(From the previous post: Finally, we came on the main road. Here at least we could see some passerby and ask for help. A vehicle came along. We flagged it down by frantically moving our arms. X proceeded to talk to the driver. To me he looked like the Misfit, a serial killer from Flannery O’Connor’s story, "A Good Man Is Hard to Find." )
The Misfit explained that we had strayed too far, and offered to drive us back in his clunker. I suspected that he was laying a trap for us, so hesitated a bit, but before I could think of any strategy to escape, all three of my friends occupied the back seat, leaving only the front seat for me.
Now, winning has always been my destiny. For example, if there was a competition to move five steps forward, and I was too lazy to move even one, my fellow competitors would take two steps back and I would win the trophy. Just last week I won an award, a beautiful crystal swan, at a singing contest for not singing. Since then, I have been considering beginning a YouTube channel a la Dr. K. Chaudhry.
But under those circumstances, if there was any trophy, it was going to be the Misfit’s bullet, so I was reluctant, but my friends began clamoring and I had to get in.
On closer look, the man was not that frightening. He was a prematurely aged country fellow. He said something in his heavy Southern accent that I didn’t understand, but I smiled and nodded at him.
The car moved forward making some noises. And then suddenly, tabhi achanak, I saw the Misfit take a hand off the wheel and project something in my direction. I froze in my seat. This is it, I thought, and closed my eyes. I heard my friends talking casually, which meant that they were unaware of the latest development.
Then there was a chorus of, “Sandwich, sandwich,” at different piches.
I opened my eyes to see that the Misfit was offering me a homemade sandwich, which I had an option to decline. Slowly, my heart rate reverted to normal.
“I always carry my food,” he said, or that was what I understood, and then he said something more. It sounded like a compliment. I had known that Indian girls were considered beautiful.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get you,” I said, bashfully.
“You look like my mom,” he repeated.
I could hear suppressed giggles from the back seat. This was worse. I could’ve taken a bullet instead. He himself, wrinkled and old, might have been in his late forties. His mother certainly would have been over 70. I did not look that old from any angle.
We reached near our campsite. I let those gigglers thank the bumpkin, and hurried towards our long lost, kab ke bichde, friends. The news of our arrival spread like Shashi Tharoor’s tweets, producing shouts and shrieks of joy.
My husband came rushing. “What happened? What took you so long? I was worried like hell.”
We had to tell them the whole story sans gossip, before we began preparations for evening meal. I was so glad at the concern shown by my husband. You have to be away from your loved ones occasionally to make them understand your true value.
“He cares for me a lot,” I told A, who was cutting onions beside me. Her 6-year-old daughter stood near us, eager to provide her services. “If I’m out of his sight even for a few minutes, he misses me a lot.”
“But Auntie, he didn’t miss you at all,” said the little chatterbox.
“How can you say that?”
“Uncle was laughing and having fun all the time. He was saying that if somebody kidnapped you, his only worry was that he would come to return you, in which case Uncle would be asking him for money to take you back.”
That was the beginning of the end of adventure. I didn’t cook for one month after that, and shopped until there was no space left in my separate bedroom. I was extremely angry and inconsolable, not for his callous behavior, but for telling such a stale and clichéd joke, as if others have not read O. Henry's The Ransom of Red Chief.
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| The Misfit |
Now, winning has always been my destiny. For example, if there was a competition to move five steps forward, and I was too lazy to move even one, my fellow competitors would take two steps back and I would win the trophy. Just last week I won an award, a beautiful crystal swan, at a singing contest for not singing. Since then, I have been considering beginning a YouTube channel a la Dr. K. Chaudhry.
But under those circumstances, if there was any trophy, it was going to be the Misfit’s bullet, so I was reluctant, but my friends began clamoring and I had to get in.
On closer look, the man was not that frightening. He was a prematurely aged country fellow. He said something in his heavy Southern accent that I didn’t understand, but I smiled and nodded at him.
The car moved forward making some noises. And then suddenly, tabhi achanak, I saw the Misfit take a hand off the wheel and project something in my direction. I froze in my seat. This is it, I thought, and closed my eyes. I heard my friends talking casually, which meant that they were unaware of the latest development.
Then there was a chorus of, “Sandwich, sandwich,” at different piches.
I opened my eyes to see that the Misfit was offering me a homemade sandwich, which I had an option to decline. Slowly, my heart rate reverted to normal.
“I always carry my food,” he said, or that was what I understood, and then he said something more. It sounded like a compliment. I had known that Indian girls were considered beautiful.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get you,” I said, bashfully.
“You look like my mom,” he repeated.
I could hear suppressed giggles from the back seat. This was worse. I could’ve taken a bullet instead. He himself, wrinkled and old, might have been in his late forties. His mother certainly would have been over 70. I did not look that old from any angle.
We reached near our campsite. I let those gigglers thank the bumpkin, and hurried towards our long lost, kab ke bichde, friends. The news of our arrival spread like Shashi Tharoor’s tweets, producing shouts and shrieks of joy.
My husband came rushing. “What happened? What took you so long? I was worried like hell.”
We had to tell them the whole story sans gossip, before we began preparations for evening meal. I was so glad at the concern shown by my husband. You have to be away from your loved ones occasionally to make them understand your true value.
“He cares for me a lot,” I told A, who was cutting onions beside me. Her 6-year-old daughter stood near us, eager to provide her services. “If I’m out of his sight even for a few minutes, he misses me a lot.”
“But Auntie, he didn’t miss you at all,” said the little chatterbox.
“How can you say that?”
“Uncle was laughing and having fun all the time. He was saying that if somebody kidnapped you, his only worry was that he would come to return you, in which case Uncle would be asking him for money to take you back.”
That was the beginning of the end of adventure. I didn’t cook for one month after that, and shopped until there was no space left in my separate bedroom. I was extremely angry and inconsolable, not for his callous behavior, but for telling such a stale and clichéd joke, as if others have not read O. Henry's The Ransom of Red Chief.
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