THE BOMB - PART ONE

Keeping in mind the fact that half of our life is an extrapolation of the other half, and that you always want to see what you want to see, I take the liberty to state that the following is a compilation of real incidents. A ‘true story’, to follow cliché.

I had the impression that this share-auto might start before the rest, and although I never really had a time constraint, it so happens that one always wants to be early just to avoid being late, for ‘right in the nick of time’ is something that not many vie for. And I was in no mind to try to differ. And yes, to differ, one must always try, because the world always makes a man be what ‘it’ is, what everything other than that man is being, so it takes a considerable effort to be otherwise. And I wasn’t willing to take that effort, that night. No fatigue, no loss, no fear, no reason in particular, except for plain unwillingness. And I’m sure I can’t be sued for that.

It’s funny how everyone is so giving at all times, except when it comes to themselves, except when it’s your glass of water, when all of a sudden, you wished you were dying too, so as to not part with what you have, because you think it’s unfair for someone to gain while you lose, and gratitude is hardly a possession. Heck, you can’t keep it, you can’t flaunt it (you’re not ‘supposed to’), it just floats around; hovers about. And I’m not detaching myself from this actuality, I admit that I have been, and I am part of this ‘everyone’ that I speak about, except that it’s a part of ‘me’ that ‘I’ despise right now. A Hyde I want to hide, and he wasn’t that different, either. One bad leg, rags sewn intact, a plastic bag in one hand as he clung on to a stick with the other. He was bearded, and I’d say he was young, because I didn’t spot much of grey, but then again there’s grey at places where it’s not supposed to be, so I thought I’d dare not deduce. And he didn’t enter already, he was lingering outside, waiting for the auto to get filled, for he was only used to hanging on and ‘convenience’ could kill him. And I let a couple of people pass me on their way inside, I told them I’d be getting down before, it took some time and then he got in and sat beside me, set to mate the wind. And I got to see him up close.

He was fair-skinned. He had pink lips. He smelt of ‘paan’, and I suspected alcohol too. He was wearing a ‘Kurta’. He looked exotic, even out of place. He was casual, yet focused; grave. I got down before it could start, telling the driver that I would take a bus instead, and I pointed to a bus that arrived just then, gladly. I ran.

I got into another share-auto parked behind the bus, one which had a family in it, distinctly Tamil, and hoped it wouldn’t go too near to the one I had just abandoned. Guilt nauseates me, I’ve nearly passed out a couple of times before. Not this time, either. He had left.