Love Short Story – The CNG Love Story
The CNG Love Story – Love Short Story
The year was 2001. Delhi government decides to unleash the CNG diktat on public transport. Auto rickshaw drivers like Ramesh plunge into big-time turmoil. Concern for the environment is all very good unless you are at the receiving end of the “Go Green” campaign. Or your livelihood is at stake.
“Abhi teen ghante aur lagenge”! (It would take 3 hours more) shouted the gas station attendant. Ramesh shuffled inside his auto rickshaw. For want of anything better to do he switched on the Desi stereo. The little atmosphere inside filled with “Jhankar beats”. His ear drums resonated with the loud music and he shook his shoulders in rhythm. Suddenly his movement was interrupted by the soft touch of a hand tapping at his left arm.
“Bhaiya, would you help me?”.
That was the first time he saw Reshma.
He had come to the capital, all the way from far forsaken Jharkhand, to earn a living. Swayed by stories of his village kins making it big in Delhi, he longed for the opportunity to come his way. Coming here and getting gainfully employed was a sign of status and immense pride for the village folk. The spectacle of a son-of-the-soil’s homecoming was akin to a hero’s visit, replete with shenanigans befitting a marriage procession.
The first few days in the city were full of despair for Ramesh. It had dawned upon him quite early, in fact, during his arduous train journey from Ramgarh Cantonment to New Delhi railway station; that the glamour of the so called city life was skin deep only. His chief mentor and motivator-Umesh, started spilling the ugly beans one after the other. He was told about all the stark realities, right from the ghetto that migrant labours have to live in, up to the humiliation one has to put up with, in the daily course of existence.
Ramesh found it discomfiting & embarrassing to meet nature’s call in an abandoned park nearby his living abode, what with hundreds of men facing each other and defecating together. The women’s section was at the far end with some overgrown bushes serving as cover. Only their timings were an hour before the men brigade swarmed the park. Horny & lecherous ruffians often woke up early to steal a peek at the women performing their morning ablutions.
Ramesh had learnt to maneuver an auto rickshaw by trying out Umesh’s, in the narrow by-lanes of slummy Govindpuri. Soon, their landlord, Jille Pal, agreed to let out an auto from his fleet of on-hire autos. The pound of flesh extracted was five hundred rupees a day by way of lease rent and all maintenance on the poor auto driver. In order to have any income a minimum of thousand rupees per day was the earning ask. That would leave him with just about enough to justify staying in Delhi.
He left for work at 6.30AM daily and plied umpteen trips to New Delhi/Old Delhi railway stations, Interstate Bus Terminus and other such destinations. In the lapse of a year he had managed to send money home 5-6 times. That had made his ailing father happy. STD calls made from the telephone booth in the vicinity, confirmed the old man’s joy.
Sunday afternoon to night was the only recess he had for relaxation. He had to shell out Rs 100 in the pool which got him his share of country liquor, a chicken leg piece and some snacks. His pals mostly got high and went overboard with greater vices which ended up at GB Road, the prime red light district in the capital. He could not afford those luxuries.
Nightlife at the ghetto was disgusting as he had to hear sounds of wailing wives being beaten by drunken husbands, hushed whispers of lovers making out and the brawl of roommates entering into tiffs on the slightest provocation. The grocer’s wife waylaid him many a time and tried to force intimacy. He tried to avoid bumping into her. Still he was happy as he was making money.
Life was moving on smoothly till the time the CNG enforcement came crashing on him. Mr. Jille Pal declared to all the drivers that CNG fitment charges and licensing cost had to be on their own heads; else he would prefer to sell off the fleet or oblige other aspirants waiting in the queue of employment. This translated into an outlay of Rs 15000/- for the CNG kit and a neat Rs 5000/- for the licence alongwith the broker’s cut. Not a stone moved without greasing the Transport Department’s well oiled bureaucracy.
20 K ! He wondered aloud, where would he get the money from? His mind was an ocean of worry and thoughts ranging from murky suicide to murderous looting, crossed his mind with great alacrity. He wept, prayed and hoped for a miracle. Days passed. Nothing happened. He grew despondent. The CNG order was just 2 days away, to go live.
He had not paid Jille for a week now & could barely earn as the Police had already started nabbing autos to fleece their new found avenue of bribe revenue. He came in late, meandering through the dirty lanes, careful of not disturbing cocaine addict street urchins having their night dope. Many a time, he had to circumlocute a neighbouring roof to evade running into the livid Jille. On many such occasions he had twice sighted sinful acts, the milkman was engaging in with grocer’s wife. She seemed so chaste to others during daylight, he wondered. The last day was upon Ramesh, he lazily woke up barely aware of the surroundings. He couldn’t recall when he had fallen asleep. Goverdhan’s sharp voice wafted through the air. Ramesh could make out some mention of a savior financier who was ready to shell out money for 2-3 blokes like them. So, Ramesh,Umesh and Goverdhan were saved from the scepter of CNG’s blow. Life slowly drifted back to normalcy and soon the routine gait returned in Ramesh’s step.
But a new animal called “Pressure is Down” started haunting all autowallahs. Pollution Control had been planned with a stringent CNG legislation but the Planners forgot about the support infrastructure requirement for making life easy for the transporter & commuter value chain. Not enough gas stations were envisaged and what ensued post the CNG way of life is a lesson in Shoddy Planning. Serpentine queues emerged overnight and gas stations were witness to the worst patience torture that would put even Nazis to shame.
To compound matters gas feeder supply to vending stations were erratic and a government dictated pecking order was decided. DTC buses and government vehicles would have their fill, first and in copious quantity. Auto rickshaws and private vehicles would be lower down the priority list. Poor supply coupled with dated gas vending pumps resulted in the chaos getting more convoluted and waiting for fuel feel like “Waiting for Godot”. “Low Pressure!”
The stock reply given to all hapless souls waiting in queue for that elusive gas fill. The burden of waiting had a cascading impact on the whole populace. Autowallahs’ reputation, already notorious for going the other way that you wanted to go and overcharging, took a further nosedive. Fixed fuel quotas and wait time genuinely inhibited free flow of autos in any direction. Fuel rationing and excruciating waiting led to high instances of double charging and grounding of services. For an honest auto driver it meant long extra hours to earn the same amount that they earned in the pre-CNG regime. Commuter inconvenience & cost of travel rose sharply. CNG was coming on to mean a “Complete No Go” situation.
Ramesh was jolted from his reverie. He had waited long enough but the length of the queue was still intact. The girl’s entreaty had not only brought him back to reality but had also stirred some strange feelings in him. At that point he could not fathom their meaning. She had sought help for her father who lay unconscious in the auto just behind Ramesh’s. He could see that the old man had passed out into a drunken stupor. The innards of the passenger seat was in a pool of vomit and the stench of alcohol laced urine was making the scene pukish. Both of them laboured hard and managed to carry that old lout out and laid him on the paved footpath nearby. Thereafter, Reshma embarked on the onerous task of cleaning the mess. It was 2AM now. The gas queue stood standstill. Ramesh came back to her and informed that the gas dispensing crew had got bone tired and decided to nap for an hour. At about 3.30AM the additional gas supply was supposed to arrive at the pipeline. Expectation of “high pressure” filling was assured by one of the attendants.
Entrepreneurship flourished amid the waiting game. Tea sellers, panwallahs and bootleggers did the rounds and the queue was being monetized suitably. Ramesh bought two cups of tea and offered Reshma one, which she accepted with some hesitation. Soon the familiarity grew & short banter gave way to a long chat. Ramesh felt amused to note that within an hour the life tales of both their lives had been shared and all significant milestones were more than over. Not much achievement or glory to consume more time. They could now pass off as longtime friends or siblings or even as man and wife to an outsider as their familiarity and knowledge about each other was nonetheless less complete.
Probably the life story of people like them are almost cloned-the very same conditions, daily trials and tribulations and the same drudgery of living. One thread shared here and there and one can piece them all together if you have lived a life similar to the one these people have. They were gradually getting sleepy but for the mosquitoes around the pavement who were trying with full might to keep them awake. Incessant singing and stinging paused by a clap of hands did not deter the mosquito army’s onslaught. But despite the weariness Ramesh wanted her to keep talking. He had only seen her silhouette at first and as they continued their chat he could make out the striking features and an inexplicable magnetism about her demeanour. There was beauty but not entirely docile was what he could finally conclude.
Reshma was from a village near Bareilly and was just 12 years old when she had moved to Delhi. Her mother had eloped with a travelling salesman when she was still in the village and thereafter her father,Tika Ram, had taken to drinks in order to douse the taunts that were thrown at him. Working as a daily wage labour did not fetch much to make ends meet & alcohol gobbled up most of that meager income. There were days when he would not get any work and Reshma had to starve.
Tika’s brother offered some sane advice that they move to Delhi to earn a decent amount and start a new life. Tika got a job in a factory as an unskilled hand. Soon, he learnt driving and was into the auto rickshaw business. They were living in Sangam Vihar, famous for water fights during summers and the epicenter of supplying maid servants to rich South Delhi homes. The gentry were not much different from the one that Ramesh had to live with. Ghetto girls are not spared even when they are kids. The journey from childhood to womanhood is quickly traversed with pervert men acting as catalysts.
One neighbor had molested her and her landlord had raped her when her father was not around. She was devastated but soon learnt the art of survival. It has been 6 years since their exodus from the village. Reshma is now a woman with a chiseled face, dark brown eyes, wheatish complexion and curves at the right places. The landlord died last year when he fell from the stairs. Reshma saw him tumbling down and smiled at the oil bottle that she held in her hand. She had oiled the stairs liberally. And the molester also did not get away she had cornered him one night stealthily and rammed a knife into him from behind.
She used to work as a help in a beauty parlour. Ramesh came to know about these later- the two murders and the cause. Rest was shared in their first hour of interaction. Ramesh summoned up courage and asked for her address and was surprised to see her oblige. At that moment someone passed a lewd comment on Reshma and too his surprise she was up in an instant and pelted at that loafer in no time. Whack landed a tight slap followed by knee kick on the torso. Other onlookers froze on their tracks.
By dawn Ramesh’s interest in Reshma changed its status from “like” to “like very much”. Reshma’s feelings were unknown. She left for home when her father gained consciousness. The queue gradually cleared as the gas pressure normalized. The next one started soon after. Before leaving, Ramesh had managed to take Reshma’s parlour’s number. Mobiles rates were very high at that time and you still had to pay for incoming calls. The next meeting happened by design. Ramesh went to her parlour and waited for her to finish her day. He dropped her home. En-route they stopped for ice-cream. He remembered Reshma mention her cravings for the chocolate cone. She poked him hard on his chest in jest & gratitude.
In about two months they were seeing each other every alternate day and the friendship evolved into something more. One day, they met at Buddha Garden. She was wearing a pair of blue denims and a body hugging red top. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Encouraged by the other love birds around he tried to kiss her. She resisted at first then her arms folded on his shoulders. It lasted for a full minute but Ramesh’s day was made.
He proposed marriage to her. She fell silent. Fearing rejection he started apologizing. She looked him straight in the eye and asked whether he would accept her even after knowing that she has been violated in the past. He stared at her for a long while and then asked her about the details. She recounted her ordeal with the land lord and the neighbour & the resultant aftermath. He kept quiet for a while and then took her hands in his and said
“let bygones be bygones, it is the future that is important for me”.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she hugged him in a tight embrace. If a lowly auto driver is so liberal so as to condone her past, she did not require any prince charming to come her way. Ramesh was a hero in her estimation. She had seen men high and low getting lusty about her but no one would have had the courage to accept her.
They got married in six months time. Ramesh is now working with a reputed Radio Taxi service & Reshma is running her own beauty parlour. They have two children who are chaperoned by her father. CNG now denoted-
“Complete Now. Girl!”.
The old man still gets spiritual in the evening but well after Reshma’s return from work. They have bought the ‘kholi’ that they live in. No pestering landlords or auto-letters to hound them. They are happy and live life -kingsize. So, the CNG order, apart from curbing pollution had serendipitously resulted in a better tomorrow for some of Delhi’s lesser denizens.
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By: Samrat Sinha
