• Home

Retribution by Committee

Posted on May 24, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

He was a pot-bellied man, middle class in every respect, with the characteristic diffidence that is the aura such a man bears when a television camera is pointed at him. He would probably gather family and friends to sit around the colour television that held pride of place in the family living to room to watch his fifteen seconds of fame. That he wasn’t completely cowed by the prospect of communicating with the unblinking eye of the camera was because of the adrenaline that was still rushing through him, making his heart beat faster and requiring him to speak up so that could hear himself over the roar in his head.

The roar in his head was only slightly louder than the roar on the street behind him. The place looked like it would in the aftermath of Diwali festivities. Papers strewn around, smoke beginning to thin like a lifting fog and lots of people milling about, looking proud of themselves.

When the microphone was thrust in his face the man looked unsure of himself for just one moment and then he seemed to find an inner well of anger to tap into because he said, with a wagging finger and wobbling chin, “I got here too late but this is exactly what will happen if the common man is mistreated everyday. What happened is the correct thing. You wait for courts, you wait for police. You keep waiting only. These people do what they want and they go scot-free. Every time! How much are we supposed to take before we start giving back? This is the right thing.”

The camera swung around to frame the elfin face of the new reporter who was covering the incident. In a solemn voice she said, “In a first-of-its-kind example of vigilante justice in the big city, Arun Kumar, a wealthy city businessman and father of three was killed by an angry mob after the car he was driving lost control and killed three people sleeping on the pavement in the early hours of the morning here in Mumbai. The man on the street alleges that this is another case of drunk driving. It will take an autopsy to find out if this was indeed true. Mr. Kumar is survived by his three sons and wife Kavita.”

He was a pot-bellied man, rich, unashamed of his wealth and unused to being in bed at a civilized hour. He liked to say that a civilized man could not go to bed without a whiskey and a cigar. The whiskey he had been consuming ever since he arrived at the nightclub at eleven p.m. he had only fired up the Cohiba at 1:30 in the morning.

Arun Kumar had nothing to complain about. The textile export business he had inherited from his father provided him with enough walking around cash. The money he had in turn invested gave him the nest egg he could dig into for several decades of high living after he had chosen to not work as hard anymore. Arun Kumar liked to live unapologetically. He still had sex with his wife after fourteen years of marriage. He only ever fooled around with women he knew would not cross paths with his wife or say anything if they did.

One such lady had been his companion at the nightclub that evening. He had dropped her off at her father’s home at 3:15 in the morning. He had dozed off at the wheel of his Toyota Corolla at 3:37. He had found himself pillowed face down in his car’s airbag at 3:41. The crowd gathered soon after. Dragged him kicking and screaming through the jammed driver’s side window at 3:44. The car’s left front tire had run over the midsection of an eight-year-old boy, killing him instantly. His badly injured mother was cradling him in her arms, wailing into the early morning with an intensity police sirens did not possess.

He speed-dialled a friend who worked for the traffic commissioner. He never got to say anything into the phone because it was swatted out of his hands by a curly-haired, unshaven youth whose eyes were as bloodshot as his own.

Arun Kumar was brought to his knees by a blow from an old cricket bat. Stones from a nearby road widening project opened gashes in his forehead and arms. He was kicked in the stomach and the genitals, even slapped with open palms by some of the women who had gathered around the still smoking car. Nobody knew who delivered the death blow but when the police arrived they used tear gar and lathis to disperse the crowd. One of the Police Inspectors demanded an ambulance for the fallen businessman.

One of the people reminded him that there were four other people injured on the pavement. He expression of dismissal on the cops face became the last thing he ever wore. The angry beast that resides in the belly of every marginalised individual reared its ugly head and the cop was felled by a rock to the face.

In the violent chaos that ensued a total of four people died and twenty seven were injured. Arrests were made but no charges stuck. The news media enjoyed another field day at the expense of the common man but a new fear had settled over the citizens.
It had become clear that people would do well to watch their own actions and mind their own business. All it took was the death of one rich guy to deliver the message.

Comments