Statutory warning: This post is not for the politically correct. It is a direct attack on all the Haryanvi policemen who are fascinated by “Media” (especially TV journalists, who can get anyone in a uniform on Television) and also on all the hard working Gujarati Businessmen who work their asses off and can still talk about their work (read money), work (read money) and a little more work (read more money).
So, please who feel for their cause, this is where it ends for them. For the rest of the clan who think that I am a readable writer, read on to change that thought.
Enough of rambling to make this post sound more interesting than it actually is...
Let’s start it now…
I was thanking my stars that the ticket taken at the last moment had managed to get a RAC status (oblivious of what awaited me)
After a few hiccups (courtesy another Gujarati businessman, not our hero(s) who just wouldn’t believe that a thing like RAC does exist in the Indian Railways), I finally got my ‘half - seat’.
Waiting for my fellow passenger, imagining what if the co – passenger was god’s only mistake (attack on the feminists of the world, also hadn’t met the second and the third till now) and wondering how good/bad it can be to share the bed, when I heard that voice...
‘Ikram, Ikram…!’ I was out of my reverie to the harsh reality called life. A man in grey shirt looked at me proving that dreams don’t often come true.
I didn’t know that warm smiles could be so lethal till I met this Jat. That’s how the conversation started, ‘Partner, tujhko to mujhse sare raste baat karni hogi…tu mera partner hai iss train mein’.
That’s how we met, soon a conversation rather an interview started, just that this time I had exchanged roles and was now the interviewee.
“Kya karta hai?”
“Kitna kamata hai?”
“Andar ke kamai bhi hoti hogi, kyon??!!”
Accha tu to Media se hai tab to tujhe sab pata hoga, yeh bata yahan road aisi kyon hai?
Is train mein kitne bogeys hain??? (Wouldn’t have been surprised, if he expected me to know about his sex life)
My only escape was my book, and soon I looked for Mr. Pamuk to help me out.
The moment I opened it, Mr. Haryanvi’s came close to me, and with a menacing smile said, “Isko to band karde Ikram, mere saath to yeh pad nahi paayega!”
I was speechless, never in my lifetime had anybody said something like this. Suddenly it seemed that this person had known me for ages and I was somebody he can just bully around.
Me being me, politely asked him to shut up, which obviously fell on deaf ears. Soon, there was a volley of questions and I had no option but surrender to the Mister’s demands.
The rest as they all say is some vague memory, dinner was served under his supervision. Soon, it was time to sleep (or I made it a point that I call it a day even if it was just eight in the evening), and for the first time I saw that face – not that wicked smile but creased and defeated, for once.
Time to introduce the other characters but before I do that let me take a break (to spit some more venom) and reaffirm the fact that the men in uniform especially from Haryana and in Delhi Police are an impossible breed. It seems that they don’t have an important organ called ‘Ears’, it’s absolutely missing or they just don’t realise/care what the other person is saying.
Back to the incident, there is a smile finally a sort of satisfaction on my face right now after my share of mudslinging. Polar bear was right, I guess I am a sadist.
Two Gujarati gentlemen (the third mistake) speaking Gujarati walked into our bogey, (Dunno if they walked, crawled, flew their way into the bogey…it’s just an assumption based on some very basic facts)
This species, I guess also has the same ‘Ears’ problem. Suddenly I woke up and thought that I had slept in an office board room meeting or probably the Stock Market in Bombay.
‘Behanchod, yahan log so rahein hai’, I muttered but apologised the moment I opened my eyes to see two young men who it seemed were responsible for half of the Dhokla and Khakra consumption in Gujarat.
They stared at me and I quickly turned my back to avoid an avoidable argument (for my own benefit).
My bad luck that they slept on the opposite berth and just wouldn’t talking (read shouting) about some random stock which had fallen like the British Empire or the profits and the nitty gritties of a good business like pickle and papad.
Dunno when sleep got to me, but early next morning felt something pulling my blanket from my face. A couple of times I tried to pull it back but then it seemed somebody was hell bent on pulling it down. Finally, I stuck my head out to find Mr.Jat/Haryanvi’s toothy smile, ‘Ikram uth ja….tera partner bore ho raha hai…uth ja ab bhaut so liya…yeh sahi nahi hai….’ he literally tried to pull me out….that’s when I shouted….and I did shout….as everyone just stood astonished at the rare flash of bravery.
He quietly went back to his corner, the Gujaratis, I guess realised that I was neither interested in buying papads nor pickles so stopped talking about it.
As for me, I finally had a say in the whole journey.
Finally!!
