The Walk - Part 2

The coughing and spluttering of an auto well on its painful last days stole the dull monotonous quiet prevailing in the area around the shamiana. Men from the group moved towards the auto and greeted the emerging occupants – an ominous Mr. Goyal and a white cloth rolled on short and stout wooden pole. Ramu started carrying the pole towards the tent followed by the elders and a few kids who had now materialized, with a seriousness that was not uncharacteristic of him, nevertheless melodramatic. Held high over his head and with people looking solemnly and respectfully, it resembled the journey of the Olympic torch.

I grew up this in a picturesque town with colorful people during my first fifteen years. Padma, the Hospital Sweeper who took the motherless infant as a godsend to relieve her of the drudgery in her life was the diametric opposite of the Gurkha. Somewhere in between lay Mr Patil, the Headmaster of the Corporation School who thought I was the brightest boy in class; Lingam, the sweetmeat seller who gave me a free Burphi everyday and Shyamala, mother's colleague whose dosas I could never forget. Years flew by and when I was fifteen came familial discord with the arrival of a long -lost drunk husband. Why the rightful head of the house had turned back to re-establish marital accord was not a question asked. How a fifteen year old who had been longer with Padma than he could have no ownership was esoteric. Mother cried when I left.

Ramu was now indisputably the center of attraction. He had dug two holes with an iron crowbar and started unfurling the cloth banner with the flourish of a Houdini in the making. "Maybe it is some anniversary celebration", I thought to myself. Bored with the proceedings of which I was no part, I moved away from the window.

Promising Mr Patil solemnly that I would come back within a few years and return his three hundred rupees with 5% interest, I set off. Along with the money, I had one set of clothes, three dosas packed by Shyamala and a locket around my neck bequeathed by Padma on my eight birthday. "To protect you from evil and envy", she said mystically. I wondered who would be envious of me.

I reached Coimbatore within an hour, minus two hundred and eighty rupees (as the kind soul had in a fit of righteousness left me with the ticket and change), dosas and clothes. Left with the locket and a used ticket, I got down at the Central Bus Stand with two dozen people who hurried about with some goal in sight. I wandered about the place for around 5 hours begging for work. While the tea-stall owners shooed me off, the well-dressed tried to conspicuously ignore me which was more infuriating. All I earned for the five minutes of pleading was a casual slow-motioned shifting of feet. Few men relented after sometime and glanced at me shaking their head in mock misery while the others moved away as if chased by an evil leper.

Growing up in a village with a roof over my head, under the caring eyes of Padma was different from the city as one had to be on one's toes always for fear of losing the sleeping space and the locket. Months passed and I was lucky enough to be adopted (unofficially again) by a restaurant owner who was impressed by my village-like diligence to work as he called it. The sharp brain in my precocious head was duly discovered and I was sent to school. Years passed and I never failed the old man. Relocating after his death to a new place was both painful and necessary.



No one knew exactly how we hit the oncoming truck. I woke up to a dull ringing in the ears and a numb sensation in my limbs. I stretched in a bid to wake my jaded self and get the circulation going, but felt a searing pain in my left leg. I let out a groan of agony and tasted blood in my mouth. The scene in front of me when I wiped the blood from my face was revolting - the entire bus lay at 45 degrees to the road and bodies lay twisted and gnarled in between iron bars and mangled seats. I glanced to see what was left of my half-torn leg and howled in distress. The metal support bar below my seat had cut through my left leg. Clasping what was left of the seat in front, I tried to get up gritting my teeth. The mild exertion sent fresh waves of pain and I fell back unconscious.


Suman Goyal, the President and Sudhakar were now walking towards the apartment.