I have been at the Police Station
since 8 AM. Swatted away from every desk, I am now perched on a bench at the
far side of the hall. Like a housefly maneuvering around a lunch spread, I have
tried every angle and tack, and quite literally so. Walked up to the “walk-up”
desk fronted by a gruff of a Constable, who over the last hour and several visitations
of mine, had learnt to ignore me. Or any one of the half dozen desks, each
equipped with piles of paper of varying crumble, and a single Constable of type
gruff. Apparently, not one was hired to serve, and they were all doing a fine
job of protecting their time from me. Alternately I tried tail-gating into the
Inspector’s cabin or accosting the several humorless uniforms buzzing in and
out of the place. All to no avail. “Wait, we/they will call”, was the standard
issue response. The appropriate quip would have been why they did not wait
enough before calling me in. But then, I let the wise crack be.
The adage about an Indian police
stations was indeed true; the only ones getting any amount of attention were
either in cuffs or uniform. The crowds have barely thinned since I made first
contact with “Reception”. The wronged and the innocent (all latter, it seems,
until proven otherwise), allowed to mill around a variety of desks for their
minute of reckoning. I wonder if they were assigned to each based on the
severity of their (alleged) offence; drunks at 1, pick-pockets at 2.
Apparently, I did not fall into any category with any degree of severity, at
least not which would warrant an immediate audience.
I let my mind wander, a grumbling
stomach often reminding me that breakfast was long overdue. My watch staggered
to 11, and my mind was still mush from the previous night. All I felt was an
overwhelming sadness, and a fatigue I had never known in all 20 years of my
life. I’ve been here before, same dance, a stern ticking-off, and no more. Only
today seemed a longer wait.
I wonder what my Dad would be up
to, and knowing him, he would not show for a day or two. Last evening went far
worse than usual. He was at the door, back from any one of office, Rummy or
long walks, in increasing order of occurrence. None my Mother ever fully
approved of. But he has not been the same since opting for severance, now
forlornly counting down to retirement. The dark moods and often foul temper
were recent affectations.
He used to be different, even
‘cool’ to some of my envious friends. He taught me to fish, fly kite and when
Mom was out of earshot, even swear a bit. With me as the only other panelist,
he could hold forth on Platini, Hendrix or Direct Tax. He held me tight as I
broke my heart over a pet no more. Another age and time, he let me be, as I
sullenly watched a neighbor move away, taking an unspoken love with them.
Nevertheless, it would have taken
me a minute (yes, all of 60 seconds) from hearing the bell, finding Mom too
busy cooking to get the door, to grabbing the keys, and finally opening the
gates to the barbarian.
In his defense, he had been to the
market. He also had to lug two heavy bags all the way, since he had decided to
help himself to a walk. Defense rests.
He rushed past and plonked the bags
on the table. The darkness seemed to cling to him like a soggy blanket. What
followed was the reason most of my time was spent between tuition classes,
campus and any place other than home. It just hurt to watch good people being
mean to each other.
Often the fusillade is returned in
kind by my Mother. Almost as if this event was the high point of her day, where
their shared tragedies could be shouted past each other. There always seemed
scores to settle between them, real and imagined. Once, it was over who caused
a flight to be missed, from a decade ago, on an airline long out of business.
That particular episode may have ended in an embarrassed chuckle, but recently
most of these seem to trail off into silence.
Yesterday there was a menace in the
way my father rushed on, beyond the customary slamming of doors or flinging of
an umbrella. A line was crossed when he swept the chopped garlic to the floor,
as if marking a new low for all to see. As the recriminations flew by, I
stepped in. Unintended, just that I felt they were inching closer with each
pointless insult. It had come to this; I might have been the glue that kept us
all together, but at that moment I became an overcautious referee denying them
a good fight. Yet I leaned in, only that I ended up shielding my Mother while
pushing back at my Father.
Slack-jawed, he staggered back, his
mouth still forming inanities, but his voice badly trailing off. My Mother
still held on to my arm, but the solace she drew may have soured to disapproval
now.
“No, you don’t. You don’t. Stay out
of this”, she pleaded.
She stepped across, her other arm
held up mid-air, reaching out to her partner of three decades, as if willing to
lift the spell. He, or whatever possessed him, again took a step back.
Slowly rocking on his ankles, his
voice hoarse as he caught his breath, whispered, “You, dare. You?”
He had aged. Not in that very
instant, but the sheen seemed to peel away. He looked about, dazed, hunched
over, a boxer losing badly, hoping the next jab would end the misery. Then,
just as abruptly, as if roused by thunder, he spun around and walked out. My
Mother slipped away to the silence of her room, ever careful not to let her
sobs tell her story.
Where would I go? I had no one to
run to, or flee from.
The call from the Police Station
arrived early next day. Brusque. No nonsense. Expected.
“Mr. Anil Gulati?”
“Yes”
“’Daffodils’, 24/B, 1st Main?”
“Yes”
“From East Cross Station. There is
a complaint. You need to report here.”
Here we go again. ‘Disturbing the
peace’, I’m sure. For the record, minus this particular push-about, most of
their skirmishes have been sound spectacles. As evidenced by at least four
complaints over the last couple of years, made by disturbed, yet particularly
uncaring neighbors. I knew the drill.
Finally, at 2pm, the minion closest
to my bench waved me over. Short, stocky, he was boxed in on all sides by files
and folders of every possible vintage and type. I guessed as Constable
Rumpelstiltskin, his salvation were the gold he would spin off all these.
Without looking up, he pointed
towards the Inspector’s cabin.
“Meet the Inspector. There.”
I walked up, and recognized a
vaguely familiar face. Oh, the same Inspector from the last couple of
instances; this was getting awkward. He looked up, and then motioned to the
chair before him. This one always insisted that I be the one summoned to the
station, not the two-ring circus I left at home. He simply brooked no argument,
or mention of the source(s) of the noise, and I always solemnly nodded as he
gave a short speech on good neighborliness. Sign here, and here. That was about
it.
By some miracle, the minion had
managed to escape his tomb, and slowly rolled up next to the desk. He thrust a
thin file before the Inspector. Without a word he took it and started poring
over, all the time a ball pen flipping between thumb and index. This was
unusual; the time normally spent was minuscule, especially considering the
hapless still waiting in line. I did feel something was off. The minion was not
helping, hands on hips, alternating a wild-eyed craning over his superior’s
shoulder, and then at me.
Obviously bursting with child-like
curiosity, he chimed, “This is that case?”
“Hm-mm”, his boss dead-panned, eyes
never leaving the file.
“What to do?”
The Inspector sighed. Out of pity,
I’m sure in equal measure for the other parties at his desk.
“Son, sign here”, he said, passing
the file over. No talk this time, and I could not care less.
Being familiar, I quickly sped to
the bottom of the second page, to the pair of rectangles holding up the garbage
above.
My signature, as respondent, went
on the right.
On the left, the aggrieved party,
typically left blank
This time it enclosed the very
familiar signature of my Dad.
My head still down, I felt my face
twitch and burn, a tear not far away.
“Go home, Son. Sometimes, the
closest stab the deepest.”
