Delhi Noir

So this week the chasingframes thing has changed a little. Earlier we used to pick a creative commons picture from flickr and wrote a short story based on it. This time however we write a story and then either shoot or pick a picture which suits it. And the theme of the story was “Your city”. And if you have been following the delhi newspapers I am very much influenced by the recent ongoings.

******************************************
Delhi Noir

I was listening to the phone. For the past few months this was my pass time. The way I spend my lonely evening hours. The phone I was hearing was a MTNL phone, which I had taken so that I could get a good internet connection. And why do i keep saying “hearing the phone” as it was the radio. Coz it acted like a radio for me. A radio which had romance, soap operas, thrillers as well.

I discovered this when the phone rang. Around 2 months ago. I was surprised because I had not given this number to anybody, thought it must be a wrong number. I picked it up and heard,
“..jee aaj mohan ne bhindi banaai hai. mainey usey hazaar baar mana kiya hai bhindi kisi ko nahi bhati ghar pe. Idiot hamesha bhool jata hai.”

Before I could speak anything or show any semblance of understanding what this lady meant and why was she telling all this to me. I heard another lady’s voice,

“jee ye naukar toh sare gadhe hote hain. ek hamara kisan. kal hi hum uske kamre mein gandi magazine dekhe. humne toh inko bata diya. chhat pe le jake inhone apni belt se khoob maara. Ab batayiye ji ghar mein baby bhi toh hai. Bus ek mauka diye hain usey agar fir kuch harkat kari usne toh bhej denge vaapas chhapra.”
“baap re bade dil vale hain aap log toh. agar hamara mohan aisa kuch karta toh usi vaqt nikaal dete. chaliye jee fir baat karte hain”

Man my phone had a misconnection. It was fabulous. Every half an hour the phone rang at least once. And I found myself going towards it away from the numerous chatrooms I trolled. Here are a couple of more interesting calls,
“yo girl…wasssup? you been to college lately?”
“not for the past 4 days… hey listen ..that bitch karuna mam is doing sharma sir…”
“could you even expect…and that Sharma the old bastard 🙂 ..he must really be a playboy getting that cold and frosty karuna”
“ya i know..and watsup with you and Shanky, no hanky panky hunh …giggles…”
“he’s a really nice guy ya…not like we thought…he’s helping me with the computer project. I think one of these days when mom and dad go out for a party or something I’ll invite him…mohan ek cold coffee le aao jaldi”
“hey naughty naughty….don’t have that cold coffee, keep up the heat LOL….”

So here I was listening to these conversations, just being a voyeur made all of them interesting. Of the old lady’s menopause problems and the young girls love problems. And often I could hear as a subscript these people ordering mohan or kisan around. It was more of a “noise” for me, which broke the flow of the conversations. So it came as a surprise when mohan took a more central stage in one of the calls.

“hey listen … something bad happened today. ..”
“kyon kya hua?…nothing with shanky right?”
“no ya..I thought I was alone in the house, and I came out of the bathroom after a shower. Thank god I had wrapped a towel.”
“what happened..? you were obviously in your room only right?”
“ya,.. but my room door was open and out there stood mohan gawking. I gave him a good thrashing. what the hell he was doing standing there in front of my room. Have told him I will complain to dad. He was crying and all..saying he would do anything if I kept quiet. Maybe I won’t tell only..i could use him on my side .. i could invite shanky more often”
“beeeetch..:D…”

Man this was getting hotter by the day. Hotter than I could handle.
So when I picked up the phone today I was surprised when I heard,
“police is that police…i need help fast…is somebody there…”
i waited for the police to respond, but no one seem to be there.
“god damn …koi hai …mujhe madad chahiye…vo mujhe maarna chahta hai…WTF koi kuch toh bolo”

I banged the phone down. If I kept quiet I wasn’t there. That’s how a voyeur works. I couldn’t watch the telephone. I put a newspaper over it. It began ringing again. I took it off the handle. And ran outside. Climbed up the iron stairs to the roof.

I have been standing here on the roof for the past half an hour. I know what happened must be somewhere near. Should I be ashamed of myself? Should I be afraid that the police will track me? but what wrong did I do? What are people upto under all these roofs?