Bangalore pangs

My beautiful city is under seige. Held at ransom by an invisible army. An army of committed communal conscripts. Of religious renegades looking for retribution.

The shadow of a man rides a charred excuse for a rickshaw in front of me. Tears streaming down his face. His hennaed beard blown from side to side by the wind coming through a windshieldless void in front of him. The seats at the back are still smoldering as is the anger and helplessness inside him. He brushes his emotions aside with a swipe of his dirty sleeve, leaving his face smudged.

I ride on past the remains of another 4 rickshaws that lie smoking. Belly-up in total subjugation, even in death. Like crushed cockroaches on the roadside.

A little futher I come upon a bus. Or what once used to be. Glass lies everywhere. Small fragments littering the road. Symbolising the shattered spirit of the city.

What is it that makes these maurading madmen pick on public transportation to vent their venom? Glance through photographs of any riot in India. The first casuality is often a Public transport bus. The Emergency, the Mandal Commission, the Indira Gandhi riots, the Mumbai riots. In each case, you can see a burning bus in every photograph.

I turn a corner and am face to face with the devil in camouflage. He wears the garb of the ordinary man. You'd have passed him on the way to work everyday with not a glance. But today you dare not ignore him or the very large crudgel in his hands. This is his time. He shall speak and you will listen.

"Ellie Hogtaidira?" a surprisingly nasal, almost squeaky voice asks me. I would have expected death to ask me where I'm going in a baritone instead of a shaky soprano. My kannada is sparse and unconvincing so I pretend to have a toothache. "Doctor ge hogbeko!" I answer.

Suddenly I'm kin. We're brothers, tied together with the umbellical cord of discomfort. I've touched a chord. Or a nerve more likely. He winces, and waves me onwards. Anger condensed into concern in the distilling pot of pain.

I ride on home thinking O Henry was right. Pain does make the world kin.