Gandhi and the Gun - a short story

All heads at the South Delhi’s JET SET club turned. Smiles evaporated; laughter ceased. Everyone saw the stranger come, struggling for confidence and not quite finding it, his nose exuding an insecure challenge in its cliffy obstinacy, his lips trembling at the loss of words not formed. The worst was noticed next – he was naked. But was he? At this moment, he clearly was.

The man walked inside the prestigious club lawns, spread all around from the tall, barricaded wrought iron gates in a numbing green of watered grass – in stark contrast to the brown, untended grounds of the immediate neighborhood – and stood in a clear patch. He smiled, while I, and others, continued to frown, our eyes focused on him. The naked man’s slim, frail body stood like an autumn twig, unwary of the chill in the winds. The eyes glistened with the ecstasy of the finalist in a game, who having just lost, was refusing to take the brain’s signal seriously. The skin of his face was determinedly taut, indicative of, perhaps, the jubilation of a feat soon to be achieved.

It surprised me when the realization came: indeed, the man looked like the Mahatma, Mahatma Gandhi, I agreed with the person sitting beside me. Barring just one flaw – the timing seemed a century late. We all noticed the pistol, but the weapon in his hand looked nothing more than a toy that had gotten suddenly ambitious. Silence remained, for though no one was sure if it was real, no one was sure it wasn’t too. There were no clothes on his body; except a loin cloth. The feet were like a cluster of dried branches caught in a pattern at the end of his legs.

“I am here to ask you a favor,” the voice now rode high on a rising confidence wave he seemed to be braving. At this point someone coughed and a lady at the other end of the club cleared her throat simultaneously, as if in the waiting. A mobile started to ring, kicking off a Hindi film song. The owner, a fat guy who always wore black clothes and sweated profusely irrespective of the weather, cursed the timing of the caller and had to fight with the mobile a few times, pressing numbers on the keypad, before the squeaky voice of the singer, finally relented. The silence returned.

“I am not here to trouble you. I am here just to ask a favor”.

“Who has let you in?” The club owner, stepped forward, his forehead a playground for sweat beads running across, and a few just hanging there, happily reflecting the distant lights.

The man smiled and straightened the nozzle of the pistol towards him. “That is not something I would like to answer. It will waste your precious time. Everyone’s precious time... I am just asking for a favor. Is there anyone in this place who is ready to answer my question?”

Seconds crawled by. Soon they clustered into minutes as everyone waited. The owner wiped the sweat from his forehead every few seconds. The man patiently kept on smiling, the pistol looking clearly out of place in his weak hands. He was not a criminal, I was very sure, but since he had the pistol I kept my assumption to myself. Something was however bubbling inside, and I thought I should try and get everyone out of the crisis.

“I will do you a favor.” I was surprised to hear someone speak. The sound hung heavy in the air. People now turned towards the voice. I found them looking at me. “I will do you the favor you seek.” I heard myself repeat; the bubbles had all erupted suddenly.

“Thank you, sahib.” The man with the pistol turned towards me. His eyes now seemed to water even more. I think I saw a teardrop roll down. The thought was confirmed as more joined their journey along his unshaven face of about fifty. “You are welcome. What can I do for you?” I tried to sound helpful. I think I succeeded.

“First of all, I just want you to know that I am not a criminal. Do you believe me?”

“Then why are you moving around with a gun in your hand?” Someone shouted from the back. His eyes ran in a frenzy straining to find who said that. But he was not successful. Neither was I.

“Because there is no other way... You tell me, would you have ever given a second glance if it was not for this pistol?”

The old man’s words hung in the air like the rain that has been halted midair by an eternal power. After a few seconds the rain splashed and the eager club goers began to hope for more.

“Yes, I agree with you that you are not a criminal. But what is the favor that you came looking for?”

“I am a poor man sahib, residing outside the city. I have no home, so I and my wife with our three children live in a small tent made out of used cloth.” He took a long breath and continued, “I have been working for a construction company on daily wages for the last three years. You know how much daily wages are? I mean what we get and what we sign for?”

Now I could see the tears flowing like a stream on his face and his voice was riddled with hiccups. He continued when I nodded.

“The contractor who paid us was a very good man. He was kind and generous. I agreed that he should keep half of the money I earn so that it will remain safe. I was told I could ask for it when I wanted.”

He seemed to be choking now. I asked for some water and a waiter came with a glass. The man declined the offer. “I can’t drink here. This place belongs to you rich people. I will have it later. But thanks for asking.”

He continued, “Today morning when I asked the contractor for my money, he said he didn’t have it. I was surprised. He said I never gave him any and he owed nothing to me.”

The man now broke down. His tired, distressed body slowly sank on his shaky, slender legs, as he sat down, hunched, the pistol pointing aimlessly at the grass a few feet away from him. People sighed relief and a sense of regularity began to slowly emerge. The whiskey glasses began to clink again with ice as one waiter walked from the bar towards someone who had taken the pause seriously enough to signal him.

The man shouted. “I haven’t finished yet, ladies and gentlemen.”

With one sudden movement he turned towards me and asked, “Do you want to know what favor I want or not? Or you want to see blood?”

I nodded, unsure, how to respond. “Yes, I want to know.”

“I want to kill that man.”

“But don’t you think this is too big a price for him to pay?” I was not sure if it was right for me to question the decision of the old man. I swallowed hard.

His eyes seemed to focus in and out of memories, “No,” he said at last, “Because later, he sent guys to my house to kill me and my family.” The man was now shaking like a leaf stuck on a windowpane of a car in a storm.

“But you are alive. What about your family?”

The man was now suddenly silent. His cheeks grew in and out like a man’s after a sprint and his eyes burned like embers. I knew the answer. They were probably dead.

The sound of a police siren brought a silent cheer in the crowd. But the man seemed oblivious. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd.

“You cannot hide. Come out, you snake. Or I will come for you.”

The crowd began eyeing each other suspiciously. Whispers went back and forth like waves. The siren grew closer.

“I command you to come forward, you coward.” The man now seemed in a little hurry.

“I promised you I will help.” I shouted and pushed my best friend forward. “Here is your culprit, contractor for you… and now I know, an evil friend for me.” My friend lost his balance and fell at the old man’s feet. A smile lit his face and the eyes now shined like those of a victor’s. It was the smile I had been waiting for. The old man bent forward and picked up my friend by the collar. Though he was just half his weight, but the old man was able to pull the shaking body without any effort.

He put the pistol on my friend’s head and fired once. It was nice to see the preyed, preying on the predator. It was like reversing the God’s greatest stupidity, by righting a natural wrong. The sound echoed like the arrival of a festival. Faraway a jackal began to howl and a few peacocks sitting silently on the trees above us jumped from one branch to the other in panic. The old man fell down. It wasn’t due to happiness or exhaustion.

The inspector behind had fired in the nick of time; I realized as everyone around began to clap. The old man was bleeding when I got to him.

***

“Get up, you joker.” I shouted at the old man, smiling. But he continued to writhe in pain.

“It is the real police.” Someone shouted.

“Shit! Someone please call an ambulance.” I shouted back, tears now running freely my cheeks.

The entire film unit began to run in circles. But the Gandhi, the actor who had played the part of the great Mahatma Gandhi so very well, was gone. He departed with a final smile frozen on his face. I broke down, comprehending what it meant for me: no mentor in the film world, no free whiskeys at the sets and no cigarettes to borrow....
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