Night of might

A lesson learnt would be to not fear taking the road less taken even if it be at the dead of night. For, the night holds so many secrets which the sun to the multitude of the day denies. Trudging from Park Circus to Gariahat, through Ballygunje Circular Road, did not seem enough, so I turned towards Kalighat and wondered how much life had changed in these six years. In my earlier stint in Kolkata, I would get off at Kalighat metro, walk on Rash Behari Avenue till Gariahat and turn right towards Golpark. From there I would walk back to Gariahat, then back to Kalighat to catch the metro back home. But now, my present address enabled me to enter Rash Behari Avenue from the Gariahat end. Maybe like in the good old days, I thought, I should walk down Rash Behari, something I have always loved doing.

On reaching Sarat Bose Road, however, I decide not to go any further. It was already past 10 pm when I was on Ballygunje Circular, there would be no metro to catch at Kalighat. I turned right, onto Sarat Bose Road. Those toy shops had shut for the day, only a few people could be seen. Those still standing were on their way home, those immobile were trying to sleep, on the pavements. It was cold, I pull up my jacket zipper. Well, no, it had been cold all along, but now the streets were more deserted. And, just two days after losing my phone in a bus, I didn’t want to take any chances. Not that I was carrying much. But it was more like an aunt's greater fear of the mosquitoes' buzz than of their sting.

I walked on. This road ran parallel to Ballygunje Circular. At some point, I am not sure when, it becomes Lansdowne and meets AJC Bose Road. I decide it was becoming too tiring already. Maybe, if I turned right and kept going I would return to Ballygunje Circular, closer home. My sense of direction was not always trustworthy, but I drew a map many times in my mind's eye and everytime it told me going right meant reaching Ballygunje Circular. So, turned right I did. This was the road less travelled, Hazra Road. But it was one of those nights I wanted to get lost, to walk on the fringes of sanity, maybe cross it.

After walking for ages the road still did not end. There were fewer cabs now, some people gathered around a sweet shop, one easing sweet curd into his mouth from an earthen bowl. For a while I thought of asking them if I was on the right track but then abandoned the idea. I wondered what would happen at this hour if the road went on like that, reaching nowhere, like Alice’s unending fall. I knew very soon there would dogs barking at me at every turning.
Hazra Road it was where I had first got lost in Kolkata, and that time, too, it was my mistake. The cab was rightfully turning left towards AJC Bose Road, coming from Howrah, but I had seen Rabindra Sadan to my left and assumed going straight would take me to AJC Bose and had forced the helpless cabbie to do so. On reaching Hazra Road, on that earlier occasion in 1998, I had blamed it on the cabbie, even drawing the sympathies of passersby I approached for directions. They admonished him saying he had taken the wrong route, his pleas about me having forced him to do so drowned in the aam aadmi’s sympathy for the ‘wronged’ passenger.

Today must have been that cabbie’s payback time as Hazra Road just would not end. I wondered if one of the cabs retired for the night on that stretch belonged to that cabbie of years ago.

Just when I had half a mind to turn back, I saw ights and a major road crossing Hazra Road ahead. The closer I got, the more it looked like Ballygunje Circular Road. Soon, I could identify the familiar petrol pump. Home was not far.

The long journey was coming to a close.

I must have walked for hours. But the watch on my now borrowed mobile told me it had just been an hour. It was just 5 past 11. Late for Kolkata, you might say, but the night was still young for some.

C-c-c-r-r-a-a-s-s-s-h-h-h-h.

What was that? That was loud. Sounded like an accident, but where. What use was my staying out for so long if I could not even witness this from close? I hurried ahead. Could see a car had stopped. Some people got off it and began looking to the right, across the road divider to the other one-way. There a Maruti Swift had hit an auto. A crowd has gathered. I tried to cross over to the other side to take a closer look, pausing briefly to let a speeding car go. By the time I crossed over, the car and the auto had moved to a nearby lane so as not to block the road, not to stop other cars, not to draw the cops' attention. Meanwhile, speeding vehicles ran over broken parts of the car, perhaps its radiator grill, on the main road.

I could make out there was a lady at the wheels. She was not daring to lower the windows, not a wise to thing to do at this hour anyway. A man, walking with a limp now, threatened the car-wallahs with his fist. The auto driver was blocking the car's way, not letting them go. I could not make out if there was anybody with the girl or if she was all alone. I decided to stay on. Soon, I could make out one or two people outside were from the car and were trying to negotiate with the man with the limp, the autowallah and any number of people who had gathered, all of whom seem to be siding with the autowallah. The girl inside was constantly on her phone, texting or calling up someone. The people on the other side of the argument had been busy with the Prophet’s birthday all day, it was apparent from their garb.

“Let her go, let us negotiate,” said one man. “Nobody is going. You have to pay that man who is injured, and the auto driver, too,” said another. The girl should come to no harm, I decided. The other fear at the back of my mind was that this should not assume any communal colour in these fragile times.

I tried to connect with a guy who seemed to be from the car. He was almost bald, a V-shaped growth under his lower lip reminding me of someone on TV. I asked him in Hindi, “Aap is gaadi me the? (Were you in this car?)” He ignored me, making some movement of his head which sounded like a ‘No’.

Earlier that day I had bumped into an ex-coll ieague at the British Council. I didn’t know what the provocation was but he was telling me: “Wherever I go, people talk to me in Bengali. They assume I cannot speak English.”

I heard the other side calling someone on the phone, “Accident hua hai yehaan, sab ko bhejo. (There has been an accident here, send all the guys). God, were they preparing to fight it out, I wondered. I tried again, “Wouldn’t it be better if we called the police before things went out of hand?” I ask the balding man again. This time he looked at me. But before he could say anything, I heard both sides saying, “No police, let us settle this among ourselves. Police means we would have to keep going to court.”

That sounded sensible. They were willing to negotiate. Maybe I could go now. But, no, there was a girl in the car. Maybe I should stay to ensure she is safe.
Her friend told the others that they should leave the girl alone. The other side reacted. “What @#@$, if we had to do something we would have done it by now. It is only because it is a girl that we have not raised our hand or voice.” I reach for my phone, it is still not clear if things would go out of hand. But why wait till then. I search for my editor’s number. I have my thumb on his name and wonder if I should or should not call him. I instantly remember what he had told me a day ago -- “You must have your finger on the button. Else, the system will collapse.”

Some more people, friends of the carwallahs, have arrived. One of them is wearing a white Panjabi and jeans. “He is the right man, I called him. He will settle it for us,” the carwallah tells his friends inside the car. I suddenly notice there is another man beside the girl at the wheel, I had all along thought there was only one guy negotiating on her behalf. I still don’t know which side the bald man is on or where he came from. Their envoy says the girl could go, the others would settle it. “Yes, we never stopped her, let her go. The rest of you come with us and let us settle it. You have to pay up.”

A negotiation is coming through. Just then the police land. Two cops on a bike. “What happened? What’s going on?”

He was asking the girl in the car, who is still on her phone. I could not hear what the girl said, but suddenly all hell broke loose.

“There will be no settlement. The girl told the cops we are harassing her. We had almost reached a settlement but she is now complaining against us.”

A guy fishes out his mobile and tries to photograph the car’s licence plate. But just then his phone starts ringing and he attends to the call. The cops too start taking down the numbers of the car and the auto.Suddenly everybody is around the car and despite the sudden display of anger, one of the guys begins humming: "Aunty police bulayegi, aunty police bulayegi... (A song in a Hindi movie which goes 'Aunty will call the police, aunty will call the police..)"
But soon the two sides are back at the negotiating table. Another guy arrives. He asks them to let the girl go. The other side says they never objected to her going away. But the rest should accompany them for more talks. The new guy says the girl’s brother is arriving soon for negotiations. But I had heard at the very beginning that her dad was on his way. At one point I thought a tall baldish guy walking towards the commotion was her dad, but he turned out to be another curious passerby.

The cops are begin talking among themselves. “They are negotiating, there is nothing we can do.”

One of them turns to me, “And you? Why are you here?”

I told him I was taking an evening, err night, walk. Saw the accident and commotion and decided to stop by. I told them how I had asked the carwallash if they would want a cop to arrive at the scene, but they were more keen on negotiating.

“It would be easier if they went to the police station.” The vehicle is damaged (I assume he means the car), their case is stronger. They are doing the wrong thing. But we can’t step in as of now.”

I urge them not to go away just yet.

Asked if they were patrol police, they said yes. I wanted to know how one called the police, they told me one needed to just call any police station and give the location where the commotion was taking place. I told them I didn’t know any police station’s number. “Isn’t there an easy-to-remember number?” One of them said no, before adding: “One could dial 100 and specify location”.

I asked them which police station they were from. When told, I said, “Why, I was there just two nights ago, to report the loss of my cell phone, pinched from my pocket on a bus.”

At that moment, the negotiators told the girl and the guy beside her to leave. She started the car, but the bumper in front had come off and was grazing the road. They broke it down and put it in the car’s hold. The girl stepped on the gas and zoomed away with a screech. “Saw that?” asked one of the guys from the aggrieved crowd to the cops.

“Was it a smart phone?” the cop asked me.

“Yes.”

“Did you provide the IEMI number in the missing diary?”

I said yes again. Then I might get it back, he tells me. “Just go to the headquarters and ask for the cyber crime cell. They can track your phone. The last time we had caught a mobile thief by locating him through the phone’s IEMI position,” he told me.

That’s music to my ears. But soon the other cop butted in to say, “Not any more. Nowadays they don’t sell the phone in one piece. They sell it in parts.”

O, then they might just get hold of a part of my phone if they tried to track it, I tell them. They burst out laughing. Everyone’s done for the night. We take one last look at the negotiations and head our own way.

Goodbye Mumbai, Hello Kolkata

When my phone got filled to capacity after the deluge of new numbers, of movers and packers, new schools in Kolkata I needed to check with for my son, new colleagues at my new office, new bosses, new HR managers, I decided it was time to delete a few numbers from my Mumbai days. I needed more space and in any case I wouldn’t be calling up some numbers in Mumbai ever again.

So I thumbed through them in alphabetical order, deciding which ones I could dispense with. The very first number, saved as A, was my very own in Mumbai, strategically saved to avoid calling another’s phone unwittingly. Every time I boarded that can of sardines called local train, I’d get crushed amid humans jostling for space and my phone would by default dial the first number saved under A. I’ll soon have to replace the A with my new number in Kolkata so, I thought, I could delete the Mumbai number. But it had become so much a part of my identity, my password when I went to surf the net at my neighbourhood cybercafé in Mumbai. Maybe it could be retained, there were so many sentiments attached.

Next came my landlord’s number in Mumbai, the retired cop from Bahrain who made it possible for me to live four of my five years there without involving any broker. We paid no commission to any broker, mutual trust was our interface. Often, I paid him the 11-months’ rent more than a week after we went together to renew our lease agreement. I would pay for the court papers and to the typist who put our arrangement in words, while he would bribe the cops to approve the same without the necessary formality of verification. When I left, he and his wife told me to tell him in advance should I ever return to Mumbai and they shall ready their house again, maybe ask their tenant to vacate, for us. There was no question of deleting his number.

Then came the mother of a patient who shared the room with us when my mom was admitted for a knee-replacement. She at first avoided us when she heard that my mother was a doctor. But, gradually, on realising that we were as shocked by the hospital staff’s curiosity to know if ours’ was an insurance case and when an expert insisted that my mom needed a pacemaker to weather the knee-replacement surgery, she befriended my mom. On learning that I worked for a newspaper, she asked me if I could solve a problem she faced at her office. When I realised I would not be able to do so, she understood, sharing with me an experience of hers, years ago, when she found a nail inside a cola bottle. She rushed to a newspaper office, the bottle in hand. She hoped to see its photograph in the next day’s papers but instead got a call from the cola company that evening, saying they wanted to compensate her for the unfortunate incident. It’s ironical I am naming neither the cola company nor the newspaper office she approached. I’m not in touch with her any more, but will retain her number, and maybe let her know my new one soon.

There were names of some editors of other publications, which I should retain, for I keep getting calls from friends looking for a new job, asking for such contact IDs in Mumbai.  Numbers of correspondents from an earlier organisation I worked for in Mumbai, who still remember me every Eid or Diwali.

 There were numbers of brokers I had saved prefixing ‘broker’. I had no need of them for the last four years in Mumbai, but they remind me of my early days of struggle, you need those numbers the moment you land in Mumbai with a new job.

 The number of the man who sent us home safely, after office every day at my last office in Mumbai. It’s difficult to forget his smile, even if he sometimes made us wait for an hour before there was a car-a-quorum in the direction of our home. The last time I took a drop home, he too boarded the car as he had to go some place beyond mine, like he often did. When I got off at my place, I told both him and the driver, ‘Phir milengey’ I know not why. And he too replied, ‘Phir milengey’.

I enjoyed writing the following story very much. I was in Mumbai for the launch of HT's edition there in July 2005. While I was there, Mumbai was inundated by heavy rains in what is now famous as 26/7. A day later a major fire destroyed ONGC's production platform at Bombay High, leaving 11 dead. On the morning of July 29 that year I left a Mumbai still inundated by salty tears to return to Kolkata. Just as I settled on my seat and started reading the newspaper from the seat pocket in front of me, my co-passenger arrived. He looked like he had just walked out of a jail or a hospital, making me feel a bit uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I ignored his outwardly appearance and continued reading the newspaper. Suddenly, he grabbed the paper from my hand, almost preparing me for a fight. But before I could protest, he pointed to the picture of Bombay High on Page 1 and told me, almost incohorently, "I was there, I was there when it burnt down..." As the aircraft taxied to take off, I fastened my seat belt and settled down to hear his ordeal. By the time I landed in Kolkata and reached my office I had the following story with me. Though it was published in HT's Kolkata edition of July 30, 2005 and again in the Mumbai edition some time later, the editions have not been archived yet, so it is not available online.

Escape from Bombay High

Tareq Zahir

When Anil Kumar, assistant executive engineer (productions) ONGC, was floating in the Arabian Sea for almost six hours — before being rescued by a boat — he remembered the day he was posted at Bombay High North (BHN).
He and his colleague were asked which area they wanted to work in — BHN or Water Injection North (WIN)? Both opted for BHN, saying their training would be wasted at WIN.
That was when his senior asked them their weights. Kumar weighed 64, his colleague 63. Though that is no official criterion for selection, Kumar being the heavier of the two was sent to BHN.
Not that he really regrets it, but it did cross his mind while afloat and hoping to live — for his 2 month-old daughter among other people and things — that if his weight had been a kilogram less it would have been his colleague who would have had to face the ordeal.
Even now he does not feel he should have opted for WIN. The trauma of the past two days still haunts him but he knows he has to return to BHN, at least to depose for the inquiry into the fire.
He must now be on his way to Dhanbad, by train, after arriving in Kolkata by a Jet Airways flight on Friday morning. It is home he wants to think of, but images of the burning platform, colleagues getting devoured by the engulfing flames, of barely managing to stay afloat, keep coming back.
Kumar, who does night shifts at BHM (8pm to 8 am), was asleep when Samudra Rakshak collided with the platform (which he insists is platform and not 'rig' as is being reported). To his trained mind and body, the tremors were a sign that something was wrong. From his fourth floor base he looked downwards and heard what was the unmistakable sound of gas hissing out of the pipeline. The smell only confirmed his worst fears.
He returned to his room for an instant, and it was then that he heard the gas catching fire.
From his platform he rushed to the platform on the east. He realised he had forgotten to get his lifejacket, but it was too late to return to his platform which was already engulfed in flames.
A.T. Dohore, a rush-about (R/A), who returned to his room to get his necessary medicines, returned half-burnt and never really made it.
Kumar kept going east, from one platform to another, until he decided he had to choose between the devil and the sea.
He climbed down a ladder and jumped into the sea. There were many others who, too, jumped.
Some like superintending engineer in charge of maintenance, S. Pradeep, were, at first, reluctant to jump. Ironically, though he did take the plunge in the end, Pradeep died within minutes of being saved by rescue officials.
Most of those who jumped into the sea went for lifeboats. Once they found one they formed groups and climbed on.
Kumar, however, drifted apart from the others. The strong waves took him away and it was only a blessing in disguise, he thought. For the water had become all oily and he feared the fire from the station would spread to the water.
Half an hour later he came across an upturned lifeboat. He and five others climbed onto it and were there for some time. An hour later, however, it too sank, and the group got separated again. A wooden plank and then one more arrived like a godsend before Kumar.
Around 7 pm, he saw a boat that was carrying out search operations. It threw a rope at him, but the boat was about 300 metres away and the thin rope cut into his hands. Unable to grip the lifesaver, he let it go.
For the next three hours the wooden plank was his only solace. He tried to keep his ears above water, fearing he would go deaf if water entered it. But after some time he realised the effort was too tiring, and he wanted to save his stamina till daybreak.
He saw many a boat. But they were either too far away, or did not notice him. He also feared he would freeze like Leonardo di Caprio in 'Titanic'. The salty waters were making it difficult for him to keep his eyes open. A year ago a senior at ONGC, who had survived a copter crash, had told him that it is easy, if one tries, to stay afloat. That only sounded reassuring.
At about 10 pm, there was another speedboat, the MAL 16. It had a powerful searchlight but it was not focussed on him. A less powerful searchlight to its side was, however, searching in his direction.
Every time Kumar raised his hand to wave at a boat he would start sinking. He was not sure if he should wave at this one. Reluctantly, he tried one more time.
Immediately, the boat focussed its powerful searchlight on him and moved closer. People on the speedboat beckoned him to come closer, but he didn't know how to swim, and he couldn't have done it anyway, holding on to the plank as he was.
Soon they threw a lifebuoy and asked him to leave the plank. The moment he left the plank, there was a huge wave and he feared he would drown. He tightened his grip to a rope they had thrown at him. They downed a ladder and asked him to climb onto it. He had no strength left to climb it, but they insisted that he must do it.
When he showed his inability, they sent a rope with a loop. His instincts told him he had to tighten it around his waist. Soon, he was being pulled aboard.
The first thing he did on being saved was touch the feet of the man who pulled him aboard.
He thought he was the only person saved but there were a few others on board.
The boat continued rescue operations till early the next morning before proceeding for Mumbai, which it reached at 4 pm on Thursday, exactly 24 hours after his nightmare began.
He learnt that his family had been told that he was safe at 8 pm itself, when actually he had been saved at 10 pm. Possibly because he has a namesake in ONGC. He feared his family would not be convinced, as they too were aware that he had a namesake at ONGC. But, it was no time to worry. It was time to look on.
In those 24 hours he had died a thousand times. But, he believes, it was his willingness to live that made him survive.

This Ain't A Love Song

Someday I shall forget
That which I wont to love
And I did come to loathe
When it had come to pass

A mirage it was to me
A dream of myriad colours
And I did run a while
Before I had my fall

And thus did I awake
Aware of what some spake
T'was not the one of love
Music to my ears

And for years to come
I shall nurse thee heart
Sufferings to it known
Are but my very own

Dreams

It is just a dream now
That I shall fulfil somehow
Should you ask me, how?
To think, I do wring my brow

Time has for me stood still
Is what I used to think until
I had to foot, so large a bill
The price you pay, when time you kill

Aware I am now of late
Conscious now of my fate
Surrounded by so much to hate
I cannot any more wait

Strive I shall for my goal
For I have to play a role
A kind suited to me whole
My happiness shall then be whole

Why am I writing about cricket?

Those who know me well should wonder why I am writing about cricket. Because I have never fully understood the game. I grew up in a part of Africa where everybody played football. So when I returned to India, I used to think cricket was like football. I thought the wickets were like goal posts. One side tries to break the other side's wicket. Sacrilege for an Indian to think so. But when it was explained to me it did not trigger any interest in me.
And all my cousins were mad about the game. So I hated it even more. They played cricket, which I was just no good at. And one-day matches were a torture. All my cousins would be glued to the screen, and I had nobody to play with. And I could not enjoy the match on TV either.
But the torture got worse with time. When somebody remarked that all Muslims are Pakistani supporters. I knew some where, and I hated it. But I thought that only those Indian Muslims who support Pakistan were hated. It took me some time to realise that because of those some or many Indian Muslims who support Pakistan in cricket, every Indian Muslim gets hated. So when people said that I am a Muslim and must be a Pakistani supporter, I was deeply hurt and felt insulted.
But I don't blame them anymore. After seeing the ugly side of Muslims, I believe the Chaddiwalas (pink or saffron) are saints when compared to the Taliban.
Today I understand better. But in those days it was not easy. I continued to criticise Pakistan, first because I never liked a nation created for 'Muslims'. Second, because I thought I must be vocal to stop being clubbed with pro-Pakistani Muslims. Initially, I felt ashamed that Indian Muslims were pro-Pakistani. So, I criticised Pakistan wherever I got a chance. More so, if I met Muslims who seemed pro-Pakistani.
But, I soon realised that most people considered me pro-Pakistani, just because I was a Muslim. Some were considerate enough to say, 'You are different, but most Muslims are desh-drohis (anti-nationals)'. Though it should have sounded like a consolation, it hurt. I mean for Indian Muslims to support Pakistan in cricket is definitely wrong and condemnable, but does it really make them anti-national? There are reasons why I disagree.
If all Indian Muslims who have supported Pakistan in cricket were really desh-drohis, the country would have broken apart by now. It is a childish, stupid and illiterate thing -- being Indian and supporting Pakistan -- and thankfully we don't hear about it nowadays.
I even know of Muslim friends who were India supporters but suddenly started supporting Pakistan. I was shocked. They told me they were doing so because they were tired of being called Pakistani supporters and had decided to actually support it.
These and other experiences made me decide that I would rather die doing something for India than start supporting Pakistan because of such aspersions. Nothing like that happened. Like in jingoistic movies, I wanted something to happen where it looked clear that I had died for the country. So that all those who doubted my loyalty could shut up.
I would discuss these things with my father. He shared his own cricket torture with me. He and his colleague had been at work, oblivious to the results of an India-Pakistan cricket match one day. They were driving back home and wondering what the outcome was. Just when they passed Park Circus (a Muslim locality in Kolkata) they saw loud fireworks. My father's colleague remarked, "Pakistan has won the match". My father felt ashamed. On returning home he realised that it was India which had won the match.
He told me that I have to learn to accept that because of the behaviour and attitude of some Muslims there will always be some hatred that one has to put up with. So I blamed it on my fate. At being born a Muslim.
Then, one day. It was 1997. 50th year of our Independence. I was then doing a course at NIIT. On August 15th, we had a party. We were all playing with Paintbox on the computer. I was drawing a flag, the tricolour. A classmate came and saw and remarked. "You need to do these things, right? Otherwise people will think you are a Pakistani supporter."
Something within me died. It confirmed once and for all, that whatever I do, my loyalty to India will always be suspect. That sentence still rings in my ears, like a slap in Bollywood movies.
It changed me altogether. It made me conscious. Everytime, there was a cricket match on, if I was not at home I felt awkward. If India batted well, I was careful not to rejoice, lest someone make the same kind of remark. I made no expression, whether India won or lost. I just hated India-Pakistan matches. I started feeling that everybody was looking at me after every ball to see my reaction. Though it was not the case, I started imagining it was happening. Like I had my loyalty test to clear everytime India played Pakistan. It was torture. Because I did not feel comfortable doing anything. I could not be myself. Whether I smiled or frowned it seemed to mean the same thing. I used to freeze during such matches and try and stay as far away from the TV as possible. I used to fear that even my indifference would mean something.
Even today when I think of those days, I shudder. But thankfully, I think, we have moved on. I don't watch cricket. It does not affect my life or stop me from going about my other plans. And yet, I am not sure why I felt like crying when Sachin hit 200 and as a former colleague from a newspaper put it, hit 'Mamata's budget for a six'.
Maybe I have overcome that phase. Or maybe I was too happy inside and could not hold back.

Three Accidents

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’.