower overlooking them, they were interrupted by some chanting. "Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!" The two men looked up. They saw a small white appliance balanced on the edge of a balcony railing. Suddenly it tipped over. And then it was rapidly becoming larger, as were Singh Sa'ab's eyes. A washing machine! Fuck LG. Fuck Newton. Fuck. My car! CRASH!! It was a Kodak moment. A pristine white washing machine lodged in the roof of a jet black sedan, and a Sadrar-ji in a white kurta pyjama bawling and hugging the bonnet of his car as if it were an unexpectedly departed loved one.

Poetic justice thought Sukesh-ji. But Sukesh-ji believed in karma. He knew he had been even more corrupt, and that a worse fate awaited him. The paper trail. The Swiss bank account. The media’s obsession with him. The conflicts with Madam's faithful Sheeba-ji. He wandered over towards the river. The less developed part of the village. The stench of the Yamuna filled his nostrils. But he knew he should savour the open air, for Tihar would not offer him the luxury of openness. He took his Peshawaris off, and enjoyed the mist on the grass-blades under his feet. Hissss! He knew at once that his end was near. Yet he hoped for a second that Mallika Sherawat would suddenly appear naked in her glorious scales and give him a BJ. He liked BJs. He felt warm blood rushing to his prick as he thought of this. Hisssss! His life did not flash before his eyes. All he could see were newspaper pictures of the cobras found at the village. Then he saw it for real. An expanded hood. The pearly white fangs. It seemed to grow taller by the second, and loomed ominously over him, appearing to look angrily at his hard on. Hisssss! The fun was over. The games were over. Any second now, he knew his life was....

Game Over.