The Watchmaker
1
He pressed hard on the accelerator. The engine groaned and the speedometer inched forward as the car whizzed ahead. The driver wiped the sweat off his brow for the nth time, even with the AC running at full blast and struggled to keep his eyes open.
Now, it read 130.
Nikhil ignored the obvious danger high speed offered in the dead of the night with a street-light-less freeway. The road, mostly empty save for the few unfortunate cargo trucks and SUV’s zooming, albeit at a much lesser pace, was smooth as velvet and Nikhil wanted to soak up in the high-speed intoxication. The hard rock blaring from his Sony Xplod aided the high. His head gyrated to the rhythm and the accelerator bore the brunt of mounting pressure due to peaking ecstasy.
He wanted to convince himself otherwise, but it was not working.
Every attempt to distract him was proving futile. The agitation was escalating by the moment. He just couldn’t get rid of the wail he heard a few moments ago that still dinned in his ears, over the rock music. The road, the rear view mirrors, the windshield, every surface he looked at seemed to have an image of those terror struck eyes, which he had caught the glimpse of for hardly a fraction of second, etched on them. The blood, the gooey mess in the aftermath- he wanted his mind to purge these gory details but that was all it seemed to be infatuated about.
“Nikhil Arora, son of ex DCP Varun Arora, driving under the influence of alcohol on the night of 25th July 2009, mowed down a pavement dweller. Under sections 185 and 304A of Indian Penal Code, he is charged with drunk driving and for causing death of a person by committing a rash and negligent act and is sentenced to life imprisonment. Oh no, too lenient. Let he be hanged by the neck until dead. Bastard.” Nikhil visualized a fake white wig and a black coat giving a final touch to the pronounced verdict with two hard taps by the hammer.
“Aaargh.”
Frustrated, he shut off the music. The next moment his right foot let go of the accelerator and jammed on the brake, his hands swiveling the car to the right. It skidded, letting out a deafening screech, rotating menacingly and coming to an abrupt halt after a near 360-degree turn. The hard shut eyes opened and discovered the vehicle was partially off the road, facing the giant cliffs that loomed ahead, a short distance from the marked white lines. A stone block on a side glowered; its black and white oil paint legibled SANGLI 91 KM. Nikhil was quite out of the city limits.
Agitation swelled. Limbs coordinated swiftly and a sharp press on the clutch later, the car was off the road, in the 1st gear, the accelerator being harried again. The left hand changed the gear again. The car bobbed unevenly over small rocks, crushing twigs and vegetation and maybe even some ill-fated reptiles on nightly prowl. The windshield showed an exciting giant boulder not far off. The Ford Ikon now cruised straight towards it, bouncing forebodingly as its pace became more and more intimidating. The stubborn boulder and a drunk driver collaborated and procreated an imminent crash.
“Damn. Dammit,” Nikhil spluttered as he pushed back his lifesaver which now blocked his sight and covered him till chest. The crash impact had left it unfazed. “Air bags. Why didn’t I think of them before? ”
He banged open his door and kicked it shut. The front portion of the car of dismayed beyond recognition and the engine compartment emanated obnoxious fumes. It was a miraculous save but Nikhil was in no mood to appreciate the grace of the superior being. Without another thought, he left the car to fend for itself and started his ascent up a cliff beyond the boulder.
Climbing up a cliff, Nikhil realized, was an excruciatingly slow process, even when you don’t have safety harnesses and you couldn’t care less about safety in the first place. The steep surface had him paving way between random density of vegetation and criss-crossing according to convenience, at times even using on all fours. The torn shirt in subsequence due to the thorns that grazed his skin through them lay unheeded for. As a child, whenever Nikhil passed by such cliffs and mountains, all he wanted to do was get the hell out of the vehicle and start scaling. But tonight, as he was realizing his once-upon-a-time ‘ambition’, Nikhil, to put in his off-the-top-mental-shelf vocabulary, “gave a fuck.” Finally, the peak bore marks of Nikhil’s shoe prints.
He walked to the edge and glanced down. A precipitous fall of at least 50 feet looked mortality inviting, or to the least, pledged a number of broken bones and anguish for uncertain hours, till unlikely hawk eyed and dog-eared help, if one still had an audacious hope, arrived. Nikhil extended his left leg forward to get the feel and cowered back. Retreat followed.
Even at the top, it was hardly windy. The brow sported sweat again, though now it had extended it ‘aura’ to other body parts as well, armpits being prominent, thanks to the exertion. Nikhil wiped it. For the n-plus-one-th time.
The moon shone bright, accompanied with many stars tonight. Nikhil lay on his back at a clearing he found at the top, facing the astronomical bodies. What was he gonna do now, he wondered as he closed his eyes, too groggy. What…was…he…
The door shut with a strident bang as he stormed into the room. Rapid footsteps towards the room followed and the pandemonium began. But that didn’t bother him as he threw open his father’s cupboard. The clothes merrily unfurled themselves as they formed a random heap on the floor. A hasty hunt had begun. Soon, a drawer when burst open revealed the object he was looking for. The momentum slowed. He picked up the object and checked its contents. It was loaded. He put it against his temples. The poundings in the background and within raged as he positioned his index finger. Death was now a mere centimeter of a pull away. The desperate pleas asking him to open the door fell on deaf ears. Curtains fell on his eyeballs. The slap by his girlfriend, him being transformed into a handcuffed toy of the police, the disgusted expressions heaved at him, the pointed fingers, incisive queries fired by the media and finally the last straw- an ultimatum to leave his home after being vocally disowned swept before them. The dying man’s whimpers replaced them the next moment, agitating him to the hilt.
It was then that Nikhil pressed the trigger.
Nikhil involuntarily shot up, sitting straight. His head was throbbing. It took him a while to register where he was, what he did the last night and its prospective implications, as his nightmare had reflected. The harsh sun thrashed heat down ruthlessly.
Finally it came. The breakdown happened.
“Oh my fucking God, what did I do,” Nikhil wailed. “Fuck, I killed him. I fucking killed him.” His face sunk into his palms. “I ruined my life.” Had he not already, what with the binge drinking and all? For the first time in years, what he had brushed aside- his scruples, his recurring doubts over where he was leading his own life, the relentless answer in rare times of introspection- to apocalypse, they all gushed out through his eyes. Nikhil felt at loss, completely devoid of any comforting outlook. Everything was over. He felt powerless to endure the grave repercussions when he went back. If at all he did go back.
He cried till his tear glands ran dry. Brooding and sobbing at times, he mulled over his bleak future. Through the rustling of leaves in the mild breeze that wafted, Nikhil heard a faint whistle. He stood up and his swollen eyes traced a blurred source to a distant train. From the peak, he could see the train. Two tracks, presumably one each for trains in opposite direction blazed in the sun to his right. To the left, not far off, was the freeway. Nikhil decided- he had to take a pick. Train, it is, came the answer.
Descent began. A rapid, careless one. Twice, he fell down flat on his jaw. He deserved it; Nikhil chided himself as he wiped the blood off his chin. As he reached the level ground, Nikhil broke into a trot. He passed rubble of a car. His car. Now, a full-fledged sprint. Panting he reached the railway tracks. He welcomed a hoot of another distant train. Standing away from the tracks, he devised a way to die. Soon, he discovered, he was going to be knocked out by a goods train. At least, he thought, no passenger will be inconvenienced, and was surprised with the philanthropist attitude he had developed in his last moments. He smiled- he was dying a nice man. The rumble augmented. So did his heart beat. His body started shaking. He emerged out from a clump of bushes he was hiding and threw himself head first on the track.
Slow reflexes and high momentum- a suicide was successful.
2
Everything was a blur. He felt as if the suction pump was switched on in full force. Hey, that’s gravity, he realized. But I am dead, ain’t I? He was being rapidly sucked down, into the ground. The free fall speed pinnacled. It was just mud and rocks all the way before he came to an abrupt halt.
Now this is new, Nikhil thought. He was surrounded by, well, nothing. His environment consisted of everything pitch black. At least, he had stopped. Or was he moving? He couldn’t conclude, owing no frame of reference. His legs still felt free; as if he was suspended in air- was it? What is this place? He looked hither and thither nothing enlightening him in any way. He looked down and was repelled by the sight. His feet- they were smoky white, so was his whole body. He shuddered at the thought of him having turned into a ghost. So we humans were right after all? HOW?
He brought a trembling finger near his hand, if he still daresay call it that, and tried to feel the smokiness. It passed straight through it. “Damn, now I can never touch myself,” he muttered and grinned a moment letter at the unintentional pun.
“Feel like laughing, eh?” A voice brimming with scorn boomed. Nonplussed and petrified, he looked around frantically for the source, only to realize that the blackness still dominated. A sudden insight scooped over him.
“God?” he mustered a croak.
“Duh.”
Wow, our ancestors knew some stuff, Nikhil mused. He does exist.
“Of course they did,” God, being God, uncannily mind-read. “But then you coined the term ‘orthodox’. Atheism- you humans certainly have the penchant for bullshit, don’t you?”
Nikhil was muted. The sudden confrontation hadn’t failed to garner a numbed mind.
“So Mr. Nikhil Arora. Son of a felicitated ex- police officer. College dropout by choice. And a drunkard by profession, is that right?”
Guilty as charged, Nikhil mused.
“25th of July,” God continued. “11.59 pm. Ran over a professional sibling- another drunkard. Tried to flee. The victim got killed due to lack of timely help. Subsequently, you killed yourself. And now I am faced with an untimely rendezvous with you. As if I am already not busy enough.”
“Uhh…” Nikhil gurgled.
“Have your say,” God said. “Not that it is going to make any difference though.”
Have his say? All Nikhil wanted to do right now was pinch himself to see if it was all real. When his hand passed right through his butt, he realized, he couldn’t have it otherwise.
“God, please, I didn’t do it intentionally,” he pleaded. “I swear by the name of G…” umm, you.
“Yeah, right. Pavements are what are made to drive your vehicles on,” God said, unpleasantly. “Anyway, enough said, I can gauge that you can’t defend yourself. To hell with you, I declare.”
Nikhil knew that though many people used the phrase but only one could mean it. He was encountering that very one now. His head lowered and a pearly white tear dropped down his cheek and fell down, becoming more miniscule by the second as it embarked on its free-fall.
“You know,” God spoke up, quite unexpectedly for Nikhil. “Sometimes I wonder why I have this system here. Bastards like you don’t deserve it at all, unless of course, there is a U turn in the heart, if I can still say you have one.”
Nikhil looked up. System?
“Yeah,” God seemed reluctant to elaborate. “You like everyone else will get an option of re-living the last 12 hours of your life. And I can sense you want to suck up to it.”
Nikhil couldn’t believe it. Re-live his last 12 hours? He will be getting a chance to rectify his blunders? “Really?” he ejaculated.
“Not in the real world though, but a parallel one which works the same way. You can enjoy, freak out and what do you slangers say? Paint the town red. What an irony, in your case! Or maybe, set things right. All this is illusionary, of course. Its not that you will be absolved of your sins, but just that your conscience will not be as guilt ridden. But mind you, just 12 hours. After that, the world will dissolve. Neither will there be any bamboo, nor will play any flute.”
“Uhh, what?”
“Bah,” God said, clearly not pleased at the waste of jest. “Na rahega bans, na bajegi bansuri. Why are Gods supposed to be all maturity pervading serious beings? No wonder Ramanand Sagar is biding his time in hell first.” With that, Nikhil felt a quivering sensation as the blackness around him slowly began to fade away.
“And yes, check out your new wrist watch. Enjoy, murderer,” a tart tone again for the word and that was the last Nikhil heard the voice as the 12 hours began. His body, he realized, was back into its skin and bones form. He checked his left wrist and found to his amazement that 6 digits were embedded on them. They read 11 59 45, the last digit changing as 5, 4, 3… by the moment.
“12 hours,” Nikhil thought. “What would I want to do? Freak out? Paint the town red? Yeah, right.” A firm resolve had started taking shape in his mind, becoming concrete by each tick in his ‘wrist watch’.
The world around him re-formed. He found himself propped up against his steering wheel, his car rammed against a tree, as was the case exactly 12 hours ago, after Nikhil had run over a man.
3
His tongue lay lopsided outside his mouth as his left cheek rested on the steering wheel. His eyes were unfocussed. He had to struggle to keep them wide open. Binge drinking, after all, takes its toll, thought Nikhil as he pushed back against the wheel, sounding the horn loudly in the process. The dark windy night? Check. The desolate partially lit road? Check. He was successfully teleported, Nikhil inferred. Now where was the man?
“What the fuck? Which bastard did this?”
Ah, there. Nikhil turned back and saw a man peering over the bleeding body, swearing loudly. “Last chance,” muttering to himself, he rapidly got out of the car and doubled towards the whimpering being. Somewhere in vicinity, a dog howled. A pitiful yelp followed it.
As he drew nearer, the peer-er became clearer. A man in his early fifties, short and stout, his blue chequered shirt tucked out of his khaki pants, looked, prima facie, a fashion faux pas specimen. His tubby nose was totally not suited for his pitifully small round face and with a red paint on it, could have passed off as a clown’s make up. Big square pair of glasses was mounted on it.
“You did this, didn’t you?” the man looked up as Nikhil’s trot ended, his expressions sporting disgust and shock.
It was a clear test of Nikhil’s patience. His priorities now revised, he no longer looked in any mood to indulge in anything but the casualty rescue mission. “Sir, please, it was an accident.” Nikhil ventured on an explanation, biting back a reflex snap- “First the enlarging pools of blood and now a lecture in offing. The homecoming is going great guns.”
“Accident,” spat the man incredulously. “You know what I call this? Drunken murder. Boy, are you stinking.”
Hey, now look here you graying hair, wrinkling skin, dwarfish piece of shit, I came here not to hear your fucking insight about this unfortunate mistake, but to save a life. And let me do that without you poking your witchy nose in the saving act. Wow, Nikhil was on fire- he bit back this bit too. Summoning his wits, Nikhil implored, “Sir, I am really sorry. Now will you please help me in hoisting him to my car?”
“You know what,” the man had his hands on his hips now, forehead clad in innumerable crinkles, glowering through his thick spectacles. “You don’t know how lucky you are that today the street is deserted or else a mob would have gathered and torn you…”
“Sir, please. Lift,” Nikhil consumed the upper limit of the tone not considered to be rude but firm and desperate nevertheless, and took charge of the victim’s, a man in his thirties, hip. He looked scruffy, with unkempt long dry curly hair; his dark forearms had veins painfully visible. It was apparent that he was a laborer or something similar, employed, if at all, in a physical grind. His multi pattered pink shirt was 2 buttons from collar open, betraying his muddy vest, and a dense crop of chest hair poking out of a torn part. His light blue corduroy trousers were equally dirty.
Mumbling more curses in an undertone, the man shuddered as he looked down. The car had apparently run over the victim’s thighs. Faint tyre marks were visible over the bottom part of his soaked with blood shirt. He glared again at the doer of the abominable act and lifted up the victim by his shoulders. Together, they dragged him to the Ford Ikon’s rear seat and placed him there. Streetlights flickered and the trees rustled in the wind giving the environment an eerie touch. Time was demanding and Nikhil banged shut the right door through which they had shoved the body inside and quickly sat himself on the driver’s seat. The man, who had entered the rear seat while placing the victim inside the car, looked alarmed.
“You are gonna drive? What, you want to kill the killed? Mangle his body beyond recognition, so that it would solace your perverted soul? Or just wanna make it juicier for the journos by adding two more to the tally of the number of people killed in one night on A.R. road? Get off, you drunkard.”
Point, Nikhil thought. “Can you drive?”
The man hesitated for a moment. But the next moment it dawned that it was not him who had killed so obviously he had the upper hand. “No,” he said with an unsuitable confidence.
“Then shut the fuck up.” Nikhil turned his face away and turned on the ignition.
“Hey, wait,” another shocked tone was ejaculated by the man. “You can’t leave me here in this way. I mean, what, am I supposed lend my lap to this man? For God’s sake, he’s fucking dying!” The casualty moaned on.
“Let me see.” Nikhil looked up from the key socket and turned around, resting his elbows beside the headrest of the two front seats and looked into the man’s eyes. “Umm, YES!” The accelerator was jammed on, and with a shrill groan at the unexpected high load on the engine, a car carrying a bleeding body, a blood soaked lap, driven by a drunk killer zoomed towards Chandanlal Hospital, the nearest one to the next-day-headline-grabbing road.
The car skidded to a halt just short of crashing onto the cemented walls of Chandanlal hospital, a municipal health centre, amidst shocked onlookers, some of who had to fling themselves out of the way of the menacing car and an ageing security guard, hobbling towards the distraction from his nightly siesta, on the verge of raising an alarm.
“What are you, a maniac?” Nikhil heard a question hurled at him out of the swelling mob.
“Yeah, and a bit drunk too,” he retorted as he got out of the car. He pushed open the door of the hospital and hollered, “Emergency. This is a fucking emergency. There is a man dying out here,” he addressed a few gaping-at-the-sudden-commotion nurses. “HURRY UP.” That did it. They swung into action. Immediately a stretcher was wheeled in with a condition-worsening-by-the-moment victim on it.
The man on the back seat had become a bit numb as he emerged out slowly and saw Nikhil run after the troupe of prospective saviors. Slowly, an obsolete Nokia appeared out of his chest pocket. Slowly, 3 digits were pressed and to an alert voice, a slow halting voice responded. It squeaked: “Hello-police-station?”
4
Nikhil kept shouting at the attendants to charge up the proceedings. Enquiries about the patient’s “How did this happen?” were heeded with an impatient and curt “Just concentrate on saving his goddamn life, will you? The trivia is unimportant. Let the spice be reserved for the media.” Nikhil kept the chase on till the patient was rushed into Operation Theatre, a small, but relatively less dingy place than the other wards and did not budge till the door was shut on his face after which he was left with no choice but to retreat to the waiting room.
The waiting room wasn’t much to talk about. A small wooden counter with a fat woman with a fed-up-of-the-world expression affixed on her face was on one side. Lined along the rest three walls, were some chairs. Behind the ‘receptionist’, if you would still call her that, was a whitewashed wall with Chandanlal Hospital written with black paint. The below part sported ‘PAYMENTS; CASH; INQUIRY’ written vertically with a smaller font size. The counter was the source of a long line of dhoti-clad men and scarved with their saris women. Some of them anxious, some of them bored, some of them whispering excitedly. But the common thread was all of them were staring. At him.
“What?” he looked at a small child pointing at him. “I am in no mood to sign autographs, ’kay?” He crashed on one of the unbroken plastic chairs and lay back, stretching his legs till they hit the chair ahead of it. Pulling back his neck, he closed his eyes and covered his face with his palms. “Ooh,” he groaned, lending sound to his exhaustion. His moments of respite were handicapped soon.
“Excuse me,” an indignant voice sounded ahead of him. “Can’t you watch your feet?”
“And your car too, if you don’t mind.” What a waste-polite words, when they don’t sound polite, can’t convey the politeness, Nikhil’s insight reflexed, because the second sentence was not Nikhil’s reply but another address to Nikhil, by a different person than the displeased neighbor.
Nikhil opened his eyes and found more than the expected set of eyes eyeing him. One of them was, of course, the person ahead of him, and the second a surprisingly quick acting and an amiable-sounding-wannabe police officer. “Inspector Damle,” he introduced, extending his right hand forward, “And not exactly pleased to meet you. But maybe my little perennial companion here is.” He looked at his right wrist. “Oops, sorry, wrong hand.” He extended his left hand instead, one with handcuffs on them, the other closure vacant. “Shall we?”
A corny first impression notwithstanding, Nikhil had now finally lost his innate cool. His face fell as he mutely surrendered. The onlookers whispered amongst themselves and gaped as he was being escorted out. Only one face (and a nose too) stood out. It seemed to be expecting an on-the-horizon arrest since while the door opened, it stood at a side stubbornly, loathingly observing the events and more in particular, the hero of the events, whom he bestowed a sonorous “Asshole.”
Nikhil was checked into a rickety but proudly ‘Maharashtra Police’ proclaiming jeep. Inside, sat two constables. With a gruff “Get in,” Nikhil was pushed inside, the Inspector following suit. Banging the door shut, he barked orders at the driver. Soon, the van was on the way to Islampur Police Station.
A rather mild reception greeted him there. The constable at the gate was stirred awake by the van coming to a noisy halt. And he obviously needed to polish his acting skills since his salute to the inspector betrayed bleariness- it looked more dragging his hand to the forehead than a reflex.
“Busy dozing off, eh?” Damle referred to the constable, whose nameplate read S.G. Kambli. “Don’t you have the courtesy of wishing the VIP amongst us today? Hey, wait; you know what just struck me?” He paused for dramatic effect. “The concept of fan following. But why are we talking here? Mr. VIP must be made comfortable first. Please come in, sir.”
That Nikhil bemused by the behavior of the Inspector was hardly surprising. The transferred or the new recruits under Damle were forewarned or had to get used to it, as the case might be. ‘Curiously amusing’ was an often unwilling term used by the subordinates, ‘Grotesque’ was the popular one.
“Ahh, nice,” Damle let out a sigh as he seated himself in his chair. “So what will you have? Tea, coffee…oh oh sorry for the impudence his majesty, I forgot, how can you have anything but hard drinks? But then, sadly, we don’t have it here, do we?” He winked at his deputy P.D. Samal. “You’re still standing? Please make yourself comfortable. This is your own home; at least it will be for the next few, say, decades?” He glanced at his subordinates, who chuckled dutifully. “But the Mamma is very strict here. And the notions of comfort too are altered, like comfort for you will be at my feet. Sit the fuck down.”
Already perplexed, Nikhil was further intimidated and dumbly sat down, a few inches away. “Now that’s like a good boy,” Damle’s tone eased out. “So where was I? Oh yes,” his eyes lit up at the recollection and he announced grandly, “the concept of fan following.”
He took out a cigarette from his pocket and a look through the corner of his eyes later, a lighter was brought near at his lips. “You see, the film industry influences the youth to a large extent, to levels mere mortals like me and you, unless he is some big time shrink, can’t imagine. This person here, he is a die hard fan of Salman Khan. Aren’t you, kid?”
The Gandhi from portrait at the top of Damle’s chair smiled down affably at Damle, who was glancing at the ‘kid’, who, in turn, had suddenly taken a liking in the tile patterns. Unperturbed by the lack of response, Damle continued, “You get my point, don’t you? Hey you, I am talking to you.” He thrust his hand down and squeezed hard at Nikhil’s cheeks and pulled up his neck till their eyes contacted. Damle whistled. “You don’t look a hardened criminal, boy. In fact, you are, shall I say, handsome?” Still mute, Nikhil couldn’t detect any point of the monologue. “So I feel like smirking when I think of your predicament, or rather, the predicament that awaits you. And as you look from a cultured background, I feel like asking you a few questions. Shall I?” He squeezed the cheeks harder, till it hurt and Nikhil couldn’t help bursting out an affirmative.
“You are son of a politician?”
“No,” Nikhil muttered.
“Hasn’t your cultured background taught you of something called politeness? Answer me properly.”
“No,” Nikhil said, slightly louder this time.
“Some film producer?”
“No.”
“Some big-time businessman?”
“No.”
The next wasn’t a question, but a slap, s, to be correct.
“Then, you son of a bitch, what do you think will happen of you?” The Inspector took his eyes off Nikhil and rested them on a constable. “Hawaldar, lock up this pile of turd,” and spat a last “People like you should be gang raped and killed. Dunno why they have this ‘presumed innocent until proved guilty’ policy.”
When later Nikhil was pushed into his confines, there he had some time to muse. ‘Smirk’, he concluded, has an ‘irk’ in it.
5
“Get in.”
Nikhil wasn’t allowed to carry out the instruction. A hard shove made him and he stumbled inside. The jail quarters formed the posterior of the police station. About five small a century square feet cells were lined up side by side, a small passage linking each. There was loud hooting and jeering the moment the main door opened, with the Hawaldar trying to pacify the environment with a “Shut up, you rascals,” that boomed over the hoots, which only multiplied the cacophony. The inmate whose cell Nikhil was supposed to share wasn’t a contributor but a mute spectator who lay coiled in a corner.
The door was hard pulled shut and with the turning of key, iron bars estranged Nikhil from the rest of the world. Another bang of the main door being closed followed. The interrogation began immediately.
“Hey, you fuck, whatcha in for?” Nikhil heard a mocking voice from one of the lined cells. He didn’t respond. “Why so serious, baby? Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. We all get used to it. So tell me- Rape? Murder? Suicide? Or are you a fag?” Titters followed. “So there’re 2 homos with us now, hun? Nice. What person are you? Butt or blow-job?” This time the cackles were louder. “Me, I am an asshole person.” Some jailbirds sounded in hysterics.
Nikhil thought he would go mad. It was one thing being crass and other meaning it too. Already a homophobe, even the thought of it had him going bonkers. The cell wasn’t much to talk about. There was a bunk bed at one side and on the opposite, at about three feet higher from the top of the top bunk, was a small window, with iron bars criss-crossing it. The ceiling was quite high, with no fan. The walls were bland grey, made of stone with some of them with horizontal foot-high compartments in them. He retreated to the other unoccupied corner, buried his head into his folded legs drawn closer to his stomach for comfort and tried to tune out the hullabaloo. Repulsive recaps of his accident boogied in front of his eyes. He tried to shun them out too. Damn, it was difficult. One small mistake and such repercussions? One honest, genuine attempt of setting things right and such reaction? Just twelve hours of time to save a life or an eternity of loss. Nikhil looked at his watch. 07 12 54, it read. Just seven hours more, Nikhil moaned. But what could he do now? He had tried his best- he had immediately rushed the victim to the hospital, jolted up the proceedings several notches higher than the usual, and now even cleared the way for judicial ones. What more was expected of him? He had succeeded till now, right? But suppose there were some complications? The hospital in the town was hardly what one would call ‘equipped’. There were innumerable times that the local newspaper had reported deaths arising out of inefficiency and topping that, insufficiency of staff or equipments. Now that wasn’t a comforting thought, was it? Nikhil felt himself plunging into despair. The regular taunts from the surrounding cells weren’t helping either. It was some time before there was an additional distraction. A summon.
“Hey,” he heard faintly. The man-in-the-corner was no more one. He had crept up beside him and was trying to talk to him. Nikhil looked at him. He was tiny, about five feet tall with a malnourished body. He had a cut on his lip and a bruise on the forehead almost like he was freshly beaten up. The cut lip curled into a small smile. Two of his front teeth were missing. The man spat out to the left on the wall. The streak looked red and it was no tobacco.
“Ignore them,” he said. He had a curiously sing-song voice, almost as if he was enjoying the happenings, but had a dose of mellowness in them which kind of acted like a soothing agent for Nikhil. Nikhil stared at his forehead, a wee bit longer than is civil. “Oh, that,” the man said, raising a finger to touched the bruise spot and brought it back with dried blood on the tip. “That would be, let me see, Samal or Ali, umm, oh yes, Samal. I am his favorite teddy bear. You see the affection, don’t you?” Nikhil looked away from the finger he was waving in front of his eyes. It was certainly less than the amount he had seen a few hours ago but still it was no pretty sight. “They do that, y’know. Beating me up is their pastime. They had quarrel with their wives? I am to blame. Got a criminal out of their hand? My fault again. Interference of big jerks in their affairs? Lets beat up the teddy, everybody.”
Nikhil was bewildered as to what to say. The man gave him respite.
“Anyway, screw them. Talk to me about what’s bothering you. Maybe you’ll feel better.” There was certain earnestness in the man’s voice that even melted Nikhil. He took his time. Finally, he murmured, “I killed someone with my car.”
“Now that’s different. Most of the people maintain an innocent stance. You are the only one confessing crime.”
“It was an accident actually.”
“Bah! No different,” the man smiled. “And here I was thinking there’s finally someone here with balls.”
“But…” Nikhil started to protest.
“Nah, no explanation needed. Coz you know what, I believe you,” the man said sweetly.
Nikhil was clearly not subjected to such kindness in his back-to-the-world era. And that was what brought tears to his eyes, besides, of course, his pathetic state. He stood up. The man saw Nikhil melt slowly. “I want to save him,” Nikhil wept. “I even rushed him to the hospital. I took him in my own car. I charged up the dealings. I did everything and they put me here.” He pursed his eyes and a corner twinkled. As they opened, he saw his fellow inmate too standing up, his hands folded across his chest. Slowly, he freed them and neared Nikhil. The hug took Nikhil by surprise. Grateful, he lowered his head and rested his cheek on the man’s left. The man patted Nikhil on the back.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be alright. You just need to relax.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Nikhil said. The hug got tighter. It felt uncomfortable. And somehow weird too. Was it a hand that was making it weird? Yes, it was.
A hand had slipped down and started fondling Nikhil’s genitals. He felt something hard poking his privates. Revolted, Nikhil cringed back, pushing the man hard on his face, unable to muster a single slap-syllable. The man was unmoved although the cut on his lip opened up.
“Aww, what happened, baby? Papa don’t do it good? Maybe this will change your mind,”
The man opened his fly and pulled down his pants to reveal a long black organ amongst a dense black forest pumping. “See? Like it?” He gently moved ahead.
Nikhil found his voice and used it to hilt. “Get the fuck away from me.” It reverberated around the cells and brought back several echoes in different forms- some of mirth, some excited and mostly more crude types- “Whoa! Our new friend’s trapped with the fucker!”
The man was egged on. He caressed his penis. It pumped harder. Nikhil felt vomit choke his throat. A loud bang disturbed the proceedings. Nikhil’s being the first cell, the Hawaldar, this time accompanied with Samal, emerged with a “What the fuck is going…” and stopped short seeing the scene in the cell.
It was Samal who got to be the star that night.
“Ah, you fag, tonight you feeling very horny, aren’t you? Let me see what I can do.” Samal opened the cell in a jiffy. His hands reached his waist and his leather belt emerged out of the hooks. He stormed ahead, his belt held high. It was the man’s turn to cringe back now. His eyes donned a look of terror; his penis manifested it by slowly receding and the floor near his groin was watered with urine. Samal withdrew his sleeves and a well aimed kick perfectly hit on the bull’s eye. The man crouched on the floor, moaning in agony, his hands cupping his testicles that now felt cracked. But they weren’t good enough a shield and the jail walls again echoed his piercing whimpers as another kick landed on the same spot. Samal still looked dissatisfied. A hard whack on the bare butt and the man’s cries doubled. It had by now also invited a mute dare-you-hoot challenge and the rest of the inmates readily maintained a “There’s no Afzalkhan amongst us” perspective to the T.
He now turned his gaze to Nikhil who had involuntarily crept to the back of the cell. Striding ahead, Samal grabbed hold of Nikhil’s collared t-shirt and a swift hand action later, Nikhil felt his neck would fly off. His pivot joints proved otherwise. One more yelp was added to the tally of a pretty vibrant night. His ears had started ringing. His left cheek sported red marks which could be deciphered as fingers. But Nikhil wasn’t allowed to recover. Instead he was dragged out of the cell, into the main reception portion of the police station. A violent jolt later, Nikhil found himself on the floor, near a pair of brown Kolhapuri chappals hanging down from the visitor’s chair and a desk to his left across which Damle’s voice had started to reprimand Samal of disobeying his command. Samal ignored it and addressed to the pair of legs Nikhil was a lick away. “He’s all yours.” The tone was acid which made it apparent enough that he would have liked to host Damle’s VIP for some more time.
“Thank you,” something above the pair of legs spoke up. “Follow me.”
The chappals were put at their job and they walked away. “Go,” Nikhil’s butt was addressed by a toe. Nikhil rose and walked out into the night following a silhouette into an eroding not-so-white Armada.
6
The left side rear door was left open. Nikhil tried to follow the man inside.
“Tut-tut,” the man said. “You sit in the front seat.”
Nikhil heard the front lock open and he bent to sit in. His next moment was filled with a pang in his head. He was whacked hard by someone in the back seat. Rubbing his head, Nikhil noticed that the culprit was familiar. He was…
“Prasad,” the culprit smiled. “We’ve met before, remember? Pissed to see you again.” Nikhil recognized him as the same bespectacled-but-not-such-a-spectacle-himself man who had helped Nikhil escort the victim to the hospital. On his side, was the person who bailed him out. “And this is Venkatesh bhau. You must’ve heard of him.”
Nikhil broke into cold sweat as he remembered his father often complaining about the terror of the local goon who manipulated their affairs. In fact, his father had been awarded for catching Venkatesh himself. Once upon a time, Nikhil felt proud of this achievement. Today, this achievement spelled just one word- Doom.
“Aye Ganya, what are you waiting for? Get going,” Prasad ordered the driver who promptly ignited the engine.
“So Nikhil,” Venkatesh spoke up as the rickety Armada took a U-turn off the stretch of kuttcha road one can call ‘parking’ if you stretch its definition to the maximum, and headed towards the highway. He was everything the clichéd goons looked like. His curly black hair hung loosely on his temples, his brown skin matched with his corroding brown-stained teeth and his puffed up cheeks with his tummy. He had a slow gait and a halting speech and wore a loose white kurta-pyjama and had a Sai Baba beady necklace around his neck. His wrist sported a few red and yellow bands and his fingers flaunted various rings of gold and silver, one of which had an image of Sai Baba affixed on it. The image now rose to his cheek as the fingers scratched the stubble. “What’s your surname did you say?”
“Uh,” Nikhil blurted. “I didn’t say it.”
Prasad and Venkatesh looked at each other. They burst out laughing. “This guy,” Prasad choked. “Didn’t I tell you bhau? This guy sure has some balls. Don’t you form the legacy of that whoreson Arora?”
Nikhil didn’t answer and waited for the laughter to die down. “Answer me,” Prasad coaxed. “What happened? Choked on your won impudence?”
“Bah, is it surprising,” Venkatesh joined in the banter. “After all, he is the bastard son of His ‘Highness’ DCP Arora. He needs to have some high handedness. Otherwise he’s just betraying his blood. Tell you what, let’s play a game. Maybe that will crack him up. You know that Sach ka Saamna thingy? Let’s play that. What say?” He looked eagerly at Nikhil.
Nikhil chose silence. The Armada now cruised on the highway, overtaking many-a-truck.
“Why do you ask bhau,” Prasad cajoled. “If you want to play, let’s do it.”
Venkatesh rubbed his palms. “Okay. Question number one is as I asked before- Are you the son of that whoreson Arora?”
Its wise not to incite these people, Nikhil thought. “Yes,” he replied quietly.
“This answer is…correct,” Prasad declared, his voice somber, his mannerisms jeering.
“Hmm,” Venkatesh said, now resting his arm on the whole of the backseat’s edge. “Next question. Did you know it was he who turned me in?”
“Yes,” Nikhil answered softly.
“This answer is…correct,” the human polygraph announced. He was clearly enjoying this.
“Hmm,” Venkatesh said again. “Third question. Do you know that you ran over my brother tonight?”
All color seeped off Nikhil’s face. Nikhil realized what profoundly screwy business he had got himself into. He had killed a relative of a killer. He cursed his fate. Why God? Why should…”OUCH!” Nikhil felt a sharp pain on his right ear and tweeting sounds followed.
“Answer him,” Prasad’s tone had hardened.
“Yes,” Nikhil whimpered, nursing his ear.
“Hmm,” Venkatesh said. “And lastly, do you know how hard I am going to fuck you now?”
Open your trap, otherwise you are in deep crap, Nikhil instructed himself. “Bhai, I am really really sorry for what I did. But I rushed him to the hospital too. I tried to save him. Ask Prasad bhai, he was with me all the time. Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe…”
Another smack, now on his left cheek. Prasad had a nasty habit using brute force as a prelude to the vocal crassness. “You sonofabitch, he’s dead.”
Nikhil sensed his end was near. Though his wrist watch might be showing near 6 hours left but his fate seemed raring to dangle a DEAD END sign in front of his second lifespan preposterously. He was conscious but he might as well have been knocked out cold. He seemed statued.
Venkatesh said nothing. He looked out of the car, observing the trees as they rapidly moved away. “Soon after you left,” Prasad elaborated, “the medicine guy declared they need to operate upon him. I asked them what the hell they were waiting for. They said they need a surgeon. I asked them where he was and they told me he was at his home. I went there, dragged him out of his bed, told him to immediately come to the hospital or I would fuck his wife in front of his eyes. He was a pretty amiable fellow, unlike you. He came and said they had no blood in their blood bank. Haribhau apparently had some rare type of blood. A-, he said, whatever it means. They didn’t have any such blood and they fucked up. Our Haribhau died. I created a ruckus and holding their collars, promised that none of their sisters and daughters would die virgins. But first I had to deal with you. I had told Damle to take you till I dealt with this doctor shit and keep you with that creepy sex addict. He did a nice job of it, though that Samal made a fuss. He’s going along your father’s lines boy, with his all no bribe stance. Someday I’ll have to set his record straight too. But for now, it’s your turn.”
Nikhil noticed a malicious grin spread on Prasad’s face. He caressed Nikhil’s cheek. “Had a good time in the jail, big boy? Now it’s our time to have a good time,” he said. “Ganya, take a left in that small path you see to the right. After you see that well, halt.”
Nikhil felt himself leaning to the left as the inertia played it part perfectly. In the wavering headlights due to the jagged path, he saw a well about hundred feet away. His heart beat escalated. He turned back and started speaking frantically, “No, please, don’t kill me. I didn’t mean to run over Haribhau. It was just an accident.”
“Shut the fuck up,” as if jolted by a thunderbolt, Venkatesh abandoned his brief silence and spat, his face blazing with anger. Swiftly drawing a revolver from his side pocket, he thrust it into Nikhil’s mouth. “One more word and I shoot you right here, right now.”
The car slowed down near the well. There was a rusty old bucket with its handle tied by a rope going over the pulley kept on the edge of the well. Nikhil wondered if there was some way he could keep swimming in the well after he’s pushed into it. But he didn’t know how to swim! Desperation is the mother of execution. So if somehow he did manage it, till he found some cracks he can manage to hold on to, or maybe by divine grace the bucket might topple off the edge into the well and he might be able to use the rope…Hey, wait a second, why was he afraid? He was going to die anyway. The mission with which he arrived back there was unaccomplished. There was no way he could rectify it. Wise or otherwise, the end is imminent. Maybe, the sooner the better.
This sudden insight descended tranquility in Nikhil. The prospect of ‘painful death’ was bloodcurdling but the later half wasn’t as petrifying now.
“Stop,” Venkatesh ordered the driver. “And you- get down.”
Nikhil slowly opened the door after the driver killed the engine, half comforted. They were in the middle of a sugarcane farmland. The tall shoots lined along both sides of the narrow path. There was no wind and they appeared deathly still. His palpitation was jacked and resonated with trepidation. He rested his feet on moist earth due to rains on the previous day. Venkatesh and Prasad too exited and the driver went and opened the rear end of the car. He emerged out with a thick coiled rope in his hand. He seemed to be already briefed of his job. He went up to Nikhil and began tying him up. Nikhil didn’t offer much of a rebellious spirit. Ganya went round and round Nikhil, as if draping him with a saree, and finally making 2 strong knots, backed off.
Venkatesh neared. “You know what we’re gonna do with you darling,” his asked acidly. “We’re doing the same thing you did to my brother. We’re gonna ride over you. And then we’ll leave you to writhe with pain, scream your ass off as your body throbs, slowly watch your blood stream out, form puddles, and soak the earth till you weaken to death. The eagles will snatch chunks of your flesh, the wolves will feast on you andHH finally you will rot.” He toppled Nikhil off balance making him land square on his jaw. Nikhil howled as he felt a sickening crack and a sudden gush of excruciating pain. He lay there squirming and watched the men as they retreated to their mean machine. The headlights flared up again and the car took a reverse. It went back some distance. Nikhil felt his breath absconding and the insight forgotten as the headlights closed up on him. He frenziedly thrashed about the knots, his wriggling body seeming snake-like, suddenly breathing rapidly again. As it neared, Nikhil anticipated the car riding on his torso. But this would be no painful death- mostly it will be instant. I mean, look at where they’re gonna ride on me. Nikhil recollected his insight. This was not a painful death-he repeated in his mind and stopped struggling. The shrill drone of the car became louder. Nikhil closed his eyes. Solace, he mouthed and stopped breathing.
“Wrong,” he heard a voice boom.
His eyes shot open. The environment seemed as if someone had pushed a ‘Pause’ button on it. It slowly faded away and the blackness enveloped. Wow, Nikhil thought, he was back without even getting crushed? But then, what did the sonorous ‘Wrong’ mean? What was the reference to context, anyway?
“To solace, you dumbass,” the voice, I’m sorry, ‘The’ voice informed.
Nikhil felt a familiar muteness-out-of-awe-and-apprehension flooding back. He took some time to congregate his wits. “Wrong? As in?”
“As in you are not getting any solace. You are supposed to die not sooner than 6 hours 16 minutes 47 seconds more. And so shall happen,” ‘The Enlightened’ enlightened.
“But…” Nikhil gurgled, traumatized beyond conviction. “But I am frigging dying!”
“Hey,” God seemed offended. “I am just the watchmaker. I don’t make it work. It takes its own sweet time.”
“But, no, no way,” Nikhil fumbled, distraught and dazed.
“And here we go again,” God announced and the surroundings started appearing again. “See you soon.”
The headlights grew brighter. The well, the soft earth, the farm all acquired visibility. Suddenly all attained mobility too.
The tires soon crunched Nikhil.
7
There isn’t much to tell you what happened after the car squished Nikhil to pulp. After riding over him once, the driver was told to take a reverse gear and enjoy a bumpier ride back to road by riding over Nikhil’s body again. Nikhil watched the tail lights grow fainter and fainter and he just lay there all mashed up. He couldn’t move one bit and sadly his position was such that he couldn’t even watch his watch. He suffered for an ostensible eternity. All this time, the agonizing pain made him flashback on the pain he had inflicted on his folks and acquaintances. His father, though he could hardly afford it, had allowed Nikhil to pursue his dream career of being a commercial pilot and sent him to US. The flashy lifestyle caught up with Nikhil’s volatile mind and he ruined his time there. Just to fund his son’s education, the formerly honest-to-the-core police officer that his father was, he started accepting ‘tokens of goodwill’. An investigative journalist caught him red handed and he was posted to remote area of Maharashtra after getting a probation by an equally corrupt but undiscovered superior. This took a heavy toll on his father and he got into depression. Soon, Nikhil was recalled back home to India. But instead of supporting his family, he started blowing up their remaining life savings. He bought a brand new Ikon, became a dance-bar regular and befriended a bar dancer Roshni. Soon they got into a relationship which turned sour after Nikhil started beating her up. That night was the night when after getting into a drunken brawl over Roshni dumping him, Nikhil was bounced out of the bar. Infuriated, Nikhil got into the car and zoomed out after banging several of the vehicles in the parking lot. It was after that that the accident happened.
Nikhil mulled over all this and moaned on till 3…2…1… the surroundings started the fade away.
He could move now! Nikhil started to feel energized and excited at the idea of another rendezvous with The Divine. Everything turned pitch black and Nikhil felt suspended in air again. He anticipated a booming voice. And he wasn’t disappointed.
“Welcome back,” God sounded cheerful. “So, how was it?”
Nikhil sighed, resigned and looked down. His feet were smoky again.
“Okay, no mocking,” God chuckled. “I, of course, know how it was. There was no hope, anyway.”
Nikhil looked up. “God,” he inquired, “If you knew, then why did you send me there?”
“Hmm,” God said. “You asked for it. But tell me, what do you think that was?”
Nikhil was baffled. What did he think that was? Wasn’t it a second chance, as He put it Himself? He echoed his thoughts.
“Bah, no,” God flipped the notion aside. “Can’t believe I created such retarded species. That was hell, you silly-boy! What did you think, that this is some reception area wherein you get choices to give another go and set things correct after which you will be deliberated upon if you’ll spend rest of your ‘life’ in heaven or hell? Hell, no! That, in fact, was my recreational zone for all you sinners. You get an illusion of trying to rectify your earthly errors on a parallel earth in an illusionary way. But the fact is, never ever does one get a second chance. Not during life, not after life. What happened to you was punishment. The good people’s souls get disintegrated, thus freed- my blessing. But for badasses like you, you get another round on earth.”
Nikhil felt swindled. But there was a small voice in his mind that agreed with the way the God worked. Sadistic it might be, but it’s the way. All uniformity. Do good, you get good. Nikhil bowed his head. “So I go again, huh?”
“Yup.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Nikhil acknowledged it. There was another doubt though. “God, will I remember this when I go back, at least, subconsciously? Just so that I will be good in this life.”
God laughed. “The most common question asked. Don’t you have enough sense to distinguish between evil and good? But now that you ask, I’ll tell you. You remember it consciously just for first 20 min after you are born. After that, poof, its gone!”
“What?” Nikhil felt confounded. “But why? I mean what use will that be?”
“No use. You gotta learn from your own life. Why else do you think babies are born crying?”
The surroundings faded away. Nikhil felt his voice bottled up in his throat, his further questions were repressed. He felt solidifying and contorting. His toes curled up, his hands reduced and tiny closed fists formed. His sight became hazy. The pain in his umbilical cord agitated. He was being pushed out forcibly.
“IT’S A BOY,” he heard someone exclaim.
Nikhil, no more a Nikhil now, started crying.
