During the dawn of a New Year day, long back, the smiling sketch of the Father of the Nation, drawn with only a few strokes by an avant-garde artist, I had on the wall facing my desk prompted me to make a resolution to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth — just for that day, to begin with, purely on an experimental basis. Practising it for a whole life would call for the qualities of no less a soul than a Mahatma, after all.
It so happened that the grumpy lawyer with a short fuse who handled our company’s legal matters was returning from Delhi. I was to meet him at the airport to collect an affidavit he had taken with him for corrections.
I was looking for a taxi or autorickshaw to the airport but there was none in sight. It was getting late. As I started to panic, a brand new Ambassador screeched to a halt near me. The driver leaned to his left and asked whether I was bound for the airport. If so, he would give me a lift. I hesitated. Was it right to get into a car without the owner’s permission? He said he had not seen any sign of a taxi or auto. “Hop in, Sir,” he urged, “no problem.”
That settled it. I got into the car, sheepishly, and travelled seated on the edge of the seat , to ease my conflicted conscience. The driver must have worked in the Fire Service previously, given the way he weaved through traffic. He would have switched on the siren if he’d had one. We reached the airport in one piece, thanks to my prayers to all the gods and goddesses in the Hindu pantheon. He jumped out and held the door open for me and accepted the crisp notes I thrust into his palm. He smiled broadly and drove off to the parking lot.
The Indian Airlines Boeing landed on the dot for a change but to make amends the luggage took its own time in arriving. Barking orders to a porter, the jet-weary lawyer looked for the car after locating me at the arrival gate. “I do not know why the driver is not showing up. He should have been here,” he exploded. “There it is,” said, pointing towards a car at the parking lot. “But the driver is missing,” he scowled. “A nuisance, this fellow. I’ve a sneaky feeling he takes passengers during empty trips to and from the airport, making money on the side. I must catch him one day with proof. Red-handed that is. And sack him,” he thundered, waving his cigar. “It is a thought,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Can you arrange for an efficient detective agency to take up the task? Money is not my worry. But honesty is,” he said.
I swallowed, feeling restless. The feeling turned to dismay as the lawyer’s driver who eventually came running towards him like a clumsy ostrich turned out to be the man who had offered me a lift. He did not show the slightest sign of recognition seeing me by the side of his fuming employer.
His eyes met mine, surreptitiously, when the luggage was loaded into the boot. I coughed and wore my goggles to hide my eyes. His face turned white. Perhaps I looked more like a private detective now. I stole another glance at his eyes. Hunted, cornered and pleading eyes. He looked away.
Should I, an accomplice to the crime, come clean, turn approver and tell the lawyer? What about the grand resolution I had made that morning under the gaze of the Mahatma? I vacillated.
Yet, I was reminded of Morley’s words: ‘Truth is not a diet but a condiment’. Such a redeeming counterpoint assured me that it would be better to keep certain truths pickled and throw them out unused when they became stale and rancid. I held my tongue
The car eventually reached my residence. I got down managing to bid the lawyer goodbye with almost a straight face.
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