The Indian Guy

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This story is a small sarcastic depiction of typical Indian Society. It is over-exaggerated at some places and undermined at other just like the Indian Society. Some of you will find it highly illuminating, some might have a good laugh at it and some might discard it as a waste of time. The story will have a different outlook for each one of you. It has no moral and yet one might learn a lot from my attempt. That’s enough said by me. Now enjoy reading. Don’t forget to Like, Follow, Comment and Share.

 

Sukhi Colony was just like any other housing sites in the city of Mumbai. And yet it had an essence of uniqueness. It consisted of a group of ordinary set of people with their extraordinary attitude. Sukharta Colony were basically a galli (alley). Initially, it had been a decent place with few houses, having big gardens of their own. But with people flooding in the city from different parts of the country, the government decided to build new houses for its people in this alley.

A contractor named ‘Sukhdev’ was assigned the job. Sukhdev means the bringer of peace, happiness and content. Thus, new houses were erected almost everywhere and anywhere Sukhdev found a place. All free spaces were gone in no time. The gardens were replaced by small, negligible yards. So by the start of 21^st century, the alley perfectly resembled a hen’s coop. To thank Mr. Sukhdev for his great contribution in converting the residents from humans to hens, the Government named the alley as ‘Sukhi Colony’. Sukhi means happy, peaceful and content. Since then the colony has been perfectly Sukhi for over 30 years just like America and Russia during the Cold War.

Our story starts when One Indian Guy is given a task. And what a task it was! Collecting Chanda (funds) for the Holi festival (Indian Festival of Colours) from his very own Sukhi Colony. The Festive Committee of the colony thought that it would be a good omen to present the residents of the colony with a new face while they gave their precious money. The idea behind this move also involved the surplus advantage. For starters none of the Committee's members will suffer from statements such as ‘Brashta saale aa gaye mere mehnat ke paise ki bhik mangne.’ (Corrupt Brats here to ask for my hard earned money)

But whom should they send? The problem was quickly solved compared to the magnitude of the question when the Committee Chairperson saw The Indian Guy walking down the alley way. He beckoned him right away.

“Oye, Neeli Shirt, Kali Pant. (Hey, Blue Shirt Black Jeans)” the chairperson shouted at the back of The Indian Guy. The Indian Guy turned around, at the sound of his outfit's description, to face a big bearded boy, somewhere in his early 20s motioning him towards with his hand.

“Mai? (Me?)”, asked The Indian Guy clueless of what the guy would want from him.

“Haan tu hi be. Aaja idhaar jaldi. (Yes, you only. Be quick and come here)” The Indian Guy followed his order.

“Will you work with the Festive Committee of our Colony? We arrange the entire Colony's festival. It is a good thing to celebrate all festivals of a different culture. So will you join? (Without waiting for any answer) Of course, you will. What a silly question to ask. Only a brainless, dumb would say no to it.” The chairperson said in a matter of fact tone. “I hope you are not a brainless dumb, are you?” he added surveying The Indian Guy from top to bottom.

Poor The Indian Guy. What choice did he have? So he agreed not once questioning about the type of work he was supposed to do. Imagine his horror when the committee handed him the collecting tin, a writing board with a list of names of residents clipped on it and a receipt book. The Indian Guy was supposed to visit house to house asking it's homage for funds. The job was easy to understand but ten times harder to execute. He stood meekly before the entire Festive Committee in their office at one corner inside a garage.

The Garage was a shabby shack, with muck covered floor and rusted walls of aluminum sheets. It did not look anywhere near a Committee office, accept for a small board with the Committee and Colony name, hanging on one of the walls. ‘Don’t be Vultures, Celebrate all Cultures’ was the outstanding motto of the Festive Committee. Ironically, it consisted of the most famous living creatures of infamous Sukhi Colony. One can only say the residents were not wrong when they called the Committee members Mongrel- looking, Rusty Rascals and god knows what. Maybe it was the fact that the Committee members had five spike-haired college dropouts, one stout guy who claimed to be relative of a local politician and two sturdy garage mechanics; the Committee had a very gangly and vulturish outlook upon them. Amongst them stood our bespectacled, timid, muscle less, The Indian Guy. Resultant, The Indian Guy croaked a small yes and moved out of the Garage-cum-Office carrying the stuff the Committee adorned him with.

As soon as he reached home he took the issue to the panel, his most trusted friends- his best friend and his sister. Both of whom possessed more guts than The Indian Guy, suggested him to go on with the prospect.

Next Day...

After much thinking and failing to see a way out of the situation, our The Indian Guy stood on the doorstep of the first house, balancing the writing board, receipt book and collecting tin as he rang the bell. He stood there for good fifteen minutes knocking and pressing the buzzer until he realized that the door was locked. He slapped his forehead and walked away. Thus, the first house went in the name of Devil.

The second house gave sheltered to this most ill-tempered, ill-mannered old bat named Mr. If-you-trouble-me-you-will-get-two-of-it-back. The moment The Indian Guy showed on his doorstep, he was received with an overly irritating voice saying, “Kaiko aaya hai be? (Why do you come here?)” Once the aim of The Indian Guy’s visit became clear he slammed the door shut on his face saying “Baad mai aa, abhi time nahi hai (Come later, I am busy now)”. Thus, the second house was gone in the name of bad omen.

The third time The Indian Guy rang the doorbell, it was opened by a sassy girl wearing a pink tank top and a denim shorts. She had her hair tied in a top knot, small strands of which were artistically surrounding her face. The Indian Guy, flattered by his listener's appearance stated the reason of his visit in one breath and in a voice louder and denser than necessary. He surveyed her with every sentence he uttered. Right from her eyes which were made more elaborate with kajal, her long pointy nose, peach pink lips, slender neck and...-            Before he could go any further down, a woman’s voice came from somewhere in the house asking, “Kaun ahe ga? (Who is it?)” The girl’s mother came out at the door and narrowed her eyes on seeing The Indian Guy.

“Aai, this bhaiyya is here for Holi Funds.” (Bhaiyya- brother, Aai- mother)

The Indian Guy was embarrassed being called as ‘Brother’, by a pretty girl. There was no reason left in him for staying there more for a moment. He threw in some excuse and left the house immediately again without any money. The third house went in the name of being ‘Bro-Zoned’.

In the fourth house resided the Colony’s world-famous ‘Kanjoos’ (miser) of all time. It was a cherished rumour that even the Indian Government had announced a great prize for the one who would make Mr. Miser pay his Taxes on time without uttering a word about their working. Such was Mr. Miser's glory.

Though The Indian Guy had only been to three houses so far, the teenagers residing in the colony came to know about his fund raising campaign and they thought the match between Mr. Miser and The Indian Guy was worth some entertainment. Someone uploaded a text stating so in the Colony's WhatsApp group and all of them assembled with discipline followed that by a sheep’s fleet around Mr. Miser's House. The Indian Guy, already discouraged by three failed attempts made an entry in the front yard of Mr. Miser’s house with drooped shoulders. At the very moment, to his great surprise, the crowd burst into mighty applause. He felt a bit braver by the reaction. Mr. Miser was already waiting for him outside his front door.

The Indian Guy walked towards him within continued applause. Both of them surveyed each other for a while. This was the very first time The Indian Guy had met Mr. Miser. With all the rumours around, he had imagined Mr. Miser anything but not a man of 4.7 feet length, wearing a kurta (which was originally dark blue but had faded to attain a new colour altogether after so many washes for 10 years) and a white pyjama trouser. He did not have any stereotypical cunningness on his face. In fact, his face was calm and his hair was sickly greasy, tucked back from his forehead in a precise manner.

 The crowd was going wild and every attempt made by The Indian Guy to speak went unheard until... Until Mr. Miser raised his hand in order to silence the raging crowd. It soon became evident that all of the applause, shouts and cheers were meant for Mr. Miser; who was now looking at The Indian Guy with a stare that were seen exchanged between two boxers facing each other in the ring. “So, what do you want?” asked Mr. Miser.

“Er... Money for-" started the Indian Guy. However, Mr. Miser’s expression changed the moment the word ‘Money’ came out of his mouth. He looked wicked and The Indian Guy wouldn't have been astonished if two devilish horns had sprouted from Mr. Miser’s head.

“No, I won't give it,” replied Mr. Miser, firmly.

“Okay" replied The Indian Guy giving up entirely. He turned towards the exit. But the crowd hurled him back inside. He could not hear what they were saying. There were too many mouths babbling at a time. But their intention was clear. They were not ready to let him deprive them of the show they had come to watch. Poor The Indian Guy. No amount of begging could save him from their clutches. He remembered the wildlife documentary he had seen a while before in which a goat gets surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. The déjà vu did not help the slightest. Mr. Miser stood with his head high in triumph. Finally, after an hour of torture, The Indian Guy was able to slip out from their snatches.

He arrived in the next alley, hyperventilating, sweat covered and every bit tired. However, what has to be done cannot wait. So he went ahead to the fifth house.

The Fifth house was owned by Mr. Environmentalist. Mr. Environmentalist was a school teacher by profession. He was known for his typical age-old views and practices. His eco-friendliness went to such great levels that he lived in a house made up of mud bricks and a thatched roof that crumbled down every monsoon and had to be rebuilt at the end of it. He refused to use any electricity and Mrs. Environmentalist had to go to the public tap to fetch water for daily needs. She used complained about the nuisance of living in such a house and his senseless view of things. Mr. Environmentalist never even touched his wife. He did not want any kid as he was worried about worlds over growing population. They used to fight day and night until one day his wife left for her father’s house and never came back. Mr. Environmentalist in turn never went to look for her.

Once he fondly stated in some speech that ‘Humans should not use the environment rather save it for future generations’. The colony’s young generation was very inspired by this and took his words to heart. Now, everyone knows Mr. Environmentalist as Mr. Mentalist. The prefix ‘Environ’ put out of use as he had asked for.

 When The Indian Guy knocked Mr. Environmentalist’s door (a wooden plank without any hinges), to his relief he was warmly greeted by Mr. Environmentalist as soon as the door opened.

“It's good that you showed up. I rather wanted to talk to you.” revealed Mr. Environmentalist. He asked The Indian Guy to step inside. It was a very weird house from inside as well. The floor was made up of mud and covered with cow dung paste. The furniture was made from wood and seemed flimsy. There were plants growing almost everywhere. There bases were filled with more cow dung. The Indian Guy stood with an open mouth as he took into the surroundings. Just then Mr. Environmentalist pushed a big box file under his nose.

“What's this?” The Indian Guy asked clueless. 

“Crimes committed by the Festive Committee.” Replied Mr. Environmentalist

The Indian Guy shocked by the word ‘Crime’ dropped the file with a thud.

“Don't be so shocked and this is just this year’s record. I have a stock of them.” He pointed to the wooden shelf where around ten such files were piled up. He then picked up the file and opened the very first page. Written on it in a very official way was ‘Ganapati Celebration' the next few pages consisted of the full report of the Festive Committee’s Ganapati Celebration of the year. (Ganapati Celebration is a holy festival of Hindus which consists of worshipping the idol of Lord Ganapati, the elephant-headed God. It is ten days long. At the end of tenth day, the idol is bade good bye by immersing it in water of rivers, lakes etc.). Mr. Environmentalist started reading the report and simultaneously lectured The Indian Guy about the effects of the Celebration on Environment.

“Gulal (artificial pink coloured powder used during festive), loud music blaring from speakers, Ganapti Idol made of POP (Plaster of Paris)... such irrationality.” and so the list went on.

“So what do you want us to do Mr. Environmentalist?” asked the Indian Guy after an hour and half of scolding for the so called crime he never committed.

“Firstly, stop the practice of immersing Idol in water bodies. Instead once the festival ends clean the idol and keep it safe then next year use the same, Idol.”

“But the ritual says to immerse the idol. What if we brought an Idol that is made of mud. Mud Idols are eco-friendly. But they are expensive. This reminds me that I am here for Holi Celebration Funds. Give us more money and we will make it eco-friendly” said The Indian Guy tactfully.

Next moment, the discussion moved on the next crime, Navratri Celebration (another Indian Festival) ... and then next, Diwali Celebrations (Indian Festival of Lights)... and the next. Every time The Indian Guy asked for money he was lectured for some new crimes. Finally, at the end of the last file on the shelf The Indian Guy was unceremoniously shown the door with the additional burden of all the files.

“First compensate for all your crimes and then give me the details of your deeds for the same.” saying this, the door was slammed shut on The Indian Guy’s face.

Thus, the Fifth house was rendered for mother Earth.

The sun had receded back and the crescent moon shown up in its place. Giving himself a jerk The Indian Guy turned towards the next house. This house seemed oddly familiar. It was only when he saw his father standing at the doorstep, The Indian Guy realised that he has walked in his own house. His father was walking to and fro on the varandah (patio), brandishing his Grandfather's walking stick. His face expressed fury and the overhead lightbulb cast shadows around his face making him scary.The Indian Guy gulped and took a step ahead. The crunching of gravel gave away his presence. Before he could walk any further-

BAAM! THUD THUD! CLASH!

One blow of the stick on his shoulder and all the files and receipts went crashing in the mud.

“Scoundrel, where have you been for the day? Ungrateful brat, born to bring shame to the family. I have been receiving phone calls... begging at people's house...” his father shouted with every hit.

 THRASH!

“But Father, I was collecting Funds” The Indian Guy pleaded shielding his head with his hands.

“What Funds?” asked his father stopping the stick in mid air. And then The Indian Guy launched an explanation. Just then one spike-haired member of the Festive Committee came lurking around the entrance. He surveyed the on going scene and then spotted the collecting tin lying near the dustbin. He came around and picked it up, rattling it. To his utter dismay, the tin was empty as a vacuum. Seething with anger he looked at The Indian Guy who was lying on the ground now.

“Ask him, Father, he is the member of the Festive Committee. They hired me" The Indian Guy pointed towards the spike haired member.

The cunning member, already annoyed at the Indian Guy for his uselessness sought this as a wonderful opportunity to both get rid of The Indian Guy and punish him.

“Oh Yes! He worked for us. Today he was away extorting money for us. Where is it?” asked the member.

“I don't have any money. Nobody gave me.”, sobbed The Indian Guy.

“Oh, don’t you lie now. I have seen you take that girl out for a date”, said the member. The lie had the desired effect. The Indian Guy’s father went mad with rage and started at the member.

“Rascal! Get out of my house. Turning my son's head around" saying so The Indian Guy’s father threw the member out who went away smiling at the damage he had done. He then turned his attention back to The Indian Guy.

The Indian Guy then succumbed into the casualties of associating with people like the Festive Committee. His father and the walking stick took care of it.

That was the end The Indian Guy's Fund Raising Campaign. And then never in his life did he ask anyone for as much as a penny.