I must have been knocked out for quite a while, how long I don’t know. I can only recollect fragments of the incident, the last of which was the white dust of the fire extinguisher in my eyes. I am less than twenty minutes away from being returned to earth. The pain is gone. What is left of me now is the scorched residue of what I used to be in my days of glory. Well, I always thought I would die old, brittle and useless, left alone in the most abandoned corner of humanity. But fate had for me, a more remarkable departure in store.
Eighteen minutes left, and I still haven’t the faintest idea of how I got here. It’s bright and sunny, a vast dry space stretches out around me.
Fourteen and a half minutes left. It is coming back to me now. I remember waking up late, stopping by the gas station for a grub, and then heading straight to the Park Hotel where I was supposed to pick up the Indian Cricket Team at 7:30. Needless to say, it was a big day. The streets were clear; clusters of street dwellers buzzed around small television screens in shops to watch the semi finals between India and Sri Lanka.
The stadium was packed beyond capacity by the time we reached Eden Gardens. Among the scattered groups of people scouting desperately for someone to sell them a ticket in black, the street hawkers selling anything from from Bhel Puris to Rolex watches.
We cut through the press, and the enthusiasts (who sometimes threw stones at us if we didn’t stop to wave or shake hands on our way in) as fast as we could to get inside the pavilion. In truth, my sheer fascination with the game is not the game itself, but about how the whole city transforms itself in anticipation of it. The dynamics of routine come to a standstill, to the point where even the invisible hands of Adam Smith fail to keep the wheels of economics turning. Cricket is a celebration of faith and adulation, beyond anything we would ever see in Kolkata for a religious cause. Cricket becomes the religion of the city.
Nine minutes left. I was born and brought up in a small town in Germany known only for the large Volvo factories that employ more than half the townsmen. I can still remember the day I arrived at Kolkata. The east was almost incomprehensible in terms of my western upbringing; the shades of humanity stretched a much wider spectrum, than I had ever experienced before. What fascinated me most though, was how the rich and the poor conveniently accepted their place in the society without remorse or protest. There were the shiny new malls selling thousand rupee lingerie. Next to it in the slums, the kids played soccer with cheap ping-pong balls because a bigger ball was out of their parents’ affordable reach. In, the evening, when imported cars would line up on the road outside, the kids, in empty stomachs, would wait eagerly for their fathers to return with the rice, bravely combating persistent attacks from swarms of neighbourhood mosquitoes.
In spite of my superior European look, haughty mannerisms inherited from my high class lineage, the city had accepted me as I am. The humility this place has inculcated in me in the last seventeen years is beyond anything I had ever imagined myself capable of.
Five minutes left. I have no family, no friends. Will I be remembered when I’m gone?
Four and half minutes left, and I suddenly hear the roar of the mob waiting outside. I am back to the match last night. I was relaxing under the player’s lounge, when I heard my driver yell to the crew that we have to vacate immediately. India had played a despicable innings, and the upset crowd had broken out into a riot. The match was abandoned when the crowd had started throwing whatever they could find at the players on the ground. A group of young men had stepped outside smashing cars and vandalizing the stadium to express their rage towards the Indian Cricket team for letting their hopes down. I suppose they had their reasons; after all, some had skipped meals, some worked extra shifts, and some sold their possessions, to buy a ticket to the game that would take India to the 1996 World Cup Finals!
By the time I heard the warning, it was a tad too late for me to chart out my escape. The mob which had grown substantially in size by the time it had reached our doorsteps was knocking down the fence to where I was standing. I was dragged out to the road, my resistance useless against their momentum. For a moment, it seemed like the rage had nothing to do with India’s loss at all. It was an eruption of the pent up frustration that had accumulated over years of repression and destitution. Then came the blows and sharp streaks of pain shot up from every corner of my body. And before I could gather back my senses, I was on fire.
Thirty seconds left. I see the giant iron pile rising slowly in front of me. Soon I will become a large block of metal stacked upon blocks that used to be Tata trucks or Ashok Leyland public buses. A rusty crank, and I hear the hiss of the pile let loose above me. I take a deep breath and embrace my glittering badge - Volvo LuxuryBus LS, my identity, my emblem of pride.
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