Bangalore Pangs

My beautiful city is under siege. Held at ransom by an invisible army. An army

of committed communal conscripts. Of religious renegades looking for retribution. The shadow of a man rides a charred excuse for a rickshaw in front of me. Tears

streaming down his face. His hennaed beard blown from side to side by the wind

coming through a windshieldless void in front of him. The seats at the back are

still smoldering as is the anger and helplessness inside him. He brushes his

emotions aside with a swipe of his dirty sleeve, leaving his face smudged. I ride on past the remains of another 4 rickshaws that lie smoking. Belly-up in

total subjugation, even in death. Like crushed cockroaches on the roadside. A little further I come upon a bus. Or what once used to be. Glass lies everywhere.

Small fragments littering the road. Symbolising the shattered spirit of the city. What is it that makes these marauding madmen pick on public transportation to

vent their venom? Glance through photographs of any riot in India. The first

casualty is often a Public transport bus. The Emergency, the Mandal Commission,

the Indira Gandhi riots, the Mumbai riots. In each case, you can see a burning

bus in every photograph. I turn a corner and am face to face with the devil in camouflage. He wears the garb

of the ordinary man. You'd have passed him on the way to work everyday with not

a glance. But today you dare not ignore him or the very large cudgel in his hands.

This is his time. He shall speak and you will listen. "Ellie Hogtaidira?" a surprisingly nasal, almost squeaky voice asks me. I would

have expected death to ask me where I'm going in a baritone instead of a shaky

soprano. My Kannada is sparse and unconvincing so I pretend to have a toothache.

"Doctor ge hogbeko!" I answer. Suddenly I'm kin. We're brothers, tied together with the umbilical cord of discomfort.

I've touched a chord. Or a nerve more likely. He winces, and waves me onwards.

Anger condensed into concern in the distilling pot of pain. I ride on home thinking O Henry was right. Pain does make the world kin.