There was great consternation in the Revolutionary Party headquarters. At 11 that morning, the pronouncements of an entity called Moody’s had sent the mood of all the Revolutionaries into a tailspin. After sulking for 13 years, the Moody’s chappie had decided to upgrade the Indian economy.
And as the morning wore on, and it became increasingly clear that the Moody pronouncements had placed a feather in the political cap of the ruling dispensation, the mood in the office became increasingly hysterical. Stock market analysts lovingly spelt out the contours of what it meant to go from Baa3 to Baa2. News channel anchors belted out endless sentences – some made some sort of vague sense, most did not – about how the Moody’s guy had finally done the right thing by India. Blah, blah, blah. But tiresome blah, considering the party had just celebrated the success of the anti-reform narrative, that they religiously believed people had begun to buy into, in larger and larger numbers.
“I tell you, these guys are all hand-in-glove. All these right-wing non-intellectual types – basically the ones who control the world markets.”
“No doubt about that. Look at the timing, na. Just when an election is around the corner. They want to make sure their man continues to win.”
“Comrade, we can’t let this go without a fight. We need to tell that Moody guy that we’re wise to his antics.”
“Seriously. Call Cybernath. He’ll take care of the social media bit.”
Within minutes, Cybernath was on the job. And in no time at all, he had hunted down the pesky Moody on Facebook.
As the name Moody swam into his vision, Cybernath took one swig of chai, and let his fingers loose upon the keyboard, magically transmitting the angst of all his comrades into Moody’s corner of cyberspace.
“How dare you say our country’s economy is on the road to recovery? Do you know anything about the way economies like ours work, anyway? We know you have taken money from the right-wing leader. Shame shame!”
“Long live the Revolution…” he signed off with a flourish, and hit Post.
Two minutes later, when it became apparent that he had hit the wrong Moody, Cybernath felt pensive. For all of two seconds. After which he rebounded, with characteristic vigor. “What does it matter? Anybody who calls himself Moody is suspect anyway.”
In his dressing room, someone alerted Moody the cricketer that there was an inexplicable outpouring of venom against him on his Facebook page. Moody gave him a blank look, before going back to strategizing for his team for the upcoming tournament.
In another continent, ghosts of the Roman mob tittered, as they gossiped in the bye-lanes of Rome. “Remember the time when we lynched the wrong Cinna?” one asked.
“I am Cinna the poet. I am Cinna the poet.” One of the spirits simpered, mimicking the hapless bard.
“Tear him for his bad verses!” The other ghosts shouted, reliving that moment of pure glee.