“No madam, not possible for me” he remains resolute to his own position. I wonder if she would blink, he has come down once, so it's her turn now, the rules of bargains suggests so.
She says, “Okay let's go”, an old trick in the bag.
“Madam this is very a quality stuff” he insists, “you can’t get it cheaper anywhere.”
“You have an eye, so you decide the price for this type of stuff.”
She says turning her back, “I have told you my price already.”
We are almost ten feet away when he calls out, madam madam. Oh! the old trick is working afterall. “Madam” he says as we are at his kiosk again, “one-ninety.”
I am little surprised by his unabashedness, she looks befuddled too, her unperturbed-ness shaken. She offers finally, “one-seventy-five”
“Deal” the man replies happily, without any second thoughts, which makes me wonder if it's really of that much worth. He packs it neatly in a brown paper bag. She takes out a small note, on a plain white card, and puts it in the paper bag. You are real good bargainer, I compliment her. She just smiles, and says, but this man is really good. We push our way through the street filled with human flies.
Over an ice-cream at Gaylord's she tells me more about her family. I sit on a parked scooter and she stands nearby. I watch kids as they come and beg, I turn my head away, completely ignoring them, as if they did not exist.
She’s the lone child in her family, and is very close to her father and mother, although she has not spoken to her father ever since, she still feels strongly for him. She indicates that she like her mother has absolutely no doubt that the charges are falsified. Her mother is still fighting for the justice, one day she knows, her father would come out free and respected. She says as her voice grows heavy again. She says she is looking forward to that day.
She gives her ice-cream away.
“What did you do that for, you know kids get encouraged, you should not alm the kids.
“Let them enjoy, while they are still kids” She replies.
I get up from the scooter as we walk slowly toward the no-parking lot. She adds giggling - I hope to see my activa. I wonder how could someone not like such a good hearted person, I almost forgot that I nurtured deep animosity with this girl, not so long ago. I hate to be myself sometimes.
I tell her about myself how I hate my mother's cooking, my father's aloofness, his attempts to mold me to fulfill his own dreams, I neither want to be an administrative zombie (civil service) nor a corporate sellout, and I also tell her my hate for society's obsession with poster boys, the star eyed kids. Why everyone has to be perfect or why you have to live upto someone's expectations, I don’t understand. I didn’t ask them to expect anything from me? Then why do they? Tomorrow I may just decide to lie down on a green carpet of grass and decide to do nothing, that'd be my choice completely, that won’t mean I am incompetent or you know a nincompoop or a lazy chump. I wanna do things because I want to, not because the society expects me to. I am studying because I like to do so, it interests me, even if my parents have forced me into it, but then again it wouldn’t imply that I have to really do something and put use of my education. I mean I may choose to do something completely different, my decision.
I don’t even know her much, why then I am telling her my inner thoughts, even I am not sure, maybe because it's a burden growing heavy on my soul.
The next morning my mother discovers a packet inside my bag (she has the habit of going through my personal belongings). She says, what's this, as she opens it, the brown bag, and take out what she is holding, a muffler. I am little surprised, how did it end up in my bag I wonder. I playback the events of the yesterday, she had that in her bag, not mine. Then I ask myself, did I see her putting it inside her bag, the answer almost instantly is a no. No I did not see her putting it her bag, well then, I open the envelope ignoring the curious gestures from my mother, I remember she put in a note in it –
I just wish I could take it back, I am sorry for what happened.
~’~’~
Now -
A war is upon me -
I am not sure whether it is my dauntless audacity or unflinching determination that makes me step forward.
“Hey! Look! Stop! ” I shout at the top of my voice.
Or maybe it is my plain stupidity.
“Stop this! right now” “Let him go” I repeat, my lungs almost hurt. I catch their attention this time, a few of them turn back to see me, who’s that idiot? There are six of them I can count, One Two Three Four Five Six. Six against one, Six against two, soon!
I persist, again shouting on top of my voice, “Back off you bonehead!”, sufficient to stir the hornet's nest. They don’t question who I am or what I want, neither they do warn me to go away. They just want me dead and beaten off, I am the new cynosure of their eyes. Three of them charge toward my direction, one with a striking black moustache the other two, non-distinguishable.
The flight or fight mechanism triggers in my mind, Run Shiva Run! I choose to stay. The two of them push me with their shoulders and seize me by my arms, I resist but their grip is too strong for one person, I think about head-butting them, but I am not sure what’d break, their skull or mine. The moustache guy who slowed down earlier comes at me with an air that makes him look like he is really determined to make a dent or two in my body, he punches me where it hurts most - in the guts. And he hits me once more in the guts and then once more, about five or six punches. I feel a strong dizziness shadowing over my consciousness, something that you feel when you are down half a bottle of whiskey. My feet are unsure of the ground, the flat ground that appears to slope in and out at the same time; I try even harder to get out of their grip.
“You were saying something, huh?” He finally says breaking his vow of silence. His voice heavy, just as a man’s voice should be. I am not sure why am I in admiration of a person I should have hatred and fear for. They guy is strong, not muscular though, lean with broad shoulders. Nerves are carved out on his forearms as if he has spent the major part of his life loading up the trucks with cement bags or porting the luggage at a railway station.
I recognize these hands and these shoulders, something I saw a long time ago, such a body frame once belong to a little boy I knew. Platform seven of the Ranagat station was his home. He earned, meager, from the carriages he towed, he ate skimpily from the leftover of the passengers, he slept on the unused rails, the night sky was his blanket, and the Lord his shepherd. But he was different then, he was a kind person. He helped a runaway, he sent a lost boy back to his home. Though he never belonged there, the runaway thought he can make these rails his home too, he can sleep on the bedding of wooden planks and stones, the steel lines on the either side will protect him. The boy told the runaway, the world is full of loathsome monsters, ready to tear you apart, on the first opportunity. He saved the runaway from one such monster, and after that he said to runaway - you don’t fit here. Go home! He repeated. Go home to you mother, Go home to your father. Or if not to them, go home to the civilization, make something of yourself.
You’ll see, one day I’ll be someone you’d really be proud of. A public servant but not for public service…
He slaps me hard on my face, I wake up from a walking daze, my feet slowly regaining consciousness, I am still in the two’s grip, gathering energy I swing myself from torso, my legs flirt in the air before they land on moustacher’s ribs, the impact of the strike, is titanic, as a reflex and more because of the excruciating amount of pain he steps back a few feet, his zealous sprits warded-off, the duo’s grip loosens and this is the moment when I set myself free. I run. I run in circles.
“Over here!” He shouts. “Get this bastard!”
The queen bee calls for its drone, the whole pack, now is interested in me.
“Wait, you -“ the moustacher shouts.
I know there’s no way I can win this fight, or even put up a fight against them, six against one is harshly unjust
ified. My mind races to find an escape route, my eyes squints as my heart pumps extra oxygen to my brain, the brain obliges, I had a plan working for me so far, without me realizing it. The whole objective was to divert the attention from the boy, which I did successfully, the boy has gotten a few moments of breather, taking in air hurriedly.
A guy jumps over me, I bend my body backward to avoid him. Six to one is no match. I dodge a punch waved at me but I fall prey to a leg swirl aimed at the same time. I turn around to take a look at my bike, it's parked on the other side of the road. The flight response kicks in, for a moment, I consider dashing at it full speed and running away. But I immediately trash the idea, I would never be able to make it to the bike, my body is tired, I am slowed down already. And I can't risk the life of a borrowed bike, it’s my responsibility, they’ll certainly vent their ire on it, if they would know it’s mine. And then broken, I’ll have to carry it, instead of the bike carrying me.
“He's getting away”, someone shouts and their focus shifts again, few of them leave me to get the guy. I bend down to defend myself, I stick my hands in the dirt and dig out as much as I could hold in the cup of my palms, and I throw it up aiming at their eyes, dirt in their eyes momentarily blinds them, they rub their eyes and cough out whatever entered their mouth, they struggle to hold me, I escape and run, taking advantage of the commotion. I run for the guy to help him, he is down on the ground, crying with pain, on the verge of unconsciousness, I challenge them who are still showing no mercy on the boy; have they gone mad or what? They are going to kill the poor chap. The boy looks up at me out of a black eye, he seems to have no strength, he has got heavily bruised and there is no account for internal injuries yet - there would be half a dozen broken bones at-least. My mind grows very uneasy on the subject of the extent of his injuries.
I push over one guy, and I hit other repeatedly with my right elbow. Two down. The third guy charges at me. I jump over him taking both of us on the ground, we roll over, trying to seize control, in a tussle, I am over his chest, and I punch him twice on face.
Enter a new entrant:
A girl pulls over her activa, I don’t understand what she’s trying to achieve, the situation is explosive and doesn’t really warrant a feminine participant, probably that’d be the last thing that I need at the moment; and yet against my wishes she comes charging toward us. “Stop it! there” She cries loudly. “What are you doing, you are killing him” She shouts. She yells something again but because she’s at a distance, I couldn’t make out clearly what she is saying. My head bends toward her direction, I look up to see what she’s upto.
“Hey boys! let’s go!” the moustacher shouts to his boys. I, too get up, and disengage myself with the third guy. Apparently guys are bit hesitant with the girl, they seem to be quite uncomfortable getting into mess with a girl, don't wanting to get in any sort of female trouble. ;empathy arises, emotions arouses when there are females involved.
“Police, Police” She shouts repeatedly. Hearing her a cop who was a distant spectator until now, sets into motion, with a stick on his hand, a cap on his head and a tongue in his mouth. The situation has diffused, I never thought that the scene would change so quickly and so dramatically. One minute it was a battle scene another minute it’s an empty ground. Taking notice of the new dynamics I decide to get away too, from the scene. I look at the poor chap, he looks fine, just unconscious. There’s not much I could do here now. I have to get going.
Besides, I may get into little trouble myself, which is the last thing I would want, I am driving, without helmet (punishable offence), someone else’s bike that I don’t have papers of (punishable offence), and that too without a driving license (punishable offence). My ankle isn’t broken but it hurts badly, my head feels like it got hammered from inside, my heart is throbbing like an airplane engine, and my face is all dried up. I have a lingering doubt that I have broken my canine, the inside of mouth is filled with warm blood. My whole body aches, and I find it difficult even to reach out to my bike. Gathering my strength, and assimilating the pain I move. I feel am comfortably numb.
I see a helmet lying near a bike across the ground, I change the direction of my sprint to pick it up. I look back over my shoulder as I hop on the bike, the scene seems to be settling down. The girl has managed to get some other people, passersby, to stop, the group is de-scrambling toward the nearest exit, a smart move by the moustacher, I bet, they wouldn’t want anyone to recognize them, even worse getting identified by an ITS-ers. In my book I have a high respect for the moustacher; I imagine he would say to his men: Fight when you can, flee when you cannot.
I see at a distance our poor chap now being helped by the super girl, he is barely able to stand; resting one hand around her shoulder, she helps him walk. Six bikes, in a group of three, jogging in tandem, the group is fleeing on the direction toward the Rajpur - another sane decision by the moustacher. I quickly put in the keys and kick-start the bike.
I speed up, my wrist bend upward and my fist around accelerator slowly tightens. The cool breeze that hits me on the bike speeding at eighty coupled with the taste of the blood flowing in my mouth gives me mixed feelings of ecstasy and guilt. The fact that my ego feels nourished and I was able to escape without significant physical damage is rewarding in itself. Did I really want to help the hapless guy? Or was it a selfish act of valor on my part. I did it because I didn’t want to carry the guilt; I did it because I suffered from a bruised ego. I feel a moment of little happiness and pride. I move on with my hands constantly on the accelerator to throttle the every bit from the engine. I slow down for the rumble strip before the Scholar’s Home. I try to put together pieces of what could have possibly happened. Something small and silly must have happened in the macrocosm of hostel.
I take a stopover at the KC soup bar. KC is a road side establishment famous for its veg. soup and fried momos. I find a spot in an array of mashed up parked cars, somehow I manage to squeeze my bike between a Maruti 800 and a rugged-up Jeep.
I pick up a jug from the table, and I remove the helmet off my head, I bend down and pour the whole jug itself on the head, a strange coolness awashes my face and my head. I carefully rub the wound around my lip, till it feels moist and clean. And then I clean my hands and forearms, I take a look at my shirt for the first time, crumpled and messy, spoiled brown with dirt and mire.
I saved him, I saved him this time, he must be happy, he must be proud. Ojas! Where are you? Wherever you are!
~’~’~
I park outside the JJ and there is nobody inside, the place is absolutely deserted, no traces of Siddhant either. I check the log book placed on the front table, there is no entry by Siddhant's name, maybe he was not here for snookers; I feel better, after-all he kept his promise. But then why was he here for? And where is he now? Maybe he has returned back to his home? I dial his no. His brother picks up. "No, he's not home, he left at usual seven-thirty for the college"
'He left at seven-thirty?' I think aloud. Suspecting something wrong his brother asks me, why what happened? "Nothing!" I reply and put down the receiver. I was in no situation to handle his brother and his torrent of questions. Next I called up Raul, suspecting Siddhant might have gone back to institute. But the phone rings and rings and rings, he doesn't pick up, busy with Dean?
Feeling my own pain and bogged down by a giant wave of tiredness I decide to go home, and let Siddhant sort his own matter, wherever he is, enough philanthropy for one day. Honestly, I feel little bad about it, but what could I do, I have no clue where he is, and no way to know where he might be.
~’~’~
“What happened to you?” Mother asks as she crosses me on the stairs. She's probably going to Mrs. Sheila place that's where all the ladies usually gather for their evening tête-à-tête.
“What happened bhaiya?” She asks worriedly, walking briskly toward me. “It's nothing” I reply “I had a minor accident.
“An accident” She says startled.
�
��It was just a minor accident, nothing serious”
“Show me that” “your eye has turned purple“She says. Even though my sister is very younger to me, but at-times she acts like a mother, unlike my real mother.
“Will you stop worrying, it's nothing” I repeat.
She fixes me with some ointments and patches my bruised arm with band-aid.
“What were you upto today?” Father walks in.
“He had an accident” Mihika replies.
“An accident?”
“How many times we have told you to be careful, perhaps you shouldn’t drive at all”
“It was not my fault” I reply back.
A sort of button inside him gets triggered
“Did you talk to Mr. Jain’s son?” I look down. “No, you haven’t”
“How many time have I told you to go and meet him”
Arpit, Mr. Jain’s son, recently cleared the UPSC exams, scoring some hundred odd rank.
“When would you start taking responsibilities for your actions?” “Look at yourself you are no more a child” “All grown up, you have.”
‘Can’t you see I saved a soul today? Is that of no importance, am I still a child, a toy, a pawn in your chessboard, a nameless button in your shirt, a stickman, an object to fulfill your unfulfilled desires?’ ‘Public service? A doctor?’ ‘Why anything? I am an algae, living and breathing, I can deal with that’
Out of my helplessness I reply, “I will go there today sir”
“Today?” He exclaims loudly, “Go now, and you don’t come back without talking to him”. I grab the keys kept on the table. He says sternly “Where are you taking the scooter? Go by Vikram”
“Internals are starting next week, I got oa study“ He stares me hard for a moment and then replies.
”So? Anyway you waste too much time loitering around.”
~'~'~
I call Raul in the evening from the PCO at the colony's entrance.
"What happened with Dean today?" I ask him worriedly.
The Lost One: Story of the One who ends it all (Shiva the Destroyer Book 1) Page 5