This story is selected as Editor’s Choice
Social Short Story – Three Lives and a Death.
Photo credit: caldosh from morguefile.com
The camera man signaled him to start. Putting on his best English accent, he spoke in broken Hindi.
“Welcome to India Today. Today’s Headlines.” He shuffled a few blank papers around as he continued, “Petrol price increases by ten paisa, ten day hartal called for; Rupee further falls against the dollar, creating a new all time low,” a bit more shuffling before continuing, “ In yet another case of tipper lorry hit and drive, three people lost their lives. In detail. A lorry, allegedly driven under influence, coming at top speed on the wrong side of a one way road slammed into a cyclist and a cycle rickshaw.” The cameraman signaled him again. Time for a “short” break.
*
Vinod Singh patted his cycle. His cycle. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at his father. It was not much, he knew. It was Hercules, black frame and green seat. But it was more than what his father, a farmer much below the poverty line, could’ve afforded under ordinary circumstances.
Vinod touched his father’s feet and sought his blessings. It was no ordinary circumstances. Not every farmer’s son is admitted to that elite club known as the IAS. Father helped up the pride of his life. Both of them prayed towards the photo of a smiling lady, wife to one and mother to the other. The lighted incense sticks made the air around them feel holy.
*
The man at the counter pushed across the balance of two hundred to the customer. Pocketing the change, the customer left the long queue of which he was a part for the last half an hour. Tucked under his arm was full bottle of what he liked to call his sorrow killer.
Clad in yellow khaki, the customer was the driver of TN 17 068, a Tata heavy duty truck, one of the most experienced drivers of his company. Climbing onto his throne in the vehicle, Karmugham kept the dark viscous liquid containing bottle on the passenger seat. The day’s assignment was a routine Kanyakumari to Goa non-stop trip. He had done this dozens of times before.
The truck roared to life as Karmugham got ready to navigate through the Indian Roads. He thought of his son back home who worked in at the local tea shop to pay off his father’s debt. A wave of sorrow washed over Karmugham as he thought of the boy who was losing the best time of his life on account of his father. He eyed the bottle.
*
“Twenty five” she said, “nothing more nothing less.”
Giving the woman the most venomous look he could, the man handed over the vegetables. She smiled as she gave him twenty five. The bargain was hard and she loved hard bargaining.
The housewife and mother of three crossed vegetables off her mental list of items. Yes everything was there; she had even saved fifty rupees through the bargaining. There was strong pain in her left leg where the ulcer was tormenting her. No, she simply couldn’t walk home today. The fifty in her hand further acted as argument against it. She looked around and waved down a passing cycle rickshaw.
“Where to?” the man asked her in the long drawling dialect prevalent in those parts.
“Thiruchel” The man motioned her to get in. Delicately climbing in, she placed her precious horde of vegetables on her lap as the vehicle groaned into motion.
*
Vinod was turning his entire room, not much to speak of, upside down. There was a frantic air about the entire activity.
“What is it son?” asked the father coming in, hearing the commotion. Vinod pointed at his appointment letter. There was a conspicuous blank space with the words “Passport size Photo”.
“There was a photo here somewhere” he said as he turned the pillow inside out for the umpteenth time.
“Stop it IAS officer” admonished his father playfully, “how old exactly is that photo?”
“Only four years” Vinod replied as he continued his hunt. His father held his hand. A fifty rupee note was placed in his hand.
“ No, seriously, there is a photo here somewhere.” Vinod trying to refuse.
“Get a new photo.” Father play fully slapped his son, “Pay me back with interest with your first salary.” Vinod smiled.
*
Today was his daughter’s birthday. She wanted a new dress. He had to get her one. The shop keeper had reserved a beautiful pink one for him for three hundred rupees. He counted the day’s earning. Two fifty. He needed fifty more.
He was a rickshaw driver, he always was a rickshaw driver. So was his father, and his father. The three wheeled vehicle summed up his entire life, present past and future. The only thing it couldn’t claim in his life was his daughter. She was the lone bright star in his dark world of loan sharks, abuses and miserly bargaining. Even the most affluent were reluctant to part with an extra ten, people whose BMW’s tyre cost more than his entire life would give him such dirty looks if he asked for little more. He was disgusted with the whole lot.
He wandered around his most fertile hunting ground, the temples, the mosques and the market place. The motorized rickshaw had hugely eaten into his revenue. Who would want o travel in a rickety and slow three wheeler when they can have a rickety and fast three wheeler for a slightly higher fee? A woman waved him down.
*
Karmugham threw the empty bottle out of his moving truck as he felt a warm glow spreading inside him. Already memories of his personal life were being swept away as started railing over Indian and International politics. The clouds were, queerly enough , walking on the road. He ran over many of the clouds. The road seemed to be falling down and his truck seemed to be falling up. The sun was a black mass laughing at him.
The place around him looked unfamiliar. There were three overlapping green boards declaring the words “OOWNE WAYYW”. His senses were clouding over. He wanted to stop the truck, but accelerators brakes and clutches were all over the place. He couldn’t even say whether his left leg was the one on the left or the one on the right. He had a vague memory of seeing two figures in front of him as he blacked out on the steering wheel. His foot was on the accelerator.
*
The short break was over, the news anchor continued, “In other news tonight, Bollywood’s hottest couple John Khan and Raffia have announced their engagement…”
Lives are different, unique. But Death, it is the same for everyone. No names, no partiality; Death is old uninteresting news.
__END__
