We, Humans

1. The Altruist

Narendra was a good man. Like all of us, he also wanted to do something
good… some day.

**

The car was just picking up speed after having negotiated its way through the
traffic and was about to climb its way up the fly-over when Narendra saw a
woman collapsing on the road divider. He had a moment to take in her ashen
face before he was past it.

He turned towards his wife, “Did you see that? The sun, no doubt. What to do?”

It was less of a question and more of an exclamation. They went on. He tried to
look back through the rear-view mirror but a sea of cycles, bikes and cars came
in between him and that woman lying on those burning stones.

A small water bottle lying in the glove-box of the car continued to lie there. It did
not strike him till the next day that he could have stopped the car and walked up
to the woman to place in her hand the elixir of life. Nothing more was required…
may be he could have sprinkled a few drops on her and alerted the policeman
posted nearby but that was all.

It takes so little to be of use and life presents so many opportunities to be of use.

Why is it then that we seldom realize that that ‘someday’ is today- and everyday?

2. The Wannabe Hero

Toying with the stick placed near his chair, Ramesh racked his brains for a way to
get over his boredom and, like always, could think of nothing better than to
dream his so far unrealized and, with every passing day, increasingly
unrealizable dream. He had, for as long as he could remember, wanted to wield
the gun at the border. Instead here he was, entrusted with a stick that was
incapable of scaring even a calf. All that he had managed so far in life was to get
himself recruited by a security agency and get posted as a guard outside one of
the several residential apartments eating into each other in this busy suburb of
the nation’s capital.

He hated the setting. There was no heroism in his job –no adventure. He was
sure that the only danger the residents faced in this setting was of dying due to
over eating, lack of sleep or constant exposure to television! He looked down
upon them and was certain they considered him a nobody.

To make matters worse, he was required to share his one–room accommodation

with Suraj, the respected, 130 year old mangled heap of rotten shit. Ok, he was
not 130 but 57 but that took nothing away from the fact that he was a moth –
ridden scumbag who had listened to his dreams of fighting at the border with no
interest whatsoever.

“All that is ahead of me is to rot away …and waste my youth here instead of …”
he muttered, his eyes piercing Suraj sitting at the other end of the gate, “Why do
they respect him, anyhow?”

There was no way Suraj could have heard him. But as if reading his lips, Suraj
exclaimed, “I am respected because I respect my job. Why don’t you do likewise
till you are here or, else, leave? ” A minute later, he added,

“For me, the gate of this colony is the border, young man.”

3. The Aspirant

“How many times a day do you smile, young man?”

Sridhar panicked. This was the trick question, no doubt. Hmm…He concentrated
hard. He had been expecting something like this to be thrown at him to unsettle
him, test his ability to retain his focus, whatever. Or may be, there was a witty
way to answer it which would differentiate him from his peers – the thirty odd,
brightest of the bright, congregating here from all over the world for the interview.
At stake was that one prestigious scholarship which would open the gateways to
cutting-edge research, world-class labs and a comfortable income –a dream
combination.

He was a quick thinker but he took his time, thought it through before settling on
something that sounded right enough and then geared up for the next question
which, he was sure, would be complex as hell.

It was. Not because it required of him to explain the latest in nanotechnology but
because it asked him if he knew his way out, “It is the door on the right…not the
left through which you entered but the right one…that’s correct…take care.”

He stumbled out, aghast at the suddenness of it all. Eighteen fabulous answers

and one devious trap negotiated successfully and still he had been thrown out.
His mind went blank.
But not for long. He made his way back to the convention centre and waited for
the interviews to get over. Two hours later when the Board members came out
for a very late lunch, he made his way to the Chairperson –no less –trying hard to
retain his composure and appear as professional about it as was possible under
the circumstances.

“Hello, Mr. Sridhar!”

The bastard had remembered his name. He cleared his throat and then asked as
mildly as possible where he had gone wrong.

“Come on, Mr. Sridhar…you know you were brilliant.”

“Then it was that last question. Where was the trick?”

“There was no trick. You just had to smile while answering it.”

4. The Intellectuals

Ghavri mows the grass on the college football field – a methodical, reticent and
unassuming man on the verge of retirement.

Hint of mystery and another side to the personality –it is rumoured that Ghavri
was a whiz kid in his early days. A parent sees him – a professor of physics, Mr.
Vishnu, who talks to him over several months – learns nothing except that this
man has a very good brain and offers him a chance to attend his study circle
meetings. After much prodding, Ghavri agrees and visits the Professor’s home
some weeks later.

A group of intellectuals are discussing various topics – economics, politics,

science, genetics, religion, history and philosophy. The study circle has a system
of lecture every month. Ghavri is invited to deliver one too. Encouragement by
the Professor awakens his dormant love for physics. He is given a date two
months hence to deliver a lecture on any topic of his choice. He starts preparing
the lecture after using part of his savings to buy second-hand books.

Two months have almost passed. Ghavri sits at the corner of the field, watching a
match in progress. Life has no meaning till you give it one and once you do that,
the cosmic meaning behind one’s existence is made clear slowly but surely. He
nods his head, smiling and thankful for this piece of insight.

The Professor’s son loses. Lights out for the day. Ghavri goes home and finishes
his lecture. The next day is the study circle meeting.
In the meeting, the professor listens distractedly. He is upset by his son’s loss.
The choice of physics upsets him more. The lecture is interesting but the meeting
is a disaster. Ghavri walks out –out of this charmed circle of intellectuals and
back to mowing grass on the football field.

That’s one insight more for Ghavri– the intellectuals are as much prisoners of
their stupidities as any of us are. Perhaps, more so.

5. The Victim

She was raped.

At nights, waiting for sleep, she knew that while for the perpetrators of the crime,
the seven year sentence had ended long ago, for her the punishment continued.

No, not the punishment meted out by inquisitive neighbours or tactless friends.
Not the feeling of uncleanliness – the body had been washed of the rapists touch
and she had no psychological hang-ups that way. No, it was something else.

They had cornered her that night –those three dastards. She was alone and had
no chance. She got intimidated and gave in - on the promise that they won’t hurt
her.

They didn’t –but only till they had not satiated themselves. Then, after they were
through, they broke her arms, mauled her legs and battered her face –leaving
her for dead.

She had no further role to play. A case was lodged; the criminals caught and
punished –courtesy a narration of the act by one of them in an inebriated state
before his professed admirers, one of whom settled a long nursed grievance by
promptly informing the police about it.

All this happened while she drifted in and out of consciousness in the hospital.
They called her the brave survivor when she walked out of the hospital two
excruciating years later but she knew that she had compromised with her soul
that night by not resisting out of fear. She had cooperated.

Even now, some seventeen years after the incident, with her arms healed, legs
restored to health, face set right and society’s memory of the incident all but
erased, she still vomited every night recollecting that one moment when she had
hoped that a pact with ugliness could have had anything but an ugly end.

If you want to strike a deal with the Devil, go ahead, but do not expect him to
keep his side of the bargain.