SUNDAY BRUNCH: 'BACHCHU' - A SHORT STORY

This Fathers' Day, let me share with you a short story written by my teen daughter, Trisha - a ninth standard student. The story, based on a real-life incident, carries an inadvertent little learning on situational leadership. I hope you guys like it.

It wasn’t yesterday. It was six years ago. And I can still see his anguished face, his petrified eyes. I can still hear his impassioned plea in a low, hoarse whisper, “Please save my life. Please.” I’ll never be able to forget that morning.

May, 2011. West Bengal – perennially famous for political volatility – was on fire. There was vandalism, there were bloodbaths. Fresh winds of political change were blowing. Schools had closed for the summer holidays.

Back home in Kolkata, it was just another sultry morning. Dad had gone out for work. Mom was busy supervising housekeeping and cooking. And I was trying hard to concentrate on holiday homework – my mind fleeting every now and then to the escapades of my 14-year-old hero, Frederick Algernon Trotteville (Fatty, to those of you who’ve forgotten his full name).

I moved out for a little stroll on the verandah. But, hello! What was this? Why were the terrace stairs dark?

At one end of the large verandah was a flight of stairs leading to the rooftop terrace. It should’ve been brightly sunlit this time of the day.

A tad surprised, I moved towards the stairs and started stepping up cautiously. It seemed that the wooden door at the top of the stairway was shut. I was intrigued. Then something moved two steps above me. And I shrieked! Maaaa!

Thankfully, Mom wasn’t far. “NOW, what’s your problem?” She came and stood beside me. In near-darkness, we could make out a human form. Someone was crouching on the stairs. For a moment, she too seemed to lose her voice. “Who, who …,” the rest was inaudible.  I was trembling, trying hard not to let it show.

The human form moved up a little and pushed the terrace door ajar. It was a man. Not more than twenty or twenty-one. In shabby torn denims and a dirty whitish shirt. He had unkempt hair, unclean stubble but eyes with fire in them. By then Mom had regained her composure. “WHO are you? I’m calling the police RIGHT NOW.”

“Ma’am, please listen to me. Please hear me out. I’m not a thief or a criminal,” he said. There was conviction in his voice. There was a polish of education.

“Just how did you get in here?” Mom asked coldly.

“I’m Bachchu. I live two lanes away. I’m a political worker. I jumped in here from the terrace of the next house. They’re after me. They’ll kill me if they get me. Please save my life. Please.” We both heard a ring of panic in those words.

Mom stood silent for a second. She must’ve felt that this man was telling the truth. “Just come with me. Mind you, not a word, and NO hanky-panky.”

She tiptoed down the stairs, the man following her, me behind … on the ground floor, across a small courtyard and to a door that opened on to a narrow walled backyard. The backyard bordered the compound of the house behind that had its front door on a street perpendicular to ours.

The latch on the backyard door opened noiselessly. We stepped out. “Cross this, jump down and run. You’ll reach another street.”

“Yes, yes, I know …. thank you, Auntie!” and in a fraction of a moment, he bent down, touched Mom’s feet and jumped up the low wall. A thud, a few pattering steps and then no more sound.

In two minutes our doorbell rang thrice. It was a posse of uniformed policemen.

“Who do you want?” There was no trace of abnormality in Mom’s voice.

“We’re looking for a fugitive political leader. He’s on the run. Have you seen him?’

“We haven’t seen or heard anyone, officer.”

“Oh, no problem, Ma’am, please sound us if you do. Sorry to have disturbed you.” They left.

Mom looked at me, a slight smile fleeting across her lips.

Bachchu had been saved, never mind what his political color was, never mind if his ideology was ‘right’ or ‘left'.

(Trisha Roy)