Publish Or Perish

@creator_by_heart | Prompt 3 • Sept '18

Head Or Tails?
By creator_by_heart
Word Count: 2367

Rising din scratched the air as the vendors yelled their throat out. Among the massive moving crowd, here was I, peering above heads to look for a way out.

I was swinging a paper bag with me, a hot paper bag under a large paper bag, and tossed a coin of change I got back. The coin slipped. I rushed through the crowd to pick up the coin from the ground. And one more thing, I felt angry. The reason for my rage was that I joined police station a month ago and all I was ordered was: "Get us something to eat, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

First week, it was fine for me to swing the paper bag.

But then: "Hey Rakesh, everyone's bit hungry, quite a case we have here. Get us something."

And . . .

Next week: "Constable, Rakesh, is it? Here. Now go."

"Yes, sir."

Yes, sir. My ass.

Afternoon is boiling, since always, like me. Whenever I asked to put me somewhere more useful, 'boiling blood', they would say. And put me to my former work.

Also, they would sometimes give me extra money saying, if I wanted to get my hands on anything. They say I should be thankful for that, getting something from seniors this early, but I don't really think so. Like Twenty rupees extra and you can get your hands on Taj Mahal.

I held the paper bag in the air to avoid rain of pakodas and chutney due to a sudden push or jerk. Sweat drops trickled down my back. The coin was still enveloped between my fingers before I tossed it in the air again.

And the case. Oh, of course. A kidnapper had terrorized the town. He mocks at the town's police, more like real mocking, sending tapes or something. He would never get caught I guess. One month, two kidnapping and one on-going. We even have a damn sketch or sketches. Each witness provides different information, a different look. But then, disguising is an old game.

I took a detour to avoid further bustle.

My phone buzzed. I replaced the coin with the phone.

On the screen, with a person's shadow hung a name - Inspector Pal. If anyone is worth calling a fat-free person on the station excluding me, that's him.

"Hello."

"You're coming back to the station?"

"Of course, sir."

"Haste, things are turning bad."

" . . . Sir, I'm halfway."

"Good. And most important, grab packet of tea from that stock seller nearby. Tea-boy is not here, sick I guess."

Call ended. Tea now, huh? Why else would you call yourself?

* * *

Entering the police station always gives me something vital, other than water-cooler's cool air, a sense of importance and loyalty. My Ma used to say (she still does) that my grandfather was a honored policeman and it was her dream to see me in a uniform.

I stared straight at the wooden chair, where an officer was supposed to be sitting, but saw a bundle of registers.

Ramlal stood beside the table. Old Ramlal. That means experience, but experienced in what, I'll tell you.