A Short story

At the mouth of Theatre Road, Chanchal comes to a halt. The signal is yellow. That’s what Chanchal fears most. A yellow signal means a procession, or an accident, or worse still—a VIP movement. Just when waiting almost became unbearable, he heard the sound of a hooter. It was exactly what he'd thought, a VIP movement. When the convoy went past, Chanchal glanced at his watch. Exactly seven minutes wasted. With the upcoming festival, the roads were already crowded. This mess on top of that only made it worse.

Over Theatre Road, there is usually no traffic congestion. Just one problem: a signal every hundred yards. The Hatchback in front had been acting nasty the whole time, driving as though the road was his ancestral property. Had it been a big imported car, it might have been another matter. Chanchal honked three times. No response. The moment the light turned green, he overtook from the wrong side and forced the Hatchback to the right. A raw curse floated in the air. Chanchal laughed to himself. “Seen the bird, but not the trap!”

Chowringhee Road. A big crossing. Cars coming and going from three directions. With a slight bend of his left wrist, Chanchal checked the time. Eleven minutes left. A message had come when he started out—with location and directions. Then two more followed: “Where are you?”, “How far?”

Chanchal didn’t reply. 

He hadn’t turned off the engine all this while. As soon as the light went green, he sprang forward like an arrow. Victoria Memorial. Tilting his head, he looked toward the top of Victoria and tried to search for the angel. He heard that the angel had started dancing again. Chanchal had never seen her dance. Did she dance at night too, or only in daylight?  He would stop his bike some day and watch her dance. 

Police ahead! What now? Is it a routine check? During festivals, checkpoints multiply. But such a situation was  “milk and rice" to Chanchal and his kind. They weren’t supposed to be stopped. Still, with a checkpoint ahead, could anyone overtake? Do that, and you’d end up in a case.

The checkpoint ate up five whole minutes. The bike raced on, cutting through the cold Ganges breeze. Chanchal closed his eyes.

When he was at Race Course Crossing only five minutes left for delivery. Just a hundred yards past the crossing stood a tall building to the right with a security guard at the front. Handing the item over to a guard would be enough.

Before leaving, his mother had asked him to bring her a medicine. Her health wasn’t going well. She often wheezed, struggling to breathe. She needed to visit a doctor. Would any pharmacy be open so late at night? During the festival, Chanchal’s workload increases. He runs here and there almost the whole night. Mornings give him a bit of relief. But on festive days it is very difficult to find a doctor. 

Suddenly, a chorus of car horns. Had he gotten distracted for a moment? The light was green. Hugging the side of an SUV, he tried to squeeze past. He hadn’t noticed a twelve-wheeler lorry was edging forward from the Rabindra Sadan side. Chanchal hit the brakes. But, it was too late.

The bike crumpled against the bonnet. He was flung upward, landing with a crash about ten hands away.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” voices cried out. People rushed. A police sergeant came over, walkie-talkie in hand, muttering, “This is what delivery boys do. As if the world will end if they’re a minute late.”

The stain of blood was clear on Chanchal’s forehead. His lips moved a little. Someone leaned close to listen.

The sergeant asked, “What’s he saying? His name? Where does he live?”

The man replied, “No… he’s just saying, three more minutes… if he’d had that, he would’ve made it.”

The sergeant stopped a taxi. Chanchal's limp body was carried in. Two people got in with him. One cradled Chanchal’s head in his lap.

Through the crowd and the jam, the sergeant somehow guided the taxi to the hospital emergency.

Chanchal was laid on a trolley. It rolled inside. A doctor approached, placed instruments on his chest and shined a light into his eyes. Then he turned back the way he had come.

One of the men with Chanchal stopped him.

“What did you see, doctor?”

“What’s there to see?” came the doctor’s flat voice.

“Why?” 

“You failed to bring him a little earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“Oh… about three minutes.”

At the mouth of Theatre Road, Chanchal comes to a halt. The signal is yellow. That’s what Chanchal fears most. A yellow signal means a procession, or an accident, or worse still—a VIP movement. Just when waiting almost became unbearable, he heard the sound of a hooter. It was exactly what he'd thought, a VIP movement. When the convoy went past, Chanchal glanced at his watch. Exactly seven minutes wasted. With the upcoming festival, the roads were already crowded. This mess on top of that only made it worse.

Over Theatre Road, there is usually no traffic congestion. Just one problem: a signal every hundred yards. The Hatchback in front had been acting nasty the whole time, driving as though the road was his ancestral property. Had it been a big imported car, it might have been another matter. Chanchal honked three times. No response. The moment the light turned green, he overtook from the wrong side and forced the Hatchback to the right. A raw curse floated in the air. Chanchal laughed to himself. “Seen the bird, but not the trap!”

Chowringhee Road. A big crossing. Cars coming and going from three directions. With a slight bend of his left wrist, Chanchal checked the time. Eleven minutes left. A message had come when he started out—with location and directions. Then two more followed: “Where are you?”, “How far?”

Chanchal didn’t reply. 

He hadn’t turned off the engine all this while. As soon as the light went green, he sprang forward like an arrow. Victoria Memorial. Tilting his head, he looked toward the top of Victoria and tried to search for the angel. He heard that the angel had started dancing again. Chanchal had never seen her dance. Did she dance at night too, or only in daylight?  He would stop his bike some day and watch her dance. 

Police ahead! What now? Is it a routine check? During festivals, checkpoints multiply. But such a situation was  “milk and rice" to Chanchal and his kind. They weren’t supposed to be stopped. Still, with a checkpoint ahead, could anyone overtake? Do that, and you’d end up in a case.

The checkpoint ate up five whole minutes. The bike raced on, cutting through the cold Ganges breeze. Chanchal closed his eyes.

When he was at Race Course Crossing only five minutes left for delivery. Just a hundred yards past the crossing stood a tall building to the right with a security guard at the front. Handing the item over to a guard would be enough.

Before leaving, his mother had asked him to bring her a medicine. Her health wasn’t going well. She often wheezed, struggling to breathe. She needed to visit a doctor. Would any pharmacy be open so late at night? During the festival, Chanchal’s workload increases. He runs here and there almost the whole night. Mornings give him a bit of relief. But on festive days it is very difficult to find a doctor. 

Suddenly, a chorus of car horns. Had he gotten distracted for a moment? The light was green. Hugging the side of an SUV, he tried to squeeze past. He hadn’t noticed a twelve-wheeler lorry was edging forward from the Rabindra Sadan side. Chanchal hit the brakes. But, it was too late.

The bike crumpled against the bonnet. He was flung upward, landing with a crash about ten hands away.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” voices cried out. People rushed. A police sergeant came over, walkie-talkie in hand, muttering, “This is what delivery boys do. As if the world will end if they’re a minute late.”

The stain of blood was clear on Chanchal’s forehead. His lips moved a little. Someone leaned close to listen.

The sergeant asked, “What’s he saying? His name? Where does he live?”

The man replied, “No… he’s just saying, three more minutes… if he’d had that, he would’ve made it.”

The sergeant stopped a taxi. Chanchal's limp body was carried in. Two people got in with him. One cradled Chanchal’s head in his lap.

Through the crowd and the jam, the sergeant somehow guided the taxi to the hospital emergency.

Chanchal was laid on a trolley. It rolled inside. A doctor approached, placed instruments on his chest and shined a light into his eyes. Then he turned back the way he had come.

One of the men with Chanchal stopped him.

“What did you see, doctor?”

“What’s there to see?” came the doctor’s flat voice.

“Why?” 

“You failed to bring him a little earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“Oh… about three minutes.”