I could crib. I could rave and rant. Which I did do for years over drinks with friends. Brooding over the gall of sanctimonious media and imperious governments ramming constricting policies down our throats. The blood would boil, as it would for any one who believed in individual freedom, at the pervading sickness of mind that shot you and then blamed the the wound for bleeding. A bit late, I realised I had to do something other than sit and moan. Write. If all the wonderful books I had read had a meaningful effect on me. But writing essays or blogging would not serve the purpose; they may be only marginally less ephemeral as the day’s news. For the truth to be felt deeply, it had to be a story. Like a dramatic physical demonstration of the principle. About ten years ago, I cracked the puzzle of how to dramatise the election manifestoes loaded with blatant bribes posing as noble duties . Soon, the rest of the story fell into place. Then, why did it take so long to bring out the book? That’s a tale for another day.
This book will raise bitter bile, depending on one’s sense of life, or bring out a joyous smile. I fervently hope the second reaction is the one from you.