The One Which Flew Away

Gopal knew himself to be luckier than most. When he alighted from the Gorakhpur Express which had ferried him from his tiny village in Uttar Pradesh all the way to the city of his dreams, Mumbai, he had been one of the thousands of urchins who found their way to this glittery megapolis like moths drawn to a flame. An impoverished childhood had lit a fire in his belly, a fire which he decided would not be quenched until he had earned a place in the megapolis to call his own.

He remembered his initial days only too well, the constant jostling for survival in a city which was famed for embracing all, high or low, rich or poor, old or young. He had however discovered that the embrace embraced class differences. The haves were embraced by the warm hug of acceptance while the have-nots were engulfed in a bone-crushing vice meant to crush their will-power to powder. But his was a survival story, based on sheer grit and determination. Aided of course by the kind offices of Ramu, a fellow urchin who had befriended him while he was wandering the streets, two days after his arrival, driven half out of his mind by an empty belly and loneliness.

Ramu had made sure that he had a spot on the pavement outside Charni Road station to sleep in, and that he did not starve, even though there was never enough to eat. He sourced some extra pieces of tarpaulin and plastic when it rained and built a makeshift shelter over both their young heads when the skies opened, from a bountiful God for some and a malevolent one for others. But by dint of perseverance and diligence in equal measure, Gopal had made good. Initially joining Ramu in washing cars in the housing societies nearby, he had managed to enroll himself in night school, thanks to the good offices of a kind social worker who occasionally visited Charni Road station. With more than just a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, he proved his worth by working odd jobs during the day, studying at night and on graduating from class 12, enrolled himself in driving school. With a driver’s license tucked under his belt, he had hit pay dirt when he was hired by Seth Chote Lal, a builder in the city, more feared than respected for his alleged connections to the underworld which had fueled his meteoric rise to become a force to contend with in what were the murky waters of the construction business in Mumbai.

Seth Chote Lal was a thick-set, pot-bellied swarthy figure who had a perpetual aura of menace surrounding him, even when he was at his most benevolent. Living in ‘Pawan-Sindhu’, one of the best high-rises on Worli sea face had not done much to refine his slightly boorish air, a vestige of his rags to riches story. For it was said that he had been a dweller of the same pavements which he now trod with the swagger of a man who owned them. That he was quite happy to cross the fine line between legal and illegal was common knowledge, though his vast network of contacts kept him safely out of the reach of the law. Gopal had often ferried him to the seedier underbelly of the city for what probably were nefarious activities, though he had never been privy to what these might be, hoping that his censorious gaze would keep his employer from sinking too low. All that he knew that ‘Dada’ as he called Seth Chote Lal preferred to be driven around in the BMW X5 when he was shuttling between his various projects spread throughout the city and his office in Gwalior House in Fort, while using his Hyundai Alcazar when he wanted to travel in relative anonymity.

Dada preferred to have all of his five cars in tip-top condition and his fleet boasted besides the BMW and Alcazar, a Range Rover, a Porsche and a Merc. They always had to be kept spotlessly clean and woe betide any pigeon who dared to make them fair game for their unsolicited offerings. Even the vendors at various traffic signals in the city preferred to keep a safe distance when he rolled down the window and gave them one of his piercing stares. For he was a man who exuded an awe- inspiring fear which was all pervading. Gopal who had witnessed his rages, felt often enough that though he had hit the mother lode as far as salary went, he was living dangerously, only a step ahead of the law given the criminal nature of the activities his boss often indulged in. Extortion, land grabbing, coercion, grievous hurt, Dada, it was said had been there and done them all. Gopal knew that there was a grain of truth behind all the rumors which abounded. But what Gopal often wondered about the most was the secret behind the fanatic, almost otherworldly drive which Dada possessed. That and the fact that he was ready to go any lengths to build towers not less than eighteen stories high. Right from ‘Grand Galaxy Towers’ his first project in far-away Ghatkopar, each of his projects was taller than the next. He was ready to go to cast all caution to the winds or plunge to any depths and flout all rules if it meant getting permission for a skyscraper more than eighteen stories high.

The other strange ritual which Dada meticulously followed was the ceremony which he held upon the completion of each of his projects. This entailed lots and lots of helium balloons, which were tied to the very top of each skyscraper. Dada would find his way to the top, and set them free, to fly away into the unknown. Gopal had been at the receiving end of his ire on one momentous occasion when an oversight on his part had led to the absence of the balloons. He had come within inches of being hurled from the skyscraper himself, by an incandescent Dada. After this, he had been meticulous in ensuring that the balloons were where and when they were needed, but had never dared ask Dada the reason behind their requirement.

But, today was different. Gopal had behind the wheel of the Merc which was inching its way towards Haji Ali in bumper- to- bumper traffic, when they had to halt at a traffic signal. A small boy dressed in the usual raggedy clothes which were the trade mark of beggars or small-time hawkers at signals approached and began to try to ply a dirty cloth over the spotlessly clean car. No amount of threatening on Gopal’s part seemed to deter him from his task, so that he could beg a couple of rupees from the Seth on the back-seat. Not even a menacing look from Dada had the necessary effect. Dada abruptly opened the door and stepped out, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck, motioning to Gopal to halt the car a little way ahead so that the little miscreant could be firmly dealt with. Gopal was fearing the worst, when the rear door abruptly opened and the urchin was shoved inside unceremoniously followed by Dada.

“Ghoorta kya hai be? Gadi chala”, Gopal had no choice but to step on it in response to Dada’s ominous tone. They soon drew up at 1, The Residences, Dad’s latest and best project at Warden Road, the completion ceremony of which was taking place today. Several dignitaries including politicians, eminent businessmen and actors had invested in this project which boasted all amenities which were the privilege of those with deep pockets including membership at the pre-eminent Turf Club, a concierge service from ‘Her Majesty’, the best butler training institute in Britain and even admission in Swiss schools should the kids desire it!

Dada hustled the urchin into the lift with Gopal trailing behind miserably, keen to do his bit to save the child’s life, thinking that in doing so he might have to imperil his own. But, on reaching the top floor, Dada gently led the quaking child to where the balloons were tied and let him set them free. Gopal watched in disbelief as the hardened thug-like builder and the little boy capered together as the balloons lifted off. It seemed that a weight had been lifted from Dada’s soul as he told Gopal to drop the urchin off at the same signal where he had been picked up, with a generous gift of cash and three extra balloons.

When a mystified Gopal left, Seth Chote Lal stared at the sky, in a different time and place, when he was Chotu, just another child trying to scrape a living at a traffic signal, working odd-jobs at the restaurant opposite, trying to save money to buy what he craved the most …a silver helium balloon. He clearly remembered the day of Sonu’s, the restaurant owner’s son’s birthday party, when he had slaved from dawn to dusk in the hope of getting just one of the balloons being distributed as party favors and how all the children had laughed at him, stepped inside their gated complex of buildings eighteen stories high and released the balloons from the terrace, just to spite him.

And thus, had begun his fascination with traffic signals (unbeknownst to Gopal, most of Dada’s help had lived at a signal at some point in their lives), the height of his skyscrapers and helium balloons. But, the joy of releasing them had paled after a couple of times and had only increased his emptiness, until today, when he had again met his childhood self in the zealous boy who was ready to brave his wrath all to earn some money to buy a balloon, not just for himself, but for his brother too.

After years of struggle and getting on the wrong side of the law, Dada was finally content at a job well done, because one of his skyscrapers having woven the thread of hope at different traffic signals across the city had finally managed to snag THE balloon of his childhood, the one which flew away…