Al Ngullie
Decidedly true to the twisted facade of being cosmopolitan, Dimapur is a parody. Like the other day I was waiting at the bus terminus for my Mother who was to arrive from Kohima. As I waited devouring Crosswords with my limited reservoir of vocabulary, an urgent tapping on my shoulder shook me out of the battle. There stood a 5’2 something figure. Here we go again I muttered.
This person stood there with the most sorrow-splotched countenance ever. His hair was sponge personified. The dreadlocks would put to shame Bob Marley big time. It left no doubt his crown was playing a generous host to a population of grateful lice and other likened parasites. He wore a yellow-blue-green-looking Tee I deduced was originally white, while that hurrah Nike slogan “Just do it” was already in the chronic stage of flaking. In brief, his shirt looked like it’d any given time bear forth a rich harvest of mushrooms considering the amount of soil it carried.
Now let’s consider the ignominious contraption he reverently wore as trousers. Any person who beheld it would determinedly agree that it must draw lineage to the great-great-grandpa of the biblical fig leaf which prevented Adam and Eve from turning into Glad-rags models. And Bare-footed, his toes looked like they’d been struggling for years to move into opposite directions to enjoy individual liberty (We’re democratic people).
Then the stench. (Not meaning to be judgmental. Just the hard facts) He stank so foul you’d hurriedly agree that his perfume-brand must come from NST toilets. On the whole, the sight was such that your champion Alsatian would welcome a second thought before even stalking within 10 yards, leave alone attack him.
That’s the colorful side of this 5’2 figure. Now to his purpose for calling my attention. He rattled off some unknown tongues I couldn’t – with a clear conscience – classify it as a language. It sounded a cross between Greek with a dose Bengali with Nagamese consonants. Anyway, the foreign language hangover aside, regular one-liners punctuated by emotional “Allah Ki Naam Pe Kuch Do” and several “Allah Aashirvaad hoga”s bounced into my eardrums. He frantically kept pointing to his eyes which fell nothing short of a bizarre squint.
I ignored the scallywag’s ‘tearful’ pleas – not that I should be so apathetic or heartless but when you’re from Dimapur, a place so full of clever enterprise, everything about life merits serious study, and suspicion too. When I refused to relent, he cooled down and shuffled away, disappearing behind a turn.
Meanwhile I completed the crosswords and after some time, went over to a kiosk for a soft drink .There, about a few meters away in a corner, hidden from the Terminus’ space, sat my Franco-Greek-Bengali-hybrid speaking beggar. Guzzling the fizz, I watched as he, with the collected mien of a typical Hindi-film hero, flourished a bright red comb to groom his haywire locks back. Some philosopher said peace and quite can tempt a person to summon war councils for excitement.
The lazy terminus with very few prospective travelers apparently did the same to the Starfish’s head. Because, to my astonishment, he pulled out a huge wad of cash and began to count. How even the blind can see nowadays. And my blinkers popped out of their sockets when I saw he had it in crisps dinoms of fifties and hundreds! (Who’s the guy who coined the words ‘Economic Disparities’?) This is interesting, I muttered to the shopkeeper who also forgot his business and leant over to watch. Something was very fishy indeed.
So we, good old Samuddin (the shopkeeper), as well as two guys who joined us and I began our eye-investigation. With the exception of his fetid self, ancient attire and supposedly defunct eyes, the starfish didn’t look in any way one of those starving-till-skull-and-bones-emerge-for-air beggars which figure around everywhere in Dimapur. “Aro tai to mosto bhi ase!” added Samuddin. Yes, barring his height he was well-proportioned. So we concluded the starfish was phony.
The two ‘eyevestigator’ guys sneaked up to our ‘blind’ beggar. Then the most marvelous thing happened – by some supernatural intervention or whatever our blind starfish was suddenly ‘healed’ – his sight restored by two burly guys marching up to satisfy their suspicions! Hallelujah! The dead, bizarre squint of blindness was suddenly replaced by two alert eyes bend for quick escape. He tried in Vain. The two guys shoved him by the neck, demanding where he got those crisp, and huge, wads of cash. “Bikka Lak he ase ami!” he cried out.
Not satisfied with the ‘I’m just a beggar’ answer, the guys Persisted: “Manu to Hundred aro haazaar he de-a naki?!” Threatened with unhealthy doses of thrashing, the ‘blind’ desperately mumbled out (with other foreign languages) that he was just a ‘Bikka Tijoria’ – safe-keeper for his pickpocket brothers at the station who regularly made off with some sleepy traveller’s wallet. Obviously our extremely competitive corporate world had caught up with this ‘blind’ starfish – who apart from reciting one-liners for alms also held additional portfolio as Bank manager for other pickpockets.
As the grand Finale to the entire tragic comedy, the two bruisers squashed the living bejabbers out of the poor guy. Did someone just whisper something about ‘influx of illegal immigrants’? We are to be blamed.
