The Good Samaritan

“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.

Green! Yellow! Red!

Beep… beep… beep… beep…

The only sound which was audible in the eerily silent white chamber was that of the flickering yellow line on the green screen. It seemed like a dry, humourless metaphor; green and yellow – 2 colours on a screen to show that life was still left, that the sun hadn’t settled for one final time yet. Green and yellow, two colours which are always followed by Red – the colour of danger, the colour of the devil, the colour of blood, and the colour which denotes cessation. And red there was aplenty; in bottles hanging from metal hooks; in the tubes connecting the bottles to the body; in the roses decorating the side table; in the eyes of the nurses. 

Everyone you know wants you to come out of the hospital after a point of time, one way or the other. The doctors are tired of treating you; the nurses are fed up of feeding you; the family is heartbroken seeing you suffer; you are tired of waiting for death to slowly crawl by your bedside and hold you with the grip of its cold fingers. The waiting game is the devil’s most ingenious ploy. Death does not strike when you are least expecting it; it does not strike when you want it to; it does not strike when you have given-up on life itself. It strikes when you become hopeful again; when you think that since you have not died yet, the ailment might be treated. 

Hospital gives you a lot of time to think, to introspect, to recall all your regrets, to relive all the heartbreaks, to start considering your whole life an utter failure. When they have replaced all the blood that flowed in your body with bottled fluids; when they have sapped you of all the energy left in your muscles; when they have taken out all the positivity from inside you, you are left for death to come and claim what remains of your body. 

The beeps were starting to come less frequently with the passage of every second. The silence between two beeps becoming unbearable. Silence so long, that you can do anything to hear a noise; but you cannot make any noise on your own. The air was starting to choke in the throat; the head was becoming lighter; the spit in the back of the mouth which I could not swallow, no matter how hard I tried; the uneasiness in the stomach. I wanted to cry, to call for help, to ask the doctor if this was it. I wanted to be held in the embrace of the love of my life. I wanted someone to sing me the hymn of Gods. All I could manage to do was smile. 

And then the final beep!

Unfathomable Love

(Read the prequel here: Inscrutable Love)

“I’m on my way to pick you up. See you soon! :)”

Received at 19:01

I read the text message feeling both excited and dreadful. The last month or two had passed in absolute darkness between us. We had not met, as he was touring, and I did not even try as much as to call him during this time. It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder; it was the exact opposite in our case. While I wanted to become sure about my feelings towards him during this hiatus, I was hoping that our bond will grow stronger by the end of it. I was hopeful that the distance and silence would strengthen the threads of love that were slowly binding me with him. Such was not the case.

His words were the sole reason I felt attracted towards him. Once those stopped to flow, I had nothing else to hold on to him. Every day of silence, was making me drift further away from him, and after a few days I was already too far away to even reminisce about him unconsciously. The vacuum that the absence of his words had created in my heart was soon filled by the charcoal smothered fingers of an artist. I first met the sketch artist at an exhibition, and soon again at my friend’s party, and then at the City Square, and so on. But I did not want the night to be about me or my new interests in life.

He had picked the perfect place to meet after such a long time. We were to have dinner at my favourite restaurant. The night was to be about him, about his tour, his experiences in the foreign land, about the people he had met. I did not want him to feel that things had changed. For all I knew, the sketch artist might just be another traveler you meet in this journey of life, who does not contribute anything meaningful or lasting to our journey.

I chose a blue coloured dress and white stilettoes; I left my hair open; and wore minimal make-up. I was ready in less than fifteen minutes and decided to walk down and wait at the lobby. I was playing the evening in my head the way I wanted it to go. We would walk in the restaurant, holding hands, chuckling at his witty humour and looking deep into his starry eyes. He would narrate all his stories and I would simply float in his soothing river of words. I saw the white lights of his sedan as he pulled up in the driveway. I started walking towards the car when he got off to open the door for me. He was looking ravishing in a black jacket over a pair of blue denims and a white shirt. He had a perfectly trimmed beard and was wearing very woody cologne. I could not resist the urge to kiss him this time, and I gave him a small peck on the cheek.

As we sat down on our tables, the corner one which overlooked the city, I realised how comfortable he made me feel. I was not pretending to be someone I was not in front of him, because I was always lost in his words, too disoriented to even think about how to impress him. As we placed our orders, he presented me a small, gift-wrapped, box. It was one of the most beautiful looking diamond pendants I had ever seen. I was too excited to accept it gracefully. I hurriedly put it back in the same box and handed it to him. I looked in his eyes and saw the love it contained for me. I felt ashamed and embarrassed to have tried to replace his love with someone else’s attention and affection. The honesty in his eyes, which confessed his love so effortlessly, left me feeling belittled.

I decided to tell him everything about the new guy I had met and make him understand how stupid and little I was feeling now. He was visibly hurt at my acceptance of trying to replace him in my life. He went absolutely quiet and I kept giving explanations. After a point of time, he wasn’t even listening to me; he was lost somewhere, comparing the evening to what he had expected it to be. I do not know if he was able to understand how much I loved him. I could not spell out the words clearly; I was too ashamed to express myself after being with someone else for a month. We ate the last of our food in silence; his eyes showing hurt and mine showing embarrassment. 


(Read the sequel here: Abstruse Love)

Peshawar

इस मैदान में खेला करते थे,

हम सब गेंद और बल्ले से । 

आज यहाँ पर खेला गया,

जाने कितनों के बचपन से ॥ 

सुनाई पड़ती थी यहाँ दिन भर,

वह पाठ याद करने की कोशिशें । 

आज यहाँ एक अजीब सन्नाटा है,

इन दीवारों ने सोख ली सब चीखें ॥ 

रँग-भरे हाथों से,

हम बनाते थे यहाँ तस्वीरें । 

हमारे लहू के रँग से,

इन्होने लिखी आज की ताज़ा खबरें ॥ 

जिन्हे अच्छे-बुरे की पहचान तक नहीं,

उन्हें अपने बंदूकों का निशाना बनाया । 

कितना गर्व महसूस हुआ होगा,

जब बच्चों की लाशों पर आतंक का ध्वज लहराया ॥ 

क्या कहोगे अपने खुदा को जाकर,

"तेरे लिए बेगुनाहों को मारा है"?

किस जन्नत की ख्वाब लिए फिर रहे हो?

तुम्हारे लिए उसने जहन्नुम तक नहीं बनाया है ॥ 

~ सौरव गोयल 

Abduction

23 November, 2014

5:47 p.m.

Five days have passed but I do not think I am still okay. I still shiver when I recall the four nozzles that were jutted on the four sides of my torso. I haven’t yet come out of the trauma completely. The fear that is always haunting you when you’re aware that one wrong word, or a single wrong move, can cost you your life. I still need some time!

25 November, 2014

11:53 p.m.

I visited a psychiatrist today. I wanted professional help to come out of the shock. I have been advised by the doctor to recall every single detail of that evening and write it down, as it happened and how it made me feel, to deal with my mental stress.

“It was around 4:15 p.m. in the evening when I decided to visit the construction site of our new hotel. The date was 19 November, 2014, Wednesday and I was supposed to collect some papers from the labour contractor. I parked my car outside the boundary wall and got down from the car. I had almost reached the gates when suddenly two people from behind the wall in front of me, and two people from the rear surrounded me and touched the mouth of their four guns on all my four sides. I was shocked and I felt my heart-beat rising instantly. My mouth dried up and as I thought about raising an alarm, the man in front of me guided his finger to his lips signaling me to keep quiet. He had a look in his eyes which gave out a clear message that he will not hesitate before silencing me for life. I gulped back the scream still in my throat and raised both my arms, offering my surrender. 

The four people grabbed my shirt and dragged me around the corner of the street. Some five-six of their gang-members were waiting there making sure the whole act of hijacking me was not visible to anyone else. They joined us and formed a second layer of bodies around me. I could hardly see the turning and twisting lanes in front of me. Left, left, right, straight under a tin-shed and through some holes in a few broken walls and then as I tried to peep in front of me from above their heads, the man on my left punched me on the face. I do not remember what turns we took after that. The sudden blow had dazed me. I had never been hit that hard before, that too on the side of my head. My head was still ringing when they pushed me down on a rocky wooden chair and stood there staring at me. 

That was the time I realised how scared all of them were. They all looked younger than me; no more than eighteen, any one of them. One kid, who was unarmed, could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. They were confused and constantly arguing amongst themselves whether to gag me or leave me as I was. Looking at my scared and timid demeanour, they decided to let me be and called someone through their cellphone. The man who made the phone call was wearing a red-sleeveless jacket with a hood over a white full sleeve shirt and pair of navy-blue denim. I was taking mental notes of their appearances and tried to look at their faces but the winter evenings had caused the sun to set too early; their facial features were hardly visible in the dark corridor where I was being held captive. The man ended the phone call after receiving further instructions, probably from his boss, and came running towards me and asked me to empty my pockets. I took out my iPhone, my wallet, my handkerchief and a packet of cigarettes which someone snatched away from my hand immediately. I knew I needed to be calm and cooperate with them in everything they asked me to do. The man who had made the phone call snatched my wallet and started emptying it. He took my phone and kept it in his back-pocket. One man who was standing behind me grabbed my shoulder and pushed me down on the chair again; and asked me for my wrist watch. I complied politely and immediately. 

The man with the red hooded jacket made another phone call and received further instructions about how to proceed. It was a long conversation and no matter how hard I tried to listen to it, nothing was comprehensible; he was standing too far and talking in a strange dialect. After he disconnected the call, he approached me again and took out my phone from his back-pocket and asked for my father’s mobile number. I spoke out the numbers with shivering and stammering voice. Every breath of air which was coming out of my mouth was an effort and my throat felt dry and itchy. The call connected and he handed over the phone to me. “Hello, papa!” I said as he snatched back the phone and turned around to talk to my father. 

“Your son is with us,” he said, “we mean no harm to come to him or your family. We only want a percent of profit that you are minting from working in our country.”

There was a long silence; at least it felt really long to me. I cannot be sure whether it was a pause of four seconds or four minutes. My mind was rushing back to the ICU ward of the hospital in which my father was admitted not more than a year back. He had suffered a mild heart-attack and was under special care for almost a week. This news could be fatal for his health. I was scared out of my wits. I just wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to tell him that I was not scared. I wanted to tell him not to be scared. Just to comply with all their demands and bring me back to the safety of his house. 

“We want a sum of 1 million before midnight and in return we guarantee the safety and wellbeing of your son. He will be delivered once we receive the cash. Call back on his number when the sum is ready.”

Again silence followed as my father was talking to him. I knew it was impossible to arrange that amount of sum in such little time; that too after the working hours had ended. The banks would already be closed for the day and we never kept any cash money above the sum of a few thousands at home. The hooded man disconnected the phone and kept it in his pocket again. He made another phone call, this time through his own cellphone and was describing what events had taken place to his boss. I looked around myself and saw how absorbed everyone was listening to the phone call.

That is when I realised, looking at them, that they were all high. All those kids around me had used drugs. Their eyes were bloodshot red, wide open and their lips were patched and dry. They were high on ‘Yaba’, the local drug which was ruining the country, the youth. Yaba, which is a mixture of meth and caffeine, makes you fearless and energetic for as long as the high lasts, which can be anything between four hours to twenty-four hours depending upon the dosage. This is when I really started to panic; I knew that their mind would not be functioning normally right now. A single wrong move from my side, or anything which ticked them off could be fatal for me. They wouldn’t even think twice before emptying the magazines of their semi-automatic pistols on me. They were young kids, so addicted to the drug that they had gone down to the limit of kidnapping someone to get money to buy some more of that life-threatening drug. 

My phone rang and the hooded man put the phone on loudspeaker for me to hear the conversation.

“Hello… Hello… Are you there?” my father shouted from the other side of the phone. His voice was full of panic and fear. 

“Is the money ready?” answered my kidnapper. “Do you want to look at your son again?”

“All the banks are already closed but I know the manager well. He has promised to help me. I have a cash-credit limit and he can arrange for some money in half an hour. But one million is not possible right now. Try and understand! It is not easy to arrange for such a large sum in such a short time. You have to consider my difficulty. Please take half a million now and release my son. I will pay you more later.” I could hear the trembling voice of my father and almost see the tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“We have to buy four guns. To buy four guns, we need one million. If you pay half a million, we will be able to buy only two.” the hooded man shouted back. He was visibly tensed. Even he knew that one million could not be arranged so fast, but he knew he could not say this to his boss. He shuffled around the dark lane, thinking and measuring his options, and finally said yes to my father’s counter offer of half a million. “OK. Pay me half now. Come near the construction site and call me.”

He disconnected the call and kept the phone back in his pocket. He was furious at himself for accepting the offer with such ease. He came rushing towards me and slammed his hands hard against my chest. It was so sudden and so strong a blow that my chair toppled and I stumbled on the floor, face-first. No one laughed, and neither did anyone try to pick me up when I did not stand up on my own. I thought it was better to keep lying on the floor than to stand up and face the brunt of his drug infused anger. My mind was almost numb after the sudden attack; so was everyone else’s around me. Only the hooded man seemed to be in control of his thoughts and actions. The rest were walking zombies who had no idea what they were doing. They were numb and expressionless. I guess this angered the hooded man all the more because he could not even ask for advice from any of them. After holding my direct stare for a few seconds he went around the corner into the darkness of the alley. 

I stood back up after a few minutes and picked the chair to sit on it. There was restlessness in the air. They had not anticipated that it will take so long. They were getting impatient and most of them were walking around in circles trying to curb their anxiety. The hooded man came back shouting orders and grabbed the collar of my shirt and asked me to follow him out. After sitting there for so long, my knees were jammed. I stumbled when I was picked up all of a sudden and the hooded man kicked me at the back of the knee asking me to walk faster. They half-dragged, half-kicked me out of the maze of alleys and I was standing right outside the premises of our construction site. My father’s car was parked right behind my car. He got down from the backseat of the car with a bag. The driver also got down from the side of the driving wheel with a bag in his hand. Both of them approached us cautiously, my father never taking his eyes off me; scanning my body for any injury marks. The hooded man took one step ahead, grabbed the bag from my father and flung it to one of the boys. He took the other bag from the driver and walked past me, sneering at me with discontent. “Go!” he said, and disappeared in the alley we had all come from. 

I ran across to my father and hugged him tight. He kissed me on the forehead, on the cheek, on the chin and asked the driver to take me to the car. He then took out his cell phone and made a phone call. Within the next ten seconds, the place was abuzz with sirens and tyre-screeches. Some twenty-odd police vehicles surrounded the place and there were dozens of policemen sprinting inside the alleys. Two police officers approached my father and whispered something in his ears. He smiled a sad smile and looked over his shoulder to meet my gaze. 

Bang! Bang! Bang! I heard three shots which were followed by a long silence. A policeman came running from the alley with the two bags at his sides. My father took one bag and kept it inside the car and he gave the other bag to the police officers who were still standing beside him. All three men shook their hands and we bid goodbye.”