Chapter 1 Introducing Pandy Chuckleworth

His native name was Pandarapannai Chockindleswarth. But when he started out, as a young politician in the opposition, his publicity agents shook their collective heads and decided there was nothing one could do but change his name. The media, as we all know, would be ready to lap up a name that didn’t occupy half the line or half the sound byte. So the first corruption of his name was Pandy Chuckworth. Pandy because that was what he was called when he was a young student at Camford where he studied administration. But Chuckworth? Bad move! Pandy soon became the butt of all jokes directed at his party . He spent a major part of his young political life dodging things ranging from rotten bananas and eggs to tables, chairs and even microphones that were hurled at him every so often inside and outside of Parliament. But, analysts say, without those dodging days, Pandy wouldn’t be where he is now. They attribute his rise to power to the fact that he developed a thick skin that could render any projectile ineffective on impact.

But I am getting ahead of myself. In the end, when Chuckleworth had the power and the money to hire the best in the publicity business, his name was promptly changed to Chuckleworth. And that brought to an end all speculative jocularity concerning his name either because the opposition hadn’t invested in a good enough publicity agent or because he had become much too powerful to be the butt of jokes anymore. I can never be sure of exactly which one it was but neither could P.C. or anybody else in the nation. Yes, P.C. it was! The originality and creativity of media publicists notwithstanding, the Media settled upon the more sober P.C. to refer to him. This lent a certain air of respectability that suited the man’s position now and definitely was less vulnerable to ghastly corruptions. Just once, a small time vernacular paper made the grave error of punning the P and the C in the PC to mean something to the effect of Peeing in the Sea while referring to his stand on hazardous wastes being dumped into the Assinian sea. But these are mere trifles for a man of such standing and he dealt with it, as any other man in his situation would, by the flick of the finger.

Quite literally, really. PC had, on each of his fingers, rings with enormous gems on them. With a flick of his fingers the enormous gems would limply fall back on their hinges exposing a small cavity which PC religiously kept well supplied with different poisons. Thoughtfully, PC would administer whichever kind of death his victims chose. It might be rather accurate speculation if I said that that was what happened to the editor of that not-so-respectable ( for PC made sure the publication was damned before he took any action) publication.

Pandy Chuckleworth

Tsk tsk, I digress, again! Anyway, PC now appeared as PC in every newspaper, magazine and TV channel. More in foreign media than in local, but the difference was marginal. He made such a large number of appearances everywhere that PC was soon used as a verb, adverb and adjective among its other uses in English grammar. It was becoming rather common place now to come across sentences like, “ She PCed her way through the hall right upto the president” referring to PC’s ability to scan, identify and make a beeline for the Rich and Powerful in a party or assembly within minutes.

In effect, the colossus of PC ruled the world of the media. The Media loved him. Which, ofcourse, meant the people loved him. They loved the way he spoke, the way he walked, the way he sang, the way he sat, the way he stood, the way he laughed, the way he cried, the way he danced and other such things that the people were privy to, thanks to enthusiastic journalism that wanted to capture the very essence of being PC, the real PC.  Indeed, I once overheard a friend of my grandfather’s gushing about PC’s ability to drape his native costume so adroitly. “Not a pleat ever goes astray”, said the person in question. And it was true. He wore clothes of the finest muslin. They were always impeccably ironed. And yes, never a pleat was out of place. The colours of his turban always matched those of his footwear. He took the liberty of having these in bright colours like magentas, pinks, oranges, yellows and blues while his native attire he kept to sober browns and blacks and greys and creams. Indeed, he was the fashion world’s favourite politician. He was even featured on the reigning fashion magazine of the time, The Chic.

Any more of an introduction to PC would cut into the space for the rest of the novel (which is all about PC). So I think this will do for now.d