An hour at the police station

The SMS interrupted my lazy evening of bing-watching a new web-series. The message said that ten thousand rupees had been withdrawn from my credit card. I didn’t pay attention to the message, until I got another message that another ten thousand had been withdrawn. My first instinct was to defend technology. I tried to remember some transactions that may be getting reflected late, maybe from the recent overseas trip. I checked my wallet, and the card was still there. I was half tempted to get back to my lazy evening and my web-series. My mind was slow to process the information, and then it panicked – someone had cloned my card, and knew my PIN, and was making these cash withdrawals in this moment. My binge-watching bubble burst, and I was now a victim in my real life drama.

Someone had cloned my card, and knew my PIN, and was making these cash withdrawals in this moment.

Citibank was prompt in blocking my card, and kind enough to reverse the charges. They promised an investigation, and said that insurance would cover any fraudulent usage, and like a magic-trick no one would have lost anything. But, for the magic to kick in, I would have to submit a copy of a police complaint. The issue of filing the police complaint wasn’t a trivial demand. It would upset all of my weekends plan to be lazy.

How does one rebel or sabotage a world that is speeding up, spinning out of control? My answer is, with Laziness. I want to make the world slower, and I want lead the charge, slowly. I want to evangelise it with my NGO/ Activist group/ revolution, someday. It would be a glorious gathering of fellow procrastinators, and those lazy ones who believe in the common vision. But I am too lazy to do anything about it, and I guess they would be too lazy to join too. I walked out of my lazy Saturday bubble, after my fruit breakfast, my newspaper and tea into another world. The amount was big enough to force me to abandon my weekend principals of procrastinating.

A Police station can be seen as a pitstop on your way to hell as your Karma catches up with you.

In a police station, you realise that the real action in India is not on TV, or on social media, or in our offices, or homes. Our social media outrage is a meaningless word-storm about issues with no skin-in-the-game. Our fights at home may well be the a comedy TV shows, and our bosses arent as evil as evil can be. A visit to the Police station cures you of many of life’s illusions and priorities.

There was a commotion outside the police station as i walked in. A small mob from the nearby slum was having an argument with the cops. Everyone at the Police station seemed seemed mildly irritated by my presence, and of bothering them with my paperwork when they already had enough on their plate. Everyone at the station was particularly on the edge. I wasnt sure if this was the general culture of the branch, or was today an exception.

A women-cop asked me rudely about my reason for coming. I had just gotten off the customer care of Citibank, so she sounded a bit harsher in comparison. She was telling me something in Marathi, and I was was wondering if I should ask for subtitles, but she didnt look the type to take humour lightly. I ignored her rudeness, smiled and asked her to explain in Hindi. There was a sudden commotion outside, and she shot out of the room along with the other cops without answering me. This was probably the crises they all had been anticipating, and maybe I was underestimating the seriousness of the issue.

I was left sitting in the room with a bored clerk who was busy putting glue on the back of a photo like an artist, in his lovingly curated register of crimes. There were a few people ahead of me waiting for their complaints to be registered by him. I tried to enquire about what was happening outside, but they all were vague about it. They indicated that it was a serious incident, that this protest had been going on for the last few days. They weren’t in a mood to talk about it. I kept my peace, hoping to finish my paperwork and get back to my web-series.

I was left sitting in the room with a bored clerk who was busy putting glue on the back of a photo like an artist, in his lovingly curated register of crimes.

One guy waiting ahead of me started muttering, hoping to get my attention, the others probably knew his story. ‘I think life in Jail is better. At least people there take care of each other’ and then he went quite. He seemed from a well-to-do background, well dressed, and was a bit overweight. It was a great opening line, and I was hooked. I wasn’t sure about the right way to ask him if he was talking from experience, and what was his crime. He picked up the conversation himself – ‘I am now out of jail, and can’t find a job. In there, i would get two meals and a daily snack, which was good. Even the medical was cheap. I came out because of my family, otherwise I was happy there. I had even lost weight’ looking at the filing clerk for some acknowledgement, but he was too busy with his crime register. Prison didnt sound like the vision of hell I had in mind. I wasn’t sure if I should feel happy for him getting released, or offer him my condolences that he was now free. He was a likely candidate for me to consider recruiting for my revolution, maybe even as an office bearer or a role model for us all.

He was now talking to another cop, asking to sort his issue because of which was confined to his house. He went on complaining – ‘how much can one sleep, eat, watch TV afterall’, which just reminded me of my weekend. He helped himself to a candy that was kept on the cops desk. The cop didnt have a good answer for him, and gave him three more candies instead. He took them all giggling, offering some to me.

I was handed a paper to write out my complaint. After i wrote it down, the clerk asked me to give him the duplicate copy of it. I asked him if they have a photo-copier in the station, he looked at me accusingly, asking why i had not asked for a carbon paper before writing my complaint. I looked around for any notices about my rights to a carbon-copy paper on-the-house. But there were merely instructions on what your rights are when you are arrested. In it, the Police promised all the care, and loving attention, and concern while arresting you. It almost seemed inviting. The filing clerk told me to go out to a nearby shop to make a copy of my written complaint.

In it, the Police promised all the care, and loving attention, and concern while arresting you. It almost seemed inviting.

A crowd had started to gather in the nearby market. Atmosphere was highly tense, and everyone seemed restless and angry. I had a feeling I would ignite the crowd if I merely asked anyone where the xerox shop was. I walked through the protesters and found the shop. The bored but efficient  shopkeeper went about his work. I asked him what the issue was, he just shrugged his shoulders. I was impressed by his casual inference to the world, when everything around him was on fire. He would be perfect to recruit as the leader of my the lazy revolution. His pal started teasing him about shutting his shop and go home, but he was ignoring him as well. I overheard that a young girl had gone missing a few days ago, and had just been found, dead, probably murdered. I collected my papers, and walked back into the police-station sensing that the situation could turn ugly any moment.

The fiery female-cop came back in, made some illegible scribble on my paper impatiently, and told me something in Marathi, which I guessed meant that I had to goto the office on first floor. I went up, but the room was closed. I peeked into the next room and enquired about the whereabouts of the missing officer. The guy sitting there looked positively horrified and upset that I even distracted him from his nothingness – how could he help? it wasn’t his business. I apologised and stood out, waiting. This place seemed like a goldmine for recruiting for my future cause.

I finally found the right desk. The cop got busy with his seal, and stapler, arranging my documents. I tried to make some smalltalk with him – ‘So i heard a young girl has died, is that the reason for the commotion outside?’. He replied – ‘Yes. And she was nine years old. Raped and killed’. I was stunned, and in shock. He continued to arrange my papers in order, stapling them, stamping them. ‘It makes you feel so angry dosent it?’, he made a hard fist, he was clearly upset and angry.

The fiery female cop was standing in the middle of road and had assumed a different avatar,

I walked to the gate still numb from the severity of the crime. The crowd outside had swelled up. The cops with their crowd-control lathis were in place. The fiery female cop was standing in the middle of road and had assumed a different avatar. She was protecting the women who were distraught with grief and anger, gently moving them away from the traffic, while slapping and cursing an onlooker who was recording a video of the crying women with his phone. The irritable cop who I had met earlier, was calmly leading the agitators away from the gate and telling me to stay inside till it was safe to come out.

The protesters wanted the guilty guy to be released. They said they didnt want police to take any action, they would take care of it. It was clear that the guilty guy wouldn’t survive outside the gate of the police-station. Seeing a slight lull in the protests, the cop opened the gate for me and told me to slide out. As i walked out, the mob was again getting loud, and seemed like they would ransack the station.

All the cops were now outside, in their element, with their calm confidence.

All the cops were now outside, in their element, with their calm confidence, in the middle of managing a crises, maintaining the balance between letting the crowd vent their fury, while still keeping them in check. I stood outside in shock and awe of the tremendous work the cops were doing. They weren’t paper pusher, with fake politeness of the call centres. This was the real life, and it was another day in their work life.

My house was a short drive away, but I might as well be living on another planet. I got into an autorickshaw, and I drove back to my planet, still shaking.