A Comedy Of Errors

By Nirmal Sanzagiri

‘Aaaiiiii...’ a cry escaped my lips. ‘Are you not feeling well, beta?’ enquired the man besides me. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ I didn’t explain I had cried for my Aai, which is Mother in Marathi. He was already confused and at his wit’s end. The guy looked like a Nepali, similar to many who I had seen working as security guards for localities, offices and schools. ‘I want my mum’, I said between sobs. We were standing by a road in an unknown area, on a hot afternoon, the Delhi sun beating down harshly. I was hungry, thirsty and LOST. 

I must have been around 7 years old. This would be circa 1974-75. My parents had moved to Delhi (New Delhi) when I was one year old. We stayed in south Delhi and I was attending a nearby school – the Cambridge School. It was an expensive school by then standards and I was aware even then that my parents were stretching themselves, sending me there. 

The way I commuted to school, during my pre-primary and primary days was in a very interesting contraption, locally called a ‘cycle rickshaw’. Not to be confused with the common three-wheel mode of transport, where the passengers sit in the back on soft seats and is driven by a guy cycling in the front. The cycle and 3-wheel structure are the same, but at the back, there is a metal sheet covered wooden box instead. Vehicles with this kind of box, with lockable doors at the back, have been in use for transporting goods and groceries in limited quantities. But the one I am describing has windows on both sides and length wise wooden planks inside so that children can sit on opposite sides. Up to four children would sit on each side, with the senior most or the tallest guy travelling on the ladder step near the door like a hero. Sometimes, the smallest kid or new one crying would be allowed next to the driver on his extended seat. There would be hooks inside and outside the box for school bags and water bottles. I used to have a great time describing this mode of transport to our relatives and friends in Mumbai during summer holidays, as this vehicle did not exist there. Definitely not for transporting children. 

At our school, the rickshaws could not come up to the main gate due to traffic issues. All the rickshaws bringing in kids from all directions, would line up on the side of the main road running next to the school and we had to walk the last leg. After the bumpy ride in the morning, we would sleepily trudge along inside the school. In the afternoon, however, the scene would be opposite, with animated children coming out, discussing, playing, fighting and finally finding their respective charioteers to take them home safely. It is so easy to get carried away by the nostalgia, those carefree days, the open playgrounds, the . . . that I forgot that the ‘cycle rickshaw’ as such has nothing to do with the present story. But it is important to know and remember that I, like many other students, commuted to school in a cycle rickshaw. On that particular day also, I did not forget that, but still could not board it. 

I remember coming out after school with a newly acquired friend. Either our friendship was new or just the first time we were exiting the building together. Certainly, we were having a fascinating conversation, because I was oblivious to what was happening around me. (This habit has landed me in trouble more often than not). Next thing I know, we were at the outer gate and a Nepali looking man suddenly came forward. He had a long and stout bamboo stick with him, on which were hanging a few school bags. He looked like the villain’s henchman from a typical Bollywood movie. He took the schoolbag and water bottle from my friend and in the same motion relieved me of my bag and bottle too. I protested, but my friend assured me that it was ‘the uncle’ who took him home. He again started on whatever topic we were discussing earlier, and I was distracted again. We were anyway moving in the same direction to where my rickshaw was parked, so it was alright. 

As we neared my rickshaw, I saw our driver, Matadin, talking with other drivers. I went up to him but he just shooed me to sit at the back while he waited for others to arrive. I suddenly realised that my bag and bottle were still dangling on the bamboo pole that was moving further and further away from me. I had lost one water bottle two months back, and most of my mom’s shouting was still fresh in my ears. I certainly did not want a repeat of that. I ran after my friend and more than half a dozen other students that seemed to be following the bamboo pole festooned with bags and bottles. 

That visual of the Nepali guy with the bamboo stick leading a group of students, while I ran after them, has stayed with me all these years. Later when I first came across the story of the Pied Piper in school, even though the story is set in Europe, in my mind’s eye, the piper was always a Nepali blowing on a bamboo stick with holes. I ran, dodging all the other mice, and came in front of the guy, and tried telling him to give me back my precious belongings as I wanted to go home. He admonished me, telling me to fall in line, otherwise I could fall walking backwards, or worse, knock someone on the main road. As per him, he was very strict about discipline near the main road. Once we reached the bylanes near the houses, I could do my dance, for all he cared. So, we filed along, concentrating on the road, while he continued with his monologue, unaware that he was taking one extra child not supposed to be in his charge. 

My new friend, however, was super excited to know I had decided to join him. He immediately started babbling about what he was babbling about earlier. Over the years I have tried to recollect who this classmate of mine was with whom I had this adventure, but I have drawn a complete blank. Hence, here also he will remain just a ‘friend’. 

Our school was in Shriniwaspuri and the road we were walking on was New Delhi’s famous Ring Road. It flanked the school on one side. The point where the school wall ended, there was a road going left, perpendicular to the ring road and parallel to the other school wall. My home was way down the ring road as I was familiar with the route our rickshaw used to take. But our little procession took the left turn and started along a nullah or trench that ran between the school wall and the road. Alarmed by this (left) turn of events, I decided to confront the bamboo man again but just at that point he started shouting for us to be careful while crossing the road. After that I was scared to talk to him and confided in my friend about my predicament. ‘Oh, nothing to worry about,’ my friend assured me. ‘’Uncle’ will drop home. He knows everyone’s place. Otherwise, you can also have lunch at my place’. Thus assured, we again went back to enjoying ourselves. 

I had never been to this side of the city and all the houses and streets were new. All I knew was the left turn went towards an area called Garhi. The area we were going through had single storied brick hutments with people of modest means. I later learnt that those living near to the school found it economical to hire a local security guard to escort their children to and from school as it would be walking distance. The minimum fare charged by the cycle rickshaws would still be high for such short distances. Although, if you were dropping off 8 to 10 children one by one, the total distance could still be substantial. Something that I learnt the hard way that day. 

Our procession had started thinning as one by one the students were dropped off, mother’s waiting at the doorstep. I gathered some courage and asked the guy when he will take me to my house. ‘I should be home before it is late and my mom starts worrying,’ I whined. For a change, the guy gently explained to me that he had to follow a set route and I will be dropped off as soon as we reach my house. 

Eventually, we came to where my friend stayed. He insisted on me coming to his place, but by this time I was worried and I could visualise my mom standing at our gates, scanning the horizon. Somewhere around this time, after my friend had gone his way, the security guy realised that 

something was amiss. He must have assumed I would be getting off at this station, as I was with my friend all along. Now he was staring at a parcel with no address on it. There were only two other children remaining with him and he could not remember another house on his set route. 

‘Where exactly do you stay?’ the guy asked the question I was waiting for all this while. ‘Amar Colony, Lajpat Nagar’, I said. ‘That can’t be right. That’s too far. I don’t go that far. You try and remember your correct address. Meanwhile, we will drop these two. Try and see your house along the route’, concern evident in his voice. 

Meanwhile, around this time, in Amar Colony, Lajpat Nagar, Matadin, my cycle rickshaw wallah, had reached our house, just to confirm whether I reached home or not. He had dropped off all others in the rickshaw and then came back to check, as he remembered seeing me at the parking pavement but not after that. He had checked with others in the rickshaw and understood that I never boarded. Concerned, he wanted to confirm if Madam had come to the school to pick me up. Now it was my mother’s turn to panic. She fired questions at Matadin to understood exactly how and what had happened. 

In those days, landline phones were a luxury owned by very few. This was in 1974-75. Public phone booths were extremely rare. And no other way to communicate in an emergency. Fortunately, owners of our rented house stayed downstairs and had a phone. My mom went to their house. She first dialled the school. The remaining staff there told her there was no student left in school and that they were also leaving. My mom requested them to stay till she reached the school in case her son came back. Next, she dialled my dad at the office. There was a running joke at our house that whenever any of us called dad at his office, the standard reply from the other side would be – Boss is not in his seat right now! This time too, she got the same reply. But hearing the urgency and panic in her voice, his colleagues got hold of my dad in a few minutes and he called back. It was decided that he would leave office immediately and meet mum at the school itself. My dad had his scooter. Mom would have to find an autorickshaw. These were also not that many and not easily available those days. 

Back to the 7 years old me standing in the hot Delhi sun, along with the bamboo man, both tired and confused. He kept asking if I remembered which side my house was, and the sequence in which I got dropped off. It had not occurred to him still, that he had picked up an additional child at the school gate. It was too much for me and I did something that maybe I should have done earlier. I started sobbing. That stopped him from asking more questions. As he tried to pacify me, I told him in clear terms, ‘This is the first time I am coming with you. I don’t live here. I normally go home in a cycle rickshaw, to Amar Colony. Do you know Matadin .....’. Finally, he was shocked to realise his mistake. Luckily, he did the only sensible thing in his power. He took me back to school. 

He was really scared that it might look like a kidnapping. He kept telling me on our way back how it was a big mistake and he was confused as two new boys have been added to his charge recently. 

Of the star cast, my mom was the first to arrive at the school. She and the staff were discussing further course of action like best time to inform the police, etc., when they saw us. There was a slow-motion running sequence where the child ran to his mother who took him in her arms and kissed him. The villain was duly admonished. He not only apologised but begged them not to make any formal complaints. We then waited another 5 minutes for my dad to arrive, obviously relieved to see me already safe. 

Well, we are normally treated to this ‘happily ever after’ part. What is not normally written about or shown is the spanking and fireworks that follows once the relief of getting your child safely back wears off. And it is also surprising how fast it wears off!!

By Nirmal Sanzagiri