All that triggers Cyrus Broacha’s ERS

Sorry. Yes, finally, I’ve actually started with a formal apology. You are obviously asking, “Why is he starting with an apology, is he showing a picture of himself”? While that would be an absolutely acceptable reason, my actual one is suitably worse. I have to apologise, because I’m unable to write down full sentences. Forget full sentences, words are just refusing to be strung together. Again, you are interrupting with a question, “Do I have writer’s block”? You could answer that by yourselves. C’mon, to have writer’s block you’d need to first be a writer, na”? Seriously people!

Sometimes, it’s like I’m a teacher in a nursery school. Now, please let me begin my scientific discourse. This will be a long explanation. So those who need to use the toilet, or put on the air-conditioner, go ahead and do so, I’ll wait.

This goes back to my childhood, which, my wife said, finally ended last week. Ignore her, let me proceed. At the age of seven when most children were diagnosed with mumps, measles, and chicken pox, I was diagnosed with ERS. Obviously, I’m going to explain what ERS is, so kindly refrain from raising your hand, and cutting into my flow. ERS, when roughly translated from the original Sanskrit, suggests Extreme Reaction to Stimuli. Let me explain through examples. Oh, and by the way, it does not mean I didn’t get measles or mumps, it’s just that when I got mumps, for instance, I cried much more than my five-year-old neighbour Shefali. Keep in mind Shefali was two years younger than me at the time. Back to examples.

If somebody patted me on the back, I’d run and jump 30 feet in the air in surprise and fear. My mother had to actually write a note to the school principal, which read, “Please approach this animal from the front only, please”. If someone shouted hello loudly, I’d burst in tears. If they sang or whistled loudly, if the phone rang in a loud fashion, or if the stairs made loud, creaking sounds, I would run helter-skelter, petrified, like the Taliban did after reading the Geneva Convention.

ERS has no treatment. As in, no pharmaceutical option, although one could move to Switzerland or New Zealand, countries, which sensibly have more cows and sheep than people. Now about the small matter of the column — writing has become unbearable, not just because nowadays I read what I write, but also because of the sound outside. I’m not the one to point fingers, or put the blame on others, that, my friends, is the coward’s way. But, this is clearly the fault today — September 17 in Maharashtra, that is GBMV or for non-Mumbaikars Ganpati Bappa Morya Visarjan.

Good old Ganpati is being escorted to the sea, which is all very well, but the firecrackers and drums (I have no proof that they are actual drums, but that they are some sort of instruments from the percussion family masquerading as drums) are leading to sound that is quadruply amplified for anyone suffering from ERS. Of course, by anyone, I mean, me. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking, my nerves are paragliding, my mental capacity is diminished, my organs are exchanging locations. This, I’ve felt only once before on my wedding night. As I lose consciousness, I must somehow find the courage to write down two things. Firstly, Ganpati Bappa Morya. Secondly, sorry. (Writer passes out).

The writer has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.