Strange Story That May or May Not Have Happened To Me

"_"   This story was featured Here first, as an audio story. For more, you can check out RadioPotti , a weekend 'Radio' network run by a few awesome friends who don't mind me tagging along. 

Almost two years ago, I saw him under the bridge on my way to work. I don't remember what he was wearing, except that it was brown and dirty. I feel very snobbish when I say this, but I really don't remember what he was wearing. And he never changed his clothes. It was always the same. And that makes it even worse. 

I have a Bajaj Avenger, which is still in running condition, despite my absolute lack of maintenance. I'm not exaggerating. The bike is almost five years old now. And I've never washed it, never taken it once for servicing and only once gave it to a local mechanic to change the battery and the oil. It gets washed when it rains, each year. If it rains. And if my bike could talk, I'm sure it would have a tank full of expletives sloshing about specifically for me. 

The first time I saw him I thought he was a pile of garbage bunched together by the sweepers in the morning to be burnt later in the day. I then saw his bald head and kept staring. This was a busy illegal turning I was in the middle of. After some angry honks...I don't know how we humans manage to humanize everything. We can even infuse politeness or pissed off-ness in car and bike horns and in the way we spit on the road. 

So, after the honking and the 'Dey! Ma$@$! Dey! Vandiya otra! Naera paaruda! Dey!...' I too made a - 'Ya, I know, but I'm currently ignoring your existences and I'm too busy so move on'; kind of honk and went on my way. 

This was around 10:30 in the morning. I was late to work this day. I'm usually there a little before 10. 

For the week after that, I saw the guy sleeping in the same spot, under the same rug..Aah! He had a rug man! A brown rug. But I've seen him without the rug as well, and I still don't remember what he wore. 

So, sleeping guy. 

Now, in case my voice has traveled across the world and you have a sexy sounding name that's not made in india and you're listening to this from a long way away, this story is happening in Chennai. Chennai is a not so humble but really colorful seaside metro in South India. We drink lots of coffee, say 'Dey!' and 'Machan!' a lot, even if it doesn't suit us and we enjoy summer in varying degrees of intensity for 13 months a year. 

So, this bald guy, sleeping under the bridge, 10 am in the morning, full traffic is OK. Covered from neck to toe in heavy, dark, dirty, woolen rug is strange!

Two weeks later, it was my turn to edit something that my team had shat. I mean, shot. This was an experimental phase and no one knew while shooting what would come out the other side. I felt this phase was necessary so that each individual sort of finds his or her own voice and then flies the nest from there. But, I had to go through a couple of hours of visuals, make sense of it and sell it to the boss as something that's experimental and almost there and would he please consider approving another lakh and a half for the next shoot. 

Edits usually start early in the morning, by about 7 and end by 2. And I was on the bike again, on my way to work. And despite the really pleasant breeze and the lack of honking laced with any kind of mood, I was trying to find reasons to be pissed off. 

I decided on:

'my back is hurting'. 

I'm almost thirty years old and my back is already hurting because of all the traveling that I've done so far. What am I doing with my life? Is this all? Going to office, coming back from office. What about time for myself? What about my spiritual self? When do I give it time? When do I get to actually turn into a shining, effulgent yogi, without a paunch and who always knows the right things to say and who's always chilled out? Nobody understands me or what I'm going through. Life sucks...

You know, the usual reasons for being pissed off. 

And I take the same illegal turn under the bridge. 

And since it has by now become habit, I look to my right, to the corner under the bridge for the sleeping bald guy in a rug, so that I can add envy that this guy gets to sleep while I have edit and fend for my family, as another reason to be pissed off. 

The bald guy is not sleeping bald guy anymore man. Of course, his eyes are still closed, but this guy is seated in Padmasana. You know, legs folded in the typical yogic meditation pose. His hands between his legs and his back ramrod straight. And there's a piece of paper, rolled into a thin cylinder, bent in the middle and the two ends, inserted in his nostrils. The overall effect is like he's wearing some futuristic miniature breathing apparatus. 

The guy was still dirty, but there was this little smile on his face and as I crossed him, the light from the sun traveled across his bald head. 

It was beautiful! 

I'd like to say the day went great from then on, but honestly, I don't remember. And everyday since, till six months ago, I've seen the guy only in these two poses. One fast asleep, and the other, deep in meditation. 

And then two more guys came. One looking sort of listless all the time, and the other with a huge white garbage sack, really stocky for a guy who lives on the streets. 

I saw the bald guy less and less. He would either be asleep or not there. 

Six months ago, I made the illegal turn under the bridge in the afternoon, at around 3. Bald guy was not there. The two new guys were fighting. They were rolling on the ground. Pummeling each other with fists. I could hear the sound of bone on bone with dirty skin and flesh in the way. There were scratching sounds while each tried to get some sort of purchase on the tar road. Suddenly the stocky guy reached out his hand and picked up a huge piece of concrete. I rounded the bend as he began hitting the guy under him on the head with the stone. 

I saw the bald guy a few days after that, for the last time, round the bend, squatting by the side of the road, the half smile, closed eyes and the paper in his nostrils all same. I never saw him after that. I miss him.