It will perhaps be one of the most memorable days in my life, although for the wrong reason.
It was 5:30 am in the morning and I was on board a crowded bus in Majestic Bangalore. I had alighted, all groggy eyed, with barely three hours of sleep the previous night. I had been travelling second class in the Chennai Mail in a scrappy compartment where one of my fellow passengers and the ticket examiner had been haranguing each other interminably.
For some inexplicable reason my mind kept going back to an incident in Mumbai nearly 34 years earlier when I had been relieved of cash equal to a whole month's pay in a crowded bus. I mention this because this mental throw back played an important part in the subsequent events over the thirty minutes that followed.
The somewhat unnatural jostling on the footboard made me uncomfortable. Even as I was wondering why there was so much of pushing and shoving I felt all of a sudden that my hip pocket had become lighter. I fumbled to see if my wallet was still there. Not surprisingly it wasn't. And just as I realized it I saw a man get off the footboard, without any apparent reason.
That was the key moment that morning for me, the equivalent of the magical hour in the case of a man who was suffering a heart attack.
I am not used to or known for quick thinking. Most friends and family consider me clay footed. But at that key moment I somehow felt that there was a connection between the man lighting from the bus and the recent lightness of my hip pocket. I got out of the bus and decided to follow him, out of a vague sense that he may have stolen my wallet.
The moment the man saw me getting off the bus, he made the strategic mistake of quickening his pace. I needed no further proof. And a chase followed with the man running away, and me screaming after him that my wallet had been stolen. He knew the territory well; for he weaved his way through the large number of buses that were parked at the sprawling bus stand.
In yet another unusual development I gave him chase until a younger, taller and faster man joined the me when he heard me scream that my wallet had been stolen. And together we pursued the felon for a good four or five minutes, in Indian cinema style, before a few more men joined us and cornered the pickpocket.
The spirit of the mob took over from there as they all beat up the poor fellow. But he was no slouch. He pulled out his wallet and protested that he had not stolen anything and that the wallet that he had was his. For a moment I felt guilty that I may have been chasing the wrong man. I was ready to walk away and look for my missing wallet elsewhere.
The crowd was however unimpressed with his remonstrations. One of them eventually found that the man had disposed of my wallet deep underneath one of the many dozens of buses that stood there, waiting to roll.
The rest of the crowd continued to rain blows on the unlucky man. The moment I found my wallet I was doubly angry: That in the first place my wallet had been stolen and to make it worse I had nearly been led to believe that I may have been wrong in suspecting that fellow. In a moment of rage I thrashed the pickpocket till my palms hurt.
Many things still strike me as unbelievable about that morning. That my absent minded self sensed the loss of the wallet so quickly, to begin with. That my slow and unobserving mind established that not so self evident connection between an unknown and ordinary looking man alighting from the footboard and the lightening of my pocket. That I managed to get my groggy mind and brain to take control of my 58 year old body and run after the man on the strength of a mere suspicion. More so when I think of the fact just a few minutes earlier I had been looking for a place where I could sit down and use my inhaler to ease my breathing! And above all that a whole bunch of strangers would join this somewhat motley chase so early in the morning!
The probability of any one of those individual links in the chain turning out to be the way they did was low. You can imaging how low would the probability be of lining up all the ducks right.
What do I call this? Chance? Luck? God's Grace? My cleverness? Certainly not the last, if I think I know myself well enough. Of the other three, I prefer the last.
The most redeeming thing of course was that I felt that after all for a 58 year old I was not doing too badly as I often fear. Without meaning to be smug I would imagine that there are not many 58 year olds in India who, complete with a backpack and Nike sneakers, would run in hot pursuit of a felon half his age at 5:30 am on a Sunday morning. I think I still have some mean punch left in me, by God's grace of course!
But the lingering sight from that morning was that of the crowd ripping off the poor man's shirt and vest in one final act of retribution before letting him run off with his dear life.
The thought that haunts me even now is that it was in that one brief moment, as I saw him get off the footboard, that lady luck deserted him and embraced me, helping me get back close to Rs 9000 in Indian and UAE currency and all those pieces of plastic that define my identity in contemporary digital India. And leaving that poor soul look for something to protect his bare torso from the windy day, even as he must have been groaning from the innumerable blows that had been rained on him.
Nanni....Namaskaaram...
It was 5:30 am in the morning and I was on board a crowded bus in Majestic Bangalore. I had alighted, all groggy eyed, with barely three hours of sleep the previous night. I had been travelling second class in the Chennai Mail in a scrappy compartment where one of my fellow passengers and the ticket examiner had been haranguing each other interminably.
For some inexplicable reason my mind kept going back to an incident in Mumbai nearly 34 years earlier when I had been relieved of cash equal to a whole month's pay in a crowded bus. I mention this because this mental throw back played an important part in the subsequent events over the thirty minutes that followed.
The somewhat unnatural jostling on the footboard made me uncomfortable. Even as I was wondering why there was so much of pushing and shoving I felt all of a sudden that my hip pocket had become lighter. I fumbled to see if my wallet was still there. Not surprisingly it wasn't. And just as I realized it I saw a man get off the footboard, without any apparent reason.
That was the key moment that morning for me, the equivalent of the magical hour in the case of a man who was suffering a heart attack.
I am not used to or known for quick thinking. Most friends and family consider me clay footed. But at that key moment I somehow felt that there was a connection between the man lighting from the bus and the recent lightness of my hip pocket. I got out of the bus and decided to follow him, out of a vague sense that he may have stolen my wallet.
The moment the man saw me getting off the bus, he made the strategic mistake of quickening his pace. I needed no further proof. And a chase followed with the man running away, and me screaming after him that my wallet had been stolen. He knew the territory well; for he weaved his way through the large number of buses that were parked at the sprawling bus stand.
In yet another unusual development I gave him chase until a younger, taller and faster man joined the me when he heard me scream that my wallet had been stolen. And together we pursued the felon for a good four or five minutes, in Indian cinema style, before a few more men joined us and cornered the pickpocket.
The spirit of the mob took over from there as they all beat up the poor fellow. But he was no slouch. He pulled out his wallet and protested that he had not stolen anything and that the wallet that he had was his. For a moment I felt guilty that I may have been chasing the wrong man. I was ready to walk away and look for my missing wallet elsewhere.
The crowd was however unimpressed with his remonstrations. One of them eventually found that the man had disposed of my wallet deep underneath one of the many dozens of buses that stood there, waiting to roll.
The rest of the crowd continued to rain blows on the unlucky man. The moment I found my wallet I was doubly angry: That in the first place my wallet had been stolen and to make it worse I had nearly been led to believe that I may have been wrong in suspecting that fellow. In a moment of rage I thrashed the pickpocket till my palms hurt.
Many things still strike me as unbelievable about that morning. That my absent minded self sensed the loss of the wallet so quickly, to begin with. That my slow and unobserving mind established that not so self evident connection between an unknown and ordinary looking man alighting from the footboard and the lightening of my pocket. That I managed to get my groggy mind and brain to take control of my 58 year old body and run after the man on the strength of a mere suspicion. More so when I think of the fact just a few minutes earlier I had been looking for a place where I could sit down and use my inhaler to ease my breathing! And above all that a whole bunch of strangers would join this somewhat motley chase so early in the morning!
The probability of any one of those individual links in the chain turning out to be the way they did was low. You can imaging how low would the probability be of lining up all the ducks right.
What do I call this? Chance? Luck? God's Grace? My cleverness? Certainly not the last, if I think I know myself well enough. Of the other three, I prefer the last.
The most redeeming thing of course was that I felt that after all for a 58 year old I was not doing too badly as I often fear. Without meaning to be smug I would imagine that there are not many 58 year olds in India who, complete with a backpack and Nike sneakers, would run in hot pursuit of a felon half his age at 5:30 am on a Sunday morning. I think I still have some mean punch left in me, by God's grace of course!
But the lingering sight from that morning was that of the crowd ripping off the poor man's shirt and vest in one final act of retribution before letting him run off with his dear life.
The thought that haunts me even now is that it was in that one brief moment, as I saw him get off the footboard, that lady luck deserted him and embraced me, helping me get back close to Rs 9000 in Indian and UAE currency and all those pieces of plastic that define my identity in contemporary digital India. And leaving that poor soul look for something to protect his bare torso from the windy day, even as he must have been groaning from the innumerable blows that had been rained on him.
Nanni....Namaskaaram...
