It started like just another day. Until I opened my eyes, that is.
First, my milkman didn’t deliver the milk... 10 years he’s delivered it, without missing a single day to my apartment at 1, TukTukGali, Shanty Sab Urban Nagar. Not today. I thought that was strange, but then Imran Uncle, my favourite neighbour, rang the bell before I left for work. I opened the door, and he slapped me four times and left.
That hadn’t really ever happened before, either.
Then I went to work, and my boss called me first thing. I went into his office, and finally saw his legendary I-won’t-fire-you-today-because-I’ll-make-you-suffer-eternal-damnation-first expression. He went on for 15 minutes about how I had disappointed him, and how he had met cockroaches he liked better than me. He asked me ‘What do you have to say?’ and there was kind of an uncomfortable silence for two minutes. Then I said ‘About what?’ and he asked me to go to hell. Turns out my desk was pretty much hell for the rest of the day.
My co-workers, Riya, Shilpa and Deepika, were thankfully nice to me as usual for most of the day, but by the time they returned from their break, I must have become invisible. I could have sworn Ramu kaka spat in the tea before giving it to me, but why... why would he do that? Everywhere I went, there were groups of people pointing at me and shaking their heads. It was crazy. And every time I asked them why, I got slapped across the face or just plain ignored. Children would in fact run away screaming in horror, and mothers would call the police.
I got back home, and found my eviction notice waiting for me. Tired, confused and thoroughly depressed, I decided to go to bed. After an hour of tossing and turning, I picked up the newspaper, hoping that reading about a few people whose lives were more fucked up than mine might cheer me up. And there it was, front page...
My name is Sanjay Prabhakar. Its been two days since I read this news. I tried to outlive the shame and hoped people would forget about it, after all I didn’t do anything wrong. I hope no one has to go through the trauma that I have had to. It’s been nearly 3000 long and dreadful minutes, and I have just realized that this stigma will never go away. I will have to live with this burden for the rest of my life. So here I am, writing this letter as my last words to a cruel world, for I’m taking the extreme step. I’m going away... to a better place... Goodbye.
First, my milkman didn’t deliver the milk... 10 years he’s delivered it, without missing a single day to my apartment at 1, TukTukGali, Shanty Sab Urban Nagar. Not today. I thought that was strange, but then Imran Uncle, my favourite neighbour, rang the bell before I left for work. I opened the door, and he slapped me four times and left.
That hadn’t really ever happened before, either.
Then I went to work, and my boss called me first thing. I went into his office, and finally saw his legendary I-won’t-fire-you-today-because-I’ll-make-you-suffer-eternal-damnation-first expression. He went on for 15 minutes about how I had disappointed him, and how he had met cockroaches he liked better than me. He asked me ‘What do you have to say?’ and there was kind of an uncomfortable silence for two minutes. Then I said ‘About what?’ and he asked me to go to hell. Turns out my desk was pretty much hell for the rest of the day.
My co-workers, Riya, Shilpa and Deepika, were thankfully nice to me as usual for most of the day, but by the time they returned from their break, I must have become invisible. I could have sworn Ramu kaka spat in the tea before giving it to me, but why... why would he do that? Everywhere I went, there were groups of people pointing at me and shaking their heads. It was crazy. And every time I asked them why, I got slapped across the face or just plain ignored. Children would in fact run away screaming in horror, and mothers would call the police.
I got back home, and found my eviction notice waiting for me. Tired, confused and thoroughly depressed, I decided to go to bed. After an hour of tossing and turning, I picked up the newspaper, hoping that reading about a few people whose lives were more fucked up than mine might cheer me up. And there it was, front page...
A scandalous crime today shocked residents in the area - a 3 year old child and his 5 chocolate bars stolen from him. Pappu Manchanda (apparently the legal name of the child) had got the chocolates from his doctor at the congenital asthma treatment centre, where he would have undergone critical surgery today on his 4th birthday, had it not been for the malicious assault. The assailant beat up the child, popped all of his balloons and then proceeded to steal and eat the chocolates. Pappu has described the assailant as being 5’11, medium build, spectacled and wearing a formal shirt at the time of the crime. Obviously a very precocious child, Pappu also recollects noting down the assailant’s getaway car registration number, then following him home on his tricycle and identifying him as being Sanjay Prabhakar. It is thought that Sanjay might have stooped to this heinous crime in order to finance his crippling chocolate addiction.
Sanjay is still thought to be at large.(In small print, below: All names and addresses have been changed.)
My name is Sanjay Prabhakar. Its been two days since I read this news. I tried to outlive the shame and hoped people would forget about it, after all I didn’t do anything wrong. I hope no one has to go through the trauma that I have had to. It’s been nearly 3000 long and dreadful minutes, and I have just realized that this stigma will never go away. I will have to live with this burden for the rest of my life. So here I am, writing this letter as my last words to a cruel world, for I’m taking the extreme step. I’m going away... to a better place... Goodbye.
My friend Sanjay is gone. Moved to Delhi. And he’s adopted his wife’s surname to escape his past. He still wakes up at night screaming.
We need a change. A change to a brighter and better world, where newspapers make sure they don’t label innocent hardworking citizens as candystealers. I realise this can be difficult. Perhaps they should choose ridiculous over-the-top names like Mangalakesavadorai or Kinkartavyavimoodh. Hmm... turns out even these names are taken. Well, be not afraid, for I have an even better solution. All of India should just decide to not name their kids Rahul, so that Rahul can be the generic name of every criminal in the newspapers. However, this might be a potential problem for Rahul Gandhi’s future prime ministerial ambitions. So they could just as well pick a more criminal friendly name like Musharraf or Kalmadi.
This is the Man, making the world a better place, whenever I can spare the time.
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