August 15, 2012
Sowmya Aji
I was standing
on our cramped terrace, watching the moon, when I saw them. A group of five men
in their early twenties walking up the main road, carrying torches and sticks.
Torches I
understand, for no one can predict when Bangalore’s streetlights will go off
due to a power shutdown. But why sticks? The street dogs are not that scary,
they go away if yelled at or are ignored. No need to beat them off with sticks.
I watched as
they turned down our small road in Neelasandra. They appeared to be headed for
our house. Visitors for our antiquated landlady Rukmini Ramakrishna? At this
hour? How very odd.
But the rattling
knock sounded on our door. Priscilla was asleep, she leaves at 7 am for her job
at a start-up IT company in Electronics city. I flew down the old stairs from
the terrace, to stop the knocks from waking her, but there was a louder bang.
As I reached our door, I heard Priscilla stirring behind me in our shared room.
‘Yaaru?’ I called
out, asking who it was. I was not comfortable opening the door at 8.30 pm,
despite the room light being on. Bangalore is safe, yes, and I have lived here
all my life. But why take risks, especially when it’s a group of young men?
‘Open the door,
we have to tell you something,’ said a voice. Priscilla was sitting up. ‘What
is it?’ she asked me in her Assamese-clipped English. ‘They are saying they
have something to tell us,’ I muttered. ‘But who is it?’ she asked again.
I didn’t like
it, but if they continued yelling, Rukku, as Priscilla and I referred to the
landlady, would come out of her house next door. She had warned us when she
rented this room to two unwed girls that there should be no boys at all. And
finding another room at this rent in Bangalore was filled with difficulties.
I opened the
door a crack. ‘What did you want?’ I asked. The cool dude in front, in a dark, stylish
kurta, pants and neon sneakers, held the incongruous stick and torch in his
hands. ‘We don’t want to talk to you, we want to talk to her,’ he said gruffly.
I frowned and turned to Priscilla.
Priscilla looked
at me blankly. She swung her legs off the bed and came to the door. ‘What?’ she
asked him, peering through the partially opened door, over my shoulder. All the
young men on the other side of the door stirred. ‘This one’s a typical chinky only,’
said one. I bristled and glared, but luckily Pricilla didn’t hear him.
‘Medam,’ said
the dude in front of me, addressing Priscilla in English, ‘We warn you. We
don’t want your kind here. Leave Bangalore and go back to wherever you come from.
And don’t come back. Or…’ he lifted his stick, uncaring of my presence.
*
This couldn’t be
happening. Not in my city! ‘What are you saying!’ I hissed, furious. The dude
ignored me and gave Priscilla a sneering smile. ‘Be happy medam. I am warning
you, not attacking you. Go. Don’t be here when we come again tomorrow.’
I was shaking my
head in disbelief. The young men behind him stirred again. ‘Why do we have to
hold on now? Let’s show her straight away.’
My hands began
to shake. I slammed the door quickly, and stood leaning against it. I was the
born in the middle of the Cauvery riots in Bangalore, the riots which showed
the world for the first time the simmering fascism under the surface of one of
the most welcoming cities anywhere. Local Tamils were attacked by local
Kannadigas, often their neighbours, over the release of scarce Cauvery waters
to Tamil Nadu. My mother went into labour just as the city erupted, and my
parents had to walk down to the nearest nursing home. The fear and horror they
went through that day, walking amidst hoards of bike-riding young boys shouting
hate slogans, has scarred them for life.
Priscilla was
speaking in rapid Assamese to someone on her mobile. We needed the cops. I
grabbed my mobile, dialled 100. ‘Yes,’ said a languid voice after 10 rings. ‘Some
boys have come and threatened my roommate that she should leave Bangalore
immediately,’ I blurted out. ‘Which area?’ the voice asked, unperturbed. I gave
the address, and more details about those young men. ‘Hmm, you should call
Neelsandra police station,’ the voice said. ‘Can’t you help? Give us
protection?’ I asked, my voice shaking. ‘Their
jurisdiction no, ma? You call them,’ the voice hung up, without listening to my
asking for the Neelasandra police station number.
I said sharply: ‘Priscilla,
what rubbish. Let’s just go to the police station.’ She shook her head. ‘My
mother wants me to catch the train right now and leave,’ she mumbled, digging
out her backpack from under her bed.
‘But Priscilla
you won’t get a booking on the Guwahati train at this hour!’ I said. No response. ‘What about your job?’ I asked.
She sent most of her money home, and the family needed it. She couldn’t just chuck it away. ‘I will call
and arrange leave tomorrow,’ she said. But did she need to go like this?
I tried again: ‘I
am here na, Priscilla? I am local. They can’t do anything. Let us go to the
police station?’ I don’t think she even heard me, as she packed.
We went to an
ATM. She withdrew everything except the mandatory Rs 1000 from her account. She
wouldn’t take anything from me. We found an auto, agreed to pay double meter
and went to the city railway station.
The air was
thick with fear, as the station overflowed with people from the North East,
jabbering in languages that I didn’t know, some of which even Priscilla didn’t
understand. Priscilla looked around with
tear-filled eyes. I held her hand tightly, as we waded through the mob to the
long snaking queue at the ticket counters.
‘I will never
get a ticket,’ Priscilla said, suddenly. I didn’t say anything. We could see
the Guwahati train on the platform from where we were standing. It was already
full and from what I could see, as packed as a Mumbai local. The train began to
move from the platform. There were shouts, slogans, screams, as people jostled,
trying to jump from the platform on to the train. The railway staff quickly
announced that two more trains would go to Guwahati, and the panic halted.
A man approached
us. ‘Ticket?’ he asked, business like. He was selling in them in black at Rs
2000 a ticket. My burning anger finally surfaced. ‘Yellargu ticket kot right
helbidtira?’ I said through clenched teeth. He looked surprised, then moved
away. Priscilla was uncomprehending. ‘What I said was rowdy-speak for will you
kill everybody,’ I said.
Priscilla hugged
me. ‘I will come back,’ she said. ‘Will you really?’ I asked, my eyes finally
filling with tears. She held my hand. And we waited for the next train.
Sowmya Aji is a
journalist with the Economic Times in Bengaluru and the author of Delirium, Harper Collins India, 2013.
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