Death on the Ghats

“Ya hellaoo…Mahes bhai…Ya what was the profit today? Reliance rose? Sell sell” Hemen Chedda was the typical Gujarati businessman. Known to all as Hemen Bhai, the near millionaire could be found mostly in his posh Ghatkopar office in Mumbai. Weighing nearly a 100 kgs, Hemen was known to have a penchant for white, though most of his money came from black and hawala transactions. He never cared much for rules anyways. It was always the results that mattered. The very minute he was driving his spotless clean white brand new Honda city talking to his broker via the Bluetooth headset. Again, flouting all the rules of talking and driving.

“Good, Good” he giggled as he wiped off his mouth of some red spittle, the typical aftereffects of the “pan”-the Indian equivalent of the chewing gum, nearly. The day seemed lovely and he was off for his vacation in the hill station of Matheran. The heat was too much for his heavy frame. And the stress of the stock market and his illegal money lending business made him all the more sick. Since he would be coming directly from work, he had advised the rest of his family to join him directly at the resort.

The bike came out of nowhere. Though both the riders had helmets covering their faces, he could tell from the jeans and t shirts that they were no more than college students. Honking vigorously, they overtook him racing ahead at a very dangerous speed. Hemen didn’t really care. Life had taught him to be slow and steady. He never drove over the stipulated speed limits, especially on winding roads of the “Ghats”- the mountain trails. Pressing the accelerator gently, he let his mind drift to the resort again.

The “Ghats”are perhaps the most dangerous roads of India. Built over the surface of the mountains, these roads sometimes curve steeply not allowing the driver to see what is in front of him. The worst are the blind alleys where the driver can only see a part of the mountain jutting out where the road has curved. Only the most experienced drivers can navigate these roads. And Hemen was just one of them.

Just as he navigated a blind alley, Hemen saw the bike which had overtaken him right in front. He knew he did not have enough time to stop. Hitting the brakes with all his might, he prayed to God to save him from an accident. Before he could complete his prayer, the car had rammed into the bike in front. His first accident in 15 years of driving. His white Honda City now had a permanent scar on the face. Hemen was furious.

“You bastard. What were you doing, stopping in the middle of the road?” Hemen was already hauling his large frame out of the car.

“Who will pay for this? Hey you…Wait. Don’t you dare run away?” The boys seemed terrified.  Hemen knew if he let them slip away, he would never be able to lay hands on them again. India still had to have a traffic management system like the West.  People could actually disappear after accidents. And Hemen was about to witness just such a scene. The boys were already on their bike and about to escape.

Hemen pushed down the clutch, pulled back the gear stick vigorously, and pumped the accelerator. He was angry now. No one could ruin his favorite car and run away without paying for it. He was going to make the boys pay. He was almost at par with the boys now. Slowly he pushed down the window. He had to time this right. Aim for the pillion rider, he told himself.  His hand was almost within reach of the pillion rider’s collar. But just as he had his hand on the collar, the bike accelerated. The pillion rider was thrown off the seat. And before he could react, was rolling down the road. By the time he had the sense to look into the rearview; his car had crashed into the bike ahead. In the whole confusion, Hemen drove away. Partly driven by guilt and partly by fear of being caught, he drove straight to Matheran. His family would be waiting.

He quietly parked the car in the resort. He meant to stay away from questions, confident the unfortunate incident would die down before the next week arrived.

A couple of drinks down the line, he felt better. His quiet behavior did raise some concerns with his wife, Kavita, but the swimming pool and the fantastic environment had soon got her enjoying with their younger daughter, Romi. Their son, Rohit, would be there by evening. Hemen was determined not to ruin their well deserved vacation, due to some untoward incident with some stupid kids. “They deserved that.” He said to himself. It was a precious car. He decided to join his family in the pool.

“Mr. Hemen. Call for you sir.” The waiter had carried the cordless phone to the poolside and had placed it at the table nearby. Hemen loved being pampered. This was really worth the money he had to shell out.

“Hallow. Hemen Chedda here.”

“Sir, I am Inspector Mhatre. I am from the Matheran police station.” The voice at the other end was firm, bold and arrogant.

Hemen’s heart lost a beat. He knew why the police had called. The boys must have complained. “I am gonna kill those bastards. I will drag them in court and see to it that they pay for my car.” The thought to himself.

“This is very unfortunate Mr. Chedda but could you please come over to the police station?” The policeman was saying.

“Sure but I would like to get my lawyer first.” Hemen was determined to teach the boys a lesson. Even though he had been on the phone, it was the boys who had over taken him. It was them who had braked. It was them who had ruined his brand new car, delivered that very day.

After some deliberation, the voice at the other end said, “I don’t think a lawyer will be needed sir. I can only request you to come here at once.”

Hemen had heard this before. It was a clear indication for a bribe. A lawyer would be a hindrance. “Let me silence the police first, and then I can slap a FIR against the boys.” Hemen knew a first information report, popularly known as FIR would be enough to get the boys into trouble.

“I am on my way.” Hemen hung up and checked his wallet. It had Rs.10000 in cash. That should be enough to shut up the cop for now. Kavita and Romi were enjoying with some recently acquired friends. It was unnecessary to involve them. He moved out quietly.

Not that he had been discovered; he decided to ride the damaged car so he could prove his point to the police. One look at the gash in front and the boys would not have anything to prove.

The police station was not like the ones he had seen in Mumbai. It was a small establishment with policemen who seemed to be taking life casually. “After all how many crimes could be committed in a place so small”, Hemen wondered. Hemen went over to the nearly sleepy policeman manning the entrance and asked politely,” Inspector Mhatre?”

“First row, table three.” The policeman was too busy in thought and obviously didn’t think Hemen was worth his look or glance.

The inside of the police station was just as bad as the outside. There were policemen everywhere, but no one in particular hurry. A group was sharing a joke in a corner; another seemed to be discussing a case while a lone officer was bent over some documents. On his table his nameplate boldly announced, “Inspector Suresh Mhatre”.

Hemen went over to the desk and gently cleared his throat. “Hemen Chedda.” He held out his hand.

Inspector Mhatre was in his early thirties and lacked a smile. He seemed to be the most sincere of the lot and had a clear desk with papers lying neatly on one side. The eyes bore a practiced though look and seemed to pierce into the mind of the person facing him. Hemen was quick to realize this was not one of them who could be bribed. The inspector shook his hand and without a word put on his cap, picked up his stick and shouted, “Get the jeep out.”

“Come sir, let’s go.” He said to Hemen.

“Go where?” How stupid he had been. He should have brought someone alone.

“I told you sir. There has been a mishap. We need to go to the hospital.”

Hemen hadn’t realized it would be something this serious. Now the joke was on him. If someone had landed in the hospital, it would be wise to pay up and let the matter end there. The media these days was more prodding than ever. He meekly followed the inspector.

“It wasn’t my fault. It was they who came in the way.” Hemen tried to get the inspector into conversation. Undoubtedly the boys must have fed him their version. So why shouldn’t he? But Mhatre was immovable.

“It doesn’t matter now sir.” Was all he could get out of the inspector.

Hemen knew better than to try further.

The government hospital was just like he had imagined. Old, dilapidated and in desperate need of repair.

“This way sir”. Mhatre led the way. After a journey through the some amazing mazes and staircases, the party stopped in front of the general emergency section. The scene outside presented a sorry state of the country that Hemen had so conveniently ignored all his life. People without reliable medical resources or livelihood crowded everywhere in the cramped structure. Patients were groaning on the floors while their relatives looked on desperately for help. Hemen was an instant misfit. The inspector led him straight to the accident section where the patient was lying on a dirty hospital bed. His shoes were by the bedside and his exposed hand seemed to be covered in blood.

“Why isn’t he being treated?”Hemen asked the inspector.

Mhatre removed his cap and held it under his arms.

“Sir, he is no more. His friend is struggling for his life. We got your name from him.”

Hemen was now in a state of shock. He had actually killed a young boy and in a fit of road rage. How he wished he had been cooler. No car was more precious than a human life. But what was even more surprising was that the rider had told the inspector his name. How was that possible? He was sure he was not known to the riders.

Inspector Mhatre pulled the bed sheet covering the body. Hemen collapsed. Lying before him was the face of the person he cared for the most. Hemen’s weak heart could not fathom the scene that lie ahead of him. How could he fail to recognize his own son? Does a helmet change a person so much that he is not recognizable to even his father? But it was not that. Hemen had been blinded. He had been blinded by power and anger. His son had been on his way to the vacation spot. And had not known his father’s new car. It all fitted in now.

But now Hemen had to live with a loss. He would not have to pay the price of being ignorant and vain. It was now a life with a burden.