Scrap of evidence
by:Rajbir Deswal
(I wrote this for The Tribune in 2004)
AT the dead of the night, I tiptoed surreptitiously into the courtyard, thinking that none in the house had seen me indulging in that unusual act. Very secretly and making doubly sure of not being “caught in the act”, I took out the matchbox from my pocket and lighted a stick as dexterously as not to make any noise.
I set to fire the collected scrap-stock of mine and sneaked back into the room wading through the darkness around, on to the bed. Cautious enough not to make my better half wake up, I lay with the crackling sound still reaching my ears and a lightened up scene outside the windows as if Sun had risen at the dead of the night. As if the spectre wasn’t eerie enough, there was a bang!
Oh my God! What a blunder have I committed? And what in my scrap pile could have caused the explosion? Why after all should I have invited the trouble myself! On the neighbours’ information, the Intelligence Bureau sleuths should be on the trail and reaching my house any moment. The TV channels would beam a “yet another scandal” and the late night editions of the leading dailies would flash stories like — “Another Scrap Site Located”.
My links would be established with Al Qaida and Iraq. I might well be referred to during the Bush-Kerry debate with Bush telling — “Haven’t I bin tellin the entire wuerld, the Dub-liu-em-dees might have bin thaken out of Erauq, laang laang backh.” In the international scrap market, most likely, I could be branded as a Scrap Mogul by the morning.
I cursed my unusual habit of remaining glued to things I acquired even after they fell into disuse much against the wishes of my wife who suggested umpteen times we had sold the stuff through our driver at the Jama Masjid chor-bazar.
In collusion with my driver, only last night had I cleared in the same clandestine manner, the stuff collected for years in the junkyard called garage which was overflowing with useless axles, tie rods, jump rods, filters, fan belts, exhaust and hose pipes besides used coils, armatures, battery packs, tyres, etc. There remained a lighter consignment of film roll containers, empty gas lighters, dried up ballpoint refills, useless CDs and DVDs, replaced computer parts and lithium batteries which I had just then burnt.
I was still pondering over what exactly could have caused the explosion. “It could be the lithium batteries now sleep darling!” wife whispered in my ears as if she ‘heard’ my thoughts and turned side. But more intriguing was the expression on the driver’s face during the day, when I asked him to find out the nearest well. He might not have then known of my plans to dispose of the cast-offs, fearing a raid on my scrap pile.
I set to fire the collected scrap-stock of mine and sneaked back into the room wading through the darkness around, on to the bed. Cautious enough not to make my better half wake up, I lay with the crackling sound still reaching my ears and a lightened up scene outside the windows as if Sun had risen at the dead of the night. As if the spectre wasn’t eerie enough, there was a bang!
Oh my God! What a blunder have I committed? And what in my scrap pile could have caused the explosion? Why after all should I have invited the trouble myself! On the neighbours’ information, the Intelligence Bureau sleuths should be on the trail and reaching my house any moment. The TV channels would beam a “yet another scandal” and the late night editions of the leading dailies would flash stories like — “Another Scrap Site Located”.
My links would be established with Al Qaida and Iraq. I might well be referred to during the Bush-Kerry debate with Bush telling — “Haven’t I bin tellin the entire wuerld, the Dub-liu-em-dees might have bin thaken out of Erauq, laang laang backh.” In the international scrap market, most likely, I could be branded as a Scrap Mogul by the morning.
I cursed my unusual habit of remaining glued to things I acquired even after they fell into disuse much against the wishes of my wife who suggested umpteen times we had sold the stuff through our driver at the Jama Masjid chor-bazar.
In collusion with my driver, only last night had I cleared in the same clandestine manner, the stuff collected for years in the junkyard called garage which was overflowing with useless axles, tie rods, jump rods, filters, fan belts, exhaust and hose pipes besides used coils, armatures, battery packs, tyres, etc. There remained a lighter consignment of film roll containers, empty gas lighters, dried up ballpoint refills, useless CDs and DVDs, replaced computer parts and lithium batteries which I had just then burnt.
I was still pondering over what exactly could have caused the explosion. “It could be the lithium batteries now sleep darling!” wife whispered in my ears as if she ‘heard’ my thoughts and turned side. But more intriguing was the expression on the driver’s face during the day, when I asked him to find out the nearest well. He might not have then known of my plans to dispose of the cast-offs, fearing a raid on my scrap pile.
No comments:
Post a Comment