A hot cup of ginger-laced tea with a crisp newspaper is how I best like to start my day.

But the idiot box, spouting news from every possible channel, has ensured that I do not crave for the reams of black ink first thing in the morning. More so since I moved to higher realms to where I must climb some 50-odd curving, at-times-steep stairs.

The newspaper boy leaves my set on the boundary wall below. He cannot chuck the roll up to my floor as the lower floor balconies lean too far out.

However, when I do get to read the papers as I head to work it is not news-news that I look for. Since yesterday's news has been heard till I can read no more, my eyes after skimming the headlines invariably search for something different.

The other day I was not at all appalled to read how a much-irked Delhi'zen 'assaulted' the capital's chief guy at the municipal corporation with a pot of printing ink!

In fact, I teeheed at what 55-year-old Virendra Sharma did to the municipal boss in a rightful fit of disgust-limned helplessness. I could do the same or even more to the general manager, telecom, in my district, whose department's sole responsibility it is to ensure that my telephone is shifted to my new place of residence.

I would love to pour red or purple ink, neck downwards, or maybe apply tar to the seats of those guys whose duty it is to ensure smooth roads in the country's capital whenever my hottest red chariot in town goes bumpity-bump-dump-bump on the unscientifically done rumblers across the streets. These speed-breakers are strewn all over the country's roads, be it Delhi, Mumbai or Kolkata, from warrens that end in a cul de sac to the most hip road any city could boast of.

Stating that Sharma was piqued would be an understatement. What his grouse was, the news item sadly failed to inform. But it did mention, almost with glee, how Sharma was arrested for assaulting a public servant by pouring 250ml of printing ink on his shirtfront... or was it his dapper coat? Sharma, the news item informed us further, is quite in the habit of venting his frustration annually. Last year, no it was in March 1999, he "had poured paint over the deputy commissioner" in some other zone in the capital city.

Sharma's complaint was that several vendors outside his tutorial sold eatables laced with saccharine instead of sugar and that the department concerned had failed to take action against the vendors.

Now let me tell you why I would love to do the Sharma act with delectation. Many a time have I rung up the junior engineer of my telecom circle, beseeching him to visit us the many days hubby and I have specifically taken leave to welcome him with a plateful of sweets so that the telephone is shifted to where I have moved.

But, no!

In our land where the babu rules, the junior engineer or his minions never bothered to even stroll past my lane the days we were home, but in absentia left several gruff messages with the landlord and other building mates that the 'phone(y) guys' had condescended to visit.

Once they did happen to visit when hubby was home, but stomped out because they wanted 'photostatted' evidence that this is indeed the house I have shifted to.

For the entire month that I was in contact with the junior engineer, not once did he mention that all that proof was a necessary accessory I'd have to furnish. Thereafter, the junior engineer has never been available on the phone. Sahab is invariably out on field duty. Field days he has, of this I am little in doubt.

This has gone on for two months now. So when the phone guys informed that they would come calling the next day, I decided to leave with Landlord Uncle 'photostatted' and original copies of proof of residence (my cooking gas receipt), house lease and marriage certificate.

I also added to the sheaf the certificate that explains that I have decided to retain my maiden surname even after marriage! Who knows, they might just decide at the nth minute that I possibly could not be my husband's wife, what with a surname that does not match his even remotely!

The phone guys did descend the next day. Under the strict supervision of Landlord Uncle the wire was pulled across from the connecting pole, trailing above several more buildings, and now rests all coiled on my clothesline.

"I did not give them no 'photostatted' evidence nor did they ask of me," Landlord Uncle smirked in the evening as he handed back all my papers.

The connection, meanwhile, will have to wait till someone is home during the day. Hopefully that will be when my in-laws move in for a couple of weeks to be with us.

Ashu continues to dream of inkpots... Meanwhile, click here to read her last diary.

Tell us what you think of this diary

Be part of an exciting venture!

Write a Diary!