CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE UNBELIEVABLE KIND
A.V. DHANUSHKODI
HAMLET: There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Hamlet, Act I, Scene V
EPISODE ONE – THE DEBT
The episode I have chosen to recount first, appeared, when it happened, to be a normal incident, although with an element of implausible degree of coincidence. At the time the incident happened, I was the chief of a prestigious organization. I had taken a long well earned leave, after having organized a hectic programme, and was spending almost all my time with my family, which was, at the time, my beautiful and accomplished wife and a charming ten-year old daughter any man could dream of.
On the night of the traumatic experience I am about to relate, I was returning home with my wife and daughter, after having watched a movie in a theatre and dined in a nearby restaurant. Coming out of the restaurant, I noted my wrist-watch showing 10.30 pm. We got into our Ambassador car, not one of the high-tech machines everybody flaunts these days, but a sturdy reliable workhorse one could depend on, any time of day or night. It was a long drive, but I was confident we could be home in twenty minutes, as I knew the streets would be almost deserted at that time, a factor which turned our night into a nightmare, instead of a blessing.
It was a night in January, one of the few months in Chennai, then called Madras, when the sky is clear most of the days, and the days and nights pleasant and cool. That night, I could see the crescent moon clearly through the windshield, and the stars of course, like precious gems scattered recklessly across the sky. As my faithful car rushed forward, devouring the road ahead, we could feel the cool air being sucked into the car, an exhilarating experience at that time of the night. My daughter Lavanya was next to me, cozily nestling between me and my wife Shyamala, chattering away about the film and the delicious dishes at the restaurant. From the corner of my eye I could see that my wife was tired and sleepy. The cool air which made her sleepy, made me feel alert and fresh. Then, the unexpected happened.
The car coughed a few times, lurched and jerked, and then the engine was heard no more. I was surprised. We were at least another ten minutes away from home.
I could not understand what could have gone wrong. I looked at the fuel gauge: the needle was resting at the bottom. I shook my head in utter disbelief. My wife was wide awake now and wanted to know what had happened. Lavanya was fast asleep.
“What’s the matter?” my wife asked.
“The tank is empty; at least that’s what the needle says”, I replied.
“How’s it possible?” she asked, “On the way to the theatre, you filled the tank full”.
I didn’t need to answer. My brain was working furiously. Then I knew what must have happened. While we were in the restaurant, some scoundrel must have drained our tank, perhaps leaving mercifully a ten minute run of petrol in it.
I got down, went to the rear of the car and saw, as I expected, that the fuel tank cap had been removed. I stood there staring at the open mouth of the tank, wondering what options I had. I was well known in my office for my cool head, especially in disaster management, but this was not my office. I looked up and down: not a soul anywhere to be seen. I remembered that there was a petrol station some ten minutes walk from there, which we had just then passed. But I had no petrol can with me. My watch showed 10.50. Most petrol bunks closed at 11 pm.
My wife got down from the car and came up to me asking, “What’s wrong?” Then she looked at what I was looking, at the wide open mouth of the tank. She knew what was wrong. She looked at me with hope, “You have a can of petrol in the dickey?” I shook my head. “At least an empty can?” I shook my head again. I could hear my daughter stirring and purring in the car.
“What is to be done now?” Her voice betrayed anxiety.
I took control of myself and the situation. “We have only one course. Lock up the car, walk back to the petrol bunk before it closes, get a can of petrol, come back, pour the petrol into the tank, and drive home.” My tone was breezy and my voice was full of confidence.
Lavanya was fully awake now. We got her out of the car and I locked it. Then I stretched my handkerchief over the open mouth of the tank, untied a ribbon from the plaited hair of my daughter and tied it over the handkerchief. Satisfied I could do no more in the given situation, I began to walk, with Shyamala and Lavanya following me, in the direction of the petrol bunk. I thought I was at least lucky enough to have enough money to buy a can of petrol.
The clatter of our feet on the concrete pavement sounded rather ominous in the stillness of the night. Lavanya was understandably silent, the situation being rather uncongenial. Then, I thought I heard voices at a distance behind us. I was happy we had company, if we should need help. The voices grew louder and the patter of their feet closed the distance between us faster than I thought normal. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable and turned to look behind but first saw my wife, who looked pale and nervous. I looked over her shoulder to see about five or six boys in teens, obviously returning from some late night film show, boisterously and heatedly discussing the film.
I saw my wife instinctively quicken her pace, clutching Lavanya tightly.
I said with a soft and reassuring voice, “Don’t.” She instantly remembered the first lesson in behaviour I had imparted to her and Lavanya under such a circumstance. She relaxed immediately as I could see her hand on Lavanya now resting lightly on the shoulder. We kept our normal pace.
The footsteps behind us closed in and suddenly their voices fell silent. That was not a good sign: it meant that they had not merely noticed us but had also realized our vulnerable position. Or, it could simply mean that they realized they should behave better in the presence of the weaker sex, rather unlikely under the present circumstance.
Then they passed us quietly, three on either side. They walked a few paces in front of us. I waited for them to resume their discussion and chatter, perhaps more subdued now, but they didn’t. They walked a few more paces and two of them stopped and fumbled through their pockets and pulled out cigarette cases and boxes of matches. The others also stopped and waited for the two to light their cigarettes. As we neared them, they parted for us to pass and I saw their faces, their eyes. Some were looking at my wife and some my daughter. Those who met my eyes, quickly looked away. It appeared to me that they were all tensed in anticipation of their own action.
We passed them and continued to walk at our normal pace. The steps behind followed, and they overtook us again, walked some distance and stopped again. This time, they acted in unison. I knew what was coming, I knew the pattern. It was only a matter of minutes before the real action would start. I was worried for my wife and child. I turned and looked at my wife. She was concerned but remained relaxed.
“How far is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, perhaps five minutes,” I replied.
As we took another step, I heard a voice, “You are right sir, exactly five minutes from here.”
We took a few more steps but had to stop, because this time they did not part, to let us pass. They stood their ground, blocking our path. I looked at the boy who spoke. He was tall, dark and well built but had a baby face; must be the leader of the group, I guessed. He had to impress the others, hence the opening shot, I thought. I had to look up to look him in the eye, as he was six feet tall and I was three inches shorter. He was standing in front of me.
“What is exactly five minutes from here?” I asked, holding him without batting an eyelid.
I could see that he was making a great effort to avoid avoiding my eyes. He forced a grin and replied, “The petrol bunk.” They had noticed my car and knew where we were headed.
“We could help you,” offered another. I shot a glance at him, a lean boy, perhaps the youngest of the lot.
“Thank you, but we don’t need any help. Now, if you would let us pass, that would be the kind of help we would need now,” I replied politely and took a step closer, taking Lavanya’s hand, who was holding on to her mother. I meant to walk through them.
“Sir, it is not fair to make the fair sex walk all the way to the bunk”, came out the boy with a baby face, sounding more confident this time, “We’ll take care of them, till you come back with petrol.”
“He’s right Sir, take his advice. These deserted streets are not safe for your beautiful wife and daughter,” added a short and stocky boy with a bull-dog face standing next to the baby face. My adrenaline rose suddenly. I had to tell myself, ‘keep it in check, don’t rush”.
I took a couple of deep breaths and looked at my wife. She was watching me, standing still.
“Well, I can take care of my wife and daughter,” I replied. Then added impulsively, “and you boys should take care of your mothers and sisters.” Immediately I realized I should not have taunted them; now they will be forced to act, just to impress upon each other that they were tough.
Some of them laughed and one of them said in a mock sad tone, “Sir, unfortunately we don’t have mothers and sisters.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that seems to be your problem. Now, please let us pass.” I was very polite to the point of being almost meek.
That emboldened the baby face, “Sir, let us have at least a wife, like the pancha pandavas, although we are six”, they laughed in unison, as if orchestrated.
At that moment the baby face took a step and gripped my wife’s right wrist.
Strangely I didn’t lose my self control. I took a step forward and caught his wrist with my right hand.
“Take your hand off ! ” my voice had dropped to bass. Now I was facing him, but had every one of the others within my left peripheral vision.
“You take it off, if you can,” came the jeering reply. My wife was calmly waiting for the next move. She knew what I would do next.
I gripped his wrist with my left hand, close to my right hand. “I’m warning you for the last time.” My back was almost fully turned to the others, but I had no choice.
He knew I could not pull his hand off my wife’s wrist, without hurting her badly. He laughed, “He’s warning me!” The others laughed. “Mister, I am warning you,” he warned, with the toughest voice he could put on. The others laughed again.
The baby face looked at the others, grinning appreciatively. The next moment he let out a blood-curdling scream, letting go my wife’s hand. By then I had stepped back, taking my hands off his wrist. Freed, my wife also stepped back. Now I had everyone in view.
Horrified, the baby face was looking at his forearm. His skin was cut neatly where I had held it, in full circle, and was bleeding profusely. I could see he was in great pain. He was moaning. I suppressed a wave of pity which was welling up within me for him. No emotions, I warned myself. I thought that could be the end, but it was not. He was the leader; more than his wrist, his pride was hurt. The others were looking at him wide-eyed, in disbelief. Nobody knew what I had done, except my wife and my daughter. He had to act now, if he was to restore his lost respect and position. He looked up at me. I could see anger in his eyes, but there was also fear. I looked at him steadily, without batting an eyelid, emotionless. I could have been a statue made of stone. But I was extremely alert, waiting and ready for his next move.
Then it came. His right hand, which was holding his bleeding left wrist, came towards my head, which was within his range, in a neat curve. However, it was too slow for me. Pivoting on my right foot, I shifted my left foot and changed my position, now facing his sweep squarely. My left side was towards the baby face.
With my right hand, I blocked and gripped his right wrist at my arm’s length. Then, with my left hand, I gripped his elbow and, in one well coordinated flurry of movement, I acted. Everyone could hear his elbow joint break with a loud crack in the stillness of the night. His right forearm was dangling. I could hear and see everyone let out a loud gasp, in unison. I had, by then, shifted again to my original position and had him and the others in view.
He let out another horrible scream, when he saw his dangling forearm. Now both his arms were useless. He gasped and dropped down on the pavement in a big heap. He was finished. He was no longer the leader of the group. He was crying now like a baby.
I looked at the others. I asked calmly, “Who is next?”. I tried to guess who would claim leadership, and my guess was right.
The short, stocky boy with a bull-dog face stepped forward. I looked at him. He eyes were steadily looking at mine, and he was emotionless. At that moment I knew he was a born fighter, my alter-ego. I also saw, at the same time, the glint of a knife, as it jumped into his left hand. Then I knew that he was a dirty fighter, with no rules holding him back. In a street fight everything is fair.
I quickly gauged him. He was in his late teens and every inch of him was hard muscle. If trained well and experienced, he could be a formidable fighter. But usually street kids are not trained professionally; they pick up whatever they can in street brawls which are usually unscientific and crude. I should cut him down quickly before he gained more confidence.
I lifted my bare hands up and invited him with a derisive tone, “Come kid. I’ll knock you out cold, hands down.” For a moment I saw anger flash in his eyes, but he checked it before it could upset his mental balance. He had seen me at work and couldn’t afford to go down as the baby-face had. He and his gang were at a distance of about ten feet from me. I could feel the presence of my wife and daughter right behind me. I bade her, “Get back, clear the field.” They quickly withdrew some ten paces.
The bull-dog was a little uncertain now of his next move. He thought I would have been unnerved by the knife. He knew I would not make the first move. He had to, soon enough, to follow-up his claim to leadership.
Then, he started moving towards me very, very slowly, with his knife raised to his hip level. I stood with my feet two feet apart and my arms hanging down, fully relaxed. That was one way of unnerving him.
Now that he had made the move, he had to keep moving. I could see that my relaxed stance, arms hanging down limp, was worrying him. He was trying to figure out what trick I might have up my sleeve. Now he was almost within my striking distance, but he had to come nearer to be within his striking distance, as his reach was considerably shorter than mine.
It was then that I heard a voice, behind me. However, it did not sound like a human voice. It sounded more like an eerie battle cry of an animal. “That’s enough!” It sent a chill through my spine. At the same time I realized that the voice was vaguely familiar. I did not have to turn back to check if the voice belonged to another of their gang; the terrified expression on the bull-dog’s face made it clear that the voice did not belong to one of them. I was in no danger of being attacked from behind; therefore I continued to hold my position.
The bull-dog gasped as his jaw dropped. Then I felt the owner of the voice standing next to me, with a stout staff in his right hand, holding it in the middle, ready for action.
“Away all of you, or I’ll break the bones of every one of you,” commanded the man next to me. I took a quick glance at him from the corner of my eyes. Instantly I recognized him. It was Sam, Chief of our organization’s security staff. I couldn’t believe my eyes: it was an unbelievable coincidence.
* * *
Sam had served in the city’s police force before he joined our organization. He had been in both Law and Order and the Crime Branch. He was an absolutely upright cop, literally and figuratively, as everyone knew him; a terror to all those who stood outside the law; and even to those who claimed to uphold law, his superiors. Because of his unbending honesty, he was often at loggerheads with his superiors, who harassed him, for that very reason. Sooner than later he realized that it was futile to continue; he realized that he could not change the system; he had to change if he were to continue, or he should quit. He quit.
One would have imagined that a man of his integrity would have been snapped up by any organization, but no. For about a year, he knocked on the door of every office; they were all polite, but promised to call him later. Uncompromising uprightness was wanted nowhere. When he knocked on our door, I grabbed him, as I already knew of his honesty and fearless nature. He almost broke down when I offered him the position of the chief of the security guards and he promised me that someday he would repay my kindness. I laughed and told him that he had earned the job and that he owed me nothing.
With that, however, his problem had not ended. There was a counterpoint he had to contend with: his son. He was the most incorrigible rogue imaginable. Often Sam was on the verge of tears while talking about his son. One day, he told me that he had driven his son out and disowned him. However, at times the son would pester his mother for money whenever the father was not at home. Once, he caught his son red-handed in the act and gave him a thorough thrashing; if the mother had not intervened, he might have killed him. That was the last he saw of his son.
* * *
The bulldog stood for a moment with wide-open eyes and mouth aghast. His eyes had a look of indescribable horror, as if he had seen a ghost. Then, he backed out slowly staring at Sam, his face horribly contorted. When he drew up level with the others, they hastily beat a retreat and disappeared round the corner.
“Thanks Sam.” I was really grateful. Without Sam, there was only a fifty-fifty chance; it was not an enviable position to be in, with my wife and child in an extremely vulnerable situation.
“That’s him,” Sam responded. I noticed that his voice sounded singularly unemotional.
I was truly taken aback. I never really expected to encounter his son in such a bizarre situation. Now I could really understand Sam’s agony. I was at a loss for words.
“I am really grateful to you Sam. Now, do go home Sam, you must be tired.”
Sam did not move; he stood there like a statue with his head bent. I did expect it of him.
“All right, come with us.’’
Shyamala and Lavanya came to my left, as I began to walk, with Sam on my right.
After a while of silence, I asked him, “How did you happen to be here, at this time of the night?”
“I felt you might need my help,” he replied with a faint smile on his lips.
“I see,” I said, “Your feeling was right.”
After a few more steps, I asked him, “How’s it at the office? Everything OK?
He nodded his head in silence. I shot a glance at him. From his expression, I suspected that everything was not OK at the office.
“What’s wrong Sam? Are you all right?”
Again he nodded in silence. He appeared to be unusually uncommunicative. I could understand his mood. Our confrontation with his son must have deeply hurt him.
When we reached the petrol bunk it was ten minutes past 11 o’clock on my watch. I was surprised that the bunk was open at that time. I asked the staff at what time they closed. He said, “Eleven” and looked at the wall clock. It showed ten minutes to eleven. “Your clock is twenty minutes slow,” I pointed out and showed him my watch. “Sir, your watch is twenty minutes fast,” he said with a light chuckle.
When they found a petrol-can and filled it up, I paid the bill, looking at my watch, which showed 11.20. I looked at the wall-clock and laughed. Annoyed, the clerk too looked at the clock. It still showed ten to eleven. “It has stopped,” he muttered under his breath.
We walked back to the car, poured the can of petrol into the tank and secured the mouth of the tank again. We thanked Sam profusely and got into the car.
Sam came to my door, bent down, and looked at me steadily for a while and said, “You’ll reach home safely Sir. Good night and goodbye sir.” He smiled.
I said, “Thanks again Sam,” and extended my hand to touch his on the car’s window, but he had stepped back by then and gave me a formal police salute. I could not help chuckling: typical of Sam to strictly observe propriety, even at such an extraordinary time and situation.
* * *
When I reached my office the next morning, I felt very fresh and bouncy as I had slept very well after reaching home from the extraordinary experience.
As my car purred in under the name board SECURITY SOLUTIONS, the sentry at the gate gave me a stiff salute. I parked the car in the parking lot, reached my office and breezed in past my secretary giving her a cheerful “Good Morning!” and asking her to come in with all the papers which needed my immediate attention.
When I sank into my plush executive chair, she was at the door, but empty- handed.
I was surprised, “Nothing important for my attention?”
She avoided my eyes and looked down.
“Well?” I waited for her response.
“It’s about Sam, Sir. He won’t be coming for work.”
“It’s O.K. We both had a very unpleasant experience late last night. I don’t mind if he has taken a day off.”
She jerked her head up and looked at me with wide-open eyes. I could not understand her reaction.
“But…but…Sir, last evening, just before closing time, Sam had a massive cardiac arrest and passed away while still on duty. We tried to contact you, but you had switched off your cell.”
I was stunned.
A.V. Dhanushkodi, June-July, 2009
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