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Something fishy going on
C.K. MEENA
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Veterans of forgery, plagiarism, smuggling and profiteering could teach us a thing or two about keeping a straight face while committing a crime
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CUFF PARADE How many of us are cut out for a life of crime?
Some of us just aren't cut out for a life of crime. Even a minor infraction leaves us with a foolish half-smile pasted on to our faces.
It's a dead giveaway, that half-smile. Hardened criminals are poker-faced when they go about their daily business of slaughter, rape and pillage but we, on the other hand, cannot even jump the yellow signal without feeling a twinge.
You've probably worn the half-smile when the conductor gave you no ticket and more change than he ought to have. I once made the mistake of asking the conductor "yeshtu?" after telling him where I wanted to get off. It was three stops away and he probably thought I was angling for a discount. I merely wanted to know if it was minimum fare or not. I later realised I should have asked him "ticket yeshtu?" just to make my intention clear. I couldn't very well protest when it was I who, in the eyes of the world, had initiated the process.
The most number of foolish smiles per square foot is to be found in the vicinity of traffic cops who're checking licenses or towing away vehicles. Do vehicle-owners appear sheepish because they've broken the law or because they've swiftly made sure the cop looks the other way? Your guess is as good as mine.
Veterans of forgery, plagiarism, smuggling and profiteering could teach us a thing or two about keeping a straight face while committing a crime. Most of us are not in the big league. Talking of being in the big league, I didn't know such people travelled by bus. I heard a thick-skinned commuter mobcasting his successful attempts at bribing a politician's aide. He was talking on his mobile more loudly than necessary to a client from whom he had apparently taken a commission to get a licence. The fixer kept dropping the name of a former chief minister. He described how he had met this man's P.A. and asked him how much he wanted. The P.A. hemmed and hawed ("hange-hinge mathadidru") and would not mention a sum. "So in the end I just put Rs. 5,000 in a cover and gave it to him."
A cynical friend to whom I narrated this incident felt the man was probably talking into a dead phone. He might have been advertising his services, trying to attract prospective clients who were on the lookout for middlemen. Anyhow, I was left gasping at his brazenness, not to mention his remarkable sangfroid. If I had been in his shoes I would have been cringing and whispering and looking over my shoulder.
Well, I must confess that I did get involved in something fishy once — quite literally. On a sunny Sunday mid-morning I reached the stall where I usually buy my fish to find it closed and the owner standing outside it. From a distance I could see people speaking a few words to him and leaving.
I thought somebody in his family had died. The glum look on his face when I approached him confirmed my suspicion. "What happened?" I asked with concern, mentally preparing a little condolence message.
"Gandhi Jayanthi," he said. I was baffled. One ought to celebrate the birthday of the father of the nation, not mourn it. But he was merely giving me the reason why the shutters were down. Then I noticed that the expression on his face was not one of sadness but of discomfort. Could it be guilt?
I turned on my heel and had barely walked three steps when out it came. "There is fish... "
I paused and turned back. It was then that I heard it: the faint sound of chopping from behind the shutter.
"There's good pomfret," mumbled the fishmonger. I yielded. He stepped to the left of the stall towards a small asbestos sheet partition that I'd never noticed before.
He spoke to a crack in the wall. "Ammavaru has come. Weigh the large pomfret."
A hollow voice replied: "It's two kilos."
The fishmonger looked questioningly at me and I nodded. He put his lips to the crack again and issued the order to his invisible assistant. One more head on the chopping block.
It was like Section 144 had been clamped in the area. More than four persons could not gather at one spot for fear they might attract the attention of a passing cop. Customers had to speak their piece and move on.
I decided to linger while the fish was being sliced. I studied the produce of the nearby vegetable vendor. I bought a few limes. I ogled the nubile young bananas. I stared accusingly at the carrots. I scrutinised the soppu.
After what seemed ages, a hand and part of a forearm appeared through the crack in the partition. There was a white plastic bag dangling at the end of it. The fishmonger swooped down on it, I rushed towards him, and he passed it on to me in one smooth motion. I had the money ready. I departed, the foolish half-smile on my face matching the one on his.
And so, while illustrious criminals were plunging neck-deep in slush funds, kickbacks and multi-crore scams, I too had done something to boast about. I had bought fish in black.
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