Sleepless but green
March 07 : As you sit comfortably in your blue lungi, sipping a hot cup of chai and are reading this, I will be stuck without sleep in a grubby studio with only another male for company. Now first, let’s look at your problem. Granted that as a female the
choice of a blue lungi may not be the most aesthetically-pleasing fashion decision of your entire life, but then what about me? What about me? Who cares for me? Now let me tell you “my” problem. I’m stuck in what is loosely termed as a “Greenathon”. Contrary to what the general public perceives, the Greenathon is not a sporting event in the Winter Olympics, neither is it a city’s name in Greece, nor is a popular plant in Belgium. In fact, to be perfectly honest, nobody really knows what it is. Its age, height, weight and gender are still open to debate.
However, loosely, very loosely, let me throw some really loose light on the subject.
The Greenathon was invented by a German farmer called “Hans”. This was, of course, at a time when all German farmers were compulsorily called Hans, regardless of gender. Hans (to avoid further confusion let us refer to him as “Greenathon Hans”) used to work with a lot of electricity-driven heating implements. These implements would let him down frequently because of German’s huge energy crisis. Frustrated and angry, Hans, sorry “Greenathon Hans”, decided to forsake electricity forever, and thus he ushered in a “Green farming era” where two things happened: a) electricity and artificial power sources were no longer required; b) all his produce were coloured green. The latter did cause some problems as the market for green carrots was still at a very nascent stage. This started a worldwide “Green” effect that reached India, as it always does, 160 years after it reached the rest of the world.
In India, the “Greenathon” effort has been spawned by Hans’ distant, extremely distant cousin, Dr Pranoy Roy. It is he who called me into his chambers last week, to press upon the urgency of promoting the Greenathon. The meeting took place in Dr Roy’s sprawling mansion in Vasant Enclave, New Delhi, which obviously now goes by its far more modern address of “Greendaspur”.
I rang the front bell of the mansion (an old-fashioned church bell with no church attached to it as far as I could see) and immediately the gate was raised inexplicably by a pulley system as designed by Descartes in the 17th century. The pulley was manipulated now, as it was back then, by seven elves, all dressed in brown tunics with long green caps.
One of them a burly midget of Swedish extraction called “Gunther” warned me that as the pulley was faulty, since it hadn’t been serviced in 200 years, I had three seconds to cross before the gate came crashing down on me. Truth be told, since he took two seconds to deliver the warming in his halting English, I actually had only the one second. Luckily, I survived my contest with the first pulley.
I entered a huge hall with a never-ending ceiling. At the far end of the hall on a chair made of recyclable paper with two cardboard cut outs sat a pair of ferocious Rothweillers, guarding the good doctor. The doctor rose to his full height and spoke to me in a voice generally heard in the narratives of mythological serials that never end.
“Young man, you have been chosen as an ambassador for the environment. You will deliver your green and clean message on our TV networks on the 6th and 7th of March. This you will do by remaining awake for 24 consecutive hours.” Due to the natural reverse echo effect prevalent in the hall, each word resonated five to eight times consecutively. Thus Dr Roy’s two sentences took 45 minutes to complete. This partially explains why pizzas are never delivered to Dr Roy’s palace on time.
Fearful that the good doctor might launch into a third sentence, I quickly agreed to all his terms and conditions which were quite severe, especially when they resonated in one’s ear again and again.
So, while you sip your chai and flip through this paper, I’m stuck on a couch without food and sleep, promoting… er greeness.
Green be with you, and also with you.
P.S. The author is a reluctant “Green Soldier”. It’s not so much the green, as the soldier part that bothers him, after all he’s never felt comfortable in one-colour tight uniforms.
choice of a blue lungi may not be the most aesthetically-pleasing fashion decision of your entire life, but then what about me? What about me? Who cares for me? Now let me tell you “my” problem. I’m stuck in what is loosely termed as a “Greenathon”. Contrary to what the general public perceives, the Greenathon is not a sporting event in the Winter Olympics, neither is it a city’s name in Greece, nor is a popular plant in Belgium. In fact, to be perfectly honest, nobody really knows what it is. Its age, height, weight and gender are still open to debate.
However, loosely, very loosely, let me throw some really loose light on the subject.
The Greenathon was invented by a German farmer called “Hans”. This was, of course, at a time when all German farmers were compulsorily called Hans, regardless of gender. Hans (to avoid further confusion let us refer to him as “Greenathon Hans”) used to work with a lot of electricity-driven heating implements. These implements would let him down frequently because of German’s huge energy crisis. Frustrated and angry, Hans, sorry “Greenathon Hans”, decided to forsake electricity forever, and thus he ushered in a “Green farming era” where two things happened: a) electricity and artificial power sources were no longer required; b) all his produce were coloured green. The latter did cause some problems as the market for green carrots was still at a very nascent stage. This started a worldwide “Green” effect that reached India, as it always does, 160 years after it reached the rest of the world.
In India, the “Greenathon” effort has been spawned by Hans’ distant, extremely distant cousin, Dr Pranoy Roy. It is he who called me into his chambers last week, to press upon the urgency of promoting the Greenathon. The meeting took place in Dr Roy’s sprawling mansion in Vasant Enclave, New Delhi, which obviously now goes by its far more modern address of “Greendaspur”.
I rang the front bell of the mansion (an old-fashioned church bell with no church attached to it as far as I could see) and immediately the gate was raised inexplicably by a pulley system as designed by Descartes in the 17th century. The pulley was manipulated now, as it was back then, by seven elves, all dressed in brown tunics with long green caps.
One of them a burly midget of Swedish extraction called “Gunther” warned me that as the pulley was faulty, since it hadn’t been serviced in 200 years, I had three seconds to cross before the gate came crashing down on me. Truth be told, since he took two seconds to deliver the warming in his halting English, I actually had only the one second. Luckily, I survived my contest with the first pulley.
I entered a huge hall with a never-ending ceiling. At the far end of the hall on a chair made of recyclable paper with two cardboard cut outs sat a pair of ferocious Rothweillers, guarding the good doctor. The doctor rose to his full height and spoke to me in a voice generally heard in the narratives of mythological serials that never end.
“Young man, you have been chosen as an ambassador for the environment. You will deliver your green and clean message on our TV networks on the 6th and 7th of March. This you will do by remaining awake for 24 consecutive hours.” Due to the natural reverse echo effect prevalent in the hall, each word resonated five to eight times consecutively. Thus Dr Roy’s two sentences took 45 minutes to complete. This partially explains why pizzas are never delivered to Dr Roy’s palace on time.
Fearful that the good doctor might launch into a third sentence, I quickly agreed to all his terms and conditions which were quite severe, especially when they resonated in one’s ear again and again.
So, while you sip your chai and flip through this paper, I’m stuck on a couch without food and sleep, promoting… er greeness.
Green be with you, and also with you.
P.S. The author is a reluctant “Green Soldier”. It’s not so much the green, as the soldier part that bothers him, after all he’s never felt comfortable in one-colour tight uniforms.
By Cyrus Broacha
