pickpocket- VII

                 दरोगा जी ...ओ दरोगा साब …his voice broke me from my fantasy.

In came a constable, relatively young and short in height, reciting with absolute poetic fervor- क्या है ? भेन्चोद को रात को भी चैन नहीं है...

दरोगा जी, प्यास लगी है, थोडा पानी मिल जाए तो लोंडे की जान में जान आए...वो क्या है, पहली बार है इसकी...

हाँ, थोबडा बता रहा है इसका…the constable said while he looked at me

                खूब छन् रही है तुम दोनों की ...

 Before I could say anything our hero interrupted, अरे साब किस्मत ने एक ही छत के नीचे रखा है,

लड़का नेक मालूम पड़ता है , और दूसरे रईस लोंडों की तरह नक्शेबाजी नही दिखाता ...

साब, देखना एक दिन इंजीनियर बनेगा ये, और फिर तुम सलाम ठोकोगे इसको ...

क्यों बे, इंजीनियर बन के इस जेल की मरम्मत ज़रूर करवा दियो, तेरा मेहमानों जैसा स्वागत् हो रहा है ...The three of us shared a good laugh at the thought of renovating the sacred place.

                  अच्छा साब पानी ले आओ इसके लिए...शाम को हट्टा-कट्टा आया था, अभी देखो सूख के लकडी हो गया है...शुकर है गर्मियाँ खतम हो गई हैं वर्ना जाने क्या हाल होता इसका... 

Constable: ठीक है , लाता हूँ ...

Lalli: और हाँ साब …

Constable: अब क्या हुआ ?

Lalli: ठण्डा पानी लाना साब…

     बताता है इसका मामा आगरे में कमिशनर है...

                  I was stunned at the revelation of my mama being a commissioner. I always thought the luminary in question was a smalltime veterinary doctor. I shivered at the thought of being asked if he really was a commissioner.

Constable: (while going back) होता तो ये यहाँ सड रहा होता ?...

Lalli: दरोगा साब एक चीज़ और ...

Constable: (voicing his irritation) अब क्या हुआ साले ...

Lalli: साब ये बोतल भी साथ में भर लाना… रात को फिर से प्यास लगेगी तो खा-म-खा आपको तकलीफ़ उठानी पड़ेगी...

दरोगा साब sensed the logic, relevant or otherwise, and came back reluctantly.

He whistled me to throw the bottle.

Obediently, I obliged.

साब, ठण्डा पानी… Daroga ji was not amused in the least capacity. Angrily he took the bottle and walked away.

I was furious at the sudden discovery of a ‘commissioner mama’. And a heated argument followed.

Me: झूठ क्यों बोला तूने उससे ?

Him: क्या झूठ बोला ?

Me: यही कि मेरा मामा आगरे में कमिशनर है...

Him: तो क्या नहीं है ?

Me: नहीं है l...

Him: चल, तो मैं सच् बोल देता हूँ उसको...

         फिर झूठा कौन बाबू मोशाय !... he said, looking at me askance, with a sly grin on his face.

At this point I realized I have no choice left. So, I kind of surrendered to his wit and started believing in his soft skills.

Me: पर अगर उसने कुछ पूछ लिया तो मैं...

Him: वो सब तू मुझ पे छोड़ दे...

         पांच साल घास नही छीली है मैने ...तू बस इतना याद रख कि तेरा मामा मथुरादास आगरे में कमिशनर है ...

Me: लेकिन...

Him: बस अब ज्यादा सवाल जवाब मत कर,

     अभी देख, तेरे लिए ठण्डा पानी लायेगा वो...

ठण्डा पानी पिला कर मरवाएगा तू , I said laughing and appreciating him.

Me: अच्छा एक बात बता, वो तो मामूली सा कोंस्टेबल है , तू उसे दरोगा क्यों बुला रहा है ...

Him: मैं भी तो मामूली सा जेबकतरा हूँ , तू मुझे जेबकतरा क्यों नही बुलाता ...

      इज्ज़त मुफ्त में नहीं मिलती मियाँ ...

The constable made a comeback with a mug of water and the bottle filled as requested.

तो, कमिशनर है इसका मामा !...said he, looking at me while handing over the bottle and the mug to Lalli.

Me: नहीं...मतलब हाँ ...

I corrected myself before Lalli came to the rescue.

Lalli: अरे दरोगा जी क्या बताऊँ आपको , मियाँ एक नम्बर के बोढ़म हैं...

कहते हैं- "घर पे डांट पड़ेगी, और चौबीस घन्टे की तो बात है"...

वैसे दरोगा साब, रात में आप की ही ड्यूटी है ?...He skillfully diverted the topic.

               Constable: हाँ, तो...?

तो, कुछ नहीं साब..एक गद्दे का इन्तजाम हो जाता तो ...मतलब इसके लिए ...अब ये बताए न बताए , कभी तो कमिशनर साब को पता चलेगा कि उनके भान्जे की कैसी खातिर हुइ थी ...रेपुटेसन  का सवाल है दरोगा साब ...और एक गद्दा कौन सी बडी चीज़ है ...अब पलंग-पोश तो मांग नहीं रहा ...

ठीक है मैं देखता हूँ...said the constable reluctantly and strolled back.

                ये ले पानी पी...

तुम्हारी दुनिया में ठण्डा मतलब, कोका कोला, और हमारे यहाँ, ठण्डा मतलब ठण्डा पानी  ...अरे, मैं तो भूल ही गया...तुम्हारी प्यास पानी से बुझती कहाँ है ?  कोका कोला मंगाऊँ तेरे लिए ?...He mocked, and then laughed, I too followed.

I was impressed at his expertise in clinching seemingly impossible deals so effortlessly.

I gulped the water down my dry throat with hidden gratitude towards him.

...to be continued...

pickpocket- VI

                चल छोड़ उन बातों को... तू  नहीं समझेगा l .

और वैसे भी, तू भेडिया कम और भेड़ ज्यादा लग रहा है...

खैर, आज की रात तो हम दोनो ही भेड़ हैं...

                ला, वो पन्ने इधर दे ...He segregated the pages with so much care I could picture a pundit arranging the mixed up, torn pages of Bhagvad Gita.

                ये ले तेरा हिस्सा...he split them into two unequal parts and offered me the lesser part.

मुझे कम पेज क्यों दिए, I asked at the unforgivable injustice I was meted out to.

बेटा अभी इतना हजम कर, और वैसे भी जितनी देर में तू एक लाइन पढ़ेगा उतनी देर में मैं एक स्टोरी खतम कर दूंगा....स्कूल में कोई भी भेन्चोद रीडिंग में मेरे से तेज नहीं था , he said with insured confidence.

                यार प्यास लग रही है l...

लो भेन्चोद, मियाँ को अब लौन्डिया भी चाहिए l

...यार पानी की प्यास लग रही है l

...वैसे पानी तो है मेरे पास, पर थोडा सा ही है ...I said while taking out the 500 ml bottle of coke containing approximately ‘chullu bhar paani’ .

                100 ml FREE, said the yellow extended strip of the red label of coke scraped at random places resulting in white patches. It looked like an artist’s rendition of Coke’s new identity for re-useable bottles.

                 मताई इसमे क्यों भर रही है ?, ये बोतल पुरानी  है, I had said while my mother filled the bottle with water from the suraahi using a homemade lota with a long handle. 

ले मताई इसमे भर, I proposed her a new, recently consumed bottle of 500 ml coke.

 दो पैसे की अकल नहीं है तेरे अन्दर ...बिल्कुल बाप पे गया है ...देख ये बोतल तेरी बोतल से बडी है ...इसमे १०० ग्राम ज्यादा पानी आएगा

             ...तो दो लीटर वाली क्यों नही भर देती...पूरे दो दिन चलेगी, I said with irritation induced sarcasm. 

गम खा, मैं अभी लाई, whether she didn’t get the sarcasm or she was acting smart was beyond my comprehension.  

...अरे नहीं-नहीं मताई, रहने दे , मैं इसी से काम चला लूँगा …I had said yielding to her indomitable wit.

                The ‘chullu bhar paani’  left in the bottle was probably the extra 100 ml that my mother boasted of, to win the battle of the bottles. Afterall she was a veteran. And the ‘chullu bhar paani’ proved to be a fitting testimony to it.

As soon as the bottle saw the light of the night- the light of the lockup bulb, to be precise- he reached for my hand with the sudden agility of a leopard and snatched the bottle.

                Before I could understand what had dawned upon him to pull off such an act of bravura, he had it all gulped down his throat.

                ये ले... तेरी बोतल, he said with languid pace clutching the now empty bottle with two fingers poised to release his grip on it.

I was furious at this noble act of benevolence.

भेन्चोद,, पूरा पानी पी गया मेरा ...I blurted out, almost instantly realizing and regretting the the cuss word uttered, and suppressing my angst in the last few words.

              He dropped the bottle in style that would put a host of bollywood actors to shame. The sound of the bottle making random collisions with the floor sounded like the inevitable drumbeats in bollywood films before someone gets hanged.

The next moment I found myself praying, and wishing he doesn’t hit me for calling him a bhenchod.

               रुक,  मैं कुछ इन्तजाम करता हूँ ... said he nonchalantly. It seemed he was immune to cuss words, it didn’t, even remotely, affect him.

He stood up and strolled towards the lockup gate.

               It was probably a full moon night. The moonlight lighting up the meager open space outside the cell. An adolescent guava tree stood right in the middle of the space bathing with the moonlight. It’s stark shadow looked like black ink spilled artistically over a white canvas making it an abstract painting. Add to it the mesmerizing background music of the creatures of the night, going about their busy lives, making the night worth sacrificing your sleep.

I instantly went into a romantic reverie.

               I imagined how my shadow would look in the vicinity of the guava tree sharing the space with my beloved, with me reciting a poem, and she getting closer to me with every line recited.

                ‘Could I, my love, belong to anyone but you.’ says she, slowly casting aside her dupatta, removes her clothing and appear naked as the day she was born. She is as soft and white as milk cream.

Her whole being exude a scent. I take her in my arms probing her curves. My hand rove over her lovely limbs , her slender neck, and through the ripples of her hair.

She responds by eagerly displaying her many gifts. She possesses the sinuous grace of thesine curve and the narrow passage of the theta.

                 Each embrace become a coupling, and each coupling the wildest fornication, until, weary from our passionate writhings, we fall asleep in each other’s arms, inebriated with pleasure.

...to be continued...

pickpocket- V

                ये हीरोइन तो देख, बडी कटीली है भेन्चोद...

He said while munching on my lone favourite paratha, referring to the intellectual figure gracing the newspaper with her seductive charms, willing to do sex scenes in movies; or perhaps, with the producer, to be politically incorrect.

                पहले से देख रखी है, i replied with the absolute innocence of a kid.

एक बार.. ये मिल जाए बस…he said, clinching his teeth and grinding them with lust, doing poetic justice to her carnal desires on display.

                मिल जाए तो क्या करेगा ?, I teased him…

वो सब करूंगा जो तू नहीं कर पायेगा …once again he forced me on the back-foot…

भेन्चोद बकचोदी में मत भिड लियो मेरे से कभी …ऐसे ऐसे जवाब दूंगा, के भेन्चोद हग देगा तू …I could see a sly grin on his face while he congratulated himself on brutally smashing an average in-swinger for a boundary.

I remained silent indicating my sensible disapproval to his cheap victory.

                 मस्तराम पढी है तूने ?, he asked, after contemplating his move for a moment or two.

हाँ पढी है l क्यों ?, I retorted, a hint of exasperation showing in my voice.

अबे पूछा ही तो है, प्यार से जवाब दे देगा तो घट थोड़े जाएगा तेरा , said he while nudging me, grinning ear to ear.

                 तूने तो पढी ही होगी, I asked him…

He replied with a philosophical grimace- पता नहीं क्यों… मुझे उसमे रस नहीं दिखता…वो नज़ाकत नहीं है उसमे…ऊपर से उसकी स्पेलिंग गडबड रहती है …

आधे से ज्यादा शब्दों की गाँड मार लेता है …He paused, awaiting a reply from me but I remained silent, for no reason.

Again he blurted, पढ़ेगा ?

क्या, मस्तराम?, I asked.

                 [To the uninitiated (read females and a majority belonging to yuppistan) who are oblivious of the famed author I'd like to introduce Mast Ram as a teen fiction writer who writes in hindi, and writes with such passion that most of his publications are bound to offend purists and females in different contexts. Purists, for the grammatical errors. And females, for his pronunciation of their erogenous zones erroneously. As for his writing style, you can ask any teenager. He will tell you the subtlest nuances of his writings. Or better still, go get a copy from a so called ‘cheap’ bookstall.]

                He didn’t answer me. Instead, he reached for his pocket and took out few folded and partially crumpled pages of varying sizes, probably from few different magazines.

ये ले, पढ…मज़ा न आ जाए तो मेरा नाम फेर देना… पुलिसवाले से बडी मुश्किल से बचाए है …इनमे चित्र नहीं हैं न, इसलिए छोड़ दिए …वरना वापिस नहीं करता …साला ठरकी है भेन्चोद …

                 I took the pages and tried to figure out which magazine they were from.

मनोहर कहानियाँ, कच्ची कलियाँ , सरस सलिल – these were the few revered names that were etched on the top corner of the pages.

                 We hurriedly devoured the parathas as if we were two men on a mission running out on time.

ये तो सिम्पल कहानियाँ हैं, इसमे वो सब कहाँ होगा …

अबे पढ के तो देख… सबकुछ मिलेगा इसमे तुझे …

                As a matter of fact, I too preferred erotica over porn and reckoned it as a virtue of the above average individuals.

Now, here i was beginning to think- if erotica was his porn what kind of fiction would be his erotica.

Out of sheer curiosity I asked him- और क्या क्या पढ़ता है तू …

HIM: पढ़ता होता तो जेबें नहीं काटता फिरता…वैसे कभी कभी कहानियाँ ज़रूर पढ लेता हूँ…

ME: अच्छा तेरी सबसे पसंदीदा कहानी कौन सी है…

HIM: यार पसंदीदा तो है लेकिन सुना नहीं पाऊंगा बडा वक्त गुज़र गया जब उसे पढ़ा था …

ME: मतलब …

HIM: मतलब, अभी अभी तो सुनाई थी तुझे, भूल गया ?…

I was totally nonplussed at what he was saying…

अबे ज्यादा मत सोच, भेजा उड़ जाएगा तेरा… he quoted.

              Then he paused for a moment and said,

कक्षा आठ की किताब में एक कहानी होती थी – भेडें और भेडिये , हरिशंकर परसाई ने लिखी थी , मुझे अभी भी याद है

उस समय तो पढ़कर केवल हँसी आती थी , दिल खुश हो जाता था …

पर, अब उसका गहरा मतलब समझ में आता है…अब समझ में आता है कि दुनिया में केवल दो तरह के लोग हैं – एक तो भेडें, और दूसरे भेडिये … अगर सीधी तरह बोला जाए तो, मैं भेड़ और तू भेडिया …

               I completely understood his sentiments and appreciated his intelligent point of view, although secretly, as the story ranked very high on my favorites list.

               The situation was an opportune metaphor for the brilliant story. I was clearly richer than him, albeit by 15,000 rupees. And I was fatefully entitled to the worst imaginable repercussions of the story– The proverbial bhed turns into a ruthless bhediya and renders me penniless.

…to be continued…

Note: (भेडें और भेडिये is a brilliant political satire written by Hari Shankar Parsai where the भेडिये represent the political/ruling/rich class and the भेडें represent the aam / garib junta) If you’re keen on the story just google the title (in Devnagri).

pickpocket- IV

               जी  करता  है  कि  चूम  लूं ,

उसकी  टट्टी  में पड़े उस  मटर के दाने को ,

कम्बख्त  वो  तो  कम  से  कम  उसके  लबों  से  होकर  गुज़रा होगा l

 Without a speck of doubt I knew who the writer of those lines could have been.

              I was totally amused at his fearless use of the word टट्टी in an otherwise highbrow shayari. Soon enough I realized that no other 'sober' word fits better in conveying the feeling that came out of it; bit eerie, humorous, and high on emotional quotient if taken in the right context. And better still, if delivered at the right moment on an emotional roller-coaster of a juvenile love story- with a tragic end.

I could not resist asking, लड़की का क्या हुआ ?

HIM: होना क्या था, अभी कोलेज में है वो l

ME: उसके बाद कभी उस से मिलने की कोशिश नहीं की ?

HIM: गया था उसके कोलेज के बाहर एक दिन, एक लड़के के साथ गेट से बाहर निकली l बहन का लौड़ा इंगलिस में कुछ कुछ बोल रहा था, और वो हँस रही थी l मन् किया साले को चैलेंज करुं- भेन्चोद, गाँड में गूदा है तो लड़की को हिन्दी में बोल के पटा कर दिखाये, या सिंगल लड़ ले मेरे से l

आ जाते हैं साले इंगलिस झाड़ने - गाँड में दम नहीं, हम किसी से कम नहीं l

तू भी तो भेन्चोद उन्ही में से एक है l  कितनी girlfriend हैं तेरी?

He asked me with utter contempt, anticipating an affirmative in plural.

               To his chagrin I replied with polite disappointment- यार, एक भी नहीं है l He paused for a moment, and in equally polite manner, held my shoulders and said- यार, तू एक काम कर l

क्या?, I asked with the anticipation of watching a girl undress, live.

His reply had never been so polite- चुल्लू में पेशाब कर, और डूब के मर जा l

To avoid embarrassment I suddenly ejaculated- तू शायरी अच्छी कर लेता है l

He was prompt. सुनेगा ? said he, and started without seeking my non-existent, faint approval.

              ले  जा अपना  हुस्न किसी  और  को  दे  दे,.

गालिब को  अपने  हाथ से  ही करार  आएगा l

…एक  और  सुन् … 

खुदा  ने  भी  क्या  ज़िन्दगी बनाई  है,

खुदा  ने  भी  क्या  ज़िन्दगी बनाई  है, 

जूगनू की गाँड  पे  भी  एक  बत्ती लगाई है l

I was smiling, amused. Then he said-

एक लतीफा सुन् l पसन्द न आए जनाब, तो मेरी जेब काट लेना  l

               I had almost forgotten about the money, but those last vocals made me nervous. They reminded me of the process my wretched self might have to go through, although unknowingly, at the hands of the mighty shayar.

Thankfully, he did not notice the signs of nervousness. Or had he, already?

He continued his joke-

एक आदमी अपनी बीवी से बोला – Sex हो जाए ?

बीवी बोली – नहीं, सर में दर्द है l

...Diamond जेवर ला दूँगा...

...नहीं...

...कार  ला  दूँगा...

...बोला ना, नहीं !...

साथ्  में  उनका  बेटा  सो  रहा था, वो  बोला -

डैडी  मेरी मार लो,  साइकिल ला देना l

              Ever confronted with a paradoxically hilarious joke?

Well ! The situation was it. I wanted to laugh, but the tension that had built around me was enough to suppress the heaviest bout of laughter on my part.

               And so, I laughed. It was probably the most gut wrenching laughter that came out of my humble self.

I began sweating, and suddenly remembered that i was the proud owner of two hands, none of which, I knew what to do with.

                So in order to escape the ignominy of the moment, I started to fiddle with my bag, illustrating a desperate search for something I wanted badly.

He asked me, क्या हुआ ?

कुछ  नहीं . I said, with a profoundly fake nonchalance. भूख  लग  रही  है .

               "तेरी  मताई  ने  बनाए  होंगे  और  ज़बरदस्ती  रख दिए  होंगे", he said, looking at the hindi-newspaper-wrapped paranthas I took out of the bag. My hands were feeling a good amount of weightlessness, out of nervousness. The newspaper was the smooth two page weekly attachment that came with a leading daily in UP. I unwrapped it.

               "मुझे sex सीन करने से कोई परहेज नहीं", read the headline with a barely clothed actress, her eyes inviting. Our hero's eyes were fixed, onto something else, brutally ignoring her.

              I unfolded the paranthas.

आम  का  अचार !, he said, getting overtly excited and displayed the never-seen-before greed in his eyes.

The first parantha looked dilapidated. The आम का अचार had annihilated it with its acidic contents.

ये  पहला वाला  मैं खाऊंगा…he said instantly. बडा  स्वाद  लगता है l...

ठीक  है …वैसे भी  मैं  ये  वाला  नहीं खाता …I lied. As a matter of fact, that used to be my favourite too. The bastard wasn't even sparing my food.

              This was a heartening development. It instantly metamorphosed his contempt, if any, towards me into a friendly gesture.

...to be continued...

pickpocket- III

                भेन्चोद: Never ever in my life did an expletive of that capacity sound so euphonic. I was enthralled at the detailed answers he gave to my nominal, terse queries. And the singularly pronounced expletive served as an icing on the cake.

The cuss word conceded he was going to be friendly. And hence, I was in the safe zone.

                तू क्या करता है ? He asked me nonchalantly.

ME: मैं engineering की तैयारी कर रहा हूँ (I'm preparing for engineering)

HIM: तो लोंडा engineer बनेगा, (so, the lad wants to be an engineer) 

I gave him a customary smile.

               HIM: भेन्चोद तुम रईसों का सही हिसाब है,  होशियार  हो  तो doctor, engineer बन ही जाते हो ...बुद्धि कम हो तो बाप का पैसा ...अरे, तुम्हारी तो रद्दी भी सोने के भाव बिकती है ...शादी में माल लौन्डिया मिले,  और माल मिले वो अलग ...(Motherfuckers...You rich people...Your futures are secured...intelligent ones become doctors, engineers; and the ones blessed with less grey matter inherit their patriarchal wealth...your faeces also sells for the price of gold...marriage provides you for a beautiful chick and the dowry is the icing on the cake)

               To an extent, he was right. And so, I could not retort to the ire he had sufficiently showered me with, predicating me as the sole representative of the rich-folk. Besides, I was in no condition to take an offence either. So, I decided to look at his friendly side instead-  the fact that he called me a bhenchod, that too, in good capacity.

I turned to him with an very interested and amused gaze-

ME:   तू कहाँ तक पढ़ा है ? (How long did you go to school)

HIM: पढ़ाई में तो ठीक था मैं l  हिन्दी, अंग्रेजी सब first class  थी ,  बस गणित ने गाँड मार ली l (I was good at academics...espcially literature...but mathematics was a menace to me)

भेन्चोद भिन्नें देखते ही पेट  खराब होने लगता था …और  हर  सवाल  में भिन्न  भिन्न  प्रकार  की  भिन्नें ….

अरे  भेन्चोद !  ये  तो  अनुप्रास  अलंकार  बन  गया …(Equations never suited to my health...and every question used to have various equations)

              Now, अनुप्रास अलंकार is a technical term in Hindi literature, and hearing it was a pleasant surprise.

I did not have a propensity for mathematics as much I had a penchant for literature, especially Hindi.

I promptly nodded my head and chuckled, giving him a familiar look. I could well identify with him, at least in academic matters. Besides, I was secretly marveling at his intelligence (read grasp over the Hindi language)

              फिर ?,(then) I asked, genuinely interested; my curiosity going a notch higher.

फिर(then)…He paused for a moment, lifting his head a bit.

कक्षा आठ  में  मास्टर  की लोंडिया से  इश्क  हो  गया l और  मेरा  बाप  पराई औरत  के  संग  भाग  गया l मताई  अकेली  पड  गई …

बस  वहीं से  मेरा  पतन शुरु  हो  गया …(fell in love with a teacher's daughter in class eighth...and my father ran away with a neighbour's wife...my mother and I were deserted...thus started my downfall)

I could see his face turning pale as he said that.

                Some moments overwhelm you in such massiveness that it is hard to express your feelings in words. And here I was, with a heavy heart, grappling for words. I felt like burying myself, then and there.

I mustered up some courage to look at him and say something.

I observed he was thinking, as if reminiscing his past, and decided not to disrupt him.

After a while, suddenly his face lit up; and, in a very soft tone he spoke-

               भेन्चोद !  लौन्डिया  थी  बहुत  प्यारी  वो l भक्क  सफेद … छू  लो  तो  निशान  पड  जाए l(she was a really beautiful chick, skin plain white, so soft...touch her, and she'll melt..)

हंसती  थी  तो  गालों  पे  गढ़ढ़े  पड़ते थे  l बाल  हमेशा  उलझे हुए l(Her smile accentuated the dimples on her cheek...her hair always messy)

एक  लट हमेशा  परेशान  करती थी उसे l कभी - कभी  वो  फूंक  मार  कर उडाती थी उसे……(a strand of hair used to fall over her cheek...and she would blow it with her soft lips) 

मास्टर  था  तो बहुत  पैसे  वाला, तीन मन्जिल की कोठी थी उसकी…लेकिन… लड़की  होने  की  वजह  से  उसे  सरकारी  स्कूल  में  पढ़ाता था  और  भेन्चोद  लौन्ड़े को  इंगलिस मिडियम में  डाला हुआ था l(her father was rich, he lived in a huge bunglaw...but because she was a girl he had put her in a municipal school and her brother in a highbrow convent school)

सारे  लौन्ड़े  इन्टरवल  में  खेलने निकल जाते  थे,  और  मैं  क्लास  में  बैठ कर  उसके  बाल  कंघी  किया  करता था l(In the lunchbreak i used to comb her hair)

…"तेरे  ये  बाल  काट  दूंगा  किसी  दिन” (I'll cut your hair someday, i used to tease her)

“…जा जा...  गणित में पास  हो  ले  पहले … बडा आया बाल काट्ने वाला …तेरे चक्कर में हर बार मेरा पेपर छूट जाता  है …”(and she'd say, go and improve your mathematics, rather than thinking all day about cutting my hair...I can't finish my maths paper just because of you)

               एक  दिन  मैं उसके लिए वो पतली वाली राकेट-नुमा कुल्फी ले कर आया l क्लास में कोई नहीं था l(one day I brought her that slim, rocket shaped ice cream. The class was empty)

…”वाह  जी  वाह …बाप  से  पैसे  चुरा  कर  कुल्फी  मैं  ले  के  आया  और  मज़े  तू ले  रही  है …थोडी  सी  तो  चखा  दे” …

वो  वोली- “हिम्मत  है  तो  बिना  छीने  चख के  दिखाओ …(I said, How mean you are...I bring you an ice-cream with my hard stolen money from my dad, and you can't even give a bite. She said, If you have guts then take a bite without snatching it.)

फिर (then)?

फिर... मैने एक  हाथ से  उसका  सर  पकड़ा और  दूसरे  हाथ  से  उसका  हाथ …और  थोडी ही  देर  में …(I held her by her head, ...and within no time... )

दुनिया  में  सिर्फ  तीन  चीजें नज़र आ  रही  थी  - उसके  होंठ , मेरे  होंठ , और  बीच  मैं  बेचारी  एक  पतली  सी  कुल्फी …कुल्फी  तो  सिर्फ एक  बहाना  थी …(It were only three things in this world- her lips, my lips, and an ice-cream between them...ice-cream was just an accessory to touch our lips)

फिर ?(then)

फिर  क्या  था , कुल्फी  वाले  का  रोज़ का एक customer और  बढ़  गया …(then, the ice-cream seller got a new regular customer in me)

फिर  एक दिन मास्टर ने हम दोनो को कुल्फी खाते देख लिया...(and then, one day her father saw us having the ice-cream together)

और  फिर सब खतम हो गया , सालों ने मुझे स्कूल से निकाल दिया l(...and then it all ended...they expelled me from school)

...to be continued...

pickpocket- II

                The moment I heard about his (note)worthy profession I started feeling a sense of gastric discomfort around him.

               “Pickpockets can smell money”, was my mother’s catchphrase while discussing the much sought after profession in and around my native place.

Talented individuals from our area migrated to metro cities to pursue an illustrious and lucrative career in pick-pocketing.

              Whenever I set out to travel she never missed an opportunity to remind me of the amazing power of smell they were blessed with, often drawing parallels with the smelling power of dogs.

             “They can rip you off your pocket belongings without you even noticing it.” Some of them are so efficient that you keep a 100 rupee note in a pocket diary, no matter which pocket it is, the diary will survive- minus the currency”. These were random quotes I had heard in honor of the hardworking, slick professionals .

              Given his calm and collected demeanor I began to become sure of his expertise.

The best ones in any profession are the ones who can pull off their job effortlessly, I had read somewhere.

               Gloom started to dawn upon my brain. And nature followed too, as if calibrating itself to my mood. The sun had already set, and darkness was creeping in, slowly every moment.

               I had read this about human psychology  that no-one bothers to/can figure out what goes on in your mind unless you do something unusual (read body language) to trigger off an alarm in the person’s mind. That unusual body language serves as the smell to an already alarmed mind of a pickpocket, I inferred, remembering my mother’s catchphrase.

              I started to hunt for reasons why should he not be suspecting me…Or, had he successfully put to use his power of smell, already busy making plans…?

              I realized, there is no reason a person with more than sufficient amount of grease should be in jail. This singularly lamentable reality of Incredible India was working to my advantage. It lifted my spirits. I made myself thoroughly convinced- I DO NOT have the money.

Afterall, one has to believe himself in order to make others believe him.

            The dimly flickering bulb’s sincere efforts to light up broke me from my reverie. I made a fleeting glance at him from the corner of my eye. He had this tranquil carelessness about him which was rare. I was impressed, enough to butt-in in the silence that prevailed after the shenanigans of the mighty 200 watt bulb.

            नाम  क्या  है  तेरा ? , I asked with the right amount of curiosity the moment warranted.

He felt a minor jolt in his train of thoughts.

           After a momentary pause he replied in a languorous tone- यार, नाम में  क्या  रखा है , काम  देखो,  काम ! अपने  इलाके  का  सबसे  first class जेबकतरा हूँ l (O man, what's in a name, what matters is how good I am at what I do!, I'm the best pickpocket you'll find in the area.

….भाईसाब,  एक  उसूल  है  मेरा -  कभी  किसी  गरीब  की  जेब  नहीं  काटी , और  भेन्चोद*  किसी  रईस को  छोड़ा भी  नहीं l(Mister, I go by one principle- never lay your hands on a poor man's money and never spare a rich one)

His voice going a notch or two higher, probably with indignation, in the last part.

             Now that was one helluva of a statement. It made the bells ringing in my mind. I was wondering  which catgory does he put me into- the rich, or the poor. And hopelessly wishing for the latter.

              I was pitched against the best in the business, and there was no stepping down. But his opening up to me about his widely recognized profession on a personal basis indicated that he wanted to make a friend; and I was already perceiving him an adversary. It felt strange. How, often we misjudged people.

ME: कुछ  तो  नाम  होगा  तेरा  जो  पुलिस  रजिस्टर  में  दर्ज  होगा …(c'mon you must be having a name, atleast in the police registers)

HIM: भाईसाब  ऐसा कोई  रजिस्टर पैदा  नहीं  हुआ   जिसमे  मेरा  नाम  दर्ज  हो  सके ….वैसे लल्ली नाम  है  मेरा l(Mister there's no register that can bear my name...by the way my name is 'lalli')

ME: ये  तो  लड़कियों  वाला  नाम  है l(quite a feminine name that is)

HIM: तू  भेन्चोद  बाल  की खाल  निकालता है ……मेरा  नाम  ललित  है …बचपन  से  मताई*  लल्ली  बुलाती है, बाप  ललित  बुलाता  था l लोग  भी  लाड़* से  वही बुलाने  लगे …और  प्यार  से  दी  हुई  चीज़  को  लल्ली  कभी  नहीं  ठुकराता l(The mutherfucker pays a lot attention to details...my name is Lalit....since childhood mother calls me Lalli and Father used to call me Lalit...And then people started calling me that affectionately...and Lalli never refuses an affectionate gift)

            Instantly, I reminisced those several light arguments with my mother, which I thought were a waste of time an energy, completely overlooking the affection. A major lesson learnt. If your parents bore you, try to see the gallons of affection the otherwise tasteless glass of milk they offer you instead of beer.

…to be continued...

pickpocket (based on a true incident)

            And there I was, escorted by two GRP (railway) policemen. Their bellies making a desperate effort to kiss the barely busy platform buzzing with the euphonic chirping of birds.

            Sir, कितनी देर में छोड देंगे ?(how long) , I mumbled with the absolute naiveté of  a fledgeling. I got no response, both of them busy minding their leisurely waltz.

            Some ten steps later one of them unexpectedly opened his orifice, euphemistically referred to as mouth.

            'कोठे पे जा रहा है और 'ठुकाई' से डर रहा है ? TTE को एक- डेढ हज़ार दे देता तो हमें तेरी दलाली नहीं करनी पडती'(going to a whorehouse and already  afraid of getting screwed? Had you bribed the TTE some 1000-1500 rupees we wouldn't be pimping you around)

The other one seemed amused by the metaphorical comment  as  if experiencing a secret orgasm.

            We entered through an almost broken down gate of a badly maintained small town railway police station. I was asked to stay in the verandah. Both of them disappeared for a moment, later showing up with another policeman in civil clothes.

He asked me in a stiff but polite tone, तू तो पढ़ा-लिखा लग रहा है , अच्छे घर से है ...चल हज़ार रुपय दे और चलता बन l(you look educated and from a well-to-do family...c'mon cough up 1000 rupees, we'll let you go)

             A fit of frightful jitters ran down my spine. I could not speak a word. It seemed as if I had consumed   a spoonful of sawdust. I was actually carrying 15,000 rupees (in denominations of 500). 

I had stuffed the money in a secret pocket of my pants surrogately positioned near the side pocket.

Fumbling, I took out the lone 100 rupee note i had in my wallet. He was not impressed.

            Having failed at getting any positive response, he kind of gave up on me. अन्दर डाल दो इसको(put him in), said he, while sauntering towards the main gate.

            I had this smattering of information, from family and experienced friends, that usually they keep you for 24 hrs. and let you go, no strings attached.

            In my mind I was getting myself prepared for the hardships of prison life, albeit for 24 hrs, rather than parting with my money. Although they had demanded a fraction of it, I was afraid, if they happen to see the treasure of  rectangular green leaves I was carrying, their greed might get a promoted, and I might as well end up losing all I had.

            24 hours in the lock-up seemed a good idea from the beginning. And I felt myself patting my own back for the wise decision when I saw that the cell was almost empty except for one seemingly skeletal figure.

He must have been 18 yrs old, almost my age, and skin, a shade darker than me.

            I got inside and tried to figure out where to place my superior self as there were no benches. He was lying down, knees folded, one hand peacefully resting on his chest, the other acting as a pillow to his calm and composed head.

            I unloaded my hitherto loaded back and tried to dust off the area near his head with the help of my bag.  He probably sensed my presence and made a face while getting up; and sat beside me. He looked seemingly harmless, so I was comfortable sitting beside him.

            Now, it was the question of breaking ice between us. After about ten minutes he broke the silence and asked me-

तू तो साफ सुथरा लग रहा है , अन्दर कैसे ? (you look clean, how did you end up here?)

ME:   बिना टिकिट reservation में बैठा था l (was sitting in the reservation compartment without ticket)

HIM:  अबे 100-200 रुपये दे कर रफा-दफा कर लेता l(should have settled it by bribing 100-200 rupees)  

ME:   1000 रुपये मांग रहा था साला l (the bastard was asking 1000) 

HIM:  अबे, मोल-तोल भी कोइ चीज़ होती है ?  ...खैर तेरी गलती नहीं है ...तेरी शकल बता रही है के तू हज़ार वाला customer है l (dude, there's something called 'negotiation'?...Though it was not your fault...your face says it all- that you're a 1000 rupee customer) 

         Two minutes of silence followed in the condolence of my 1000 rupees worth face failing to save face and ending up in a prison.

Out of curiosity I couldn’t resist my urge to ask him-

तो तेरे पास भी पैसे नहीं थे TTE को देने के लिए ? (you too didn't have enough to bribe the TTE?)

He replied- नहीं.....मेरे पास पैसे थे......और, कुछ ज्यादा ही थे  l (no...I had money...and, far more than enough)

ME: (making a quizzical face) मतलब ?(as in?)

HIM: (with utter calmness and the right mix of composure) मैं एक जेबकतरा हूँ  l( I'm a pickpocket.)

...to be continued...