I was just about to reluctantly wrest myself away from the television set, with its cheerful babble and restless images, its spiel on washing powder and flat screen TVs, its beauty pageants and masked Jehadis sneaking in through barbed wire fences, when loud voices outside caught my attention. Our neighbourhood is perhaps one of the quietest in the whole of the city. This is partly because most families have their younger members studying or working in other cities in India or abroad. The other reason is that, in keeping with the times, people have become more and more insular, preferring to keep to themselves in a wary kind of way. It is all very pleasant, of course, and everyone greets each other with infallible civility. But I somehow feel this may have more to do with the desire to be seen as well bred rather than a genuine wish to connect. But now, on this dark evening, with the street lights having conked out as usual, I looked out from the balcony and saw no less than eight people, a numerical strength you are likely to see only at a wedding or funeral.

The reason was clear. As a car’s headlights lit up the scene, I saw a snake, more than a foot long, lying menacingly on the street. One among the group, a feisty lady, was whacking it with a stout stick, while the rest, from a safe distance, shouted words of encouragement and advice. Two other ladies strolled to the point where this little drama was being enacted, and instead of offering any help, whined about their evening walk being so inconveniently interrupted. Just then, the car which had helpfully lit up the scene, was driven into its garage by the owner. In the sudden darkness, there was pandemonium and I could hear alarmed shrieks as people scuttled to the safety of their compounds. But the brave lady was still doggedly at it, hitting at the snake till it stopped slithering and lay as still as a rope.

This incident set me thinking. It has revealed to me four types of people in this world. We journos always strive for neat generalisations. The first are the doers, who put their shoulders to the grind and do what must be done. Nobody gives them orders, but they are there in the middle of any crisis, solid, dependable types who seem wired to tackle problems. Next are the givers of advice, the safety seekers who hang around trying to look useful, but have neither the guts nor the ability to win the day. But they, too, have their uses, for they keep the morale high in a crisis situation and are enthusiastic witnesses when the story needs verification, though their versions differ maddeningly. The third class are the I, me, myself ones, in this case the two ladies out on a walk, who never get involved in anything and always keep their self-interest in mind. They believe the universe runs for their personal convenience and so, they have nothing useful to contribute to society. Then we have the car driver. He is supportive in the beginning, beaming the headlights for the group, but in the end, he suddenly withdraws. He belongs to that group who are initially helpful, co-operative, throwing their weight behind a good cause. Then, at the crucial moment, they withdraw, pulling the carpet under your feet so to speak, and the cause is lost. This unpredictability makes them appear quixotic, unreliable and they lose the goodwill of others around them.

There is another angle to this little incident. The children who were present there were entirely clueless about what to do under the circumstances. And it was not difficult to see why. Our young are getting conditioned to function in a techno-civilisation. They are totally at ease with the TV remote by the time they take their first wobbling baby steps. As toddlers, they are clattering away on the PC keyboard. At junior school, they know more about your phone functions than you will ever do. They are at home with all kinds of gizmos, much to your mixed feelings of pride and bewilderment. But then, think about it. Does your all-knowing kid have real survival skills? Can you leave him in the wilderness and expect he will light a fire, catch fish or build a shelter? Will he know which plants are poisonous and inedible, how to fend off a swarm of enraged bees or, dig for tubers? No, your kid would stand there, bawling for a thick crust pizza with lots of tomato ketchup. Unlike in the West, where children are regularly taken for hikes and trips to the country side, our kids travel everywhere on cars, loll in front of the TV on holidays and the only parts of their bodies getting any exercise are their fingertips, with all that endless texting to and from friends. We parents foolishly think this lifestyle as very American and are smug that we’ve arrived. But the truth is disturbing. In our indulgence and lack of foresight, we are pushing our offspring towards obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure and heart ailments. If we had an ounce of sense, we would take them for jogging, swimming or any outdoor sport.

Now, getting back to the Man versus Nature conflict, that incident with the snake certainly proved one thing. For all the progress we have made, with our sleek cars, dizzying highrises, state of the art communication network, space flights and genetically modified crops, there is still in us the residue of a primal fear of Nature. Nature is still viewed as a mysterious adversary, threatening our existence and making us feel small and insignificant. At least, this is what I feel, when I see forest fires in California or mud slides in the Philippines. Cyclones, earthquakes, lightning strikes, floods, famines break down ruthlessly whatever man has built up and cherished. And now, just when man is complacent about being the most evolved species on earth, he discovers that his foolishness and exploitative nature is endangering the very future of the planet.

If this city sees very infrequent instances of the Man versus Nature encounters, I am afraid the same cannot be said of Man versus Man situations. Here, I am not referring to the many bomb blasts that have battered our sense of security, but the rising incidences of burglaries and dacoities. Bands of furtive men, hooded and armed, roam our lawless streets at night and strike at random, breaking through iron grills, doors, and even ventilators. Terrified victims are trussed up and beaten up savagely if they resist. Then they ransack the house, making off with cash, jewellery, cameras, laptops and cell phones. The police arrive hours later, officiously taking notes. The sniffer dogs scamper around in circles. Soon the case becomes just another statistic in police case diaries. Our police force is so busy on VIP duty that the common citizen is completely at the mercy of thugs who are getting bolder by the day. Since there is precious little we can do to save ourselves from being waken up terrified from our beds, whacked around, trussed up and our homes ransacked, we might as well adapt to the circumstances and change our mindset. So, here goes. What does a dacoity really mean? It means a lot really and not in an unhappy sense. A dacoity is an index of your upward climb to prosperity. Have you heard of a slum dweller getting robbed? Surely not. The very idea is preposterous. Then why you? Because you’ve arrived. You are head and shoulders above the common lot. Your hard work has paid off and that fancy car in your garden, the ornate lamps at the gate, the all weather paint in your house walls say it all. The dacoits know they have hit pay dirt. And they single you out for special attention. Of course, the bruises hurt horribly. Of course, you are going to miss all the cash and the gizmos. But think how embarrassed you would have been if those thugs chose to pass over you and lavish their attention on your next door neighbour. It would be so galling to know you are yet to make it to their league. What’s a few bruises compared to that? And besides, bruises heal, but that dent to your ego will haunt you for the rest of your life. It will give your wife another reason to be sarcastic and God knows you don’t want that. And think about the future. Your little girl, the apple of your eye, grows to be a comely young woman. Eligible young men crowd your door. But their parents are doubtful of your ability to pay dowry. Then you can triumphantly deliver your trump card – you had been robbed! Wasn’t it a sign of prosperity? If a bunch of illiterate thugs could figure that out, that too in the darkness, why couldn’t these parents? And voila! Your darling daughter is a radiant bride! When you think out of the box, like me, you may even be persuaded to leave your doors open at night, in the hope your benefactors wreak the necessary havoc to ensure your entry into that exclusive club of lucky victims. And if you refuse to think on these optimistic lines, then go ahead, lie awake the entire night, bathed in cold sweat, ready to scream blue murder every time your silly dog decides to bark. Be my guest.

– indrani.raimedhi@gmail.com

www.iraimedhi.com

Indrani Raimedhi