007 entered the reception and the blind man looked up expectantly. "Can I help you?" 007 asked brusquely.
"Is that Mr Bondopadhya?"
"The name is Jamshed. Jamshed Bondopadhya," 007 said curtly.
The man fished a paper out of his pocket. "Mr Muthuswamy asked me to give you this," he whispered. The paper he handed over to 007 contained the location of the Irish meeting to be held that evening. 007’s mind was racing. Nobody ever took M’s real name. Unless...
007 gave a swift, sharp karate chop on the blind man’s neck. The blind man sank with a gurgle. 007 searched his pockets and found no weapon. He looked through his wallet and found the correct code signifying he was an MI6 undercover agent. With a grunt 007 walked out to the street. A huge hoarding of the Queen stared at him. After practicing yoga under Swami Ramdev, the Queen looked 30 years younger.
After a late lunch, 007 stopped by one of the Marks and Spencer kiosks put up every hundred yards. He bought a benarasi paan with just a hint of tobacco—the way he liked it. Marks and Spencer and Haldiram made a good team, he thought. For New Brits like him life was becoming bearable. The Old Brits were a minority now. But 007 always treated the natives kindly. They did a good job manning all the menial posts. With superb marksmanship, he shot a stream of red into a spittoon on the sidewalk. He entered a lane near Earls Court and stepped into a dilapidated building.
Dressed in cap and muffler, he mingled with the shabby crowd in the hall. He heard two speakers. He then stepped out of the hall and called M on his mobile. "No foreign hand, sir. The Irish and cockneys just want to increase their job reservation quota. They allege the New Brits are discriminatory...."
(Puri can be reached at rajinderpuri2000@yahoo.com)
