Last Saturday I had a terrible accident. I fell into a drain and badly bruised my arms and I was robbed off a chunk of flesh from my right leg (bloody, it hurts still after having painkiller).
Of course it was not my fault. It was the fault of two bottles of Haywards 10000 that I guzzled minutes before my escapade. And the Karnataka government should also be blamed. In the hullah-bullah of new government forming, they forgot that the roadside drains are deprived of any light. They should have known, people observe Saturday night in Bangalore religiously and drunkards have an emotional relationship with the city’s drainage system. They puke there, they sleep besides a drain and I have seen people crying and talking to the flowing black water (in the absence of any river nearby).
But let me make the case clear at the first go. It was a dry drain. Had it been a flowing one, I would have committed suicide by now, that’s for sure.
Actually I was not alone. I was with Sanjoy, my childhood friend, who had also two bottles of haywards stocked in his stomach.. After drinking satisfactorily, we decided to take a stroll across the outer ring road. Sanjoy took me through shortcuts, through all dark lanes and darker by-lanes.
For hitting main road, we had to cross the salvager of mankind ‘The Drain’. I was literally sticking to sanjoy as I was not sure of the jelabi route and was afraid that I would get lost into this darkness.
Sanjoy brought me near outer ring road; I could see trucks zooming past. Sanjoy said “watch out”. I looked at the oil tanker on the road and disappeared in to the perfect darkness and three-dimensional smell. All kind of odor forming a collage of national integration.
My head was swirling, still I could figure out Sanjoy desperately searching for me, shaking his head violently to shrug off any hangover, if at all. I crept out from my temporary hideout. “where were you?” was his frantic call. I could not reply, it was paining like hell. Also the smell of dirt was terrible. I pointed to the underground. He realized it was serious. “Can you walk?” he asked. “No,” said I. “Please try to…if you can,” he didn't lose the hope.
But I was gasping for air. I realized my heart is not that strong as I fear it to be. I am a soft-hearted person. Forget walking, I was trying to lye down, as I could feel, breathing was getting increasingly difficult. Without much talking I lied down beside the drain. Sanjoy was moving restlessly, he was very tensed. I managed to say, “Sanju, I think I have broken my leg. Stop a car and take me to hospital.”
The cold night air was particularly refreshing, and the sight that somebody in this earth was sweating in this coldness, worried for me…was like a scene from ‘Paradise Regained’. I had already lost hope in this bloody world. I realized my friends are friends indeed. Though I was feeling Ok after lying down, I didn’t disclose it and let him run after vehicles at that wee hour of 1 am. He was trying to stop every vehicle, nobody was responding.
After 10 minutes of trying, he managed to stop a truck, it stopped right beside me. I always whistle, whenever I feel I am happy. As is my habit, as an automatic reaction, I whistled looking at the truck ‘sui sui…”
The driver had just opened the door to enquire, after watching me whistling, he snarled at me “bewra sallah…”
Pull his gear and started off…
I saw sanjoy running after him, “…bewra nahi hey…real case…hey hey…”
By that time I was also on my feet, I was running (or trying to) “hey hey listen…hey..hey…” the truck speeded away “fuck you…” I vent my anger.
After standing up I didn’t find it fit to lye down, so I limped, putting my weight on poor sanjoy. He carried me to his house. Removed my jeans, washed my wounds. I shrieked looking at it. It was a half-inch-long crater of devastating proportion.
I was sure it needed to be stitched. I know the pain! I knew taking sanjoy to the doctor will be even more painful. At some point he will faint looking at the barbarity of the doctor, and the inhumanity by which the wounds are stitched. He is a confirmed chicken-heart.
I called Ankur. A Punjabi in origin; appears to be ruthless, and the cricket captain of our department (though gets out at 3).
I gave an SOS to him, called him to take me to the doctor at morning and if stitches are involved, carry me to my home also.
In fact, apart from the vulnerability, I wanted to go to the doctor in style. He has got a CBZ.
I tried to sleep. And may be because I was particularly tired after all these experience. I slept like a log and woke up at 12 in the noon. I called Ankur to pick me up.
Ankur took me to the doctor, a lady doctor. The doctor told me to remove my temporary bandage. I removed. I was a little shaky. Ankur, along with the doctor looked at the injury with eyes-wide-open. I knew the seriousness of the case. They must be wondering, how this fellow survived without any medicine the whole night and half-of-the day.
“It’s a superficial injury man, why have you come to the doctor?” the doctor was angry. Ankur’s facial expression was like that of a camel. “I cannot smile even properly,” he said. “For this bruise, you gave me so much trouble. I almost could not sleep last night, I was worried.”
The doctor pumped me a tetvac, she dressed my wounds, I came out giving 100 bucks.
With a guilty feeling I looked at our cricket captain, “see, the wound healed overnight, that’s not my fault.”
“you know what,” he said. “…Devidutta, said the right words for you. If you have a headache, you shout of pneumonia. I should not have taken your words seriously. You are a pain in the ass.”
Bloody Devi, now I realize, how you stab me from behind. What was the necessity to tell this. Some issues need not disclosed at all.
Water-loving Ankur dumped me near Ulsur lake, without caring about the severity of the case.
I took an auto, came home, limping extra hard. My cousin and his friends flocked me (by then I had ringed my cousin, that I had an accident). “Six stitches,” I proclaimed with gravely. “Why you came alone then,” cousin enquired.
“My friend dumped me near Ulsur lake,” I was, quite naturally, sad. “Why?” his friend asked. “He is a bastard,” I passed my final judgement. “all of my friends are bastards, specially a guy called Devi, I need rest, fetch me a glass of water,” I sighed.
Since then I am getting VIP treatment. I never dress my wounds in front of them. I come out from my house limping. Alas, I have to come to the office and work with the same a******s who call me friend.