He sat outside the mahogany door of the Boardroom, his palms perspiring and his heart racing faster than his feet had ever run. The executive floor of the corporation he worked for did not entertain any of the glass and chrome rubbish meted out to their employees on the lower floors. The top brass were puritans, classicists, aesthetes; they played everything by the book – no exceptions. The corridor, outside the room, was filled with a bevy of hushed employees – none of whom noticed him as they whisked by. He was confident that they could see his furrowed brows and nervous twitch of a smile, but it would take a courageous fool to stop and take notice of the most recent pariah.
‘I have gone from being a shining star to a squalid mongrel that is surveyed with shifty eyes, lest the eye of authority be turned upon the steadfast gazer – to exact on the associated a foul vengeance.’
As he formulated these lines in his mind, Nishanth let out a wry chuckle. Even in times of trouble such as these, he was thinking in stray lines which he found poetic. At that moment he knew, he would never doubt again; his love to write. Either way, he knew he might not have much of an option, after today, but to write for a living. Would he ever get another chance to work among the saintly suits? In all probability, his credibility and reputation as a respectable professional would be brought crashing to the ground - in a matter of fifteen minutes.
Nishanth had never imagined that his first visit to the Boardroom would be under such tense circumstances. The committee sat inside discussing his case. He had deposed in front of the ten member panel and made his statement, to prepare which he had twisted in his sleep for two nights prior - thinking about what he should say and admit to. A host of credible lies had presented themselves to him and he had readily grasped them. In the span of those two nights, as he had prepared a fairytale peppered with facts, his mind had constantly flittered to the past courtships of danger he had scraped through – dodging the bullets by a hair’s breadth. Lies had been his sole ammunition against the heavy artillery of fact, but he had masterfully maneuvered his well oiled weapon to effectively deploy his ammunition and emerge the victor. He was a prodigious liar; he had embraced his strength with open arms.
As he sat there, amidst the hustle and bustle of buzzing employees and his whirring mind, a nostalgic glint came to his eyes at the thought of the night he had first embraced this hitherto hidden talent. He had cheated and manipulated a few times before that fateful night, but had never found the need to do so maliciously. For a boy who had been about to finish his schooling, he had been pretty darn good at hoodwinking the world.
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As the bright red sun descended, over a sky of shifting hues and into the sparkling blue sea, they rode up the sandy road on two rickety scooters. The road was lined with makeshift huts on one side and beach sands on the other, gradually morphing into the sea. The four boys shared two things amidst them – the mysterious contents of their solitary backpack and a general air of nervous excitement. The entourage drew curious gazes from the fisher folk, who inhabited the area, as affluent boys conversing in English were not a common sight in this particular slum. Those who saw them go by gave a shake of the head and sigh of bemusement, as if collectively saying that the morons on the scooters had managed to be party to the world’s worst kept secret. No one came all the way to the Broken Bridge, unless they wanted to do something the world outside would be aghast with - be it underage drinking or premeditated murder. The boys, however, rode on - completely oblivious to the stares. As they turned their scooters off the sandy road and on to a rickety track, a little boy watched them from behind arid shrubs - while deploying his feces on to the sand. As he watched curiously, the scooters took a curve in the path and disappeared behind a line of overgrown brambles. He heard the sound of the scooter’s engines as they faded away into the distance. A few minutes later, the noise of the engines ceased. Silence was supreme, but for the sound of the waves and the wind.
By the time the little boy got done attending to his daily evening purge, the sun had almost disappeared into the sea. He pulled on his tattered shorts, which were his only article of clothing and looked up – a flying hand slapped him tightly across the face, sending him reeling to the ground. He looked up, with tears in his eyes, to see his elder brother and his gang of boisterous friends standing around and laughing. Speaking in Tamil his brother asked him, ‘Otha Punda, how do you manage to make the entire street smell with every shit?’ This baseless question was followed by another round of raucous laughter from the gang, as they shoved the little boy around a couple of times. The little boy looked around helplessly, seething with anger yet powerless to strike out. He burst into tears and pelted from the spot, running towards his hut. As he streaked past with snot and tears streaming down his dark face, the laughter followed him in even greater degree. His brother yelled out something indiscernible and the laughter doubled as the little boy sobbed and ran. After running to a spot where there was an Idli shop with adults in it, he stopped to turn and look at the bullies. He controlled his sobs, wiped the snot off his face and saw the gang of seven boys take the rickety road which led to the broken bridge. He cast every abuse he knew on their deaf ears. After substantially debasing them, he turned and ran like the wind – to find sympathy from some quarter. Two Police constables, who had been standing next to him and gorging on their free Idlis, expelled sardonic snorts and shifted their eyes back to the aggressors. They saw the last of them turn the corner of the rickety path. ‘Poor kid’, one of them commented in Tamil, ‘those boys should be taught not to mess with young kids.’ ‘Ummmm….Yeah, we’ll go deal with them.’ the other constable drawled, ‘First finish your Idlis and tea. We’ll give them a lil’ scare, after that. Porikki pasanga.’ Both constables settled down to finish their tiffin.
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The two scooters were parked at the end of the rickety path, just off the Broken Bridge; on the bridge sat the owners of the scooters. They each held a near empty bottle of beer and an exhausted chillum lay on the floor between them. ‘Let’s chug the last bit of beer’ said Nishanth. The suggestion was immediately seconded by Vikas and reluctantly agreed to by Sanjay and Sowmyan. They chugged, laid down their beers and, gradually, looked to the horizon to see the fast disappearing sun with their glazed eyes.
‘Maams, we’ll leave?’ asked Sanjay abruptly. ‘The exam is at 8 tomorrow morning. We’ll sleep early and wale up without a hangover. Plus, it’s getting dark and -’ ‘Chill the fuck out, bugger’, Nishanth cut in lazily, ‘You won’t get a hangover from one beer and a little pot. We’ll chill here for half an hour and go. Let the high settle down and we’ll scoot. Cool?’ ‘Yeah….. cool’, Sanjay said reluctantly. Soon, all four boys lapsed into their solitary trips – no one knew or cared about what the other was thinking. Peace descended on their minds, and the surroundings, as the ganja enabled them to silently contemplate things they had never before fathomed. All eight eyes were blank and distant.
All of a sudden, Vikas jerked violently and unsettled the rest. They all tensed up and looked at Vikas, who was still staring into the distance but with his eyes focused on the path. ‘I see someone coming’ he said in a tensed whisper ‘It looks like a bunch of boys. Slum boys.’ All four boys craned their necks in an effort to see. The gang of boys was hardly fifty meters from the scooters. Nishanth got up, lined the empty bottles of beer to one side and shoved the bag of marijuana into his pocket. ‘Let’s go’, he said ‘these boys seem stupid enough to pick a fight over nothing. Uncouth fuckin’ halfwits!’ He moved down towards the scooter at a brisk pace, with a determined look on his face and a frightened gleam in his eyes. The three boys followed him like rattled puppies, with their tails between their legs. Vikas walked rigidly to Nishanth’s right, one step behind him, while Sanjay and Sowmyan skulked and followed a few paces behind Nishanth, with their eyes sweeping the ground for nothing in particular. Sanjay had a petrified look on his bent face and was muttering something feverishly under his breath. All four of the boys were filled with bravado when in their protected spheres, but they knew so little about the outside world that they feared it immensely. The thought that Nishanth was equally ignorant and clueless never crossed their minds. They were willing to agree with anything he said, as long as he was willing to take responsibility for getting them out of the sticky situation.
At the sight of the slum boys standing near their scooters, they automatically assumed that they were facing dire trouble and this fear of trouble fuelled varied reactions in them. As they walked to the end of the bridge, two of them wanted to flee while two were prepared to fight - with a bunch of slum boys younger than them, who they saw as dangerous only because of a few fundamental differences; in appearance, language and conduct. Due to the stigmas and biases they had been nurtured on, the boys feared anything that didn’t abide by their way of life. They felt bad for being better off, but they didn’t want to alleviate the condition of the boys from the slum – they wanted that strata of society to disappear, so that they wouldn’t have to feel guilty. If they had been exposed to the harsher side of the world, their reactions might have been different. However, this was the prevalent condition of most boys in their time and place – they replaced empathy with forced apathy and violence. They considered poverty to be a detestable plague when it was flaunted in their faces.
The motley slum crew was on the scooters, playacting a race, when the boys got off the bridge. To the detached observer, this would’ve been a scene of children finding joy in simple things which were a rarity to them. However, all that Nishanth and his friends saw was an act of malice and taunting – a play of power over them. The slum boys had not observed the silent owners of the scooters skulking towards them in the dark, as they were having a riot with the scooters. The four mildly inebriated boys observed with evident anger and contempt. The first one to notice the bourgeoisie boys was the runt of the litter, who was standing next to Nishanth’s scooter and incessantly honking. He looked up and took note of the irate stares coming his way. The runt was not daunted by their stares; he stepped out boldly and, in Tamil, asked ‘What are you assholes looking at? Move your butt and get out of here!’ The intimidating stares had inspired defiance and courage in him. ‘You get the fuck out of here, motherfucker. Get your dirty asses of our bikes.’ Nishanth retorted in his crassest Tamil. He had managed to hit a sensitive spot – a latent anger because of the tone of superiority the affluent boys afforded. The runt resented being addressed with condescension. He knew his crew had no right to be sitting on the bikes, but refused to give in to the arrogance being dished out. He gave a loud cry and rushed at Nishanth, who easily pushed him away with one hand. The boy stumbled back a few steps and fell harshly on his backside, yelling loudly.
A moment of tension ensued as the cheerful boys playing with the scooters lapsed into silence at the sight of their fallen comrade. In the next instant, the entire crew jumped off the scooters and came surging forward in full force, yelling at the top of their voices. Nishanth and his friends backed away and shouted out for the boys to stop. For a couple of seconds, a fight seemed imminent. All of a sudden, a roaring shout to stop came from the epicenter of the storm that was brewing. The slum boys stopped in their tracks and looked towards the source of the noise. The leader of this motley crew, who had bullied his brother, looked at the boys behind him and repeated the order to stop in a quite but firm voice. He was by no means the biggest, oldest or strongest amongst them, but he had an air of confidence which none of the others possessed. The tension resumed as the leader of the slum boys stepped out of the gang and directed his gaze at Nishanth – who tried to match the gaze.
‘Thevidiya paiya. Why did you hit him?’ he asked Nishanth in a tangent of Tamil peculiar to the slums of Madras. For a second, Nishanth was dumbstruck; he absorbed the unwarranted abuse and stumbled into his reply with ‘He…he came running….I asked him to move and he came to hit us…..I didn’t hit him – I pushed him and he fell….’ Without warning, the leader leapt in front and gave Nishanth a ringing slap on his face. Nishanth’s head flew to one side, but he was too shocked to respond in kind. He had never been in a real fight before – he had always circumvented issues using the gift of the gab. This was an unprecedented situation. He turned and stared at the boy, eyes wide with amazement. He wanted to hit back, but was paralyzed with fear; his friends remained silent, observing the encounter as though uninvolved spectators. Nishanth could taste a hot, metallic liquid trickling from his gums. He swallowed and realized that it was blood. ‘You hit one of ours and we hit one of yours. That’s it. Dai Saamy, are you hurt? Come, get up.’ the leader told the runt who was still on the ground.
As he moved towards Saamy the runt, a certain pride enveloped his features. He was quite kicked with himself for dealing with this situation the way he’d seen his father handle fights, but he wanted to surpass his father’s ability. He picked up Saamy, dusted him off and checked his hands and knees for scrapes. He knew that Saamy had injuries, which he had got playing that day. As soon as he spotted the wound, he let out a high pitched proclamation ‘Omaaley! Saamy is hurt. Three fucking wounds! Thaioli pasangala!’ As soon as he let out this cry, his crew joined in with blood curdling screams – they had frightened the pampered rabbits. Once again, the leader gave a commanding shout to stop and the boys halted. This time it seemed a little less genuine; the boys had caught on to their leader’s game.
The leader, with his best air of serious contemplation, walked up to Nishanth and told him, ‘Look, you hit Saamy and I hit you. Saamy is hurt and needs medicine. The boys are pissed off, but they’ll calm down if you give me hundred bucks, get on your scooter and go.’ Nishanth looked at him in confusion, defiance creeping back to his face. In a raised squeaky voice, he said ‘I am bleeding as well. You give me money…..That guy’s wounds are dried up. Don’t try to –‘Nishanth was cut off by another resounding slap, which was accompanied by laughter from the crew. ‘Fucking bastard, I didn’t ask you to complain. Either give us hundred bucks or the entire slum will kick your ass.’ bluffed the leader with staggering confidence. On the contrary, he was confident that if he took this problem to the adults he would get a solid thrashing for fighting with outsiders. Nishanth was paralyzed with fear no longer, though; he was seething with rage. The second slap had roused a kind of anger he had never felt before in his life. For a few seconds, he just stared at the leader as he contemplated the route to vengeance and the route to a clean escape. His friends, from behind, started poking him; he could hear Sanjay muttering ‘Just give him hundred bucks and let’s leave. Let’s just go…’ He could also feel the eyes of all the boys watching him intently – waiting for him to make a move. Nishanth’s gaze, however, was transfixed on the smug, triumphant smile playing around the lips of the leader. He knew he had beaten Nishanth; he knew he had won this battle. For the leader and his crew, the hundred rupees was merely an unspoken symbol of victory over a class of people who dominated over them and lived in luxury, while they suffered from abject poverty. They didn’t process it precisely, but in each of their minds they didn’t hate Nishanth and his friends; they hated what they stood for. They hated the opulence and comfort in which they lived their lives. The idea that they spent more in an hour than their families earned in a week was irksome. They hated the stance of superiority which was automatically assumed. The thought that these people claimed to do good while further impoverishing the impoverished made them want to throw up. They hated that they had to live with imperialism sixty years after independence – being ruled by their own brethren; not because of racial superiority, but economic superiority.
Nishanth felt an overwhelming sense of humiliation encapsulate him; he had no play to make. He had lost to a dirty street rat. He began to pull out his wallet, when the sound of a bike penetrated the air. Everyone stood in tense silence, wondering who it could be. The next instant they knew that it was the cops; the sharp whistle could be heard from a distance. Saamy gave a cry of ‘Machan, Police da. Joot!’ and ran on to the bridge. He jumped into the shallow water and began wading towards his hut. Immediately, the rest of the crew followed his lead. The leader had looked behind and now turned back towards Nishanth, hoping to grab the hundred rupees before the cops came. However, Nishanth’s suppressed rage saw the opportunity and he kicked wildly at the leader’s testicles. The boy let out a howl of pain and fell to the ground. ‘Fuck you, asshole!’ whispered Nishanth and stomped the boy’s side. ‘Nishanth, dump the pot! What if the cops check us?’ Sanjay said hurriedly and lunged for the bag of pot in Nishanth’s pocket. Nishanth sidestepped the lunge and a stroke of inspiration seized him. He pulled out the bag and knelt to the ground. ‘If we dump it and they find it they’ll still call our parents. Just to scare us.’ Nishanth said as he stuffed the bag and chillum into the leader’s trousers, easily pushing away his hands. Just as the boys moved towards their scooters, two constables stopped their bike behind them and came running, whirling their lattis.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ one of the constables shouted in a threatening voice. The other ran to the boy on the ground and picked him up roughly. Nishanth, without a moment’s hesitation, started explaining in a genuinely frightened voice ‘Sir, we were sitting here when this bastard and his friends came and started harassing us. They slapped me and started threatening us for money’ he said. He touched his finger to his bleeding gum and showed the blood. The constables looked at each other and the boy as Nishanth went on – ‘I hit him when he tried to pull me onto the bridge and push me into the water – like he threatened me.’ ‘Why are you boys here at all? What were you doing? Just sitting around and talking?’ the constable asked in the same menacing voice. Nishanth opened his mouth and stopped. He looked down with convincing shame and said ‘We came here to drink beer, sir. Sorry. I know we shouldn’t have, but we just wanted to try sir. We just had one bottle each. Just to try sir. The bottles are on the bridge’ he said, pointing to the bridge. The threatening constable gave the boys a look of contempt and moved towards the bridge. The other constable started off in an equally menacing drawl ‘Just to try? How old are you guy? 16? 17? Just to try. Bloody idiots!’ All four boys looked down in shame and guilt; Sanjay burst into silent tears. The other constable returned and confirmed the presence of the bottles and asked his colleague to check the slum boy, on whom he bestowed a contemptuous look. He then turned to Nishanth and his friends and told them ‘I have to call your parents and inform them what you’ve been up to. Give me their numbers.’ A weak and shaky ‘Please, sir’ emerged from the boys, brokenly.
Suddenly, the constable checking the boy gave him a solid whack on the head and spat out ‘Ganja! You are smoking ganja? You are the same asshole who was beating up that young kid. You are a junkie at this age? Bloody rascal!’ ‘No sir…’ the boy started angrily, but was interrupted with a slap. The constable dealing with Nishanth gave the boy a menacing stare, turned to Nishanth and said ‘Get out of here now. All of you. If I see you around here again, you’ll regret it. Go!’ The boys hurriedly got on their scooters, muttering apologies, and began riding – leaving the boy to the police. The last sight that Nishanth remembered seeing was the boy being slapped around and told that he possessed more enough ganja to be dealing. When asked if he was dealing, the boy had remained defiantly silent. The last thing he heard was the constable, talking into his communicator, and telling the person on the other end that they had apprehended the third ganja dealer this week – a young boy from the Beasant Nagar fishing slum. What was the world coming to?
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Nishanth almost laughed when he thought about the exam they had written the next day. Despite their disturbing shenanigans, they had aced the exam. They had all walked away from the incident and gone on to lead successful lives. He had finished his MBA and taken up a job as a Sales Manager; it had been two years since he had joined this firm. Fittingly enough, he hardly ever spoke to his best friends from school any more – excepting the sporadic occasion or reunion. He had, however, never thought to wonder what that boy from the slum was doing now? Did he get out after doing some time in a juvenile home, clean up his act, get an education and a stable life? Or had his dreams and aspirations been shattered by that one incident? Or maybe the event had led him down darker paths…… maybe his charismatic confidence had been decimated by a life of crime and woe. Had a few simple lies caused the ruin of an entire life? A sudden weight came over his mind and he felt bogged down; dirty and detestable. Nishanth had never been affected by such thoughts, but now he felt like a miserable wretch; the scum of the world.
‘Mr. Rangarajan’, a voice called out in a measured tone. Nishanth looked to the speaker, at the sound of his surname. ‘We are done. Please come in’, said his General Manager and retreated into the room. Nishanth got up, shook off the sudden thought that had come to him and composed himself. With an air of respect and dignity, he opened the Boardroom door and stepped in. Behind the oak table, sat the company’s top brass. Nishanth tried to read the faces of the panel members to get an idea as to his fate, but they all seemed to be set in stone; impassive, unapproachable. So, he stayed silent and composed. ‘Mr. Rangarajan, before we go into the salient points, do you have anything to add to your statement?’ asked the Vice President, HR. ‘No’ said Nishanth, not wishing to give them any more rope to hang him with.
‘We shall go through the salient points then’, she said ‘On the 12th of December, we were notified by a member of your team of your involvement in activities detrimental to the company’s interests and ethics. A mail was sent to the Vice President, Sales – Mr. Pais – stating that you have been selling products at a price below the lower margin, by approved sanction, while taking an unofficial fee from the customer for processing these sales. It was realized that, if proven to be true, these charges would imply the indirect embezzlement of funds and violation of our ethical policies. Mr. Pais questioned you about this allegation and you denied being party to any such activities. Is that right?’ ‘Yes, ma’am. That seems accurate.’ Nishanth said. ‘Good’ she continued ‘Now, on approaching the customers, mentioned in the mail, we have received nothing but indignant denials and good recommendations, with regard to your conduct. Also, on going through the finances provided by your team we can see a healthy increase in profits. Though your methods have been unconventional from the start, you have given this company good results. However, we felt a need to understand the reason for this allegation. On questioning the complainant, we were told that you had cleverly covered your tracks. When questioned, you told us that the complainant, Mr. Raman, was acting out of malice. It is your claim that he was warned by you with regard to emotionally harassing another member of your team. He stopped the harassment and the harassed member left the company on amicable terms. Now, it has come to light that Mr. Raman harassed a new member of your team, for which you threatened him with escalation to HR. You have said he has attempted to manipulate the facts against you. Am I right?’ ‘Yes, ma’am’ Nishanth said calmly. ‘Okay….. Are you sure you have nothing to add to this statement?’ ‘No, ma’am’ he said. ‘Well….. to be completely honest with you Mr. Rangarajan there are members on this panel who do not believe your version of this story. However, these members are in the minority. So, you are temporarily cleared of all allegations and free to continue with your work. However, be warned. Your activities will be monitored closely and you will be subject to scrutiny. Can you accept that?’ ‘Yes, ma’am’ he said, doing his best to conceal the smile that was threatening to break out. ‘Thank you, Mr. Rangarajan. That will be all. We might need you to testify again when we look into Mr. Raman’s case. As you know, harassment of any sort is looked upon very sternly in this organization. Thank you very much for your time and the information you have shared with us. Have a good day.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Nishanth said and turned to the door, beaming on the inside. As he took his first step to the door, a sudden vision came to his mind – the face of that young slum boy, as he was being beaten by the constable. The pain of injustice - brimming up and spilling over. A look of defiance in the face of defeat. Anger seething from the bottom of his soul for all that was wrong and amoral in the world. Nishanth threw the image out of his mind and proceeded to the door. While he walked, his head was filled with the sound of the police constable’s voice ‘….third drug dealer this week…. A young boy….’ He could see the sad smile playing around the boy’s lips; the pained gaze. He had had the guts and tenacity to face his situation, but what had Nishanth done? Lied and ran – like he always did. He could hear the boy talking in his peculiar Tamil ‘You can lie and take the next wretched step, but how will you keep walking when all you have under your feet is a foundation of falsehoods? You will always hold on to the wretched truth of your past. No matter how many minds you manipulate, do you truly believe that you can ever believe in your lies? Are you going to rely on cowardice and deceit, ruining countless lives, to save your indiscretions and bolster your self image? Or are you going to stand up for the truth and face the consequences, whatever they may be? Do you have the courage to live life as who you truly are – without fabricating tales to replace the ugliness of your actions, but taking responsibility and staring the filth in you straight in the eye? Are you really going to ruin another life – like you ruined mine?’
Nishanth placed his hand on the intricately carved doorknob – and he paused. He had to make a decision and he had to make it now. Who was he? Who did he want to be? He took his hand off the doorknob and turned to face the preoccupied panel.
‘Ma’am, I need you to know this; I am sorry I let the harassment situation grow to this extent. I will ensure it never again happens under my watch.’
Nishanth smiled, his eyes remaining cold as ice, turned the door knob and walked out in a calm, confident manner - letting the mahogany door close behind him, slowly.
