To be honest one has to be either stupid or slyly inquisitive about the situation. If one is the former then it’s the end of the story, but if one is the latter, then at some point of time one invariably realises that there is no truth to be honest about and one has to merely go with the flow of things and if one has moral qualms then one has to simply adopt some side kicks, so to speak, to make up for the hurt done to certain random\un-random people during the flow.
This I didn’t realise when thepolice came to D school and how could I? I had no truth to be honest about.But because everyone wants to be honest but not stupid, they kept asking questions, and more the questions more the answers and thus,even before poor Mole had the chance to wipe his blood soaked face, people were already talking about a death, a rape and if not an alien attack then at least some talk about Uncle Sam was on.
All I knew was that someone was hurt, a shot was fired, claim of someone’s death was being made by people directly involved in the action and I had seen a blood soaked underwear which was too torn to tell the gender of the owner; and all this I sang to the fat lady officer who had been eating Mole with her eyes while the Jat policeman tried to locate Mole’s dislocated shoulder who was shouting most pathetically, with one arm raised over his head,"I need professional help!"
What had really happened, as I was told and inferred myself, was that somehow the 'Revolution' which had shat at various places in our lives, markets, libraries, cafes and even on Che’s cap had egged some fifteen jat men to kill our John Lennon, and I swear this is all that happened, but how come John became John, CheChe and revolution became shit, could only be debated in front of Godot who though, conspicuous by his absence, wasn’t missed at all.
In the meantime, an elderly married couple, greatly disturbed by the sudden hue and cry raised due to the unexpected situation, made faces and started singing Hallelujah; a gang of vultures sat smiling smugly hoping someone had really died; some un-whory looking girls lit fags under a tree while some whory looking girls gratefully gavethem light, saying 'Blah BlahBlah' followed by hyena laughs.And yeah all this while, Mithun the J.P.Stall boy was running mad collecting empty cups which he thought everyone was after.
The day had been sunny, nice and warm with the doobies doing the usual chirpy rounds. Chillums had been conspicuous by their absence; so was Autin, the head doper of D school. Everything was going well and good when suddenly a chort of some fifteen Jats came in from the main gate and before anyone could say 'shit', Mole was being held by two jats and a third one, who happened to be spearheading the whole jat movement, was delivering blows into his face. The other Jats were increasing the scenic beauty of the place and tried to look important and aggressive.
Now I don’t know why, but amidst all this I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of knowing the truth and also, though not much, of saving Mole. So I made it to the center of the action and started shouting,’'why are you hitting him, leave him alone’'. I sure as hell looked the lamest of all. I was still asking the same questions when suddenly the head guy jumped on me and grabbing me by my collar shouted,' you don’t come in between bhenchod, you don’t come in between!' This calmed all my desire to know the truth and I sat in a corner waiting for them to finish bashing up Mole. I was still in shock when Mole came back and said with a groggy growl,'seen my glasses', which seemed to be coming from his stomach. The police came while we were looking for his glasses.
The flow of things found me sitting in the PCR going somewhere. Next to me sat Mole, his eyes shut and his head slowly going up and down with the moving car.The PCR entered a building which turned out to be Hindu Rao hospital and Mole started sweet talking everyone while I was sent away to get some water to drink. When I came back, everything seemed fine and Mole was happily chatting with the lady officer who was brimming with loving affection as he told her something about Ravan and his Lanka. The bastard can talk shit, smooth shit.
The only thing we were worried about when the PCR left us in front of Kamala Nagar McDonald was Mole’s glasses and obviously I was curious to know why had the whole thing had taken place. We went to his room where we were joined by the gang and the joints did chirpy rounds again and I forgot all about the truth, for doobies rendered me nor stupid neither inquisitive and to this day I do not know why had the jats been after Mole’s life.
