Its 1 in the morning and I'm returning from an editing studio. Having survived the grueling 'rendering ' periods, i just want to find my pillow now. A good boy thing that, i think to myself. Only a week back i would picture myself looking down at the rotating single malt in the octagonal glass, and the sweet clinking sounds of the ice cubes... looking down ... thinking... sniffing and then indulging in a rather undiluted taste of a good single malt. This week though, is different. Last weekend shook my malting routine. (but that's for another blog).
We do so many things, so many times in order, that our eye is trained to pick up aberrations. Two bikers lying flat on old madras road for instance. As I'm slowing down i see a bleeding nose bridge, and a rush of other bikers who slowed down a few seconds ago. I park quickly. I notice a dirty shirt talking to another. I assume the guy doing the talking must be rider, to whom this roughed up helmet belongs. The other guy who seems distant, removed from this rush of things and the owner of the bloody nose bridge (and lips and chin), i calculated must be the unfortunate one on the pillion . The next fifteen seconds seemed liked a memory of a shooting star. More talking - no response - traffic builds - i remove the bike n helmet from the scene - passing car stops - hands out a bottle of water - zips away - other cars follow - night's still again. The talking dirty shirt drags and pulls the quiet one to the pavement. I'm overwhelmed by his concern, by his love for his friend. And then he screams - "where's my phone?".
On the pavement i get closer. My first question is met with apprehension and is answered by - "boss, please don't create a scene". The answering face belonged to one of the fellow spectators. Do I look like a cop? My dad would've been so proud if i had been one. But I do something he does not comprehend - advertising. He thinks working with comps means software, and thats what he tells people. I flash back to the present. "I just want to check if he is responding, where's he bleeding from". If the trance is a shock from the fall or is it the last 3 drinks that he shouldn't have downed. I'm no doctor. My friends call me half a doctor. For i have no degree, just many questions and many answers about the human body. He tells me his name, drinks a little water, and is coming to his senses rather quickly. In a few seconds he gets up, reaches for his zipper, and looks around for a bush. He finds one, just behind him. As if by magic, all the pain and suffering left the first one, and got transfered to the second one, all in an instant. He's holding his leg and crying like a baby. He probably should've said no after his fourth. I ask him to move his toes, which he does. I tell him, he just has bruised skin and muscle pain which is stinging him now. No deep wounds. No fracture. Nothing to worry. The crying stops.
During the conversation, the night ate up the fellow spectators. They had enough confidence in me to take care of these two limp-blitz-kids all by myself. Or may be they were used to such stuff. I think the latter coz we never found that phone on this relatively clean and well lit accident spot.
I'm not used to be being addressed as bhaiya (elder bro) or sir. But "Sir, Sir" is the prefix i hear for the next ten sentences and questions. "Sir I cant find my phone? Sir where are we? Sir did we fall badly? Sir is the bike screwed? and more such... They found their class teacher again, and I my mirror image from last week. I don't call the Police. I don't call the ambulance. I gathered they are better now. Scratches were not too bad. The relatives' to where they're headed will follow up on this story. So i show them the way to Indiranagar. I think i remember seeing a smile as they entered the locale they were familiar with. I breathe deep and ride on.
We do so many things, so many times in order, that our eye is trained to pick up aberrations. Two bikers lying flat on old madras road for instance. As I'm slowing down i see a bleeding nose bridge, and a rush of other bikers who slowed down a few seconds ago. I park quickly. I notice a dirty shirt talking to another. I assume the guy doing the talking must be rider, to whom this roughed up helmet belongs. The other guy who seems distant, removed from this rush of things and the owner of the bloody nose bridge (and lips and chin), i calculated must be the unfortunate one on the pillion . The next fifteen seconds seemed liked a memory of a shooting star. More talking - no response - traffic builds - i remove the bike n helmet from the scene - passing car stops - hands out a bottle of water - zips away - other cars follow - night's still again. The talking dirty shirt drags and pulls the quiet one to the pavement. I'm overwhelmed by his concern, by his love for his friend. And then he screams - "where's my phone?".
On the pavement i get closer. My first question is met with apprehension and is answered by - "boss, please don't create a scene". The answering face belonged to one of the fellow spectators. Do I look like a cop? My dad would've been so proud if i had been one. But I do something he does not comprehend - advertising. He thinks working with comps means software, and thats what he tells people. I flash back to the present. "I just want to check if he is responding, where's he bleeding from". If the trance is a shock from the fall or is it the last 3 drinks that he shouldn't have downed. I'm no doctor. My friends call me half a doctor. For i have no degree, just many questions and many answers about the human body. He tells me his name, drinks a little water, and is coming to his senses rather quickly. In a few seconds he gets up, reaches for his zipper, and looks around for a bush. He finds one, just behind him. As if by magic, all the pain and suffering left the first one, and got transfered to the second one, all in an instant. He's holding his leg and crying like a baby. He probably should've said no after his fourth. I ask him to move his toes, which he does. I tell him, he just has bruised skin and muscle pain which is stinging him now. No deep wounds. No fracture. Nothing to worry. The crying stops.
During the conversation, the night ate up the fellow spectators. They had enough confidence in me to take care of these two limp-blitz-kids all by myself. Or may be they were used to such stuff. I think the latter coz we never found that phone on this relatively clean and well lit accident spot.
I'm not used to be being addressed as bhaiya (elder bro) or sir. But "Sir, Sir" is the prefix i hear for the next ten sentences and questions. "Sir I cant find my phone? Sir where are we? Sir did we fall badly? Sir is the bike screwed? and more such... They found their class teacher again, and I my mirror image from last week. I don't call the Police. I don't call the ambulance. I gathered they are better now. Scratches were not too bad. The relatives' to where they're headed will follow up on this story. So i show them the way to Indiranagar. I think i remember seeing a smile as they entered the locale they were familiar with. I breathe deep and ride on.
3 comments:
I like the way you write kid, very observant about details and sensitive. Would love to read more.
i love the details you included...
love that i could see the scene unfolding before me.
:) nice nice...
i like.
thank you Poet
thank you esme
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