A Small Stay
[This was a short story written last year in the wake of the Mumbai floods of 7/26]
There are times when humans are not left with much to explain. That Tuesday was one of those days. I had yielded the whole of the days in courtroom tussles, avenging eyes of weary people who had lost their all.
I was the root cause for all that. Not that I did not know what the results of my Machiavellian dealings would be, but, only that I did not expect to get caught. I, of all people was the person who had influential friends: bankers, politicians, academicians, you name them and they were all in my coterie.
So when I coaxed the cooperative bank to create a high yield instrument that would have coupons much higher than normal market returns, it was only expected that the salaried middle income people would just lap it up. It turned out that the float of this instrument on the secondary markets were very high.
The bank also did not have any benchmark to weigh it against other options so much so that after a couple of months, the bank found it difficult to maintain its liquidity requirements with the central bank and hence, filed for bankruptcy. The exchange board came into play and I, the founding father of the instrument was found guilty of playing with the meager savings of millions.
When I reached the court on that day, I did not expect the people turn out to be so huge. But, really, the seething anger and the hatred began to dwindle my hopes of survival and the sentence of ten years of imprisonment and ban from trading on the exchange boards for life did not strike me as a surprise.
I reached Mumbai airport in the midst of lashing rain late in the afternoon and camouflaged myself through the crowd towards my waiting chauffeur. It was difficult for me to look him in the eye. At least he earned his bread after a decent day's work. And what was I: thief! Fraud! Charlatan!
I was almost in the midst of a reverie when I was broke from the trance by my chauffeur's voice, "Sahib, the road towards Bandra seems all locked because of the tides. I think we will be caught in the traffic for quite some time." "Its all right," I said, "just go through which ever way you think will be quicker." For almost an hour he tried meandering his ways through link roads and then my car came to a stop amidst the quagmire of all other automobiles of varied colors, shades and textures just in front of God knows where (Funny such people even exist).
It had been well in the night and my driver tried to strike up some animated conversation among people in the crowd and diligently returned to me for all possible updates. I came to know that any possible movement would occur only after daybreak and the heavens were in no mood to relent. The tears were of heaven, bereaved by my loss or of people I had looted, but that was immaterial.
Just then it was again my chauffeur, "Sahib, you better stay out of the car, before the doors get jammed and the AC goes bust. There's plenty of fresh air outside." I had no intention of paying heed to his senseless gibberish but, nevertheless ventured out. The air was filled with the putrid aroma of rotting fish, stealthily blown over by the sea breeze.
But, suddenly all these felt so familiar. For the first time I felt oblivious of the fact that my Armani suit was getting wet by this foul rain. With padded feet I moved into the colonies inside and I still could not make myself understand how human beings could inhabit in such conditions. Bozo's (my St. Bernard from the Scandinavian) kennel would be a health resort for these people.
I came to a halt under a shelter and tried to light a cigarette. The damned lighter had also been part of this conspiracy and refused to light. The buzzing horns, resentment against administration, clanging of utensils all became part of one unique concoction of din and bustle.
My chauffeur suddenly busted out, "Sahib, move!" And then it happened.
I realized that I was standing beneath a hillock shaped buttressed land on top of which was an uninhabited shanty. Suddenly, the entire land structure gave way. Not that I was alone there. Plenty of people like me stranded out of buses, cabs and autos had wanted their share of the fresh air and detested their share of the rain. They had no bruised egos or Armani suits to protect; yet, they stayed away from the lashing fury of the rain.
And before I could realize what happened, the bamboo support of the shanty above had been down. I jutted my head across but, my forty year old spine was not that agile and within moments I could realize that there was something in my vertebra that was keeping me numb. In an act of spontaneity I could just raise my hand and the rest of the stone, mud and debris just found its place there and kept my skull away from crushing. The rest of the people were there in the quagmire, some in the mud, the lucky ones on the road busy gathering their thought about what went wrong.
The awe and the shock were too much to digest when onlookers realized that the landslide in the heart of Mumbai was well and truly a reality. My chauffeur came back running, trying to gauge what the situation was. A number of pedestrians drenched to their skins also turned in. "Sahib are you fine?" I heard my chauffeur say and tried hard to move the load on my hands and above my shoulder. And I groaned in pain and I felt the others shudder in shock. And before long he had created a furore, "Any doctor here?"
People realized what had transpired by then. The bamboo support of the shanty had ensconced itself within my spine and together with what my hands could carry was almost holding the land above. Only then did I look down towards my feet and it was a hopeless scenario there. The rest of that piece of land and debris had turned itself into a sheath for the people trying to shelter themselves from the rain and hundreds lay in the mud, buried in a heap. And I stood in all that destruction with a pole down my spine.
Until then I had heard of the cosmopolitan spirit. But, I had my own theory for that. The heart of all spirit lay in purchasing power. The more you buy, the more the seller gets to buy; one just passes on his purchasing power to the other. Hence, I believe that the cosmopolitan spirit was transaction based or more potently put, a give and take. But, my group of friends had always tried to attach an emotional synagogue to it, with never say die attitude, being ruled by the heart and all that utter trash.
But I just sensed that something bound human beings. There were times when you just felt, "let the other one live". This was not being benevolent, at least not for a person like me. It was just another differentiation from being human than being Bozo. And why I felt this way I do not know, but, I heard myself say, "Driver, help these people down there. I am just fine here. Please do something before it gets too late."
Business acumen and B school had always taught me that opportunities were always bound in gold. And it's always that there will be someone who will be the right one at the right place. The playmaker (I hate to realize that there could be ever something so omnipotent who could charter what I do, feel and say…. The weak call Him God, but suddenly today was a different day) had strewn every place with such opportunities. Because there was a doctor who turned up from nowhere. His eyes spoke and it was pertinent to me that the only thing that stood between me and a paralyzed death for a few moments was that length of bamboo shoot within my vertebra.
People soon began to recognize this modern day Madam Tussaud version of Atlas dressed in designer wear. The tainted fund manager, broker whatever I was. Yet I was not being stoned, haggled or even abused. There were words of consolation, "Sahib you will be fine, just hold on a bit." And you could not abuse me more.
The doctor pushed a dose of morphine into me and it was much less painful to the point of being dreamy at times. The onlookers had rushed into action. The wretched cries and the despondent looks had given way to a gush of frenetic activity. Hands were advanced for help, lives were risked, smiles were exchanged and tears were erased and no one forgot to say, "Hold on Sahib! We will all be fine."
The old lady who lay just in front of me (did I ever look at her a few moments back when I was chagrinned by the thought that I could not light my moist Marlboro) was up on her feet. A part of the tinned roof had fallen on her left limb and it was badly mangled. She rose on her feet, her face turning radiant at being granted the sudden gift of life and then turned sordid again ready to face the struggles of life to which she is used to everyday.
She turned her face to her right and with one laborious move of her right hand and with some others removed the sheet. And there lay another middle aged woman, huddled with two children, blood gushing from her forehead. The doctor and the old lady helped them on their feet. The lady tore a piece of her saree for the doctor to bandage the woman's forehead. She then turned back to me and said, "Hold on beta, you are doing just fine. Today I lost all that I had in my bank and it just could have been that I died on the worst day of my life. But, now I could sure tell my grandchildren that I have lived the best day of my life. Bhagwan tumhara bhala Karen.
I could feel life draining out of me. Long back I had heard from my teachers in school that when a person is holding on to his last piece of straw, his entire life passes by him, just like a feature film. But there was none here. I was dying in the midst of nobodies. People who meant nothing to me, and till a few moments back were just plain investors who never had a face except their creditworthiness and collaterals. There were no faces of my parents, friends, my love, not even of my Bozo. It was not even me and the people.
It was just us. We, who would not even allow death intervene our normal walk of life. Our normal life, which involved embezzling others money and allowing others to tamper with whatever we have without information, only till the point it was another human being. But not when someone is an outsider, not someone who does not belong to us, not even destiny. Because it's not human, it does not belong to us.
My playmaker can continue to create light out of darkness, hope out of despair and optimism out of nothing, but we cannot let Him tamper with our lives, without a fight, simply because He is not human. That is why we need funerals, not to dispose off wrenched corpses, but to dispose off material which have ceased to be human. These people had suddenly made me feel a part of them, allowed me my share of not being an outsider. I felt human.
And this was suddenly that made me feel happy, something not even the success of handling supernormal profits or an exotic cocktail would have given me. Was this the essence of the cosmopolitan spirit? This lingering thought of recognition was broken by my chauffeurs shriek, "Sahib!"
My stay as human was so momentary. But at least I have something to carry on the asset side of my balance sheet.
posted by contramental at 7/12/2006 09:06:00 PM
|
0 comments
