My bus was delayed by four hours. It was the biggest bus depot in the state. I sat on one of the benches with my knapsack. Watching people.
The sky was cloudy-blue, and you could easily lose your thoughts in the hustle that pervaded the bus depot. Buses going to many different cities, luggage being loaded and unloaded, people sitting in groups immersed in watching the wall-hung TVs where an exciting India – Pakistan match was coming live – men, women, kids, college girls and guys, food stalls, and one stray dog.
There was a huge roar as one of the promising batsmen got out and walked back to the pavilion.
The boy looked quite hungry but was really amazed at the crowd peering at the replay of someone throwing something at someone else and everybody shouting. He must be 15. His walk and his style of observing people hinted me that he is clinically, a mentally challenged person. He posted himself a few feet away and continued looking at the screens like others. His hands moved in the style the bowler’s bowled and he clapped on seeing he can almost do it well. But he couldn’t find people shouting any more for some more time.
Two buses for Chennai, one air-conditioned, and the other a normal one, left.
He moved closer to the group. Standing on his toes, he tried looking over the shoulder of the spectators. I guess he lost his balance and leaned on one of the fellows.
A sudden turn. The fellow caught this guy and started shouting “Pick-pocket! Catch him!!”
No one noticed Sachin getting out as the crowd pounced upon this fellow. He screamed, and I realized that he was unable to speak. He uttered some incoherent shouts. I got up to help him out but he darted of away from the crowd.
A group of college guys took the opportunity of showing off some movie skills to the female crowd and darted behind him.
He ran towards the bicycle parking. And was walled there. The guys shouted abuses as they punched him. One of the cycles fell and a row of bicycles fell on to one side.
I contacted the constable on duty and he ran with his huge belly towards the crowd. One whistle from the police and all the heroes retreated back to realize that Sachin was no more on the pitch.
I stood in front of the sobbing boy. I tried to hold him but he did not let me do so. His eyes were filled with fear.
I stood a little distance away and asked the constable about the boy. I was told that he was homeless because he was mad. I doubt whether it couldn’t be the other way round.
A couple of minutes later I turned around to see the boy patiently picking up the bicycles and rearranging them in a neat queue.
Reality leaves a lot to imagination.
