Words From Vaish

The policeman at the checkpoint picked his nose with his left hand, scratched himself and spat wetly onto the road. His right hand held a Thums Up bottle and a lighted bidi between gnarled and calloused fingers. A bamboo lathi dangled from his right wrist by its leather loop. His jaws worked rhythmically around a quid of paan. A young constable regarded this revolting sight with nervous affection. His grizzled superior looked exactly like a hard-working Havildar should look. So many social engagements, so little time. The Havildar mournfully contemplated the colossal cabriole curve of his enormous pot belly. The starched khaki of his uniform blouse was strained to bursting point by his protruding paunch and softened in placed by dark patches of perspiration. He philosophically took a swig of his cola and a puff of his bidi. Gather ye roses while ye may. A policeman’s lot is a hard one; what with sundry speeding motorists, eve-teasers, auto-lifters, terrorists – and not to...

“None of the other regulars have turned up for the bus today. So there’s just you and me here in the rain. Well, not quite. There’s still quite a few vehicles on the roads and the odd cyclist wrapped up in polythene. Wonder why all drivers in the rain wear the same expression? More grimly intent on getting who knows where? It’s something I’ve seen since when I was a child living next door to the waterworks. That was a long time ago, but it still feels like yesterday. Even then, the waterworks had seen better days. There was a tangle of rusting machinery there, moldering and overgrown with weeds, around a well that had run dry long ago. We were forbidden to play there, of course. The body of somebody’s kid was found there and the place was supposed to be haunted. Certainly, everyone avoided it; even the municipality that was supposed to be responsible for it. I was a sickly child as endless bouts of chicken pox, measles and mumps kept me mostly bedridden. My bedroom wi...