*The Phone is picked up at the fourth ring by Junior Inspector Ismail Khan, on his first month of assignment at the police control room.. *
Police Control Room, How may I help you?
You have to help me.. Sniff.. They are getting robbed.. My children...
The voice is squeaky at first, as though coming from a Bad line. After two or three cracks, it comes through.. The voice of a woman. Old. mid 50s or early 60s , Ismail guesses. He looks at the Printed Sheet in front of him, yawns , and prepares to transfer the call to the Womens Cell , as was instructed to him...
Just a second mam, a woman officer will take your call and you can tell her the details..
Ismail hopes he had concealed the boredom in his voice, but he had been doing this for 8 hours now, and this was the last call of his shift..
Please, I want to speak to you Son, wont you help me like your mother?
Ismail pauses, thinking for a nanosecond before hitting the Transfer Call button. A picture of his own mother flashes before his eyes, graying hair, wrinkled face, waiting for him at home with dinner...He decides to take the call..
Yes.. Ahem.. Okay Madam, you were saying...
My children are getting robbed.. My children..
You mean the thieves are in your house? Right now? At this instant? Please tell me your address?
Oh No No Dear.. *Cough*, they are not inside my House.. They are standing outside on the road.. But they are robbing my children..
Ismail looked at his watch.. 7:45 p.m. Roadside robbery after waylaying the commuters was not a new thing in the city, but at this Peak hour it was just madness.. The roads were bound to be crowded, and the public doesn’t exactly catch the thieves and then sing them lullabies or feed them Samosas before they are handed over to the police. Any sane thief would not commit such near suicidal acts, unless he/she is insane.... Or worse.. Armed..
Are they being waylaid madamm? Is there a gang? Are they armed? I mean Do they have any guns? Knives? Anything? Tell me the details and I can send someone over ..
Oh No, they are not armed Son. Theres just two of them.. They don’t have guns or knives or anything.. They are not even using violence.. They are just two fat people wearing white uniforms.. They are waving people to stop and then asking them for money.. And my children seem to be taking the money out of their wallets and handing it over..
albeit reluctantly... Its plain Robbery!!!
Traffic Cops!! Damn.. Ismail knew there was something wrong with the call.. this one was a nut case. He raised his hand as a sign to summon his Senior Officer, R.S Singh, who walked over from his seat, barely able to stifle a yawn. Singh saab came next to him and pressed the AO In button on the console, putting on the headphones so that he can listen- in to the call. He then nodded , indicating that Ismail should follow the code when a call is made by a person who is mentally unstable.
“ Before you proceed madam , please note that making a crank call to the Police Control room is a criminal offence under the Indian Penal Code, and I can assure you that we can trace this call and have you behind bars in the next 24 hours. So , Mam, if you are mentally unstable or have domestic issues, please.. I request you to disconnect this call and we can forget that all this ever happened…
That was a Lie, of course, and Ismail knew it.. The call will be traced and a Police Constable will visit her house later to give her or her children ( if she turns out to be a nutter) a good shakedown and probably make himself richer by a few Hundred Rupees. But Ismail didn’t want to tell her all that..
Arree Ismail beta.. You really think this is a crank call… Okay fine. Let me prove it to you that I am not a fakester..
Ismail took a few moments to register the fact that the lady had called his name, a fact which he was sure had no way of knowing. He looked at Saab, whose furrowed eyebrows and grim expression confirmed his worst fears.. This call was serious.. Possibly a terrorist,….
Oh No, I am not a Terrorist!!! I am just an old lady who knows these kind of things.. For instance, Right now, there are 12 lines active in the Police Control Room and the remaining 4 are offline, for the people who were supposed to man them have gone out to have tea about an hour back.
There is a picture of the Mahatma hanging on the wall ,albeit it is tilting to one end and is covered with layers of dust. The corridor windows have been open and that is what is bringing the smell of the Lunch being served in the Canteen wafting in.. And you , dear Ismail, are starting to wonder if I am a terrorist…
Ismail could barely speak as he felt his throat go dry and his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth. Singh Saab stepped up and spoke in his booming voice
Madam, I don’t know who you are and what your demands are… But this call is going to be traced and you are going to be booked under the Indian Penal Code. If you are , in fact, a terrorist, what are your demands?
“Singh Beta is that you? Nice to hear your voice. Boy you have grown up to be a real hero, what with the constant riots in your locality and the drug menace and all. I hope you have risen above it all and forgiven your fellow brothers and sisters.. You are all my children you know.. I know you will always have a hatred in your heart for your brothers, but please try to forgive them ….”
For the first time in his illustrious career of 15 years as a police officer, Sub Inspector Rudrapratap S Singh felt his knees buckle in fear of the unknown… This call was something else. There was no way this lady could have known all these intimate details…
“Ahem.. Who are you , miss….?
“ I am the Voice of an idea that has been long forgotten. An idea which was founded by great men with noble intentions but which has been twisted by a few greedy individuals to satisfy their own personal needs.. I am the sadness which you see in the eyes of the old woman as she begs in the Traffic Lights, I am the hopelessness you see in the Eyes of the farmer as he stares at his debt notes.. I am the fear which you see in the eyes of the woman as she crosses the road in the night.. And I am the greed which I see in the eyes of hundreds of Civil servants as they rob my children blind…”
“ But I am much more than that.. I am the hope that you see in the eyes of the Young guns as they support a Team of Eleven men who seem to unite my children , atleast temporarily. I am the happiness in the eyes of the child as it runs around a park, free in his motherland. I am the dreams and aspirations of lakhs of young men and women, my children who want to wake up to a better me…. You can call me… Bha Ma…
The Entire Police Control Room was now on its feet, staring at the overhead speaker which was mounted under the Mahatmas photograph. The voice, still that of an old woman, was cascading down at them, like waves hitting a beach on a stormy night..
Listen to me, my children.. It is time for you all to stand up. Stand up to what is right. Stand up to defend the concept of Dharma and Karma that was taught in our Vedas. Don’t wait for a man sitting on a pedestal to remind you to do the right thing.. Do it yourself!! Stop lying, stop taking or paying bribes, stop making excuses and stop being cynical. I am what I am today because of you, my children. You cant blame your brothers and sisters for not taking care of your mother while you stand and watch from the sidelines..Do it today… Stand up to be really, truly free..
The Line goes dead, the faint beep of the tone bringing the Police Officers back to reality. The phone lines start ringing again, and the officers are back at duty, although a faint voice inside their heads keeps tugging at the surreal experience that they had all collectively experienced… A Voice from the Conscience of a Nation….
Authors note: In all the madness of Na Mo and Ra Ga…. Don’t forget the thing that actually matters… Bharat Mata… ( Bha Ma)
