The village of Gulguli was tucked away in a valley so deep that the only things that reached them were the clouds and the occasional confusing decree from the Town Square. At the square’s center stood the Stone of Destiny, bearing jagged lines that looked like a chicken had a stroke while holding a chisel. It had an inscription so ancient that nobody remembered the alphabet, yet everybody claimed to own the grammar.
For three hundred years, Gulguli had lived by one mandate: “Aam-Chana-Jo-Khaaye-Sukh-Paaye.” The rule was simple, absolute, and followed without a second of hesitation…Whatever the current Headman declared the stone to mean, every soul in Gulguli must obey it, or face exile.
Sharma, the Headman, had declared that the rule meant: “Aam (the common man) must donate his Chana (savings) to the treasury to ensure Sukh (peace).” It was a brilliant rule. It kept his house grand and the villagers’ pockets light. The villagers followed it with the devotion of a cult, never questioning why his veranda expanded while their own cupboards shrank. They didn’t obey out of love and respect; they obeyed because the Rule gave their otherwise pitiable lives, a sense of purpose.
But every election, a rival would emerge, claiming the previous Headman had a terrible accent.
“He’s reading it all wrong!” Chaturvedi, the current rival, gathered people at the village’s square one day and started raising accusations.
Chaturvedi was a man who sold overpriced trinkets and had a grin as wide as the valley. “Aam doesn’t mean common man, it means Mango! And Chana means Chickpea! The Stone of Destiny commands us to start a Mango-Chickpea Export business, which, coincidentally, I am the only one qualified to run!”
The villagers started scratching their heads. They weren’t interested in the truth; they just wanted a team to belong to.
Into this theater of the absurd rode Professor George Kutty, on an old rickety scooter. He was hired by Chaturvedi to provide a “Legal Opinion” that would finally bankrupt the Headman’s treasury.
The Professor was a man who believed in the cold logic of syntax. Clutching a briefcase that smelled of mothballs and academic hubris, he had come expecting a simple translation job. He stared at the stone, wiped his spectacles, and looked at the crowd.
“Well?” the Headman, who had just arrived, asked, his voice dripping with authority.
The Professor squinted. “Actually…the syntax is straightforward. It’s late-valley vernacular. It says: ‘If you eat mangoes and chickpeas, you’ll be happy.’ It’s a lunch note. A salad recommendation. Not a law.”
The square went dead silent.
Chaturvedi’s eyes darted towards the crowd. If the rule meant just a salad, the tax would vanish, and his ‘export business pitch’ would evaporate.
“He’s a radical!” Chaturvedi suddenly shrieked. “He’s a pro-salad anarchist! He wants to strip us of our cultural heritage to promote… to promote fibre!”
The Headman seized the moment. “Yes! He’s trying to dismantle our way of life! If we aren’t obeying the Rule, who are we then? Just a bunch of people eating salad? Aren’t we a people of purpose?”
The villagers began to murmur.
“George Kutty…” the Headman said, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “Either you find a hidden meaning in this stone that justifies our existence, or you will be declared an enemy of the Gulguli village.”
The Professor looked at the stone, then at the angry mob of people terrified of being ordinary. “Oh God! Please take the wheel, and help me steer this conversation elsewhere,” he thought, panic spreading behind his thick-rimmed spectacles
He then cleared his throat. His voice suddenly boomed with artificial gravity.
“My apologies,” the Professor said, bowing toward the stone. “I misread the dialect. The word ‘Jo’ is not a conjunction; it is the ‘Jan-Aadhar-Adhikar’ (The People’s Mandate of Righteousness). And ‘Sukh-Paaye’ is clearly the ‘Sarkar-Utthan-Kosh-Palak’ (The State’s Upliftment Fund for Guardians).”
The villagers gasped.
“The stone is not a grocery list,” the Professor declared, sweating profusely, “it is a mandate! The Aam-team must compete against the Chana-team to see who can donate more to the Sarkar-Utthan-Kosh-Palak. Only then will the village be ‘happy’.”
The Headman and Chaturvedi beamed. It was perfect. It kept the taxes flowing and the people fighting each other.
“A miracle!” the Headman shouted. “The Professor has decoded the Divine Truth!”
The villagers scrambled to make their yellow (Mango) and green (chickpea) flags out of whatever fabrics they could get their hands on.
As the Professor climbed onto his scooter and kicked it to life, he heard the villagers cheering.
“I am a Mangoist!” one villager screamed, waving the yellow flag.
“Death to the Chickpea-eaters!” roared another, holding his flagpole like a spear.
The Professor didn’t look back. He had arrived as a passionate teacher of language, but he now left as a proficient student of political powerplay. If you want to rule people, you don’t give them the truth. You give them a team, a rival, and a rule they’ll die fighting for, even if that rule is just a shopping list for a salad!
