Gas

Another hot and dusty day in a hot and dusty and dirty city passing off for a ‘mini metropolis’. The car in front of them had an ‘L’ plate and was making heavy weather on the potholed road. The same set of potholes which were filled every year after the monsoons. The contractor filling the pockets of the current dispensation with the exact amount he shaved off the quality of the filling – for an encore next year. The driver behind them blew an angry and impatient blast on his (illegal) air horn. Supariman glanced in the rear view mirror and read 9999 on the number plate of the big white SUV; the sort patronized by the newly rich thug politicians. He imagined the owner sitting back bejewelled in gold chains and rings checking his two I phones simultaneously while the driver sat on the horn. The endless parade of cars, scooters, rickshaws snaked on while a couple in their seventies looked on helplessly trying to cross the road.

‘Ordinary’;  sits well on Supariman . And on Gobind. Spotting them in a crowd is difficult, they are a part of what makes a crowd a crowd. Faceless visages.  Flotsam of humanity.

Supariman was taking his little Mruti to fill petrol. Gobind, seat belt unbuckled, one foot on the seat, played with his big toe.  A  few desultory observations passed between them about rash two wheeler drivers and spitters, as they turned into the Petrol pump. Like others all over the place, this petrol station sported a huge, and dirty carapace supported by four or five pillars. Bits of paper flew around in the dust eddies. Impatient riders, like so many pieces of an untidy jigsaw puzzle,  honked and beeped for the person in front to move faster. Supariman thought idly, Indians are forever trying to cut corners.

Faster? Where? A tank is getting filled. Five litres will take a few minutes. Just because someone is in a hurry to get nowhere the pump is not going to work faster. Laws of physics apply. As well as the laws of economics. The petrol has to be paid for. Unlike the year before, a card had to be taken out, swiped, a wait for the response and tapping in the pin code etc. It’s all a matter of minutes; maybe that’s a little too long for the man waiting his turn. He is impatient, wants to get on. To hawk, spit and  rejoin the throng to nowhere. As they say, Indians are always in a hurry but always arrive late.

The pump attendants  look grimy and sweaty. The job is open to the elements and every vehicle brings along a fine sprinkling of carbon particles. Constant pushing and pulling a ten kilo nozzle with a hard rubber tube would make anyone, you, grimy and sweaty. And scratchy, which they do vigorously.

But let not the detail wag the tale.

Supariman and Gobind moved their little car towards a slot which had just been vacated; when all of a sudden, without a warning a Tumpo, a small goods carrier, tried to cut in. Supariman accelerated and lurched into place, forcing the Tumpo to back off. “Oi, you” he cried startled “get behind me; you can’t cut in front...you wait in line as I did”. The Tumpo driver frustrated and thwarted, spat an oath and seethed with impatience. He could well  have been gnashing his teeth or furiously chewing khaini, no one could tell. He sat glowering and spitting dirty looks at Supariman even as the attendant unscrewed Supariman’s petrol cap. “Hurry up fool” the Tumpo driver shouted poking his head out of the window. He was big; packing a fierce moustache and an equally fierce expression and bore several days growth of unshaven bristles.

Supariman mused “if that window rolled up quick, this guy’s neck would be stuck and he wouldn’t be able to move. It would teach him some patience”. As he was thinking,  he could sense an odd stirring. As if a powerful dose of adrenalin had been injected into his bloodstream. He felt a surge in his long unused muscles. His face flushed with energy. He could feel his hands clenching as if hoisting twenty kilo weights. He felt...eternal.

The Tumpo driver jumped out and angrily poked the attendant in the chest asking how long this process of filling up the car would take? And he should hurry up. Supariman was taken aback. In all his years he had never experienced such impatience or such rowdiness? Simply filling petrol for heaven’s sake. At this time the unshaven driver’s assistant got off and went around the car to where Gobind was sitting and told him that his boss was the local dada and was unused to waiting in line. He was also not used to anyone telling him not to cut in.

What got into Gobind is a mystery till today. He retorted “If your boss is such a big shot Dada, why is he driving a Tumpo? He should be driving a Truck like my boss.” Somehow that retort lit the furies. Here were just a couple of ordinary guys, an ordinary car, an ordinary pump and some petrol.  Not a recipe to light up a war.

A few more minutes elapsed, the Dada’s impatience grew rapidly. He told the Pump attendant to put an immediate stop to filling Supariman’s car and get on with pumping Diesel into his Tempo since he had urgent business to attend to. “I want deejhul right now. Right now deejhul. Abhich paije! Lagech!

Supariman smiled nervously at his opponent,  who suddenly seemed to have expanded; and in a humble tone requested him to back off. After all it was a matter of a few minutes; and in any case he was not doing anyone any harm. The man expanded a bit more. He wanted Supariman to immediately stop filling his car and move it out of the way. Supariman was equally obdurate. So obdurate was he, he couldn’t hear the Thug shouting and gesticulating rudely. Curious and sundry people surrounded the pair. They were looking forward to seeing a car owner getting a earful from the dada; maybe even getting beaten up. What an experience it would be. They had almost the same greedy expressions which people have seeing a hanging. Or, when watching a reality show on TV.

“You son of a pimp” he roared at Supariman, “get your car out of the way or I will break your teeth”. The petrified attendant removed the petrol nozzle in a trice and moved it towards the Tempo. He did not want anyone getting beaten up. The crowd jeered, they were going to miss a bashing. Supariman also felt that some discretion was called for and allowed the sudden switch of the pump into the Tempo.

The Tempo driver now firmly had the situation under his control.  He called for his assistant and moved menacingly closer to Supariman. “My assistant told to your fellow that I am the local Dada here. Why did you not allow me to get in first”. By now his nose was close to Supariman’s and he was holding his collar tight. The crowd was reenergised. They were finally going to witness something.

Supariman tried to smile his way out of the situation. “Look friend, I think we should be sensible about this. I came in first and therefore must get served first. What’s the big deal about this? If you come before me tomorrow, you will get gas first”.

“There will be no tomorrow for you, you will be at the dentist” the big thug shouted.

“Look here, all this is not legal. You cannot threaten me” quavered Supariman.

“Yes I can, and see – the attendant has stopped filling your car and is filling mine. He knows what’s good for him. Now get ready for a beating”. The crowd give a collective sigh of anticipation. All activity in the pump stopped. The Petrol Pump owner saw what was going on. He wasn’t about to call the cops. He would end up having to give them some hafta.

Supariman put his hand up too. He told his would-be-assailant “Look, there’s still time while your Tempo is being filled to say sorry to me for the abuse you have showered so generously on me. If you say sorry now, I will not inform the police”.

The Crowd laughed in unison with the Tumpo driver’s surprise. “You bit of broken wind, you dare ask me to say sorry? You think the Police is your father-in-law’s service?”. He grinned crookedly as he moved in for the kill.  Supariman blindly put his hand out and caught the Driver’s jaw and squeezed.

Silence shot through the crowd as the Dada stopped in his tracks. Supariman’s hand was attached to his chin. With a crushing pressure he broke his jaw, there was a sick click and teeth loosened from their sockets. The Dada’s pain was unbelievable. He couldn’t breathe or scream. There was no blood visible only a wild agonizing surprise in his eyes.

Supariman loosened his grip and said “See if you had said sorry, you would not have to eat daal for the rest of your life. Remember to think before you open your mouth”

Gobind too chimed in and told the sidekick  “Now take your big boss to the dentist, before I do the same to your teeth.”

Supariman turned back to the Tempo driver who was  on his knees. He extended his arm to help the man up. He gripped the man’s left hand, pulled him up and then with a pressure he did not know existed, mashed the bones of the  hand. The driver fell back in a faint. Supariman knelt down and whispered  “Never lift your hand in anger - now you will have to wipe you bottom with your right hand. Chi chi.”

The Dada was flummoxed too. What on earth did this chap mean by holding on to his jaw? It was so funny he just stopped. Then this guy held his hand  and for some strange reason was shaking it. It was all too stupid; and in any case he had no time to waste with these two idiots, he had a business to run. Also he wanted to get away without paying the pump. He shouted at the crowd to buzz off.

The  crowd was most disappointed, they melted away. “No fun happened yaar. The big bully turned out to be a phuskiya.  But why did that Maruti driver hold the Dada’s  jaw and shake his hand. What shit!

Supariman paid for his petrol, Gobind got into the car. The other driver slammed his door shut and drove on. Supariman and Gobind also drove, joining the throng. They stopped politely to let an old couple cross the road; horns blared in unison behind them. Sometime later, Gobind mused to Supariman that the other guys would not go far.  In his funk, the Gas station attendant had filled petrol in the Tumpo -  which actually runs on diesel.