Al Ngullie
Mighty glad last Saturday’s work in the office wasn’t edible – it’d be rubber chocolate – exciting but offensively tough. We left around 8:30 pm with colorful complaints of backaches, headaches, stomach aches and an indescribable load of other aches owing to whirl wind reporting, editing, writing and screaming in the office. Good thing we don’t have Tyrannosaurus Rex reporting for us.
Anyway, I trudged out to wait for an Auto. It was not only the fatigue, the sweat and stress but the dread if I won’t get an Auto back home. It compounded my doubts if Journalism was really my cup of black tea. Hey, I’m short, fair, maha ordinary guy with …er... tolerable looks but I have in me not bastenga-cum-axone-cum-Anishi blood but music and adventure running through my veins. Investing my sweat into something extremely intellectual a career as mass communications, seemed too incongruous because I have the IQ of a Potato. It’s the worst job in the world! And I love it! Simply squeezing loves it!
Now back to the waiting-for-an-auto part. The evening grew darker. My scrawny arms felt like 3 kilos as I tried waving down an Auto. In vain. After at least another 400 bouts of frantic waving I tried screaming …uh…waving…er…one last time. Godblessthisautodriverforitstoppedthistime! Was I in hurry big time! Mom must be having colorful nightmares worrying where his son was at this ungodly hour! So off we zoomed for the Rail gate Auto-stand to get one back home. I got there and remembered Autos don’t hang around for 9:30 pm Journalists. I shuddered. Rail gate’s got the reputation of New York back streets. Murder, robbery, mugging, night fights, booze joints, prostitutes. ‘No, don’t think, you silly Dodo!’ I muttered. My nerves shot from worrying how to get home, and in this forsaken place, I hung around for 20 minutes. Whisky induced happiness wafted out from every door. Somewhere, a gang of youngsters were doing a bloody WWF after swallowing the Prohibition Act.
Finally I spied a lone Auto in a corner behind a Tsunami-hit bathroom. I gingerly walked over and enquired from a guy, flirting with a middle-aged woman, where the driver was. “Ami ase, kot jabo?” he looked up irritated. He replied “Aacha, Olob rukhibi.Manubi jabole ase!” The olob rukhi bi turned out to be a half-hour wait since he was drinking. And there was no way there’d be any other Auto so I olob rukhi she.
Meanwhile 3 more guys – with colossal liters of whisky in their sentences – joined me in the Auto. They were talking in Hindimese, which Naga Police jawans are so proficient in. They competed with each other with lofty stories of bravery and war somewhere in Assam. One of them even reminded the other two to talk respectfully to him since he was a “captain Major”. They offered me a bottle which I refused politely. We struck up a conversation. I found out they were IRB jawans on leave. Then, complaining that the driver was taking too long, two of the warriors wobbled off to have one more mug of beer. Omegosh! No more waiting! It was already 10: 23 pm! Mom must be having WW-III dreams.
Then the left-behind Jawan, momentarily forgetting he was somewhere in Sri Lanka fighting the LTTE, turned and asked what I was. A Journalist, I replied. And seriously, despite fused nerves and the hard day, I felt the deference of the moment as he visibly sobered up at my reply. Then he, in all his drunken state began quietly addressing me as ‘Sir’. What stunned me was that I’d always thought Journalists were seen upon as trivial appendages of working class people (I still go over this incident whenever self-doubt tie me down if my writing is of any help to my people, my society). It felt so strange.
Anyway, I told him he needn’t address me as ‘Sir’ and that I was just an ordinary individual working his survival out. We conversed for sometime as he shared me about his family and his career as a jawan. He was a nice person. It was already 10: 0. The two jawans returned as I resumed waiting staring at the dark underbelly of the Flyover Bridge. As they squeezed in with raunchy jokes and guffaws, the “Captain Major” almost in a whisper, hushed the men up. I squirmed in embarrassment as the ‘Captain Major’ cautioned them to be polite since “E-tu manu to Journalist ase. Bohut Immandar aur Bara aadmi hai” (honest and big person). The three of them now talked soberly. (With all my heart, this will remain one of the strangest incidents, elicitive of respect in my life).
Finally the driver appeared at around 11: 15. At last! We rattled off. Then just at the Police Traffic Control Room one of the jawans asked to be dropped of at ADC Court junction to get something for his wife. Even the driver who seemed to be his friend, requested to bear with them. My nerves were shot. My Mom was worrying her birthdays away for me. There’s no chance I‘d get an Auto now at midnight. And my brother’s car had been conveniently smashed in an accident. I was tired, hungry, frustrated. I’d wasted at least 3 hours waiting for something to take me home. And this guy, after all that, wanted a detour! I got down and politely told them they can go to ADC Court. I’d walk home. I gave them a beautiful smile and walked off with my dignity intact. Longest day in the ‘office’ ever. Reached home at 1: 17 in the morning.
