Dial 100.
I had lost my mobile, ironically, inside the secure ATM premises, where you can expect only those people having a bank account (which means money) to frequent. My mobile was a prototype. Almost an antique I should say. The only yet sufficient feature on it was that I could use it for making calls. I had never realized that it was good enough to be stolen! Yet somebody took it. As a concerned citizen I should report the loss to the police to avoid possible misuse of the SIM and hence I went to the police station to file F.I.R.
To reach the police station I had to cross dark desolated stretches, ideal location to mug somebody. May be they choose this location not without alternate intention. And as a practice, I had dragged my buddy Ram along. I approached a sole constable guarding the gate and tried to explain things in Kannada. His questions then were in Tamil. How did he find out? Probably because he is a police man, said I to self. After listening to the story he asked me to wait. Meanwhile my Ram was talking over his mobile.
The entire place appeared to be a makeshift station, which Ram confirmed later. It had a rickety table on the outside, with lots of objects placed inside carry bags. The constable seemed to be guarding them. On the inside were a typist and a few normal middle aged men with protruding corpus belly. But I tell you, in this belly issue, no body in the world can match TN police. The walls were white unlike the usual brick red. Almost near the entrance was a board with the picture of rouges pasted to it. To my dismay I found my almost identical twin there. While I was musing over how this place failed to qualify as a police station under conservative Indian movie norms, a sub inspector accosted me and asked me why I was here. “I lost my mobile” said I. “Did her take it” asked he pointing to Ram. Ram got stunned as he saw the SI pointing at him. He halted his conversation over the phone abruptly and rushed closer. ‘Look at me. I am petrified with fear’ was written all over his face. “He is a friend of mine” said I. We both were asked to wait for a little while longer, in the most arrogant, churlish and indifferent manner humanly possible. The entire place reeked a stale odor. I wished to presume it as gun powder for the obsolete model of rifle they held. 1847 I may presume.
The mirth, remiss and indifference suddenly vanished as the inspector came along. Behind him were two girls. “Case” I whispered into Ram’s ears. “May be they are here for complaining” said he. That can’t be. I am Sherlock Holmes in mufti. I could read things off the girls faces and the way the constables looked at them. They were looked down upon and were looked ‘into’ simultaneously. After 5 minutes we heard some noise. The ‘Some noise’, which we used to associate our chief warden with. Yes. A really tight slap. “Did you hear that?” I asked Ram. “ye…yes.ss” said Ram, helplessly griped by fear and aphasia. Yet he was pretending to be normal, which by itself was abnormal. I feared he would faint as we saw the 2 girls being brought outside and were whipped with canes.
Now Ram’s mind switched to pessimistic mode. “They are beating girls with canes!! What if they beat us too, for loosing the cell at the first place? My family had never been to a police station” asked Ram, while the chill on his spine had made him numb to all his senses. After the last slap in the series, the girls were ordered to run, and so they ran into the dark freedom. “We should have gotten their numbers” said I to Ram is a vain attempt to create levity. But his senses weren’t working, he was pondering over all possible means that could get us slapped too. He felt like a castaway traveler trying to make friends with cannibals.
My attempt to ease his tension was cut short as the whole police pack gathered outside its den, obeying the drill orders from its localized supremo. A 20 min drill at 930 at night. It was so wired and grasping that I failed to realize that we were there for 40 minutes now. Post the drill session was the inspector’s harangue. Good that it was in Kannada. Had Ram been able to make out what was said, he might have had a cardiac arrest.
After the routine ceremony ended, I let them remember my existence. They took me inside. I was hoping that I wasn’t taken to that dark room with a single 40 watts bulb flashing heat onto the culprits head. Well I wasn’t. Once I a table, I narrated the story for the nth time. And I tried to write down the complaint. Repri course at bits failed me then. What was the format? What is the tense to be used? I was tensed. But some how managed to limn a lot. Having read till point, you would have figured out how much I would have written about nothing. They then asked me to get a photocopy. It is 1030 dude, where would I find a ‘xerox’ store open? I did manage to, after trotting a kilometer and a half. Ram opted to stay behind under the safe promises of the store; safer than a police station? Ironically he chose to. I submitted the letter to them. They didn’t care to read it. They stamped a seal onto it n gave it back. “Are the formalities complete?” I asked. The expressionless face affixed to the huge head swayed a bit. Did he say it is over, or did he say it isn’t? My curios face received blank reply or probably no reply at all. I stepped few steps backwards, hoping that he would stop me if it wasn’t over. But he didn’t. it was time to flee. I thanked the gate keeper, I mean the constable who didn’t mind listening to me. I fled the scene. It was all obvious by the way my complaint was handled. I am not going to get my cell back. But at least the formality was done.
To reach the police station I had to cross dark desolated stretches, ideal location to mug somebody. May be they choose this location not without alternate intention. And as a practice, I had dragged my buddy Ram along. I approached a sole constable guarding the gate and tried to explain things in Kannada. His questions then were in Tamil. How did he find out? Probably because he is a police man, said I to self. After listening to the story he asked me to wait. Meanwhile my Ram was talking over his mobile.
The entire place appeared to be a makeshift station, which Ram confirmed later. It had a rickety table on the outside, with lots of objects placed inside carry bags. The constable seemed to be guarding them. On the inside were a typist and a few normal middle aged men with protruding corpus belly. But I tell you, in this belly issue, no body in the world can match TN police. The walls were white unlike the usual brick red. Almost near the entrance was a board with the picture of rouges pasted to it. To my dismay I found my almost identical twin there. While I was musing over how this place failed to qualify as a police station under conservative Indian movie norms, a sub inspector accosted me and asked me why I was here. “I lost my mobile” said I. “Did her take it” asked he pointing to Ram. Ram got stunned as he saw the SI pointing at him. He halted his conversation over the phone abruptly and rushed closer. ‘Look at me. I am petrified with fear’ was written all over his face. “He is a friend of mine” said I. We both were asked to wait for a little while longer, in the most arrogant, churlish and indifferent manner humanly possible. The entire place reeked a stale odor. I wished to presume it as gun powder for the obsolete model of rifle they held. 1847 I may presume.
The mirth, remiss and indifference suddenly vanished as the inspector came along. Behind him were two girls. “Case” I whispered into Ram’s ears. “May be they are here for complaining” said he. That can’t be. I am Sherlock Holmes in mufti. I could read things off the girls faces and the way the constables looked at them. They were looked down upon and were looked ‘into’ simultaneously. After 5 minutes we heard some noise. The ‘Some noise’, which we used to associate our chief warden with. Yes. A really tight slap. “Did you hear that?” I asked Ram. “ye…yes.ss” said Ram, helplessly griped by fear and aphasia. Yet he was pretending to be normal, which by itself was abnormal. I feared he would faint as we saw the 2 girls being brought outside and were whipped with canes.
Now Ram’s mind switched to pessimistic mode. “They are beating girls with canes!! What if they beat us too, for loosing the cell at the first place? My family had never been to a police station” asked Ram, while the chill on his spine had made him numb to all his senses. After the last slap in the series, the girls were ordered to run, and so they ran into the dark freedom. “We should have gotten their numbers” said I to Ram is a vain attempt to create levity. But his senses weren’t working, he was pondering over all possible means that could get us slapped too. He felt like a castaway traveler trying to make friends with cannibals.
My attempt to ease his tension was cut short as the whole police pack gathered outside its den, obeying the drill orders from its localized supremo. A 20 min drill at 930 at night. It was so wired and grasping that I failed to realize that we were there for 40 minutes now. Post the drill session was the inspector’s harangue. Good that it was in Kannada. Had Ram been able to make out what was said, he might have had a cardiac arrest.
After the routine ceremony ended, I let them remember my existence. They took me inside. I was hoping that I wasn’t taken to that dark room with a single 40 watts bulb flashing heat onto the culprits head. Well I wasn’t. Once I a table, I narrated the story for the nth time. And I tried to write down the complaint. Repri course at bits failed me then. What was the format? What is the tense to be used? I was tensed. But some how managed to limn a lot. Having read till point, you would have figured out how much I would have written about nothing. They then asked me to get a photocopy. It is 1030 dude, where would I find a ‘xerox’ store open? I did manage to, after trotting a kilometer and a half. Ram opted to stay behind under the safe promises of the store; safer than a police station? Ironically he chose to. I submitted the letter to them. They didn’t care to read it. They stamped a seal onto it n gave it back. “Are the formalities complete?” I asked. The expressionless face affixed to the huge head swayed a bit. Did he say it is over, or did he say it isn’t? My curios face received blank reply or probably no reply at all. I stepped few steps backwards, hoping that he would stop me if it wasn’t over. But he didn’t. it was time to flee. I thanked the gate keeper, I mean the constable who didn’t mind listening to me. I fled the scene. It was all obvious by the way my complaint was handled. I am not going to get my cell back. But at least the formality was done.
posted by Viswa at 5:28 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home