The case of the missing laptop

I knocked on the door for the fifth time. Still no one answered.

Finally, one of the neighbours called out from within his house, “They have gone to their native place.”

It seems I had just missed him. I had come to Lilapur Colony to meet one of my old friends. I was in his city with some office work and I had called him up. He was supposed to go to his native town but he said that I would catch him if I hurried. I had other work to finish. I told him, “I will try. But don’t count on it.”

The meeting with the client finished well ahead of time, but as luck would have it, the traffic from the office to Lilapur was heavy. Moreover the rickshaw-wallah took a circuitous route and so I got late.

My friend did not keep a mobile. So I opened my laptop bag, took out a stack of Post-it notes and stuck a note on his door saying I had visited. I turned back to face the unforgiving heat. I had to walk some distance before I could get a rickshaw. I found a few rickshaws standing by. While getting into a rickshaw, there is always this dilemma I face. Should I get into the rickshaw nearest to me, or should I go into the rickshaw who has the most eager driver? Getting into the nearest rickshaw was logical, just as you would get into the first rickshaw if there were a queue. But then, getting into a rickshaw with an eager driver meant that the rickshaw-wallah cared for his customers and he deserved the fare just as well. Being an executive in the hospitality business, I knew the importance of customer service, and much to the frustration of everyone around me, I always tried to look at things from the customer-service perspective. This time, I chose the latter because of a simple reason. The drivers of the other rickshaws were sleeping.

I got in the rickshaw and told him to take me to the railway station. I was to catch the train back to New Delhi. As I got into the rickshaw I saw that it was strangely built. It had a wire mesh on the right side, which was welded to the frame of the vehicle. The left side had a door made of a similar mesh, so that it could be opened before the fares could get in or out. Surprisingly there was a mesh even behind the driver. It was a partition I had often seen in New York cabs, only this was made up of wire instead of glass. I asked him about this strange rickshaw. He just shrugged and said, “I drive kids to school and back. Due to this new law that the traffic police has released, all rickshaws who carry school children must have these protective grill around. To tell you the truth, this wire grill limits the number of children I can carry. Even letting the children sit in front is not allowed anymore.”

“Oh,” I said.

He carried on. “But you see sir, I pay the police a weekly bribe. So they don’t mind my carrying an extra child or two sometimes. You know sir, I am a poor guy, I have to look after my family. I hope you understand.”

I grunted in approval. The old man was almost pleading. Looking at his frail figure from the back, I wondered whether the wire mesh was there to protect the children from the traffic or to protect him from the children.

Just as we started out on the road, I saw a woman approaching the other rickshaws. She was not an Indian, but a ‘foreigner.’ Funny how we Indians have coined up a new country for people who are tourists and are not Indians by origin. Where does your brother work? He works in 'foreign'! Anyways, she was a tourist and had the customary backpack. Probably from the States or maybe Europe. I have always admired such tourists. They carry their own backpack calmly as if it had no weight. And they leave their hands and eyes free to absorb their surroundings. If they are traveling in a group, each person has his or her own backpack. They do their own work. Contrast that to us Indians, we pack suitcases, made heavy by things such as pickles and khakras and theplas prepared at home which the unfortunate husband has to lug around while the wife decked in a saree and heavy jewellery, fans herself grumbling all the time. The husband’s excuse? “My Mrs. just can’t live without her mother’s pickle.” This tourist had woken up one of the rickshaw-wallahs. She was having difficulty communicating with the rickshaw-wallahs or maybe she was just haggling over the price. I wondered what she was doing in a small village like Lilapur.

I had spent many years in countries where I hardly knew the language. I know how hard it is to spend a day in such a situation. I asked the driver to stop and offer her a lift. The rickshaw-wallah instead said, “Sir, let her find her own ride. Why are you depriving one of us from our hard-earned money?”

“Well…,” my voice trailed off.

The rickshaw sped off on the road. I was surprised that the vehicle in so fragile a condition from the outside had such power in it. I closed my eyes and relaxed. My eyes were burning from the heat. I could catch a quick nap before I reached the railway station.

I felt the rickshaw screech to a halt and I opened my eyes. I looked around to see that I was nowhere in the city. There was a small house to my right, surrounded by open land on all sides, some of it farmed land. The house was well-built, a two-storey structure with trees planted all around. It was the lone man-made structure that I could see around. Before I could say anything, the rickshaw-wallah had opened the mesh door and said, “Sir, this is my house. I’m sorry to bring you here without telling you but you were sleeping and I did not want to disturb you. Besides it won’t take much of your time. I want you to meet my wife.”

I felt irritated at first; then I realized I had to spend three hours at the railway station before my train arrived. I might as well spend the time here than in the waiting room. So I smiled and asked him, “Do you always do this?”

He replied with a straight face, “Only for special people.” He walked in front of me, into the verandah of his house and called out to his wife, “Listen, the guest has come. Bring some water.” I slipped off my shoes as is the custom, and entered the house. It was neatly decorated, unpretentious and homely. His wife brought me a glass of water which I gulped down thankfully. His wife was a portly woman, dressed in a brightly-coloured sari and had the traditional shyness seen in Indian women (generally).

He then proceeded to show me around his house. As I said, it was simple yet well-done. From the kitchen came a delicious aroma of the sautéing of garlic and onion. In the kitchen, I saw an impressive collection of knives. They were all hanging in a row, pointed down, in an aluminium shelf. The knives gleamed as if they had been just ordered from a home shopping network. Beside their bedroom, there was an unoccupied room containing rolls of fabric of different colours – red, blue, yellow, all stacked carelessly. And on top of the heap, there was a mace. Just like the one used by Lord Hanuman. I was surprised and stared at the mace and then at the rickshaw-wallah. He explained that his son worked in a moving theatre which specialized in enacting mythological tales. Currently, his son was playing Lakshman, brother of Lord Ram in a play about Ramayana, he said proudly.

I noticed that there was no bathroom and toilet within the premises of the house. This is a common feature in villages and in many cities as well. Activities such as ablution and excretion are done in separate structures built outside the house. I needed to answer the call of nature badly so I asked him about it. He nodded and lead me to the back of his house where there was a small room for that very purpose. He went back into the house while I made my way to the toilet. It was getting dark but I could see that was a sugarcane field behind the house and beyond that a forest. Beautiful, I thought. It would be just beautiful, living in such a serene environment like this. As I returned to the house, I saw heaps of wood lying in the back of his house. Just like the rolls of fabric I saw in one of the rooms, these were kept carelessly. But on one side, I noticed a different arrangement of the wood sticks. It was as if a child had made a stick man out of those wood pieces. I smiled and said to no one in particular, “Look, there’s even a clay pot for the head.” There was a word for such arrangement. A scarecrow? No that wasn't the word. It was something else.

I made my way back to his house. As an avid crossword enthusiast, I was still trying to think up of that word. The word would come to me soon, but not before shocking me out of my wits. I opened the door and stopped. Beyond the door, I saw a sight which made my heart skip; not the usual beat, but a whole dozen of them. Both husband and wife were standing in the corridor into which the door opened. And I tell you, that sight still frightens me. The rickshaw-wallah was holding the mace over his shoulder while his wife held a sickle, gleaming in the harsh yellow rays of the light bulb hanging above them. Both of them were smiling. But the smiles were what made the scene particularly horrifying. The wife bared all her teeth and a shiny gold tooth shone. Both sickle and tooth burning in the yellow light. The man too was smiling. I hadn't noticed him smiling before and now I saw why. His teeth were all crooked and pointed. Like the teeth of vampires with which they bite their victims. The shadows of both the figures fell on me. And I gave an involuntary shudder.

My body had frozen but my mind was racing. Everything fell into place. The wire mesh in the rickshaw with a lock hanging outside… the set of shiny, sharp knives in the kitchen… the battered mace in the unused room. Lakshman, brother of Lord Ram, does he use a mace? I don’t think so… the carefully arranged wooden sticks in the backyard. The word which was eluding me came to me in an instant – voodoo doll.

“We are famished. Do you want to eat?” the man croaked.

An image of a particular person rushed into my brain. Simultaneously I turned and ran. I ran out of the house through the back door, my feet stepping on the wooden sticks. I ran out into the sugarcane field. And when I thought I had covered sufficient distance, I turned right and ran around their house, always keeping a safe distance from the house.

“Hannibal…” I gasped…
“fucking…” I ran…
“Lecter” I fell...

Covering a wide arc from the house, I reached the road through which he had brought me here. I was expecting to hear the sound a rickshaw starting, both of them following me in the rickshaw. I was waiting for the wife to scream from the back seat of the rickshaw, waving the sickle at me. But thankfully there was no such noise. I didn't look back, I just ran. I don’t know how long I ran before I stopped to catch my breath. I eventually found a ride back to the city.

And now I was standing in my office in front of my boss. I tried to explain it to him. “Honestly sir, that’s how I lost my cellphone and the laptop which you assigned to me.”



P.S. Inspired from a real nightmare :)