The relentless buzzing of mosquitoes is driving me crazy. The
pale yellow illumination in this dirty shithole of a room is not doing any good
to my humor either. Even the old ceiling fan apart from its rhythmic creaking
sound, has no meaningful contribution towards comfort. I am sitting on a bed
that could have sent shivers down the spine of a corpse. Luckily, my wife was
prudent enough to put a fresh bed sheet in my bag.
“Damn it,” a cry of exasperation escapes my mouth, as one of
my dipteran tormentors sinks its stylet into the soft flesh of my thigh. In a
fit of rage I swat hard to eliminate the intruder. The pain linked to the four
red welts that develop instantaneously is little compared to the revengeful
triumph I feel on seeing the smashed remains of the mosquito amid a splash of
warm blood. That the mosquito coils placed all around the room and under the bed
are ineffective is evident. On the contrary the fumes are making my eyes to
pain.
The notes and scientific articles, I was studying for
tomorrow’s interview, are lying beside me, desperately in need of attention. I need
to go through these tonight if I have to make this trip meaningful.
Looking up, I find my own reflection on the huge mirror,
bearing a worried look, sitting as if on a frying pan. I find the situation
comic; my own haggard reflection my only friend in this stinking place on such
a god forsaken night. I wonder what sort of crooked perversion makes someone to
have an entire wall made into a mirror. In fact it had been the first of many
shocks as I had entered this room.
_______________________________________________
An old well wisher of mine, a teacher at university had
brought this opportunity to my notice. Though a Research Associate ship at the
National Research Centre for Grapes would pay me much less than what I earn in
my current job, it had the added attraction of the possibility to enroll for
doctoral studies. If everything goes well tomorrow, I am sure to get this job;
I have a very strong reference. This is why I am here tonight at Pune.
The NRC Grapes is located at one end of the city of Pune. The
locality is called Manjiri, and it is famous for its grape and stud farms. It
is basically a rural outskirt to the Hadapsar area of Pune. It is my first
visit to this city and I must say it does not impress me. The scarcity of
public transport is difficult to bear with, having stayed a long time in a city
like Mumbai. It took me an hour to get into a bus from Pune station to take me
to Hadapsar.
Although the interview is scheduled for tomorrow, I have come
a day earlier. Mumbai is just a four hour ride away but I didn’t want to risk
being unable to reach the venue on time. Assured of the location today, I was
sure that a good night’s read would doubly ensure my success in the interview.
Having seen the location of the Research Centre, I had gone
back to Hadapsar to find accommodation for the night. Hotels and lodges are
very few in this area. To my surprise none of the hotels seemed to have any
vacant rooms. The guy at the front desk in the first hotel had asked,
“How long are you going to stay?”
“Just the night,” I had replied.
“Come back after six in the evening,” he had said, dismissing me
unceremoniously.
“So one of the rooms will be vacant after six? Can I book
now, in advance?” I had inquired.
“Just come back after six,” the man had replied gruffly.
Miffed by his callous attitude, I had damned him and his
hotel in my mind and left.
Amazingly, everywhere the story was the same.
“Come back after two hours.”
“Come after six.”
“We may have one, but it is occupied for the next hour.”
I was at my wits end trying to understand what sort of system
these hotels had for guests checking in. It was four in the evening and I was
still without a room. By now I was desperate to find a place. I took an auto
back to Manjiri where I had seen a couple of hotels by the roadside.
“Hotel Holiday Inn”, the big signboard by the roadside had announced.
The place had looked good from the outside. In fact it had seemed
kind of fancy and I was worried that it might cost me over my budget.
Nevertheless, I had walked in through the main gate. There was a walkway lined
with shrubbery leading to a small portico with a hanging sign that said “Reception”.
A short way down the walkway, it branched off to the right leading to a number of
neatly arranged cabins. There were eight in all. Each one had a small porch.
They had looked really good to me.
At the Reception, I found three people playing cards.
“Hello”, I had said, “I want a room for the night.”
One of the players looked up. “For how many people, Sir?” he had
asked.
“It’s just me,” I had answered.
“Chotte, is number seven vacant yet? He had called out to
someone.
A gangly fellow of about sixteen had emerged from inside and
had said something in Marathi.
“Sir, you have to come back after six,” the first guy had
said upon hearing from Chhotte.
Tired of this answer, I had asked,”Can I keep my luggage
here?”
“Yes of course,” he had taken the bag from my hand and kept
it behind the receptionist’s desk.
____________________________________________________
On my return after six, I was shown into one of the cabins by
the attendant Chhotte. He had pointed it out to me and left. The door to the
cabin was latched. As I unlatched the door and opened it, I was taken aback.
It was a small ten by ten room, with a huge mirror on the
wall facing the door. In fact it was the whole wall that was converted into a
mirror. As I overcame the initial surprise, I became aware of a musty, smoky
odor hanging in the air within. Recoiling from the smell, I withdrew from the
room and threw the door ajar. There was a huge double bed inside the room. A
crumpled dirty grey bed sheet was lying on it. The bed had the look of a
battlefield, where two filthy hogs had just had a fight unto death. The
television on the TV table was so dusty; it seemed it had not been watched in a
long while. The floor of the room was littered with cigarette butts, packets of
gutka and empty sachets of
contraceptives.
I had regretted my decision to stay in this place but it was
too late by then. I had to make the best out of it. I had walked down to the
reception and demanded the room be cleaned up. Chhotte had come, broom in hand
and with a grudging look on his face carelessly swept the room. He threw the
bed sheet out into the porch and replaced it with an equally dirty one from the
neighboring cabin.
Once I was satisfied that the room had a basic level of
cleanliness and sufficient changes of fresh air, I tried settling in. I lit
myself a cigarette and puffed on it, standing out on the porch. The door to the
cabin opposite mine opened and an ugly, fat, middle aged person emerged. He was
wearing black shades, I wondered why, because twilight was almost upon us.
Behind him, a young woman in her mid twenties came out. Her face was covered in
a scarf. Chhotte emerged from somewhere and the fat man gave him a hundred rupee
tip. The attendant then escorted the girl out.
That this place is steeped in illegal businesses was no more
a secret to me. I just wished that the night would quickly pass and I would
leave this place in the early morning. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as
I remembered watching news on television of busted sex rackets and how the
people involved are paraded to the police station with their faces covered in
kerchiefs. I had never imagined, I would land up in the middle of such a place.
I called my wife and apprised her of my predicament. Taking her advice, I locked
myself in my cabin and tried to concentrate on my studies.
_________________________________________________
I don’t remember when I dozed off. I am awakened by a heavy
knock on the door. The light in my room is still switched on. There is commotion
outside my room. I look at my watch; it is two in the morning. There’s
another knock on the door, this time accompanied by a voice,
“Open the door.”
I get up and open the door. Two baton yielding police
constables barge into the room.
“Check the bathroom,” one of them barks.
As one guy goes into the washroom, the other one appraises me
with cold eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks. I give him my name.
“Where are you from?” enquires the constable.
“Mumbai’” I reply.
“What do you do?” he continues the interrogation.
“I work for Reliance Industries,” I say.
“What are you doing here?”
I tell him about the interview I have come to attend. The
other constable by now is at the bedside, with a research paper on “Multiple
Residue Monitoring in Grapes by LC/MS and GC/MS” in his hand. Unable to make
much of it, he tosses it back onto the bed.
“You have to come with us to the station,” my interrogator
declares.
I try to explain that I have a very important interview in
the morning.
“No problem, you tell that to our officer.” He says.
Understanding the futility of my protestations, I ask, “Can I
get dressed?”
“Make it quick,” he replies.
As I am escorted out of my room, I notice a large number of
people and policemen outside. By now it is clear that my worst nightmare is
coming true. I have got trapped in the middle of a police raid. There are seven
other guys huddled together on one side of the walkway, with two constables
poking and prodding them with their batons. Further ahead a group of girls are
being escorted by three women constables. All the girls have scarves over their
faces.
As we are pushed into the police van, a couple of powerful
flashes tell me that the media is here too. I foresee with panic what tomorrow’s
newspapers and television shows will talk about. I curse my bad luck.
The van speeds through many roads and by lanes and finally
halts outside some police station. We are hustled into the station and made to
sit inside a dirty lockup. The place reeks of sweat and urine. I control my
urge to throw up with a lot of difficulty. The guys that were brought in with
me are huddled in one corner of the lock up. Two of them have bruised faces and
bloody lips suggesting that they had put up some resistance at being rounded
up. The girls, I count seven of them; are made to sit on a bench on one side of
the large room, right across the lock up. They sit with their heads hung low
and faces covered with scarves.
All of a sudden, the constables stand up to attention and
greet someone, presumably a senior officer.
“How many of them?” the new entrant enquires.
“Fifteen of them Sir,” one of the constables answers
deferentially.
I did not expect that this night would hold any more
surprises. But lo and behold, but who should this officer be? As the man comes
into my view, I see an ugly, fat, middle aged man, with black shades hanging
from the pocket of his uniform. It is the same guy I had seen coming out of the
cabin with a girl, earlier in the day. As he comes nearer, I see an ugly gash
just over his right eyebrow which gives him a menacing, villainous look.
The guy sees me, recognition evident in his eyes. He is
coming towards me with his lips twitched into half a smile. He opens his mouth
to say something but suddenly a fire alarm sets off somewhere. Everyone in the
room panics. The fat man turns around and starts running. The constables run
out through the door of the police station. The lady constables jostle the
girls out of the place. I shout out loud,
“Hey guys open the lock up, let us out.”
But no one stops for us. No one listens to what I am saying.
The fire alarm is ringing in full frenzy. I look back towards my fellow
inmates. To my horror there is no one inside but me. Sweating and panting in
terror, I kick and bang the gate of the lock up. I throw all my weight onto the
gate, but it won’t budge. All of a sudden everything goes pitch dark. My body
feels so heavy. The fire alarm is still ringing. What’s happening to me? My
limbs seem paralyzed, no more responding to my frantic efforts to break free. Slowly
I feel very light headed and weak. Nothing I think seems coherent to me anymore.
I must have lost my mind. Finally I cease all my efforts.
____________________________________________________
I wake up to the continuous ringing of the alarm. I feel very
tired and groggy as I silence the alarm. It is five thirty in the morning, and
I am lying on a bed, in a small room with a huge mirror on one of the walls. I
have woken up in my cabin. I can hear the birds chirping outside. As I open the
door and go out, I am greeted by the cool fresh morning air. I feel the chill
as the cool air dries up my perspiration and along with it the remnants of my
worst nightmare.
I light a cigarette and take a long drag from it. I come to
terms with reality as I slowly let the smoke escape from my mouth. I smile to
myself. “What a horrible night,” I say to myself, “what a horrible nightmare.”
