San Serif

1st April 1977 N. Delhi, India

I cursed myself as I drove slowly across the busy lanes of New Delhi towards the headquarters of the Ministry of External Affairs. It was just six o’clock in the morning and if you are thinking that the life of a Naval Attaché to the Ministry of External Affairs is a bed of roses, I will tell you one thing, it’s a pain in the neck. We are sailors, not bloody pawns of bureaucracy.

“Captain D’Costa, you are late,” the Assistant Secretary of State (External Affairs) said and without allowing me to reply threw a newspaper across the table, “read it!”

“Sir, the weather seems to be good in New York. Pakistan has lost a match against India...........”

“Read the front page only. I did not ask you to read the news for me,” he retorted.

“There is a report on an Island, Sir.”

“Yes, San Serif. We have an island just below our feet and we don’t know about it,” he lashed out, lighting his cigarette. Don’t believe even if the board reads ‘No Smoking’, in the Ministry of External Affairs, big guys smoke everywhere, it proves that they are thinking.

The paper, I had on my hands was the 1st April issue of ‘The Guardian’. It had a long report on a twin island which resembled a semicolon. The island which lay to the north called Caissa Superior, took the shape of one top mark of a semicolon; the island to the south with a broad top and a tapering tail looked like the lower mark of a semicolon. Most of the developments had taken place in Caissa Superior. The capital of San Serif, Bodoni was located on this island. A long oil pipeline linked the port of Claren, in the east, with Commom, which lay in the west. The other major port of San Serif lay to the north of Caissa Superior. Railways and roads connected the capital, Bodoni to Adze Don, a coastal town, as also to Nomp, yet another town on the west coast. A major road ran from Erbar to Port Claren in the east. The other island had its own charm. Separated from the island to the north by the shoals of Adze, Caissa lower sported the highest peaks of San Serif. There was Monte Tempo, (height 6453 meters) and Montallergo (height 8972 meters) which provided enough challenge to mountaineers. To those, who loved to romp around on thickly vegetated mountain slopes, there were pleasures to be had in abundance. Mountain streams cascaded down the hills. There were cataracts which hummed eternal music as they raced down to the plains. There were shaded forest paths, cozy nests to stay, far from the madding crowds.

Vila Pica was a port town in the west coast. This was connected by a road to Gillicameo, a small town in the west. Tipe was another seaport town in the south connected to Woj of Tipe, a major tourist spot. The credit for the progress of the nation was given to General M.J. Pica. He was known to be a competent administrator and a level headed patriot.

But the report added one last thing. San Serif faced a grave danger. The danger was caused by erosion of the nation’s western coasts which lead to accumulation on the eastern seaboard, so much so that the entire landmass was slowly moving eastwards, holding out possibility of a collision with Sri Lanka. This would bring in catastrophic spin-offs, whose magnitude none could foresee. Thus, it was essential, felt the reporter, to take a closer look at the twin islands and the problems which the tiny nation faced and to explore ways and means of arresting the damage caused by lopsided erosion. Certainly, this was a problem that deserved immediate attention.

“God damn it, the entire world knows about this island, how come we never knew about it?” The assistant secretary said extinguishing the butt of the cigarette, with such force that it seemed as if he was killing it.
“Captain D’Costa, the Prime Minister is extremely concerned regarding this matter, we must know more about this San Serif.”

Just then, the door opened and the Minister of External Affairs walked in. “Mr. Varma, the Cabinet is baffled at this report on San Serif. How come all the world has contacts with it and we don’t even know where it is? And what about this problem of erosion? The island could crash with Sri Lanka and who knows, maybe even with India........”

“Mr. Minister, we are trying to learn more about it,” Mr. Satish Varma, assistant secretary tried to defend himself. Just then an officer walked in, handed a paper to Mr. Varma and left.

“Sir, it seems that the Soviet Union, China and even America have no contacts with it. The Brits themselves have just found out about the island.”

“Mr. Varma, I have been authorized by the Prime Minister to handle this matter with all that is in my power. You must send an expeditionary force to this island and make contact with this General Pita.”

“General Pica, Sir!” I said and both of them glared at me in such a way, as fathers glare when their children ‘butt in’.

Then after much commotion, which of course, you could construe as discussion, Mr. Varma, looked at me and cried, “Captain D’Costa, you have been authorized to lead an expeditionary force to San Serif and contact General Pica.”


April 3rd, 1977

With two frigates and a battleship, we rolled towards the Indian Ocean. Incidentally, we were not able to find San Serif anywhere on the maps we had at our disposal. We were told to ‘discover’ San Serif and as according to the Minister of External Affairs, it was just somewhere on the Indian Ocean and hard to miss.

We explored for three weeks and found nothing. It was surprising. Once, the radar operator alarmed us as two battleships came ominously towards us. It was international waters, no reason for concern. They were Americans; something told me that they were also looking for San Serif. We met Russians, French and many more, all searching but not disclosing the fact, just routine voyages. After another week, the expedition was called off.

I sat on my chair, placed a cup of hot tea on the table, switched on the computer and started typing the report. The expedition had been a wild goose chase. Just then the font’s column scrolled before me, as I decided to change the font. San Serif, Pica, Monte Tempo, Montallergo, Gillicameo, Caissa Superior, God damn it! They were all font names. I quickly got the issue of ‘The Guardian’. It was dated 1st April 1977. I ran towards Mr. Varma’s office and threw the paper on his desk. “We were April fooled sir, the whole world was April fooled,” I cried.

After some days, ‘The Guardian’ issued a report that they had indeed fooled us.