by Hari Ravikumar
I had an awkward feeling that I was being followed.
It was one of those Sunday evenings when all the shopkeepers in a particular lane suddenly realize what a waste the entire week has been, doing nothing but sitting in their messy little shops trying desperately to fool an unsuspecting customer and taking home petty profits on everyday sales. The street that was usually illumined by the shop lights got darker with each closing shop. Standing aimless for several minutes outside the ATM, I watched the neighbourhood grow ominously dim. All that the street could muster was a faint splash of moonlight.
I came out of the ATM with nine crisp hundred-rupee notes. I sauntered towards my hostel, lost in thought. Having spent all my money on antiques and cigarettes during the weekend, I had been left with a crumpled ten-rupee note and a Mata Vaishno Devi five-rupee coin that I wasn’t willing to spend. Nawab’s Antiques had fished out a rare Nepali dagger for me. The hand-carved chess set was also not a cheap buy. If I didn’t visit the ATM, I’d have had to forgo my dinner.
It was after I left the ATM and walked past Ranjoo’s Mithai shop that I got the feeling of being followed. It’s strange how the mind senses danger even when there is no logical reason to harbour such a belief. Hoping to put to rest the claim of my troubled mind, I turned back and looked around.
There were six people behind me: two of them eating jhalmuri at a roadside stall, the owner of the stall, a young couple walking hand in hand oblivious of the world around them, and a weird-shaped man in untidy clothes with an unnecessary muffler round his neck on a rather humid evening. It was his footsteps that my mind’s eye had captured. In a move that confirmed my escalating fear, he looked straight at me and walked towards me swiftly.
Perhaps I had underestimated the dangerous situation I was in. I quickly turned around and started walking fast. I knew these people. A few days earlier, Amar Ujala had published a half-page feature on ATM thefts and how citizens could prevent them. Such thieves typically planted themselves near ATMs and waited for people to step out. They would follow the easy targets until they reached a deserted place out of the reach of immediate human help and then, just strike! It could be as simple as a threat with a knife or a little more sophisticated, with chloroform, chilli powder, and horror masks.
My fear turned to anger at the thought of being penniless on an empty stomach. I had been starving for nine hours now. I was even more determined not to let go of my money. I got down from the footpath and began walking on the edge of the road hoping to be among some motorists, if not pedestrians. For a good half a kilometre, I didn’t dare turn back.
At some point, I wanted to look behind to see if the mystery muffler-man was still around. If he wasn’t, there was no need to continue being paranoid and walking like a madman. But one quick glance re-ignited the dousing fire of suspicion. I saw him walking even faster towards me. Anger turned to fear again. The poor lighting made it impossible to see his face properly – any attempt to reflect upon his visage would mean losing my nine hundred rupees.
There was a police station at the far end of the road. That was my destination now. The foremost thought in my mind was ‘Once I reach the police station, no muffler-man can brandish a knife or dab my nose with a chloroform-soaked handkerchief.’ I had great faith in the Lucknow police.
In two tiresome minutes, I covered a distance of about 350 meters, but I was soaked in sweat. Of course, I’d have walked even a mile to reach the police station.
I firmly stationed myself in front of the police station, basking in the light emanating from the 60-watt bulb that hung outside the building. At a foot’s distance stood a khaki-clad constable holding a large bayonet rifle in his hand. My fears seemed to melt away. I had the entire police force behind me now.
Muffler man came a minute later, taking short breaths. I welcomed him with a thin smile and asked him who he was and what he wanted.
He just looked at me blankly as if he didn’t hear a word.
I was getting restless.
He continued looking at me and his eyes grew smaller in concentration. It was like he was trying to ensure that I was the person that he wanted to talk to. Even as I was observing his actions with impatience, from the corner of my eye, I saw the bayonet rifle constable walking away into the darkness.
I was beginning to panic now.
A few moments later, muffler man dug deep into his coat pocket and fished out a familiar object in deep blue. Carefully, he placed my ATM card in my hand and then gestured to me indicating that he was a deaf-mute.
I shook his hand vigorously. He merely smiled and walked back towards the ATM in a gait that indicated his satisfaction on having done his good deed for the day. I cursed myself for misunderstanding his intention. Of course! I had left the ATM card in the machine itself. In my rush to take the money and get back to my room, I had forgotten my card.
I couldn’t help reflecting on how humans were intrinsically good and that it was only the situation that made them evil or weak. The shock and happiness together with my newly-learnt lessons made me stare at my ATM card for a while. And finally, when I wanted to put the ATM card in my wallet, I couldn’t find it. I looked around and found it lying just behind me, fallen on the ground. It didn’t take me too long to realize how coolly someone had made a neat cut to the back pocket of my trousers and made away with the nine crisp notes.
Picture by imagedb_seller
There is a saying in Tamil: So long as there are people ‘waiting’ to be conned, there will be con-men.