
The Prisoner
I shifted uneasily on the chair as my phone sounded again. Another SMS wishing me a happy fortieth birthday. While I lazily slumped in my position, the baton rolled off and made a quiet thud as it hit the floor, creating a soft echo in the long, quiet corridor outside Tiwari Sir’s office. I picked it up before it could travel any more distance and wake up a dozing Baaji. He had just come back from yet another political rally and the blistering Jarguda heat was now taking its toll on every one of us guards, meant to look after our Minister’s well-being, who lay snoring non-rhythmically in his air-conditioned cabin.
Growing up as a hawaldar’s son in Tenmali village of the gigantic Jarguda district wasn’t too unpleasant, except for those nights when some sleep-deprived, cranky neighbour would come to my father complaining of a drunk someone’s wife making a show and how the husband isn’t able to shut her up with all the beating, and how this yelling and screaming is now disturbing everyone’s sleep. My father would ask the fuming gentleman to settle in our abode for the night, while he would quietly dress up, head to the violent household and throw the wasted individual in the cell for the night. Apart from managing these idiosyncrasies, there was nothing much for him to do in the village. His shot to fame was when he had saved a young boy of a local politician from drowning in the village tank and his photograph appeared in our local daily. My father became a hero in our community. I remember beaming with pride as I got on to that bus to be sent away to the nearest town for a chance at a better education, so I could get into higher ranks on joining the force. However, just a year later I got a frantic call from home about my rapidly deteriorating father’s health. I reached just in time to see him being carried away.
Financially incapable of continuing with the education, I stepped in my father’s shoes and signed up to become a hawaldar.
After five years of diligent service at the local police station, I applied for a promotion that went through quite promptly. To add to it I was asked to shift base to the biggest town in Jarguda. I was looking forward to doing more exciting things than handling daily village squabbles. On reaching the city police station, I was asked to go meet our Minister immediately. I could hardly contain my excitement as I accompanied the department head to Mr.Tiwari’s office. I was asked to wait outside as my superior stepped inside the cabin. A few impatient minutes later, Mr.Tiwari stepped out with his secretary, asked me my name, shook hands with me and left. “Okay then”, said my super, “I don’t want any complaints” and he walked away. Thoroughly confused I looked at a yawning guard to my right. “I am Baaji”, he introduced himself, “I am Tiwari Sir’s personal guard. You must be Shantaram’s replacement. It is good that they’ve hired someone young. Shanta was too aged for the job, anyway. Kept falling asleep while on duty, the old man.” I was about to speak but realised the futility of my words. I quietly settled on a chair outside the cabin, that I presumed was meant for me. There were no fans. The corridors were long and empty. In front of me lay a balcony with a view of barren ground. There was an ageing banyan tree that bore the brunt of the heat of the harsh Jarguda sun.
I had turned twenty-four on the day I resigned to my fate.
A short story by Sukrit Nagaraj

