Time: 0400 hrs.
Date: 27 May 2013
Venue: Whitefield, Bangalore
A dark figure looms in the distance. Lonely and furtive in his movements, the specter sinisterly shifts lanes and cuts a sharp corner. His face is covered with a hood and so are his intents. He stops, glances at his watch for a brief moment. And then runs.
Ignoring the cognizance of his own identity, he rushes to his destination. He smiles and takes a deep breath. But his nascent mirth soon vanishes. There were others too.
He resigns to his own fate - his inevitable destiny.
And so, our hero – Champak Chauhan, opens up his cheap hoodie ‘Abibas’ he bought from the Brigade Road from his head and joins the line for Tatkal at the Whitefield Railway Station. His face is sweaty and drips of the emotion of a 5 year old whose pacifier has just been snatched. He curses himself for having stopped to relieve himself off the highway which apparently cost him 4 valuable minutes. Carefully enough, he chose not to abuse any of the gods because he had learnt an important lesson in life. Never damn a bridge until you have crossed it.
Still drowsy, he took a massive yawn which scared off a couple of dogs that were sniffing up his legs. Yesterday had been a day of personal triumph for Champak, a red letter day – if you may. After buying his boss, a daily dosage of a large coffee and Mysore Masala Dosa for 38 consecutive days, (his personal best), he finally found courage to put across those vital words in front of him. Yes! He got a holiday for 3 successive days.
He had not seen his family, ‘since time immemorial’, as he would put in his words. He tried hard to remember the name of the college his younger brother got into a year back. 3 of his cousins had got married off to UK, USA and Australia. Of course he remembered the countries’ names but not their spouses’; he pondered over the promised onsite 3 years back. Maybe he should have bought enough idlis with regular dosas for his orangutan of a boss with a gargantuan appetite.
But he still had hope. A dangerous sentiment for a man with receding hairline and a pot-belly without anything to do with booze.
Champak was still lost in his imaginations when he woke up with a kick on his behind and a yelp.
“Hey idiot! Get going, the line’s moving”
Champak scampered back to reality and helplessly cringed his face when he saw the massacre at the counter end of the line. He tried to bring order to the chaos by addressing the people in front of him as his brothers to which he received, with utmost reverence, references of his mother and sisters.
Sore with the commotion, Champak finally battled his way through to the counter’s window. The time was half an hour past 8. Anxiously, Champak handed over the form and the money. The person on the other side spat out a chunk of paan in a bin and asked for his ID. Champak promptly handed over his DL.
“This doesn't look like you. When was this taken?”
“2 years ago” replied Champak
“Common! This isn't you. Do you live here? Let me check that again.”
He adjusted his spectacles and stared hard down Champak’s face. And spat out a bit more paan.
“Son, am leaving you this time. I don't like your haircut. Doesn't match your photo”
Then he looked at the form and entered data into his computer, finding relevant keys on the keyboard at his ease. Champak, meanwhile, was biting his nails as if watching an India – Pakistan final.
“Sorry beta. Waiting 30. You should have come a bit earlier. NEXT!”
Now Champak could safely blame his God. And with teary eyes, himself too, for knowing for certain that his life was a waste and he was a total failure.
Date: 27 May 2013
Venue: Whitefield, Bangalore
A dark figure looms in the distance. Lonely and furtive in his movements, the specter sinisterly shifts lanes and cuts a sharp corner. His face is covered with a hood and so are his intents. He stops, glances at his watch for a brief moment. And then runs.
Ignoring the cognizance of his own identity, he rushes to his destination. He smiles and takes a deep breath. But his nascent mirth soon vanishes. There were others too.
He resigns to his own fate - his inevitable destiny.
And so, our hero – Champak Chauhan, opens up his cheap hoodie ‘Abibas’ he bought from the Brigade Road from his head and joins the line for Tatkal at the Whitefield Railway Station. His face is sweaty and drips of the emotion of a 5 year old whose pacifier has just been snatched. He curses himself for having stopped to relieve himself off the highway which apparently cost him 4 valuable minutes. Carefully enough, he chose not to abuse any of the gods because he had learnt an important lesson in life. Never damn a bridge until you have crossed it.
Still drowsy, he took a massive yawn which scared off a couple of dogs that were sniffing up his legs. Yesterday had been a day of personal triumph for Champak, a red letter day – if you may. After buying his boss, a daily dosage of a large coffee and Mysore Masala Dosa for 38 consecutive days, (his personal best), he finally found courage to put across those vital words in front of him. Yes! He got a holiday for 3 successive days.
He had not seen his family, ‘since time immemorial’, as he would put in his words. He tried hard to remember the name of the college his younger brother got into a year back. 3 of his cousins had got married off to UK, USA and Australia. Of course he remembered the countries’ names but not their spouses’; he pondered over the promised onsite 3 years back. Maybe he should have bought enough idlis with regular dosas for his orangutan of a boss with a gargantuan appetite.
But he still had hope. A dangerous sentiment for a man with receding hairline and a pot-belly without anything to do with booze.
Champak was still lost in his imaginations when he woke up with a kick on his behind and a yelp.
“Hey idiot! Get going, the line’s moving”
Champak scampered back to reality and helplessly cringed his face when he saw the massacre at the counter end of the line. He tried to bring order to the chaos by addressing the people in front of him as his brothers to which he received, with utmost reverence, references of his mother and sisters.
Sore with the commotion, Champak finally battled his way through to the counter’s window. The time was half an hour past 8. Anxiously, Champak handed over the form and the money. The person on the other side spat out a chunk of paan in a bin and asked for his ID. Champak promptly handed over his DL.
“This doesn't look like you. When was this taken?”
“2 years ago” replied Champak
“Common! This isn't you. Do you live here? Let me check that again.”
He adjusted his spectacles and stared hard down Champak’s face. And spat out a bit more paan.
“Son, am leaving you this time. I don't like your haircut. Doesn't match your photo”
Then he looked at the form and entered data into his computer, finding relevant keys on the keyboard at his ease. Champak, meanwhile, was biting his nails as if watching an India – Pakistan final.
“Sorry beta. Waiting 30. You should have come a bit earlier. NEXT!”
Now Champak could safely blame his God. And with teary eyes, himself too, for knowing for certain that his life was a waste and he was a total failure.
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