CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE CHOWKIDAR

You pass me by every day, unseeing, unknowing, uncaring. You don't look at my ingratiating smile. You don't see my smart salute. You don't hear the "Good Morning Sir!" that I call out cheerfully, the way we have been trained to. I wonder if you are even aware of my existence? Or if I am just another piece of furniture to you, like the broken plastic chair standing desolately near the gate.

I am educated too, you know. Of course, not as much as you, but I did attend two years of college. My poor parents thought I'd study well and do something with my life. Maybe they dreamt that I would be like you, zooming past in that big, fancy car of yours, talking on the mobile, always, always on the mobile. Well it was not to be, and here I am, miles from my home town, trying to survive. Its a hard life, but I have no complaints. Things are no better where I come from. At least here, I am my own man. Till they get me married of course. My mother tells me they are looking for girls for me in the surrounding villages.

Last night when I went home after my long shift, Raja and Munna - the two who share my room with me - were watching their favourite programme on our small, second-hand TV. True crime stories. I wonder why they find it so fascinating. Me? I like some song and dance. But chalo, I let them watch what they want. Yesterday's episode was gruesome though. A murder re-enacted. For a change, the police had solved it quickly. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for the police. To be truthful I am a little scared of them too. They can just pick you up and lock you in and who's to know what can happen to you once you are there? Anyway, coming back to yesterday's programme…it was about a rich industrialist murdered in his own house. The Police solved the case in less than a month. It was the chowkidar.

It got me thinking, this programme on TV. I wonder how you would react if I held a knife to your throat?

I wonder if you will finally know my name? Its right there, you know, in block letters, on the name badge that we have to wear every day. But funny how nobody ever bothers to read it. It's always "Hey you, security!". "Oye, Chowkidar!". Or sometimes a plain "Bhaiyya". The last mostly from the ladies.

I wonder if you will notice the wart on my chin that I worry continuously when I am nervous? Just one of those habits we develop and which refuse to leave us for life.

I wonder if the cold feel of the knife on your throat will make you sweat. I think I would like to see that. The high-and-mighty in his air-conditioned car sweating like an ordinary man. I would like to smell the fear on you - must surely be different from those foreign perfumes that you use every day. But most of all, I would like to see the terror in your eyes - your unseeing eyes.

Will your eyes focus on me then? Will you finally look at me? See me? Recognize me? Register my presence? Acknowledge my existence?

Coming back to yesterday's programme on TV - the Police were confused about the motive for the murder. Nothing was stolen from the house. I wonder if all that the murderer wanted was some recognition? Maybe he was trying to regain the identity and the sense of self-worth that had been robbed from him? Maybe…just maybe…