Today, I have realised something. I have realised that I have become nothing, done nothing, achieved nothing in my 24 years, because I was powerless to do anything about that man on the road. Good upbringing, a degree in a social science from one of the country's most hallowed institutions, and another in Human Resources - and I couldn't help that man in the brown shirt, couldn't do anything about the humiliation he was being dealt so unfairly. That I wanted to is immaterial - I didn't; and so my good intentions didn't make a difference to his situation. I have failed, and I feel ashamed of myself.
It happened rather suddenly, at the juncture where Chhatra Marg turns right to become Bungalow Road. From about fifty metres away from that point, I only saw the road curving right, and the usual stream of traffic. The next second, a motorbike and a rick had collided at the turning. It wasn't, technically, a particularly ugly collision. The rick and the bike both fell on their sides. The bike-rider was a portly man - from a well-to-do background, if the sunlight glinting off his gold chain and expensive watch was any indication - and the rickshaw-walla a scruffy man in a brown shirt; fairly young, thirty maybe.
Our rick had drawn abreast of the site of the accident by now, and I could hear and see everything clearly. As was inevitable, a crowd gathered there in under five seconds. A couple of people helped the men up, and then the passers-by stood uncertainly on, looking undecidedly from one to the other. Honestly, I suppose I could say I'd seen the whole thing happening, and it really was impossible to say whose fault the collision was. And seeing as nobody and nothing was particularly damaged, I entertained, for half a second, the foolishly sanguine idea that they would dust themselves off, maybe shoot each other a couple of annoyed glares, and then go their separate ways. It didn't even occur to me that what followed was capable of happening.
The owner of the bike got up, reached over his bike, grabbed the rickwalla by the collar, and began a succession of blows, punches and slaps on the man's head, face and shoulders, shouting abuse after abuse of the filthiest variety in English, Hindi and Punjabi. Ten slaps, twelve, fifteen...I lost count when I realised, with a shock of disgust, that I was still on the rick and my rickwalla was slowly circling his way past the spot. "Ruko bhaiya", I said, digging money out of my bag and thrusting it at him as I leaned sideways to jump off the rick, already sticking an arm out in a reflexive but useless attempt at holding the violent man back.
"Nahin, Madam!", the rickwalla hissed at me, pushing my hand away, "yahaan mat utaro. Dekh nahin rahe ho yeh bheed? Aur us sahab ko? Aap rickshevaale ke liye kuch nahin kar paoge Madam. Chalo yahaan se. Aap khud bhi phasoge aur main bhi phasoonga."
His warning didn't make sense to me. Of course I could do something. I could talk sense into that man's head, pull his hand back. I could ask the others - now standing like so many statues, witnessing the incident with a fascination borne partly of horror, and partly of - this sickens me - entertainment, to help. I could do something to halt the mindless beating, the stream of profanity.
Or was I just another well-meaning, but entirely impotent, witness on a rick?
Maybe that is what I was. As my rickwalla pedalled furiously into Bungalow Road, I found myself turning around to stare at the two men. The rich man with the bike was still yanking the other guy by the hair, still delivering slaps and blows left, right and centre, still shouting things that made my blood boil. And this man in the brown shirt said not a word, not one word. His hands hanging limply at his sides, his eyes lowered and back stooped, he looked up at intervals only to stare contritely at his attacker. Apologising, as it were, for the accident that was, technically, nobody's fault; apologising also for having had the audacity to use the same road as his well-to-do fellow-human being; for his audacity in existing, in all his poverty and misery and lack of influence, in the same world as this other man, who, clearly, had the greater right - the only right - over everything good that life and the world have to offer. The sunlight that had glinted off the rich man's gold chain now glinted off the wetness in the rickwalla's eyes, the one sign of protest by his body that he didn't have the power to suppress.
There was this man, this violent lunatic, beating this guy up. And there was this guy, submissively taking every blow, every cuss-word. And there was the crowd, watching silently. And there was me, on a rick, looking at all this from a steadily-increasing distance. It made me physically sick.
There was no point in going forward like this, so I asked to be dropped off then and there. Now at what he assumed was a safe distance from the site of the trouble, the rickwalla pocketed the fare and pushed off. I ran back to the spot. By the time I had elbowed my way into the middle of the circle, two of the posse of policemen who patrol North Campus had arrived there, too. It didn't take the crowd long to disperse after that. Both men were led away. I turned back and walked home.
And that is when I realised how completely and utterly I failed today. What great things have I any right to aspire to if I can't pull a hapless victim of road rage away from his attacker, whose sole right to attack stems from the fact that he is burly, knows enough English to be able to abuse in the language, and rides a Hero Honda? All my good intentions notwithstanding, how was I any different from the forty people who stood there watching everything in stony silence, the forty people I had stared at in shock, disgust and disappointment? Didn't I just let down every person and institution that has had any hand in the building of my values? I let that man down. I have never, in all my life, felt so angry, so helpless, so useless. It makes me want to cry, but I'm not sure I deserve the privilege of release.
3 comments:
...the one sign of protest by his body that he didn't have the power to suppress." Doubt if you could have described the helpless of the man any better.
Sad that no one helped- but it is sadder that the place is such where even an action of preventing or intervening in such an incident might backfire upon you. "Impotence" is the right word- for the society.
yes it is unfortunate you could not help the victim. but dont beat yourself up about it.
Intentions do matter, you wanted to help. I donot know how many times you have faced a violent situation and wanted to intervene to assuage it. But auto accidents in India, are not exactly walk-in and resolve situations. You wanted to help and recognize that. the next time, try harder. and believe me, there will be a next time, considering how often auto accidents occur in India. I am glad you did not blame your rickwallah for pulling you out of the scene before you could act, and consider yourself responsible. Yes actions speak louder than words. But remorse and guilt say something too. It ensures that you are going to strive harder the next time. Shrugging away responsibility is far far easier you know.
To AJ... and Absolute Chemystic:
You do have a point...both of you...but it is just that the realisation that I couldn't do anything, and the reasons why, are overwhelming. I just wish it wasn't the sort of situation where one had to choose between being practical and being humane.
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