Earlier this month, my 13-year old announced that he was going to be Pope. We were stunned with this sudden spiritual calling, but we welcomed it. We focussed on the perks – ‘skip-the-queue’ tours of St Peter’s, personal Swiss-guards and unlimited pizza. He looked puzzled, ‘Not really the Pope, mamma, I will play the Pope at the school’s MUN event.’
‘Oh!’ I noted with disappointment, the imaginary Pizza Diavola disappearing from under my excited nose.
‘So, what do you need to do?’ I asked.
‘Dress like him, I guess?’ he, never really the one with an eye for detail, said.
I jumped into action. I took out the Sheikh’s robe we bought in Dubai, the crocheted top (that Anita gave me for Christmas) to be worn over it, Shaeba’s red, Kashmiri stole, neatly folded to be draped around around the neck, a cross to wear and another to carry. A cap was proving difficult to procure, but we managed one in the nick of time.
The only issue was it wasn’t the tiny one that covers just the back of the head, like the one the Pope wears. It was much bigger. Phew! Finally, the Pope was ready, looking like a revered religious leader representing a fusion of religions, some that don’t even exist.
Having done our bit, we left for a holiday to verdant Coorg. At 9 pm, as were resting at our resort the night before MUN was to begin, we got a call from him: he didn’t have to dress as the Pope, just in formals.
The MUN topic, ‘Managing Tensions in Soviet Controlled Eastern Europe’ became ‘Managing Tensions in Arranging Formal Wear for Son at an Hour’s Notice’. We were angry. I yelled at him. I would have reached home and given him time-out if he weren’t the Pope. Anyway, he was instructed to wear dad’s shirt and jacket.
MUN started nicely with the Pope, now dressed in a suit, staying well ‘in-character’ by stating that war was not the solution to conflict. He spoke with gentle, open-palm gestures exhorting the people to live in solidarity and peace.
But, as the caucuses progressed, our Pope started losing patience with Urho Kekkonen, who was too talkative, and even, in a moment of delusions of grandiosity, took responsibility for nukes his country did not even possess. Kekkonen was gagged, but then Margaret Thatcher started annoying our Pope, who was now, really struggling to stay in character. He decided to order her assassination. Thankfully, he was advised, well in time, that he couldn’t do that, being Pope and all. This was most infuriating!
Good news came after lunch: Brezhnev was assassinated. The Pope gave Thatcher a high-five. His joy, sadly, was short-lived: Brezhnev reappeared on Day 2, as Gorbachev, then, again, as Brezhnev’s ghost during the trial. There was no getting rid of that fellow!
MUN was moving towards its end, and fiction had taken over reality in a major coup. Josip Tito had fallen in love with the assassin he had hired. The Pope was in the know of it, so had to be summoned to the confessional.
Brezhnev (risen from the dead) and Alexander Dubcek were dancing, cheek to cheek, and then decided to get married. Our Pope solemnised their wedding.
Best-selling author Rachna Singh (www.rachnasingh.in) is a sit-down comedienne