Kolkata 2004
I’m sure those mall trolleys will soon have horns. Like cars on our crowded streets, these trolleys just don't budge. Nobody keeps to the left or bothers if he/she is blocking somebody's path. Forget trolleys, even pedestrians could do with horns these days. Imagine trying to rush to work through a narrow lane. You will encounter people walking hand-in-hand at a leisurely pace, while you hunt for an opening from where to overtake. Maybe it would help if you could honk. Until the authorities come up with that, I thought the next best thing to do would be speeding. So, whenever I saw a crowded path ahead, I simply ran. Big feet landing with a thud, announcing my hurry, seemed to help. Or, I hummed loudly while brushing through people. That made overtaking people easier. So long as people coming from the front kept to their left it was smooth sailing. Then, one day, as I was speeding through, believing my truck-like demeanour would show me the way, I hit someone hard. There was no crash, but bone hit bone and rebounded. I looked up to see who the victim was. An old frail man in a dhoti kurta, he could easily have been my family patriarch. I could not meet his eyes. I looked downcast, ashamed. With great effort I finally tried to meet his eye. All he said was, “Bete, tumhe choth to nahi ayee? (Son, hope you didn’t get hurt!)”
Cuttack 2008
My father is riding a scooter. It has ferried our family for 25 years now, but like many other mementos it stays with us. When I first joined work, I rode to my workplace on it. I am in Mumbai and my father, now retired, still rides it sometimes, in Cuttack. One day, he is returning after visiting a friend. At a crossing, he waits for some speeding youth to overtake him. But the two bike-borne youths still come and hit his scooter from behind. Luckily nothing happens. Until then. “Old man, you should not drink. And if you do, you should drink at home. For, you are an old man and can die. But we are the youth. We should not die.”
Mumbai 2009
Should I buy bread to have with eggs, or milk to have with cornflakes, I debate on my way back from the gym. Just as I am approaching my place, a car stops short of hitting me in front of a neighbouring society’s gate. I want to tell him that he might as well “run me over”. He lowers the window and, “@#$%@#$%@#$%.” I try once again, but he cuts me with more “@#$%”. I give up, “you are a battameez insaan (uncivilised man).”
“Come, I will teach you tameez (civilized behaviour), you @#$%^%.” He steps on the accelerator, the car runs over my foot. Thank god for small mercies, light cars and sports shoes. But this time I yell, “you @#$%^&.”
He comes out of his car, asks the watchman to get a danda (stick). They both go looking for one. I should use this time to flee. I don’t. When he comes back, I tell him we should go to the police station and settle this. But he grabs me by my shirt and tries to shove me into his car. “Yes, let us do that. Get into the car, chal, sit there,” he tells me. I am like, “Don’t touch me.” And then, “…..”
I next see my two-year-old son standing beside me, telling me something (Remember Meena Kumari in the last scene in Mere Apne?). I wonder how my son came to be there when he was away in Kolkata at that time.
Next moment I am lying on the road, blood oozing from my mouth, my cellphone clutched in one hand. My tormentor and his car have left. I ask the watchman the car’s number. He tells me, sotto voce, ‘Go away from here’.
I’m sure those mall trolleys will soon have horns. Like cars on our crowded streets, these trolleys just don't budge. Nobody keeps to the left or bothers if he/she is blocking somebody's path. Forget trolleys, even pedestrians could do with horns these days. Imagine trying to rush to work through a narrow lane. You will encounter people walking hand-in-hand at a leisurely pace, while you hunt for an opening from where to overtake. Maybe it would help if you could honk. Until the authorities come up with that, I thought the next best thing to do would be speeding. So, whenever I saw a crowded path ahead, I simply ran. Big feet landing with a thud, announcing my hurry, seemed to help. Or, I hummed loudly while brushing through people. That made overtaking people easier. So long as people coming from the front kept to their left it was smooth sailing. Then, one day, as I was speeding through, believing my truck-like demeanour would show me the way, I hit someone hard. There was no crash, but bone hit bone and rebounded. I looked up to see who the victim was. An old frail man in a dhoti kurta, he could easily have been my family patriarch. I could not meet his eyes. I looked downcast, ashamed. With great effort I finally tried to meet his eye. All he said was, “Bete, tumhe choth to nahi ayee? (Son, hope you didn’t get hurt!)”
Cuttack 2008
My father is riding a scooter. It has ferried our family for 25 years now, but like many other mementos it stays with us. When I first joined work, I rode to my workplace on it. I am in Mumbai and my father, now retired, still rides it sometimes, in Cuttack. One day, he is returning after visiting a friend. At a crossing, he waits for some speeding youth to overtake him. But the two bike-borne youths still come and hit his scooter from behind. Luckily nothing happens. Until then. “Old man, you should not drink. And if you do, you should drink at home. For, you are an old man and can die. But we are the youth. We should not die.”
Mumbai 2009
Should I buy bread to have with eggs, or milk to have with cornflakes, I debate on my way back from the gym. Just as I am approaching my place, a car stops short of hitting me in front of a neighbouring society’s gate. I want to tell him that he might as well “run me over”. He lowers the window and, “@#$%@#$%@#$%.” I try once again, but he cuts me with more “@#$%”. I give up, “you are a battameez insaan (uncivilised man).”
“Come, I will teach you tameez (civilized behaviour), you @#$%^%.” He steps on the accelerator, the car runs over my foot. Thank god for small mercies, light cars and sports shoes. But this time I yell, “you @#$%^&.”
He comes out of his car, asks the watchman to get a danda (stick). They both go looking for one. I should use this time to flee. I don’t. When he comes back, I tell him we should go to the police station and settle this. But he grabs me by my shirt and tries to shove me into his car. “Yes, let us do that. Get into the car, chal, sit there,” he tells me. I am like, “Don’t touch me.” And then, “…..”
I next see my two-year-old son standing beside me, telling me something (Remember Meena Kumari in the last scene in Mere Apne?). I wonder how my son came to be there when he was away in Kolkata at that time.
Next moment I am lying on the road, blood oozing from my mouth, my cellphone clutched in one hand. My tormentor and his car have left. I ask the watchman the car’s number. He tells me, sotto voce, ‘Go away from here’.
4 comments:
good u did this!! i am proud of u
Loved it Tariq! Keep it going.
Unbelievable..
Disturbing, such an event. yet it was an incident that needed to eb told...at leats some one did it
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