Prepaid EMOTIONS

There was nothing left to do. The rain started to make patterns on the window. The drops moved about the glass like sperm cells they show in the discovery channel. The conductor switched off the dirty yellow lights and the blue screen of a vibrating mobile was the only light. Somewhere in the darkness a bag unzipped, a packet of chips opened and an empty stomach mumbled an unknown idiom.

“Appupan is sick!! I had to leave” a feminine murmur broke the rhythmic silence. “He is in the hospital now. I didn’t get time to call u. I left in haste”

The range kept fluctuating in the last two bars and finally the bus broke free from any possible mobile range. A conversation was broken and an empty packet of chips was thrown out into the rain.

She switched off her phone. She knew that he didn’t like her leaving without saying a word. “Why can’t he understand?” She wouldn’t switch it on .She will blame it on the network. By then he will understand and probably miss her. He must have felt bad. But he was busy when she called and she didn’t have much time either. Appupan seems to be in a pretty bad shape. His third heart attack. He won‘t live through it to buy her another birthday gift.

She searched for the ipod in her handbag. A cheap yellow handbag with a million tiny circular mirrors. It was 7.45pm and everybody in the bus seems to be fast asleep. She couldn’t sleep. Will I be able to see Appupan for one last time? Will he die tonight and make me walk into a crowd tomorrow morning. Will Arun miss talking to me tonight? Does he still call his old school friend who is doing her B-Pharm in Pune? She switched on her phone. Perhaps he had already sent a message.

She kept staring at the cell phone preparing itself to receive a network. Suddenly she started missing Arun. One new message appeared on the screen. “Mega Offer!!! HURRY!!! Recharge for 100 and get 175 talk time. NO validity!!!”

Irritated, she deleted it. Switching the phone off is a very bad idea. What if someone calls to tell her about Appoopan? Did someone already call and she could not be reached. She called her Dad.

“Appa, is everything alright???”

“ Your Grandpa is critical. Where r u now??”

The bus slowed down to a local dhaba near the highway. “At the Karnataka border somewhere? They halted for dinner”

She got out of the bus. The place had a very different stench. Maybe that’s how a cigarette soaked in Urine would smell. She walked into the small shop near the dhaba.

Her eyes scanned the place for a branded bottle of packaged drinking water. They had only ‘NEW GANGA’ mineral water. Packaged in Gangothri ‘the mouth of Ganga’ was written in bold near the fake ISI seal.

She looked around for a rest room. The men had already started to do their business on the other side of the road. Standing side by side and pretending as if they were invisible. She pretended not to see them but she read the board that was displayed on the wall which had suddenly found itself drenched again after the drizzle.

“PLEASE no URINATION here. ONLY ANIMAL LIKE MEN PASSES URINE HERE”.

She smiled at the poor man who wrote it. He must have asked a hundred people for the right words and finally ended up with this. But what difference would it have made if the sentence was proper.

She climbed back into her seat. One missed call. He had called. She called him back.

“I was out buying mineral water….no there was no range… I was talking to Dad.” The bus climbed back on the road like a tortoise climbing up stairs.

“Don’t argue with me now.... He is serious....What’s your problem???”, She hung up the phone. She didn’t want to talk to him. He (of all the people) should understand. She put the phone into her purse. The conductor switched off the light. She switched off her phone. The cold crept in through one of the front windows that someone had opened to throw up the undigested dhaba food.

It was cold now. She started missing him. She searched for her phone. She switched it on. She knew that he would be tying to reach her. There was no range. She didn’t switch it off. She imagined his arms around her.

It was 5.30 in the morning. The vibrating phone woke her up. She knew he would call. She looked at the screen. It was not him. It was her brother.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Haripad maybe..”

She could hear the wailing sound of her mother and knew why her brother woke her up. “Appoopan left us…”

“I will reach by 6.30. “ She hung up the phone and looked out through the window. She was not feeling sad. The phone rang again. It was him this time. She couldn’t stop the tear drops that rolled down her skinny pink cheeks. “Appopan left me” she sobbed into the phone.

To him she could cry.

An illusion of a shoulder to cry upon provided by the prepaid network consoled her.

ps:Some SIMPLEr CONCEPTS

Abhinav: What’s the movie this weekend?
Sarath: I guess they are playing some regional movie – Telgu
Abhinav: I guess, I might learn the portions for the test on Monday.
Sarath: Dude….I don’t have any concepts
Abhinav: You don’t?!!!...you better!
Sarath: I have…..but I am not sure
Abhinav: You need to develop it bro,..work on it.


PS: Everyone in the company talks about concept. It’s like spirituality. If you have it it’s good. If you don’t You better develop it.The corporate training is all based on building concepts. It’s funny…that no one really has it but everyone seems to be building it.

Abhinav: Hey did you get the mail about the guy who shot himself?
Sarath: Which one? The one with the brain splattered on the floor or the one with the half a face?
Abhinav: Brain on the floor??!!! I didn’t get that forward!!
Sarath: Its awesome dude. Chill man! Crazy!
Abhinav: Send it to me..bro!!
Sarath: Let me check it I have it. Yep! It’s on its way bro..!


PS: Corporate training is about forwarding forwards(mails) and receiving forwards. Your mailboxes are always full. The topics in the mails areTrivial though sometimes they appear. Occasionally people get serious mails from HR and they find themselves out of the company. Once in a bluemoon mails with indecent exposure makes us realize that we are humans after all.


Abhinav: Hey, I guess he is wearing a ZOD.
Sarath: What is a ZOD?
Abhinav: You don’t know ZOD?
Sarath: I do!! It’s a….

Abhinav: Shirt!
Sarath: Yeah..branded, costly. I went to buy it the other day, but had to be content with Van Heuseun
Abhinav: I have 6 of them

Sarath: You do? I have 2. The other three are Loui..


PS: You are judged by what you wear.(At least what you wear on the outside) If you can get brands-then they are the bests for niche. If you Can get rejects or duplicates which looks exactly like the original, you learn the basics of economic management. Alternate trends need not be followed because they may be non branded.



Sarath: She is gorgeous
Abhinav: Yup…may be 28
Sarath: She ain’t that old…may be 22
Abhinav: I was talking about her waist size, you idiot!!
Sarath: She is 30

Piyush: Yes, she is 30 for sure
Ahinav: see..Sarath: see…
Piyush: see…30.

PS: Gals dress really good. In the first month they start to wear kurta and jeans ( a neo Indian culture presser..?? yet modern outfit). In the second month they start wearing Tshirts and straighten their hair. In the third month T shirts become tighter, jeans show more curves and accent changes. In the fourth month….



Sarath: Hey did you pay the Vodafone bill?
Abhinav: I paid it online
Sarath: Good..I brought a T Shirt online.
Abhinav: You did! I encountered a small problem while transferring money online.
Sarath: Oh, it always happen…friggin Banks.
Abhinav: My ID is kinda blocked.


PS: Everything is done online. You are expected to do everything online. If your computer or flush don’t work, you are supposed to Notify online. If you die..you are supposed to deregister from the intranet and apply log leave. Swipe out is a must. Single swipes wont be accepted.


Piyush: Where is Abhinav?
Sarath: He got fired yesterday!
Piyush: Why?
Sarath: He flunked in a few tests and has low scores.
Piyush: I am glad he took it in the right sense and didn’t commit suicide like that Bengali.
Sarath: Yeah…whats the movie this weekend?
Piyush: I guess they are playing a regional movie-Kannada

PS: No comments.


(all characters are fictional again.)

http://www.siliconindia.com/shownews/Fearing_layoff_Infosys_techie_hangs_himself-nid-55523.html

THEY TOOK our HILL

                                

 

1997, August

It was the 50^th year of Indian independence. Every vehicle on the road had a plastic Indian tricolor fastened on a white straw. Three rupees a piece, and an Indian flag made to look like flapping wings appeared on every sticker, every shop and every auto rickshaw. The loud speakers on the road sang of great struggles. Gandhi got back his respect. Nehru was long forgotten. The congress party had agreed to support a less bitter leader and IK Gujaral government had taken nimble steps in the golden years. Everyone talked about politics.

Not everyone. Not these kids. They didn’t care. They were patriotic. More patriotic than their bureaucratic parents. The shortest of them was wearing a khaki uniform. The others were wearing white kurta. One of them lost his Gandhi cap running uphill through the small lane with an old junk shop. The others held onto their caps. The one in khaki had a navy blue cap with two copper buttons. They ran uphill. They ran berserk. They ran to their friend’s house halfway down the hill. The grabbed their cricket bats. They grabbed the cricket ball. They ran like crazy.

The hill was one of the highest points in the area. No one had dared to climb the entire height. The kids knew that this was not all that high. It was not taller than a 4 storey building. But it was covered with thick forest. In the middle of a mad city desperately trying to go metropolitan, a green hill with an old mansion and big trees lay untouched, unexplored and haunted.

A small clearing about 100 yards from their friend’s house was their cricket ground. It was a small plot of land with an incomplete basement. The basement presented an incomplete dream. The kids put their stumps on the edge of the incomplete dream. That’s where the mud is soft. The concrete boundary surrounded it. In no time the place would be dribbling with kids who would jump over walls, climb over papaya trees and chase squirrels around the basement. Above the basement is thick forest. The forest which loved soft tennis balls and never gave it back.

Cricket would burn the rest of the day. The bruised knees and injured finger desperately clutching the ball for an off spin would make them feel freer than Gujarals sppech. The caps were kept on black brick wall seething with mosses  and centipede. The Gandhi and its blue counterpart watched the kids play. The kurthas were sodden with mud and green moss. The khaki was still intact. The kid in khaki would say long Hindi dialogues in between. “Give me blood and I will give you freedom “. He played Subash Chandra Bose in the Independence Day celebration drama at) school that very morning. He was still performing. A Subhash Chandra Bose bowling a googly. Excited, surprised and annoyed that it didn’t hit the stumps.

Like every other day the play ended with the ball getting lost in the forest above.

“It’s full of snakes” Kannan would say.

“..And then there is the lady... She kills!!??”

They all knew the lady that he is talking about. The white Mistress and her kid who lived in the bungalow  on top of the hill before independence. She died. She haunts. She is searching for her lost kid.

“Have you seen her?” the khaki uniform enquired.

“No... But we all know she is there, we have heard her sing!!”

“Does she sing in English? Does she wear a cape, or does she dress in white sari with her hair spread over her face like the ghost they depict on Doordarshan ??!!”

“She dresses in sari “

An English ghost dressed in white sari, searching for her child. Funny.  Not stupid. Kannan’s dad has seen her twice.

“Let’s go up the hill” the guy in khaki stood up with enthusiasm.

“There are snakes  ... big ones”.

“Its 3.00 pm. Snakes will be taking their afternoon nap” one of the kid wearing the kurtha tried to make a joke.  A small argument arises on whether a snake sleeps with its eyes closed or open and  and all of a sudden they decided to climb uphill.The bushes were thick. The trees were a bit too wide. Their roots made the path difficult. They expected a snake to jump out from one of the bushes and bite on their foreheads any time. “If a snake bite on your forehead u will die instantly’)”.

The ground was concealed in a thick layer of scorched leaves. The light was pretty dim. Three minutes and they reached a clearing. An old mansion totally destroyed stood amidst the trees.

They didn’t realize that the only ghost they will ever see is the mansion itself. The khaki wearing guy was scared. The Gandhi capped boy ran to the walls of the mansion and took a piss. A sign that everything is clear or that he is scared to the bottom. The sound of piss on the dry leaves made them feel secured. They felt as if  they conquered something. They looked around. In between the trees they could see the city. A city which had lost its soul. Everybody talks about deforestation but as far as they could see there was nothing but coconut trees.

Kannan found some cigarette butts inside the roofless mansion. He found an old port rum bottle and a cheap dirty magazine with a fat lady’s picture on it.

They sat on one of the verandas of that broken mansion. They felt lost. They felt they discovered a paradise. Now they could play hide n seek. Lot of places to hide. The day passed and the mansion became there home. The forest became a part of their happiness. They didn’t fear the sari wearing ghost. They feared fat muscled man who came to these hills once in awhile and left in the morning. They played hide n seek.

2008 November

There was so much mud. Reddish earth. There was the scent of fresh sod in the air. There were machines with hydraulic arms digging them out. I walked past the machines into the damp earth. My sandals had already befriended the red clay. A bunch of Hindi speaking, golden black haired pan chewing frail guys stared at me. The JCB operator was a Malayali. The other three JCBs lay unattended in one corner of the plot. There was a machine roar in the air. The sky was blazing blue but the hired laborers didn’t care the heat. I stood there and watched the elegance of this heavy machine. A mastermind mechanism. A single handed hulk who could bring down an entire army. I saw a lot of people like me watching the machine dance. My friend who was busy on his phone called me “we’ve got to go!!”

“I thought you were busy on your cell ?”

“I was. We had a fight. She hung up.” he said with a grin. As if he had accomplished something.

“Oh… again?” I didn’t expect an answer but I got one “it’s ok. We will be fine.”

“You look upset. Is it the job thing?” he wanted me to know that my problem of not having a job is greater to his petty fight with his girlfriend. But he cared. Deep down I know he did.

“No...It’s the …never mind. Lets go “

“What? Is it about me asking you not to ride my byke?” He was a little hesitant and a lot confused.

“NO”

“THEN”

“Its about the construction site “

He was totally in dismay “what about it? I never knew that there was such a large plot in this area”

“This is no plot. They cut down a hill. Ouer hill. we used to play there”

“A hill?”

“Yeah. This used to be a hill. The only green hill in this part of the city and the M###er  fu##ers tore it open.”

“Yeah? So what? Why do you even care?”  He stared at his phone expecting a compromise call any moment as he spoke.

“Do I look like I care? Pfffffft….. Let them  kill it and build whatever they please. Its not my property"  . And I got in pinion and he road the bike like a maniac.

 

He dropped me home. I walked into my room silently. noone notices nowadays.

I could think about what they have done to my haunted hill. I could feel sorry about the old bungalaw that was pulled down by the JCBs. I could think about all those tiny creatures, the rats, snakes and feel sorry for their loss. I could think about my childhood days when I used to play hide and seek uphill. I could think about my navy blue cap and the tennis balls that I lost . I could feel sorry for the sari wearing english ghost  whose child was still playing hide and seek. I could call Kannan and renew our friendship. I could take my photo album and see the photos of me playactiing Subash Chandra Bose at school. I could remember the good old days at the hills. I didn’t. I didn’t hate the city for the last heaven it took away from me. I lost that hill long back.   Way back when I replaced my friends with books and  pursuit for grades became more important than the hide and seek game on a green hill with an old mansion and a sari wearing English ghost.

 

*****************

 

 

 

BEING ELITE IN THE RAIN

 

                                                    

        

 

Throughout Onam it rained and then it rained again and again. All the portholes filled, manholes overflowed, drainage blocked, shallow ‘bog recovered real estate land’ oozed crimson mud and stray dogs learnt to swim. I couldn’t dry my new sandals, so I quit the idea of going out. The TV was never switched on. The bathroom light flickered with every sudden downpour which seemed to temporarily disrupt the continuous shower. It’s not monsoon. It’s not the mango shower but it was raining chaos on boredom.

Waking up was the toughest part. The rain will squeeze the last drop of sleep out of you. For a moment I was glad that I had no office to report to at 9.30 in the morning. Finally when I get up at noon the breakfast would be set on the table and no one would be around. The lonely cold coffee cup and the newspaper were set next to it. The tooth paste limp like a dead lizard.

“its raining again, there might be flood “,

“mmm.. chewing down the stiff rock hard steam cake and the dry curry I would node to my mother.

“any news on the date of joining ?” the question that my numb ears always filter out. It didn’t bother me anymore

“mmmm…no “  and I chew the gumption down to the deepest chambers of my head.

“ I heard their shares collapsed” she would add salt to burn.

“mmmm..”

“I heard they threw 200 engineers out. Sent them home “. She wouldn’t stop.

“mmmm…..”

“the IT industry has collapsed” she would coil up the last round.

“mmmm..yes”

“Why don’t you search for some other job”

“mmmm…yes”

I leave the dining table in haste. To run to my trench, my room, my only resort.

“Why don’t you go and pay the electricity bill??!”

Act like I didn’t hear it. It’s easy to just pretend that I am busy with something on the PC.

Some days I feel like taking a walk in the rain. Feels like it will set me free. Feels like I am in some movie where I just won a war and suddenly it started raining. Feels like I just knocked down a bully and water droplets dispersed in slow motion. (Too many movies. I am watching too many movies).

“ sea is rough, its 40 for three ” Lilly aunty dressed in non contrasting colors would bargain fishes with grandma as cats caress her leg eagerly waiting for a free fish that she would never care or dare to throw at them. The rest of the conversation is irrelevant. The dogs bark at the cats and the bargain is fixed. Grandma and mom talks about the bargain for the rest of the day. Even when they serve it for lunch.

“The rain would stop by Monday, you should wash your clothes on Monday “

Act like I didn’t hear it.

 

The “brother’s hotel” is always jam-packed. Its small but, then I couldn’t remember a time when it was empty.

“Twelve parotta”

“and……………….” the fat  young owner, with lips like a tea cup ,probably one of the brother’s  would ask trying to catch every single gesture of doubt and confusion as I make calculations of how much each one at home is going to eat to the net amount available.

“chicken curry…lot of gravy”

“and……………”

“that will be all”, I would shove in a smile to end the conversation.

It was raining heavily and the rain drops on the metal corrugated sheet over the hotel made the place more secure. The power cut made another regular surprise visit and the petromax lamp attracted the flame loving flying suicide squads.

Light, strong and medium tea was served all around me. Strength of the man is directly proportional to the strength of the tea. I remember when I switched from medium to strong. To be honest everything tasted the same except the name and the look that the cook gave .I could wait for the rain to stop and go home after the rain with the parottas cold as the steam cake that I will get the next day morning or I could use my umbrella and walk in the rain and feel like a movie star. I went for the latter. Tough guys don’t care about the rain or terrain. I wouldn’t remember these sentences when I search for my asthma inhaler tomorrow.

It was 7.30pm, the street light and its twin on the road stream shown bright in the rain. I got out of the hotel and stood on the traffic island. I saw a guy run towards me and he took refuge in my umbrella. I knew him. I didn’t know his name. But we used to play together when we were kids. He smiled “what are you doing in the rain ?”

Somehow’ buying a parcel for home makes me not wanting to face anyone. I know they are not going to gorger on my parcel. But then…I don’t know. I just avoid people.

“I came to buy parottas”

I walked him to the hotel and left him under the noisy roof. “How are you ?”

“I am fine. You have grown  tall and put on weight,” he replied with interest.

We used to play the great tournaments together. Not thick friends but rival team mates.

The ground was shared by US and THEM. US the elite group of people who studied in English medium schools, who wore shoes and socks, who grew up on bread crumbs of grammar and punctuality, uniform and progress reports and were lucky enough to be born to middle class government officials or local businessmen. US who would mind our own busieness living in a little selfish shell.

THEM the not so lucky batch ,residing in slums near the channel., who went to government schools by around lunchtime, who didn’t even wear sandals, who grew up on the stale breeze of the channel with their mothers working as servants in households of the elites and their fathers working as daily wage masons or laborers. THEM who were ready to die for each other, who had nothing to count on except each other.

The ground will forget all the distinction. All of us would sweat alike and swear alike.

We played against each other and sometimes when the count was not enough we played with each other. Cricket bonded us. Friendship sealed together by the sticky paste of cricket.

“what do you do now ?” he asked.

“ well..i passed my b tech and I am waiting for my call letter” I wish I could say this with a grin.

“oh…engineering. Gud . lucky” he smiled again

I knew now it was my turn to ask “ what do you do now ?”

The answer came in pretty late “ I work for a contractor. I dig wells. We lay the inner rings of the well. “

“ sounds like an interesting job”

“risky”

 

Then I saw it.  . His smile was poignant, miserable. He barely managed to hold up. He looked down his pocket and took out a fistful of hundred rupees notes and kept it back.

“that’s three hundred rupees”

mmmm………”

“ that’s my wage for today. My wage in weeks.”

“mmmm….why ? what’s with the well digging ?” I could ask,

“the rain.. its too risky. The contractor can’t afford to loose a life. The walls might collapse and some one might die. He called off all the works. We haven’t cooked anything in the past five days “

“oh… yeah I know its too risky.” I probably put in a sentence that would make both of us genuinely comfortable.

“Mother went to her sister’s house. At least she could manage one day’s meal.” Now he was sobbing.

“its ok…” I am bad in this department.

“” she came home today. I went out and finally managed to get a work. I dug a well without my contractor’s knowledge somewhere far. It was risky. But someone had already dug three forth and I and my friend completed it. “

“wasn’t it raining ??”

“it was”

I remember telling my friend who worked in an insurance company that I could do any job while he was staring at three men clearing a drainage porthole. His co worker added that “it’s a nice attitude”. But on the second thought, Would I. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I couldn’t be this guy.

“I got four hundred rupees, I went home and there was no firewood, all that we had soaked in this darn friggin rain. So here I am just like you buying parottas” he could smile again.

Now I could remember that I never really talked with this guy when I was young. Thought we were friends. This is probably the first conversation I had. It stirred me. It stirred me more than the economic recession to which I am directly related to.

The parottas were cold now. I didn’t care.

“ let me go and buy my parottas. He was feeling a lot relaxed now. Its like he passed on his grief to me and I am left dry in the rain.

“ should I wait”

“ no you carry on. I need to go to the bar after I am done here. A ‘large’ would help me sleep tight.

“ bye”

“good bye”

The rain didn’t make me feel like a movie star any more. I looked into my wallet. He had three hundred rupees. I didn’t have any. An empty elite wallet…

**********************

 

 

 

 

The H shaped curve

 

“You need to have your license and passport ready”. Nothing else, no other sentence big or small came to my mind as I waited in queue. I don’t remember his face but I remember his tie. Black stripes on blue. I was wearing navy blue doctors’ tie. He was not employed in the big software company that I was recruited to, but a member of the small ship to which the recruitment ceremony was outsourced. The queue was damp with anticipation. They sweated more to the tension in the air than to the blazing heat near the beach. “Stand in alphabetic order. A to M in one queue the rest of the names in the next queue”. Gladly I am in the first. Sadly I am the third one from the front. I noticed the fair petite female standing in the next queue, her face loaded with doubts as she gazed at the fat middle aged pot bellied police inspector verifying the documents. “What do u do ?” suddenly it struck me. I was not the third anymore. I was in front and a dark police man enquired grabbing the papers out of my hand.

 “ …nothing…I passed B tech.. I mean engineering and I am placed in a software company”

“Where ?” he wasn’t even looking at me..

“ Bangalore..”

“Will call u” he murmured

 “ yeah they will..as soon as this economic crisis is over” I replied with a smile.

He looked up surprised and smiled “ What ….. will call u for the license test in about ten minutes “

“thank u ..Sir” , I didn’t felt thankful and I didn’t respect him. But educated etiquettes make u feel civilized.

“They will call u soon.. Don’t get tensed.. u will get it. TEA ???” my driving teacher put his hand around me. I felt comforted and then I felt insecure. Was he looking over my shoulders into my pocket? I gave him enough and more. “ no..am fine. Had Tea.”

“So ..what do think about driving the M 80. We tuned it in such a way that u can take the 8...easily. You will get the motorcycle. It’s the car that I am worried about.”

“Yeah..” I had practiced the eight shaped route small enough for a two wheeler to fit in the same morning. The air suddenly got a little dense. I remember telling my friends that I could smell the rain even before it came. "Hmm.. dogs have that"  They laughed at me. I laughed with them at me. I didn’t smell this one coming and suddenly I was running for cover. The brokers, the fat driving teachers, the thin driving teachers and the intermediate brokers and the hundreds of eager people waiting to get licensed ran for cover. There was none. I got into the car that I am supposed to take the test on. My sir got in too.” Hate the rain.. but you will get it”

The drizzle left in haste as it came. “Where is…???” and with a loud bang she banged the rear door. “Bloody rain”,  she was the driving teachers wife. Somehow everybody feels insecure when a male driving teacher teaches female students. That might be the reason why he married her. I was wrong; she was the one who established the driving school. Two years before marrying him. Then he became what he is now. From a pace bowler who loves old Malayalam songs to a driving teacher. She is all small talk. He is serious. She scolds you when you put the first gear instead of the third. He puts it when you go wrong. She asks for money. He waits for the answer. She listens to your small talk. He doesn’t. I had developed a dislike when she asked me if I had problems to differentiate left from the right. Like I was a 22 year retard. The rain passed by. Unbeable heat passed in.

 “Go and stand in that queue...” she said with a tone of authority. He just smiled. She wore a smile too. Subtle. Fake.  And I was in another queue. The guy standing in front of me turned around and said “we will get it.. I am tensed. You want to exchange my position. I can’t say no. not that I haven’t practiced it. But to say “ no “ to a kid like him would be totally unworthy of my practice “never mind”, I said with a smile. Subtle. Not fake. But Pointless and hollow. The motor cycle test went pretty good. The path was charged with mud and I was shaped with fear and confidence. Confidence and fear mixed together on milk mans scooter tuned to go on first gear. The gentle push from the owner of the scooter who rents it to all the aspirants gave me the inertia. He is paid up with the officials.

“So what do you do ?” the man in uniform enquired politely.

“I passed my engineering. Waiting for the call letter.” He smiled at me. As he punched the ‘passed the motor cycle test’ seal onto a document. I ran to my driving school teacher.

 “ no time to waste ..go for the four wheeler test “

“ok” give me a compliment at least. You didn’t give me single class on the bike and I come here and get it done at the first attempt.   A mere tap on the shoulders would do the trick.

No queue here. The path sodden with rain. The marks, drenched and muddy. These marks gives you the position to turn the motor car at specific points which will let you pass the H shaped trodden muddy track. I got the test. I thought I knocked down a pole. No I didn’t.. same questions were asked again. Same answers were answered again. Same gestures were received again from the driving teacher. His wife was nowhere to be seen.

“ you didn’t get the curve right”

“I got it”

“ you should press the clutch first and then the brakes “

“ I got it…er”

“you got it’

“I did”

“no one fails the road test”

“I hope I get it too”

She came running in from some corner and found out that I made it. She was happier than I was. “ you know why you got it “ she asked .

“ I didn’t knock down the poles. I took the ‘H’”

“yeah right… not if I hadn’t bribed them. I went to pay it. 400rs for the motor car and 200 for the motor cycle.” She revealed.

“oh.. so should I pay anything more” I posed as if I didn’t have any problem with paying anything more. But I knew that I have paid enough and more. I took out my wallet. I gave it to him. She grabbed it from his pocket. He smiled.

“did you learn all the signals??”

“I didn’t’

“ok”

And now I was standing there practicing the overtake, left turn, right turn, stop hand signals. I was embarrassed. I was finding it hard. I felt naked.

“ stretch it ooout. Straight. Steady”

“I still didn’t get the overtake right.

“Like caressing a rainbow”

“yeah”

“no ..move your hand to and fro along the curve”

I remembered a sign behind some truck that I was trying to overtake on my bike not long back. It said “sound horn” “ no hand signals’ “ all India permit”

The face of a demon painted on a metal scrap hung about staring at all the folk trying to overtake it. A similar face was giving a similar look now. She got in with me for the driving road test. The officer sat next to me. “second” he said as soon as i started the car.

“third” I didn’t drive more than 20 meters. “fourth”

At this speed fourth gear would knock. I pressed the accelerator. “slow down and stop”

I put the fourth gear in haste and slowed the car down. I didn’t show any signals. I stopped the vehicle. I could see the agitation my driving teacher’s wife was showing through the rear view mirror. The officer could see it too. I stuck my hand out of the window and displayed the ‘stop’ signal. The officer smiled and said “what’s the point ? You already stopped”

I smiled. She laughed. He started putting tick marks on everything on the list.

 The slope test- tick.

U turn-tick

I couldn’t read the rest but there were a whole lot of ticks. The officer got in out and moved towards the car behind me. Jam packed with students.

My driving teacher’s wife had a glow on her face. “You got it”

“ but I didn’t show the signals”

“.. well you got it..”

Soon I took the road test for the motor cycle as well. I stood in front of an officer and started doing the signals one by one. Then I got on the M 80 and drove it desperately trying to display all the signals. He barely noticed

.” what do you do?”

“I passed my b tech waiting for my call letter ”

“will sent it to your address”

“no maybe ..they will mail me online “

“What??!! ….. will sent the license to your address”

I walked up to my driving sir. “ thanks”

“none of my students ever fail”

“yeah”

“ hey … we need to give classes to a few students in Maruthunkuzhy. The bus stop is over there.” She whispered. “but you did a good job.”

“if any your friends want to get license you can sent them to us” and they left me in the sun.

“ I will”’ I won’t. No never. I hate the bureaucrats who were bribed for my test. I hate the system which gives license to people who doesn’t know it. I hate the doctor who gave me 6/6 vision certificate without even knowing me. I hate the road filled with gutters. “But I need to be ready with me license and passport when the call letter comes”.

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