THE MIDDLE CLASS IS ALWAYS AT THE
RECEIVING END
The other day, after making some routine purchases at the Spencer’s,
we were returning home on Sohna Road, one of the busiest areas in Gurgaon, the millennium
city of India. Mr Patel, my old friend from Gujarat, was driving the car. As he
is very fond of driving, so I allowed him to drive, though he is here on a
short trip. Mr Patel is a quite accomplished driver.
My friend is an upright, assertive but soft-spoken Gujrati
who has lived most of his productive years in Africa and Middle East. Now he is
settled in Baroda in Gujarat State. By virtue of living abroad for a
considerable period of his life, Mr Patel is a stickler of rules and also would
go a long way to assert his rights. This is contrary to the average Indians in
this part of the country, who often take pride in breaking rules and despise
people who intend to assert their rights.
About a kilometre before our condominium, there is a shopping
complex where a Starbucks coffee shop has come up recently. The coffee shop is
visible right from the road and as we were approaching the shopping complex, Mr
Patel expressed his desire to have a cup of coffee there. I agreed readily.
With the car’s indicator blinking, Mr Patel was slowly
turning the car to the left in order to enter the parking area of the shopping
complex. I was sitting on the passenger seat next to him and was enjoying the
ride. Suddenly, out of a blue, a motorcycle came from behind and hit the
left-side front bumper of our car. Being an alert driver, Mr Patel pressed the brakes
hard and the car stopped.
Within a fraction of a second the motorcycle zoomed ahead and
I saw it skidding on the road, throwing away two elderly women and a young boy
who was driving the bike. By their dress
both the women appeared to be from a local village, and the boy seemed to be from a particular local community. One of the women was also carrying a cloth bundle.
While the women were still lying on the ground, the young man
quickly got up and came charging to the driver side. It did not matter to him
that he was at fault for hitting from behind, that too from left side. He
shouted at Mr Patel, “Are you blind? Don’t you see?”
Mr Patel, enraged for being charged wrongly, rolled down the
window and said angrily, “I had already given the indicator sign. Did you not
see? Moreover, you hit me from behind, it is your fault.”
The indicator was an unknown object for the young man, thus of
no consequence. He said menacingly, “You come out of the car and I will show
you whose fault it is”.
Sensing trouble, I told Mr Patel not to enter into any
argument with the young man and urged him to take the car inside the parking area.
By that time the women had also got up and were angrily coming towards the
car. Apparently, they had not suffered any physical injury due to the fall.
We entered the parking area of the shopping complex and
parked the car at the first available slot. I immediately came out of the car
and examined it. There were only some minor scratch; it means that the motor
cycle had only bruised against the car and no damage has happened to either
side.
Quickly I grabbed Mr Patel by hand and virtually dragged him
inside the shopping complex. Though the Starbucks was right at the entrance, I
decided not to go there directly but took a small tour of the shops behind it.
After about ten minutes or so, we entered into the Starbucks through the side
entrance that was not visible from the road. I surveyed the sitting
arrangements and chose a table from where I could see the parking area and our
car. Till then all was quiet at the parking front.
I ordered two Americano and some cookies. Mr Patel was still furious
and he roared at me, “What, Mr Sen, why did you prevent me from teaching that
stupid boy a lesson? He was at fault; he came from behind and overtook us from
the left side, did not bother to see my signal, was carrying two pillion
riders, and yet had the nerve of charging at us.”
“My dear Mr Patel”, I tried to pacify him, “that boy is a
rustic local villager and for him your traffic rules, etc. have no meaning. I
was apprehensive that he might hurt you and that would have been very painful
for me. That’s why I urged you not to engage with him in any verbal duel.”
“Ha! I would have telephoned the local SP and got him
arrested. I am sure that brat even doesn’t have a valid driving license”. Mr Patel
declared scornfully.
“Dear Patel Saheb,” I submitted persuasively “even before the
SP had time to respond your telephone call, that boy would have mobilised a
dozen villagers and might have manhandled us or damaged the car. Sir, this is
India!!! The local police might even be more sympathetic to the local clans.”
“So, you would prefer to run away than to defend your right,
is it?” Mr Patel asked me, his voice by then had lost some of its roaring
power.
“I would like to remind you the saying - Discretion is better
than valour”, I stated nonchalantly.
Mr Patel did not say anything for some moments; then,
suddenly he blurted out, “What is this life? The rich and powerful are as such subduing
us at every step, while we hide ourselves from the wrath of lower strata of the
society for no fault of ours. On the top of this, we have to pay taxes that are
used for providing subsidy to them. Is it worth-living?”
Since I had no answer to his legitimate out-burst, I kept
quiet.
At that moment I looked through the window to check the
situation at the accident site, whether those motorcycle people were still
there or not. To my horror, I noticed that the two women were agitatedly
talking to a group of villagers and pointing towards the shopping complex.
Seeing this my limbs became cold and I started to visualise various possible
scenarios that might follow.
Soon, the motorcyclist along with four young men entered the
parking area, said something to the parking attendant, and moved towards our
car. Two of them went round the car, perhaps to detect any trace of the
accident, while others were aimlessly looking at the shopping complex. Sensing trouble, the parking attendant called
a security guard and both of them began talking to the young men. I had no
means to know what they were talking about, but from the gesticulations of the
security guard I could surmise that the young men were being asked to go away
from the parking area. A few moments later, two of them stood near the parking
entrance and the rest went away.
Meanwhile, our coffee had been served but by then I had lost
all appetite. Mr Patel was still sulking; I was thinking of what to do next and
weighing pros and cons of various possible actions. After some mental deliberation, I called up
my son, asked him to come to the shopping complex with his car, park that in
the basement parking lot, and meet us at the Starbucks.
Silently, both of us were sipping our coffee without speaking
to each other; I kept on looking surreptitiously towards the parking entrance.
After a while my son came and met us at the Starbucks. I
narrated the whole incident to him and suggested that for the time being we
leave our car at the parking area and he takes us back home in his car.
Afterwards, we can send Mr Hakam Singh, our driver, to bring back our car home,
hoping that things would be normal by that time. As usual, he did not say
anything, which means it’s okay with him.
While coming out of the Starbucks I again glanced towards the
parking site. Happily surprised, those fellows were not seen any more! But I
decided not to take any chance and came back home in my son’s car.
After lunch Mr Patel went to his room for afternoon siesta
and I sat on the living room sofa, recapitulating the day’s incident. One
particular despairing comment of Mr Patel was troubling me all the time - “What
is this life? The rich and powerful are as such subduing us at every step,
while we hide ourselves from the wrath of lower strata of the society for no
fault of ours. …”
It reminded me a painful incident that happened with me about
a year back. At that time I was on a short assignment of teaching
conversational English to the back-office staff of a five-star hotel in
Gurgaon. Generally the sessions were held between 4 and 6 PM. One day, while I
was driving to the hotel I got a SMS that the session has been postponed to 5
PM. I decided to kill the time by having a cup of coffee in the Café Coffee Day
that falls on the way.
I parked my car on the road by the side of another car and
went inside the coffee shop. When after about 40 minutes I came out, I noticed
an Audi parked right behind my lowly Hyundai Santro in such a manner that I had
no way to take out mine. A young, well-dressed lady was sitting on the
passenger seat but there was none on the driver’s seat. Her rich attire was
indication of her privileged class.
Apprehensive that I might get late for the session, I gently
knocked at the car window and the lady lowered the window. “Excuse me,” I said
politely, “Your car is parked in such a way that I am unable to take out mine.
Could please get your car moved a bit.”
The lady took out a very expensive, jewel-studded mobile
phone and telephoned somebody. I assumed that she might have asked her
companion to come and move the Audi. Satisfied, I went to my car and sat
inside.
After about fifteen-twenty minutes I started feeling
restless. Nobody had appeared to move the Audi and I had only about half an
hour left for the session to start. Cheesed off, I again knocked at the car
window and said in a rather harsh tone, “See Ma’am, I am getting late for my
appointment. Can you please ask your companion to hurry up a bit?” She again
took out her expensive smartphone and telephoned somebody.
Frustrated, I again went back and sat in my car. After about
another fifteen minutes or so, a young Sardarji, dressed in latest men’s
fashion, strolled leisurely to the Audi and gave something to the lady in the
car. On seeing him I came out of the car, thinking that he would at least say
sorry for having blocked my car. He did nothing of the sort and behaved as if I
did not exist.
I was infuriated by the arrogant attitude of the Sardarji and
decided to confront him. “Hello! I have been waiting here for more than half an
hour. This is not the way to park one’s car”, I told him scornfully.
“I can park anywhere I like. This road does not belong to
your father”, he retorted.
I was taken aback by his audacity. “What is this? Instead of
showing regret you are being insolent; this is not done”, I countered.
He came charging and burst into a torrent of unprintable
abuse, ending thus: “Go away, I am leaving you because you are an old man,
otherwise I would have beaten the hell out of you right here”. I was speechless and saw him driving away.
As I recollected the incident, I again remembered what Mr
Patel had said a few hours back. True, the rich and powerful subdue us at every
step and we go on hiding ourselves from the derision of the underprivileged.
The middle class is always at the receiving end!!!
