THAAAD. “Madarc**d,” spat out the duty in charge (DIC) as his full-palmed slap landed on the cheek of the auto-wallah. “Dimaag theek karna padega tum log ka,” he continued seething. The auto-wallah looked thunderstruck. A few seconds elapsed before he found his voice and started: "Sir, ek ghanta se change dhoondh raha hoon… main ne inko mana thode hi kiya tha." CHAPAAAAD. Another bloody blow to the auto-wallah’s upper body. This one threw him off-balance, and he wobbled backwards till he hit the lone desk placed in the police post. “Naam aur gaadi number likh iska,” the DIC barked at the pandu sitting at the chair behind the desk, “karrwai hogi ispar ab.” He then turned sideways and muttered to me without looking at me: “Aap bhi apna naam aur address dijiye.” The auto-wallah’s eyes had begun to water.
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The 6:35 Dadar-Borivali fast local slowly pulled into Goregaon. The holiday crowd (today is Milad-un-Nabih, a Government and a Bank holiday, a working day for me though) bundled out cheerfully while I dragged myself out, loathing having had to go through the daily grind when the entire world was enjoying 48 hours of bliss (tomorrow is a holiday as well, Holi). I came out of the station and helped myself to two hot gulab jamuns and a plate of golgappas at Surabhi Snacks. They did nothing to improve my mood. After the snack-athon, I trudged towards the line of autos, hoping to catch one soon and return to my abode and get rid of the crumpled shirt sticking to my skin and the sweaty trousers biting into my groins and the soggy socks sticking to my soles and everything else reminding me of having been abused yet again by this ruthless bitch called Bombay.
5-7 autos whizzed past me, travelers having boarded them more than 100 meters away from the station. I walked the mythical-distance-which-gets-you-to-an-empty-auto-outside-Goregaon-station-at-peak-hours. Still no sign of an empty auto. The sticking, the biting, the sweating now knocking hard at my temples. Then I saw him. A plump, dark guy with a scraggly fuzz at his chin, with his thick mop of hair swept to a side in the manner of Tamil movie stars. He had a shifty gaze, not focusing at anything for more than an instant. He was driving an auto with a lone passenger. The posture of the passenger, with his feet pointing out of the auto, hinted that he would get off soon. I started half-running-half-walking alongside the moving auto. I asked the passenger whether he was about to get down, he confirmed that he was. “Chincholi Bandar?” I then quizzed the auto-wallah (AW). No reply. I continued sprinting alongside the auto till it stopped. The passenger got out and handed a 50 rupee note to the AW. I lunged and settled inside the auto while the AW was getting down to go and hunt for change. Realizing that I have already made myself comfortable inside his rampyari, he shot a questioning glance at me. “Chincholi Bandar,” I repeated. “Nahin jana hai,” he threw back the dreaded three words at me and ambled out of the auto. “Pahle kyun nahin bola jab main poocha tha….. kyun nahin jana….,” I shouted after him, the bile rising inside me. He looked back at me while he was moving towards a flower-seller and shrugged in the most humiliating and disapproving manner conceivable. I snapped. “ABHI YAHAN PAR HAWALDAR HOTA TO BATATA TERE KO KAISE NAHIN JAYEGA.” I did not realize then that I was screaming while ejecting myself out of the auto, with 25-odd people having halted in their tracks to stare at me. A bespectacled man dressed in white clothes slithered past me muttering to me under his breath: “Complain karo iska complain.” I looked around fervently, and by some divine arrangement, saw a man in uniform loitering on the other side of the road. I flew across the road and accosted him. “Sir, yeh Chincholi Bandar jane ko mana kar raha hai.” The uniformed guy, who was the DIC of the police post located outside Goregaon station, looked at me quizzically. I pointed towards the AW, who was looking at the two of us as well, the 50 rupee note still clutched in his hand. As soon as the DIC’s eyes settled on the AW, they lit up and he moved in rapid strides towards the AW. “Kya ho raha hai be?” the DIC snarled at the AW upon reaching him. No answer. I reached the two of them and repeated my version of what had transpired one minute back between the two of us. One minute back. “Chal andar, tere ko theek karta hoon, aap bhi aaiyye.”
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Inside the police post. THAAAD. Madarch**d. CHAPAAAAD. The AW is in tears now. He has cooked up a story that he had been looking for change for the past ‘one hour’, and that he never refused to take me to my destination. The passenger whose 50 rupee note is still stuck in between the AW’s fingers is now inside the post as well, and he says that the AW had INDEED been searching for change for sometime, and that the AW did not specifically refuse me. I let loose a full-throated verbal volley at him. The DIC is still glaring at the AW, itching to have another fling at him. The paandu intervenes, I ask the AW to go look for the change while I wait in the auto. We come out of the police post.
The flower-seller hands over the change to the AW. I am sitting inside the auto, with my chest swollen with pride and eyes glinting. A couple of guys standing beside the auto are looking at me with gaping mouths. An old lady standing at some distance is giving me a look of absolute and total reverence. The DIC strolls past me and looks at me with a hint of a smile at his lips. “Thank you, Sir.” I bellow at him. He acknowledges. The AW comes back inside after having handed the change to the slimy EX-passenger. He slowly settles on his seat and starts the auto. We start moving forward. I am the Superhero. I conquered this scumbag. Reduced him to rubble. Showed the whole world that thugs can be broken.
The AW starts muttering something once we are on our way. I challenge him to meet me at Malad, at Borivali, at any goddamn place on the Western Express Highway and I will have him crushed in a similar fashion. He falls silent. His shoulders droop, his voice loses its bluster.
After about 10 minutes, I start feeling sorry for the guy. He has not uttered a word in this interim. I play some music on my Nokia XpressMusic, hoping to relieve the tension. I enquire him about the route he intends to take. He motions and indicates with his head. No words uttered by him.
We reach my apartment. 24 rupees is the fare. I hand him 50 rupees. He hands me back 30. I hand him back 4 rupees. I get down. The AW looks up at me. His eyes are wet. He tries to speak something. The lump in his throat does not allow him to. I wait and listen.
“Aap ne jo aaj mere saath kiya, who pichle 8 saal mein nahin hua tha,” he says.
“Achcha to mujhe bhi nahin laga, par tumne mujhe majboor kiya aisa karne ko,” I reply.
“Aapko pata hai us police wale ne mujhe kyun maara?”
I am quiet.
“Main pichle 2 saal se use uske ghar par chhod raha hoon, aur main us se roz bhaada leta hoon. 2 saal ki khunnas us ne aaj nikaali.” By this time, he is not looking at me, but through me. He starts the auto and it sputters away. I do not feel like taking off my clothes anymore. I feel butt naked right there, by the side of that busy street.
