On a “do-nothing” Sunday some years ago, a few youngsters had assembled in a secluded spot in the village. They had come with some preparations—a pack of cards for a few rounds with stakes (of course, in paise, none being in a position to afford higher denominations), two bottles to provide “beakers full of the warm south, full of the true blushful Hippocrene with beaded bubbles winking at the brim” and short eats to fortify and solidify the intake. Initially, they tried to make the occasion “a feast of reason and flow of soul”.
When celebrations reached their fever pitch, two policemen materialised from nowhere to play spoilsport. The revellers resented the intruders; the intruders resented the revellers. Pushing and pulling ensued; sundry objects flew here and there; parts, limbs and organs of human body were put to use in ways never budgeted for by the Maker and action soon became mixed and general, with the celebrants far outnumbering the “obstructionists”. Finally, the revellers fled the place taking whatever they could seize, disregarding distinction between lawful possessions and enemy property.
Back home by dusk, I (sorry, one guy) found he had emerged a gainer scoring an extra point. He realised he was the possessor of an inexplicable and inconvenient excrescence—a policeman’s lid!
The boy (yes, this sounds safe) had not till that day derived any pleasure from parading himself on the street ornate with a policeman’s headgear which was two or three sizes larger for him. It was not merely a question of a worrying superfluity as the “material object” had severe damage potential as incriminating evidence.
Taking the hat to the police station to surrender it to the owner (in all likelihood, he might not have liked it being restored to him) amounted to inviting arrest and possible imprisonment. Sending it to the police station was also out of the question as the mandatory “From” address was fraught with risks. Naming the sender “Abraham Lincoln” or “Leon Trotsky” could be tried but later, handwriting experts could track down the culprit. One loafer in the locality was available for any type of job, provided he had his cut. The plan was for him to sneak the thing in when cops were busy—smoking, gossiping or planning on whom to devour. Cap and money changed hands. In the evening of the fateful day, the “agent” came to report success of the mission. Three days later, a policeman’s cap was seen floating in a canal in the locality.
C Divakaran
Email: cdmenon@asianetindia.com