“One person in India dies every four minutes due to a road accident- the highest recorded in any country. But the Law Commission of India says 50% of these victims can be saved if they get timely medical attention.” he cringed, as he read the news article.
“Why is it so hard to provide medical attention to people who have met with an accident in front of so many bystanders? Can no one call an ambulance or give the dying man a lift to the hospital? Clearly, we are capable of displaying such small amounts of humanity and sympathy; are we not?” he asked himself. This was a rational way of thinking, given he came from an educated family with values, morals and an understanding of their ethical and social responsibilities. “If I ever saw a person who needed my help, I would go out of my way to provide him with it” he said, reassuringly to himself.
He went on and shared the news article on Facebook, adding the caption ‘Let us take a vow to reduce these figures by 50%’ to the story. He felt rather pleased and satisfied with himself. He was sure he had helped the society by spreading awareness, thus justifying his Ivy League diplomas. He then tweeted, ‘Next time you see an ambulance in your rear-view mirror, imagine your father being in it. Give it the priority to pass. #RoadSafetyWeek’
He kept his mobile phone aside, with a smile on his face and a sense of accomplishment in his eyes. He got up to get ready for office. He took out a clean and hard-pressed white shirt, a pair of black trousers, his Mont-Blanc leather belt, a pair of black socks and his shoes. Arranged them neatly on his bed and went in the bathroom to take his shower. He took the keys of his Mercedes after getting ready and drove the white sedan out his driveway. It was a hot and sunny day and the beige leather seats shone in the sun. He took the highway towards his factory and was happy to notice he had avoided the office rush-hour by leaving 45 minutes early.
He cruised by open fields, listening to Bob Dylan singing Like a Rolling Stone, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, lost in the melody of the singer’s voice. “How does it feel, ah how does it feel? To be on your own” he was singing along, while driving down the empty roads when suddenly out of nowhere a cow jumped on the road from behind a tree. He steered right in an attempt to save the cow and rammed the car into the motorcycle coming from the opposite direction. He saw as the rider flew from the seat, landing shoulder-first on the tarmac, sliding for about twenty-five feet before coming to a halt. He could see a trail of blood following the motionless body. He sat there gripping his steering wheel tightly; numb and frozen like a dismembered organ. He couldn’t feel his legs, his heart was beating at an enormous speed but he still felt as if the blood wasn’t flowing through his veins. The thought of stepping down of the car and running towards the injured man lying half-dead on the road, ten metres from him, crossed his mind a couple of times, but he could not muster up the courage to do so. He saw a group of men descending from a passing pick-up truck to help the injured man. He lifted his right hand from the wheel and clicked the button to roll down the window. He could hear the commotion as the crowd tried to lift the injured man back to his feet. He grabbed the wheel with his shaking hands again and sped towards the highway exit ramp.
“With no direction home. Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone” Bob Dylan kept singing.
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