It was a humid day in July in New Delhi, India. It was around 3 p.m. that it started raining which was a respite from the scorching sun of the afternoon. I wished to sit in the balcony of my PG and have some chai-biscuit but I had no time to appreciate the rain. I was running late. I had my coaching at 4 p.m. and I had not yet taken bath. It isn't like taking bath was necessary but I could not go with my messy hair with Riya recently passing smiles at me. I quickly took a bath, packed my bag, and checked my phone for the time. It was 3:15. Also I saw a text from my friend, Darshan, that he had already left for the coaching. It was our legal studies class and a new teacher was going to take up the topic of constitutional laws.
The little rain did no good to the weather. Although the sun had gone, the weather had become incorrigibly humid. I was quite late and so I had to walk briskly to the metro station. The long queue at the metro station was an add-on to my delay. Why am I not a girl! In comparison to what seemed like a never-ending Men's row, the women's row had just six to seven women. Girls do not have to wait in long queues for security checks, moreover, they get a reserved coach as well as reserved seats in the metro. Why can't they have two rows for men to ease the rush? With Independence day soon approaching, the security check was also increased and it further aggravated my delay.
There was a lot of rush on the platform but I had by now figured out that the last coach of the metro was the lightest. I walked to the end of the platform. Most people are really lazy to walk till the end of the platform, so you always have a greater chance of finding a seat in the last coach. The train arrived and I grabbed the only seat available in the last coach. Getting a seat in the metro is quite similar to getting a seat in the musical chair game. I looked at my watch and realized that I was not very late. It was 3:40. Laxmi Nagar to Rajiv Chowk usually takes 17 to 18 minutes. I could still make it on time. As I got off the metro at Rajiv Chowk and almost jogged to get out of gate number 2.
My coaching class lay in Block B of Cannought Place which was just across gate number 2 of the metro station. With my heavy bad which contained a laptop and a few books, I crossed the road. As was going to climb up the stairs of my coaching, an old man who was standing just beside the entrance called me. He was about sixty years old and was standing with a stick. He did not look like any sales or NGO person who you would find in abundance in Cannought place. It seemed like he needed some help and so he had called me and so I stopped to listen to him. "Do you speak English or Hindi?", was his first question I remember. I was in hurry and not understanding his question I said, "English". It was perhaps the first time that someone had asked me this question in India. I know that the Cannought Place is swarmed with foreigners but I look purely Indian in my wheatish appearance. The man started to speak something in English and that's when I stopped him and asked him to continue in Hindi. The man said to me that he had paralysis in his left leg and could not walk properly. He needed to pee and asked me to help him cross the road, where he could pee behind the cars. I was not very sure about helping him because I was really late and also because something was off-putting about the man. Seeing my hesitant face he repeated again that he just needed to pee and asked my help. He was quite humble. His hands were trembling like it usually do in old age. He said to me, "Daar kyu rahe ho beta!" My intuition was telling me not to help the man. Why did he only ask me for help and not anyone else? I do not know but I became quite afraid. What if he was part of a gang who would rob me behind the cars or maybe kidnap me? However, I could not leave an old disabled man just like that who was requesting my help. I accepted to help him, quite unwillingly.
He gave me his stick and put one arm around my shoulder for support. Just as he put his arm around my neck I became very nervous. Looking at my face, which clearly would have said I do not want to help you, he quickly withdrew his hand from my shoulder. He got infuriated seeing a boy as young as me not helping an old like him. He said to me in a rude voice, "Go away." I gave no second thought. I quickly turned back and climbed up the stairs of my coaching.
As I reached the class and sat in one of the back seats, I could not stop thinking about the old man. I think he cursed me at the end for not helping. The class had not started yet. I wished to share this with some of my friends but all of them were sitting in front benches. A lot of thoughts started looming in my mind. The sexagenarian looked geuine. He wore decent clothes and seemed educated by the fact that he could speak and understand English. Maybe he asked me that language question because he was so naive that he felt the young generation speaks only in English. He did not ask me for any money. How could I not dare to help such a poor fellow? I became guilt-stricken. I was so engrossed in these thoughts that I even started thinking about today's society where there is so much lack of trust in people. Maybe we need to watch less of Crime Patrol and Savdhaan India which have corrupted our minds to suspect every other person.
The interesting class and our cool new legal teacher distracted me a little from my guilty mind. It was an amazing class that began with some quick jokes. We recited the preamble of the Constitution like nursery kids recite the alphabet with their teacher. After a long two-and-a-half-hour class, we were walking down the stairs of my coaching and some of my batchmates still rejoicing over our teacher's joke that the Delhi metro is perhaps the only place in India where a man can stand extremely close to a woman without a charge of harassment. For me, it was not a very good day but what I saw when I reached down had taken me aback.
The same uncle who asked me for help about two hours back was standing on the other side of the road. I now feel I made the right choice by not helping him. He was not just a pedestrian but he was there for some purpose. He was still standing there. No person would stand in the same place for two hours. Still puzzled, without looking at him I moved with my friends inside the metro station. I felt like I escaped danger. He was definitely a fraudster I could now feel connecting the dots. He could have done anything to me, maybe hypnosis. I never know.
(A real story by Vansh Chaudhary. It has been more than six months of me going to Block B of Cannought Place and I see this uncle almost every day. He sits on the same bench every day with his walking stick in his hand. Usually a white shirt and grey pants. I now know that he narrates the same scripted paralysis story to everyone who talks to him and then asks them for some money. This is actually his profession. He has got fixed timing and sits on the bench for about six to eight hours every day. He even brings his water bottle sometimes. A harmless man perhaps but a fraud! Why does a man, as old as sixty, needs to do this is something I wonder sometimes? )
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