...a long short story
It was a late evening of June, and the sun was still burning noon- bright on the horizon, when we returned to our hotel. A handsome man in his mid sixties, wearing a dark blue, swade jacket and gracefully balding from the front, tapped on my shoulder , in our dimly lit hotel lobby. " So it was you whose phone got stolen at the Hermitage this morning. I am so sorry, I feel so bad. I saw it being nicked from your pocket, if I am not wrong and my eyes were doing their duty, when we were inundated by the the sheer brilliance of Rembrandt's Return of the Prodigal Son, next to the hall of mirrors". He said it rapidly, a smirk suddenly narrowing his eyes. "I am really sorry. I half heartedly tried to alert you but no sound would come out of my mouth, you know. I am really sad, remorseful and guilty. Oh, how it hurts! By the way, any theft, however insignificant it is, does leave a bad taste in your mouth. Theft has many shades." Then he disappeared in the tribe of his friends. I was not certain of what he meant by multiple shades of theft, but accepted his doctrine willy-nilly. I found it fascinating for no reason.
A motley bunch of retired friends, mostly railways, that comprised me too, were visiting the Hermitage museum at Saint Petersburg in the summer of 2018, our last day in the historic city of the striped onion domed churches and innumerable drawbridges that opened after midnight. Another boisterous group of Indian tourists, led by a tiny plaque bearing, chirpy Russian girl, was riveted to the renaissance paintings in the same room, green and gold, murmuring excitedly. Then suddenly I felt somebody had brushed past me, a young couple with fair eyes. I am not sure. I knew instantly that my phone had been pinched. It was impossible to pinpoint anyone squarely in the milling crowds. In mirth and commotion, the damage had been inflicted. This unexpected loss shook me a little but saddened me more, which I bravely tried to brush aside for the day, conscious of the fact that it would dampen my friends' new fangled excitement on our last day in Petersburg. I had almost forgotten about it by the time we were back at the hotel. It was an old phone after all which asked to be replaced sooner than later, that my children kept teasing me about everyday when it would switch off midway a call or black out at the wrong time. Good, but an unfortunate riddance, I felt.
He told me that he had always been like this, sheepish and weak, always remorse struck for not acting in time when it was most vital. He left me in the middle of a sentence, to meet a woman, wildly gesticulating at him, perhaps his wife, promising to meet me later over the drinks. Incidentally , their group was also flying back to Delhi and then boarding a Volvo to Ludhiana, the next day, hours before we were to catch our flight to Mumbai. At the dining table that night he reluctantly shared with me an experience of his youth when he had just accepted a teaching assignment at a college. I knew he was itching to unburden his mind of some rusted guilt, although still hesitant. But he quickly eased in his narration when he discovered in me an equally curious audience. He had joyfully let himself fall from the cliff and fly away on the wings of words and feelings. I was all ears, when with a large vodka in hand he embarked upon his story like the Ancient Mariner. I was the bewitched guest. He kept on pouring in my glass of curiosity.
"You are a thief, a bloody, petty thief." She said, first in whispers, then in murmurs, as if someone was enjoying a sleazy gossip. This is what I heard in the inner clutter and rumble, rushing in from the outside of the Panjab roadways bus, with its shuddering, dusty window panes, half down or missing, but remained immersed in my book, preparing for the morning lecture to the First year BA in less than an hour from somewhere midway in the bus to the college , where I had started teaching three months back. My first job. A green horn, an ad hoc employee. Energetic, narcissistic as ever, as any youth, drunk on the newly found freedom, anywhere, in any time zone you will find one. My lecture was on the Sister Nevidita's story, the Seat of Vikramaditya that I had read many times before as a tenth standard student, way back in the late sixties. You are a thief. Look, he is a thief, she was whimpering, as if bleating. I heard these words, finding it strange and funny at the same time that some woman addressed someone thus greedily and unabashedly. It was monotonous, but the intent in the tone was scary. The bus kept the time, and its quiver quaver, oblivious of her sonorous accusations eerily floating in the dust and din of the bus. Then, all of a sudden, from nowhere, I felt a finger harshly plunge into my neck, making me cringe, turn and look back in anger. You are a thief, you have stolen my gold chain, you are a thief. Bloody thief. I was suddenly confronted with a pair of evil eyes, drilling furiously into my soul. I tried to ignore it, thinking that she must have been mistaken. She must be mad or confused or a nut, I believed. That she had had a design, never did it occur to me. She was neither, nor, not of any of these. The face of that woman I briefly recall was that of a quintessential fiend in pursuit of an easy kill. She was witch-like, straight from the crumbling pages of Macbeth, about fifty, with a painted face and six seven twisted gray hairs on the chin which protruded out of a big jaw, almost manly. When she croaked again, I knew something was amiss. It made me nervous; a shudder travelled my spine, unsettling me for a moment.
I had travelled to my destination the last morning by bus, sharing one of the three seats, on which she and a young girl, presumably her daughter, had travelled, before they alighted two three stoppages earlier at a community centre. I recalled.
I got down at the bus stop of the town where my college was, and went across the narrow meandering bazaar, dark and muddy, thick with bicycles, and a handful of mud sprinkled Jawa motorcycles crawling through. The coal soot that fell from the chimneys of the nearby coal fired power plant often rode the wind toward the college, unburdening it partly, en route, as if it were to spy the labyrinths below, before meandering towards the college gates.
It was 9 in the morning. The smell of fresh samosas and kachoris failed to attract my attention today, I was sullen unlike the other days, preoccupied and worried. To compound the matters further, the overcast drizzling skies of August had made the cobbled bazaar slippery and dirty and dark, too difficult to walk. I reached college, from the city bus stand bumping through the crowd. It was more tedious today. Took two classes, back to back. My second lecture about King Midas's gold greed that day sounded to me highly ironic. After meeting my other colleagues in the staff room, and having been refreshed by a cup of hot tea, I was ready to take the third period, when the principal's orderly came and told me I was wanted. Summoned! My heart pounded recklessly in my chest. A thousand unsavoury thoughts needled my already troubled mind. A very tense Principal, that is what I found in the room. ''This is the boy teaching here for the last three months'', said he, looking at the floral sofa, on which was sitting the same lady who had poked her finger in my neck, and pulled my collar, and called me a thief. "Yes, he is the one, I even know his name". She mumbled it out accurately, accusing me unblinkingly. Oh , my god, she must have lifted it from my book I had been reading on the bus, I guessed. I was at once ashamed of my showing off follies. She said she was travelling the last morning with her daughter when this young fellow, the thief, stole my chain. That she was carrying a purse that had a small hole in it through which the gold chain had slipped and must have been picked up by him. She coldly said these words, measured. The gold chain. She showed a blood red purse, which was ugly and greasy, to the principal, who was indifferent. He heard her story and was furious to hear from her the far-fetched tirade of accusations, and almost shouted at the lady and said he had known me from my childhood and my father for many years. "They don't do these things. By the way why do you carry your chains and gold in a purse which has holes. Let me see what I can do," and dismissed her unceremoniously. He dismissed me too. He was irritated, blood rushing to his hollow cheeks, as if drunk. I was really worried. The principal called me again and advised me to forget the harassment and shame. It was difficult to do so. However, I tried to be brave. But the perceived bravery was short lived.
The next day the bus journey had its store full of frightful surprises. She had boarded the same bus from the same bus station and hounded me out with her poisonous invectives. Literally. Her recitation of thief, thief, thief, commenced much before the driver had turned on the ignition to hit the route. You are a thief, return my chain, you thief, give back my gold chain, or else. I was regretful of not confronting her subconsciously or opposing her attack with grit, a feeling of embarrassment that I always lacked courage, that I should have shown her due place. It churned my stomach like a windmill. She had got on my nerves with impunity. I couldn't do much. I had failed as I had earlier. On one or two occasions similar things had happened. Five six years back while travelling in a bus back from the Amritsar Medical College after having been spurned admission to the MBBS I had gotten down at Jalandhar bus stand to get some tea and crackers for me and my father. Someone, a hefty turbaned man, had usurped my seat in spite of my father's protestations in the meantime. He did not budge, while I argued with him, weakly. I have always been like this. A bloody weakling! It is so difficult to get rid of this remorse of not being audacious enough even once in life, which guilt is stuck to my soul like chewing gum to a fur coat.
Her tirade of abuses and tantrums continued. This time I noticed a few other travellers taking sides with her, staring at me with an evil intent. I couldn't believe that I was in the eye of the storm raging in the rickety bus to my college. It was gradually getting unbearable. That this drama will be enacted on the stage of the bus , day after day, I had never estimated. The next day, a police sub inspector came to speak to me after my class in the corridor outside the lecture hall. I was horrified. Police! I had never seen a policeman confront any of us in the family, not even doing a challan of our blue lambretta. A second hand one, a bit battered. He told me very respectfully, since you are a college professor in this town, that you have been summoned by the SP, no less. I felt he was sarcastic. May be helpful. I said why. He said some woman had complained against me about her stolen gold chain. It was a big blow and believe me my heart was beating rapidly . Even the last straw I had been catching at was on the verge of giving way. All consternation. I went in the policeman's jeep. What a shame, I thought. I will be arrested and beaten up. They will treat me as a criminal. I was sweating profusely. I don't know when I reached the SP's office. In a minute I was summoned in by him. A good looking Sikh he was. You teach at the college he asked me harshly , sizing me up, and indifferent at the same time. The woman has made a complaint about her loss of ornament. If you have it you hand it over immediately to me. Nothing will happen, or else. The 'else' was a loaded hand grenade, about to be hurled. I told him sir something is amiss. It appears she wants to blackmail me for some covert reason . Suddenly I mustered enough courage to speak to him without fear. The principal had already sounded to me that she was a vicious character, a so-called social worker, notorious in a certain manner. I told the SP, sir I come from a good family, we don't do these things. And why should we. She has been coming behind me every day, with stories of her evil mind , bad mouthing. And if her purse was having a hole why did she carry a gold chain in that, etc. For a few minutes mother Saraswati was riding my tongue. Sir, you can appreciate it, I am preparing for the provincial services, and now this woman has come from nowhere to trouble me and wreck my hard work and spoil my career and my good name. You have also come through the same exam, who knows better than you when such a calamity befalls you like a bolt from the blue. I was almost teary. The SP was mesmerized and so was I. In a stupor, almost. He called the SI to take me back to the college. Steer clear of her, professor Saab, he said with a faint smile, very assuring for me at that moment. Keep away from her, she is a bad character. I sighed a sigh of relief. I came to my college, gathered together the broken pieces of my remaining confidence and my books and reached home in some time.
The story had just started. The plot unbeknownst to me was warming up. There was a twist in the tale, as the adage goes. I had false hopes that she would not hound me anymore after the SP had heard me. The next Monday she resumed her tirade against me again and came full blast this time, perhaps she had not got much hope from the SP's office . Where is my chain, you thief, she shouted , her evil eyes enhancing their cunning. I ignored it, but within I was as afraid as on the last few days of this ordeal. It was setting ablaze my nerves, which were already frayed. The drama continued uninterrupted for a few more days. One day when it had gone beyond its limits, I wept bitterly before my father, unashamed, giving vent to my pent up frustration, my bad stars. How could I be accused by someone! I told him to approach his schoolmate who happened to be the DGP of the state and get her chastened at least.
The entire household became tense due to my unhappiness. My mother was especially impacted by the incident that her happy go lucky child suddenly was in the throes of trouble. My siblings were also despondent. Very concerned. My younger brother, a weight lifter and a lovely singer would often leave me by our lambretta at the Bus stand in the morning. One day, to my joy and the evil lady's chagrin or bad luck, when I got down from the scooter, she lunged at me, you are a thief. Since my well built brother knew it all, he very poisedly told her in no uncertain words, I have broken many bones, and I will do it now if you continue troubling my good brother. Final warning it is. You will hear the bones crack, if you continue your sorcery. Make a choice. Fast. I will come again tomorrow and the next day till you take another bus. That was the last day I saw her on the bus. She did not speak a word. She was too terrified. My brother told her that he would gouge her eyes out if she did not behave. She was too shocked to realise that I could have a defence so powerful. It was indeed a Godsend protection. She was never seen for a month. But the story does not end here. Another twist was awaiting in the plot.
There was a lull in the continuum of the horror tale from my point of view. Two three months passed without she being seen or heard, on the bus or outside. But a police complaint against me did keep me on tenterhooks. I was nervous. One day, after having been doggedly pestered by me and my mother, my father went to look up the DGP, his matriculation classmate of 1941. He was sure that he would be of great help to sort out the issue. The meeting took place in a conducive atmosphere. My father was meeting him after decades. He told him the story. He said he would revert and asked my father to meet him after a few days. While leaving his chamber, he hurled a bombshell. See, friend, calling my father by his nick name, you must be aware that these days many white collar guys are indulging in such nefarious activities. Keep an eye on your son. My father was mighty irritated but kept mum, strung, resolute never to meet him again. My father knew his son very well. Bloody police, suspicious. The same he was in Matric. He has not grown. Bloody tehsildar's spoiled brat. He murmured to himself. His father was also like him. He was a topper of the school. Bloody chap. Nothing beyond that. Kuchh khandaan bhi hunda hai. Corrupt chap, saala. He vented out his anger. I, ironically,laughed at his discomfort , but his faith in us was unshakeable. A fortnight had passed. One day, a bank clerk , a dandy Sikh, came to meet my father in his office. He said to my father, do not bother about the gold chain or that lady, sir. We will settle it outside amicably in my house. Everything will be alright. I will call the lady too. You are good people, why are you getting trapped in this quagmire. Just give five thousand rupees ,we will get the matter squashed and deleted from the diary. Your son will be safe. My father heard him in disbelief, five thousand rupees, and took out his sandle. He was about to beat him blue and black, before the office people apprehended the fellow as that mischievous clerk, across the bank square, working with a bank. A bad character himself. He was almost on the verge of becoming an object of father's murderous ire. He quickly ran for his life, conscious that he would not be able to have his way of extorting money from our people in distress. The cat had jumped out of the bag. A black one, an ugly cat. It had now become obvious that it was a gang of extortionists and thugs at work. Ah, the ugly face of the gang was suddenly emerging from the slush of time.
The conman was confronted by the other people of the office who had known my father,and that sardar extortionist as well. His branch manager was contacted and informed of what his clerk had been up to. In a few days he came running to my father, falling at his feet, asking his forgiveness. He had to finally, under duress, share the secrets of the lady and her family. He too had been duped by her and later blackmailed one time. He was now trying to repent that he had been an ugly accomplce. He said that the lady don had separated from her husband due to her bad reputation as a social worker, and was now staying with her two good for nothing daughters of the marriageable age. So she wanted to trap some young men, like the one in this tale, for one of them, by falsely implicating and blackmailing. What a bizarre way to hunt for husbands. The local police and some other high ups were hand in glove with her and her daughters. That included the top cop and the police inspectors. In the next one year I accidentally came across her once, face to face. She did not recognise me, it appeared or she was pretending. I was not even interested in looking at her. Aa bael mujhe maar. I kept away from the poison pond. Later, we were informed that she had fallen on bad times and her bad reputation shadowed her undiminished. Alas, her plans to ensnare innocent prey were gradually falling flat.
This world is replete with uncanny surprises where such episodes keep on happening with astounding frequency like the punctuation marks in the book of life, making a victim of someone who had never ever dreamt of a disaster that perched on his shoulders unbeknownst to him. When you reflect on these mishaps becoming hallucinations, what you call bad luck, you end up coming to terms with fate.
There were not many alternatives to consider at that moment."
"That's it. The remnants of this nightmare are inextricably woven in my being. I don't know how many times have I shared it with anyone who was a prey of this bad world. It gives me a high, pure cathartic moment."
He quickly shook my hand, smiled with his characteristic smirk and melted in his group. He had not taken a single sip of vodka. My glass remained untouched too. I wondered how my stolen phone would be feeling, perhaps forlorn, in a foreign land. It was almost midnight, and we were to reach the airport early the next morning.
December, 2022