My cell phone was flicked in the bus last week. Thanks to my habit of checking my pockets every ten minutes, I realized it soon enough to let everyone in the bus know about it. Some noise followed by a bout of sadness when I missed the tiny gizmo which was followed by a lingering sadness that I would stop missing it too soon. Those who foster a strong detachment from such worldly possessions will understand the last sentence well. Anyway, the responsible citizen in me yanked me to the police station the following day.
Lodging an FIR is no child’s play as many of you might know. You are reduced to a hopeless wretch if you are not taken seriously and if they do, it’s still a hopeless case spending four good hours of your life in a police station. Fortunately or otherwise, I fell in the latter category. I looked around for some signs of familiarity owing to my knowledge of Bollywood movies. Alas! There was none to be found in the spic and span police station with sincere faced officials who were all ears to my complaint. But trust me, I had no clue that writing an FIR was something akin to writing fiction. The drab part was when the officer started taking down my family background. I never thought I could write a page long essay on my family. What followed gave me a sense of sitting in a Creative Writing class. The inspector crafted a story about how I lost my phone. After listening to my version, he added his own bits to it apparently to make the case simple and more convincing. After writing a few sentences in his impeccable handwriting, he would read them out to me and look at me in the same way as I look at my proff after dishing out a piece of ‘creative writing’: seeking a go-ahead that gives one’s artistic morale a boost. How imaginative these police officers are! Why don’t they do workshops for us?
This exercise stretched for hours as someone or the other would disturb the flow of his story or he would have the urge to go to the other side of the room and shove some tobacco into his mouth. I was visibly yawning by the end of an hour when he offered me the special police station tea. Cutting chai with masala and an aroma that fills one’s senses! It gave me the drive to carry on for the next 3 hours. When I finally looked at my watch to leave, the kind hearted cop offered me his dabba sensing that I would collapse any minute. I smilingly said a Thank you and left, before barging into the bakery nearby. Too bad I can’t give u a glimpse of my first FIR as along with my phone, my camera too has gone for a toss