The Wandering Lens

I had no special reason to go to Mayur Vihar market on the 24th evening. But taking a late evening walk round and round the complex, I thought I might as well go down and buy a medicine and perhaps look for a new toilet brush. Sometimes the lights do go off and when going out after dark, I carry a small torch in my pocket - which I dutifully did.

The medicine was easy, the toilet brush less so. My usual shop seemed to be missing. Not at all unusual in Delhi these days (though with the market slump, perhaps less so in the future). In fact, I saw a Levi's outlet, as also Reebok's. These are pricey items and the middle class locality of Mayur Vihar couldn't have thought of them a couple of years ago (and now may not, a couple of years hence). Walking up and down the crowded road where I thought the shop should be, avoiding being run over by rickshaws and motorcycles and cars, I finally saw a space where it might have been. It was under painting under bright lights. I went up and enquired. It was indeed the place I was looking for. But they were under bi-annual maintenance and would re-open only in two days.

I took a short cut through a deserted winding patch and, curiously as it turned out, said to myself that this would be an ideal place to mug someone. Then I hit the main road leading home, not more than a kilometer or so away.

Almost always, I walk facing the traffic. Better to know what is going to hit you than being hit from the back. I was walking at the edge of the road when a young man hobbling on a cycle ran his front tyre between my legs. It was in slow motion, and all I needed to do was to stop and step away, brushing my trousers where the wheel had touched. The rider was immediately and most profusely apologetic to 'uncleji', the standard epithet one comes across. I barely muttered and walked on.

I was home in less than ten minutes and as usual put up the house key on the hooks by the door. As I came to my room to put my purse in the top-drawer - well, there was no purse. Did I absentmindedly put it in another room? Hardly, as I had not entered any other room. At that point, light dawned and the operation of a few minutes ago became clear. While I

was busy disentangling the wheel, my pocket had been picked.

I called Leela (who always knows best) and she confirmed that I should straightaway inform the police station before rushing off to dine with the President. Leela, not me. I had lost my driving license, registration certificates of both cars, income tax card and both my debit cards. I had ceased to be a person. Except for my pension card, which is of an awkward size and remains at home except once a year when I take it to the bank in November to prove that I am still alive and may continue to be allowed to receive pension. I put that in my pocket and drove to the police station a couple of kilometers away.

I knew this police station because twice in the past few years I have had to get my impounded car released after (allegedly) illegal parking. The first time I had to fill up a form, not only putting my name under a column which said 'name of the criminal', but also bringing in my poor father under 'name of the father of the criminal'. (Wonder if anyone thought of writing, 'my mother never told me'. Maybe I will try it next time if I have to fill up the form. Keep my poor father out of police records, even though he has

long been beyond anyone's reach).

But though the thana could grab my car, they could not register my complaint. Apparently, where the incident took place was just outside their jurisdiction. So far I was the only person at the desk. In came half a dozen people dragging a very silent, thin, dark and bleeding through a smashed nose young man with rather graphic suggestions of what they would like to do to the mothers of the Biharis in the area. Apparently the smashed-nose young man was part of a local Bihari gang expert at picking pockets and mobiles. I admit to being sufficiently human at not feeling much sympathy for the boy at what had already happened and what probably lay in store.

My problem of finding the right thana still remained. A smartly turned out young police officer came out from behind the desk and said that he would explain where the thana was. I know where it is, I said - but the approach is through narrow lanes which I simply could not negotiate with my car. The officer said he would

guide me through a more passable road after which I would be able to find my way back over a reasonably motorable road. And so, incredibly, an ageing complainant, who had mentioned neither name nor any past rank, was guided by a motor-cycle cop to the appropriate thana, about ten minutes away.

This thana was a pale reflection of the earlier one. A car could not get in as the gate was blocked by a police Maruti Gypsy and, in any case, there was no parking space inside. A polite cop at the gate told me I could park on the road, being careful to merge into the kerb as speeding buses could cause harm. Inside, there was an inspector who took charge immediately. I told him my name and address and the reason for the visit. 'Weren't you our ambassador to Bangladesh and Nepal' he asked. Hugely flattered, I asked how on earth he knew. That was centuries ago. Well, we know about you, he said cryptically, I hoped not in any sinister manner. (I spent a day trying to figure out what he meant by that until this morning when I called him to report

subsequent developments and he said that he liked what I write in the papers!)

I could not file a pickpocketing charge. As the policeman patiently told me as he filled in the details of lost articles on his computer, if I filed a complaint then it would have to be investigated. And until the investigation was over he could not give me any paper which was essential for me to get replacements of all my identity documents etc. Impasse. His formulation was that I was hit by a cycle and my purse fell down and was lost. If we were being truthful, I said, I couldn't say that as I don't know that the purse fell down, do I? It doesn't matter, he argued. Maybe, I said without blushing, but I am a truthful sort of chap. The compromise formulation was that I was suddenly hit by a cycle and 'my purse went missing'. Honour and practical sense satisfied.

I spent the next hour or more consulting Shyam on how to block use of my debit card. (The story of ICICI bank's incompetence is another story) and eventually went to sleep. My landline has been out of order for a couple of days but the mobile remains switched on.

Only since the past six months when I volunteered to be woken up in case anyone in the complex required urgent attention at night. Some beautiful dream was interrupted by a raucous sound. I woke up and the raucous sound continued. It was my mobile a few feet away. I took a bleary look at the watch. It was a quarter to eight on Christmas day. Who is speaking, said the voice at the other end. Normally when this happens my response is not gentle. Don't you know who you are supposed to be calling, etc. But I was still groggy. Mukharji. My name is Vinod. We have some papers of yours, please come immediately.

It took me five minutes to dress and in another five I was at the rendezvous, only yards away from the place where I had made acquaintance of the cycle the previous evening. Across the road were a half dozen people. A pleasant looking person crossed the road to me as I first wound down the window and then stepped out of the car. He was

holding out a bunch of cards. We were walking and saw these cards lying on a rubbish heap and thought they might be important. Anything missing, he asked? Well, I smiled a bit wryly, my wallet and few thousand rupees. But these are priceless and save me a month's hassle and harassment for replacement. But yes, the registration papers of my cars are not here. They may still be on the rubbish heap, said Vinod. And they were. He explained that initially they were hesitant to call me, worrying that questions would be asked and, who knows, the police involved.

I lost some money, which I must make up by not spending it. But on the positive side 1. I know what to do when a cyclist runs his front wheel between my legs 2. Met a policeman who guided me on his mobike at night. 3. Met another policeman who reads the right kind of newspaper and articles 4. Met member of civil society in the form of Vinod who may not attend seminars but who took trouble

over some plastic cards lying on a rubbish dump.