Say 'Don't Panic' if you want people to panic

Last week, I was down and out in Delhi. No, really, not in the Orwellian sense of bumming it the way the Bihar-born did in late ’20s Paris and London, but down and out with shivery fever, watery eyes and headache in GK 1. Peering through the French window shutters of my eyes, I read the papers that told me that I was not alone in my misery. Covid, in its latest summer collection, was up and about again, and that everyone should be careful and avoid coughing into each other’s faces as much as possible.

But there was no reason to panic.

Summer is here with a vengeance in April. At 42°C with 39% humidity, Kolkata is like a hot, sweltering icecream put to slow boil. The state government even sent a heat-warming ‘special bulletin’ to all phones with the subject line: ‘Hot and discomfort weather is very likely to prevail,’ editorially adding, ‘Heat is tolerable for the general public but moderate concern for vulnerable people.’ In other words, be careful if you don’t live in a slum.

But there is no reason to panic.

At Bandipur Tiger Reserve Forest, the resident tigers must have read about the total number of their lot having increased to 3,167 from 2,967 in 2018. But some concerns have been aired about whether there will be any demographic dividend, or whether this will lead to a situation like Japan and western Europe of a dwindling working population having to prop up an ageing one. Tigers, remember, have no pension. Which has made the tiger population at Bandipur understandably concerned enough to not give their usual nazrana to visiting dignitaries.

But they have been told to not panic.

I know that doctors, politicians, economists, undoomsayers, meteorologists, priests, editors, and chartered accountants mean well when they tell us to be careful while at the same time emphasizing ‘there is no need to panic’. But the moment one hears the last bit, everything else dissolves. All one hears is ‘panic.’ Or rather, PANIC!. In Douglas Adams’ great book about a great book, both confusingly titled The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the writer – with whom I share my first school (in different decades) – describes how the galactic guidebook, apart from being ‘slightly cheaper’ than the Encyclopaedia Galactica, stands out by having the words ‘DON’T PANIC’ inscribed in ‘large friendly letters on its cover’. While the intent of the guide – more of a ChatGPT device than a government notice – is to reassure users not to worry too much about something that ‘looked insanely complicated’ and to keep intergalactic travellers from panicking, the effect is just the opposite.

Not too long ago, on a flight from Lucknow to Mumbai – after the flight from Kanpur to Delhi was cancelled (yes, the itinerary got complicated) – five minutes after take-off, I heard a loud pop sound coming from the right side of the aircraft. Outside the window on the other side, I could see a faint trail of black smoke. The plane momentarily plunged as if having a pointless orgasm.

A passenger on the other side of the aisle closer to the window was completely invested in watching a movie on his laptop-headphones. No one else seemed to have noticed what had happened except me. I had taken out my phone, and even without any signal available, started writing last messages to my wife. (‘If you find the DVD marked ‘Debbie Does Dallas’ behind the Agatha Christies, I got that before I met you.’)

Then, with the cabin crew by now firmly behind phalanxes of food trolleys in front of the cockpit door, the captain’s voice came up like some Abrahamic god: ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have a small mechanical problem. As a result, we shall be turning back to Lucknow. There is no need to panic. Sorry about the inconvenience.’

At which moment, the man watching the Anil Kapoor movie on his laptop, me, and everyone else in the plane started panicking – and panicked our guts out until tyres touched Awadhi tarmac. Moral of the story: when you want someone not to panic, avoid telling him or her ‘not to panic’. It’s as misleading as ‘public school’ and as ominous as ‘We need to talk.’