Tags:
Journalism of Courage
That Sunday, in order to satisfy an old urge to visit Chor Bazaar, I took my driver into confidence, misled the family by telling everyone that I had an important appointment and headed for the place.
I was taking no chances and firmly instructed the driver to remain seated in the car lest it get stolen. Then I stepped out with a surreptitious air. Strange characters sized me up, perceiving me as a potential buyer of their stolen goods, or 8212; heavens forbid 8212; as a thief, myself. I noticed that everybody, regardless of class or stature, operates at the same level here.
The range of articles on display was also amazing. You could get anything that could be stolen: Tyres, TVs, CDs, DVDs, monitors, carburetors, bodywear, shoes, seat covers, shades, watches8230;The brands on offer ranged from desi to the most exclusive that Fifth Avenue had to offer. Since I was partial to stationery articles, I found an abundance of them at unbelievably low prices. I purchased a pack of a dozen ballpoint pens for a mere tenner and a roll of brown tape for a fiver. I also purchased a tie for just twenty bucks.
I was beginning to enjoy this outing when a boy sidled up to me and demanded payment for a camera he claimed he had sold to me just a few minutes earlier. I didn8217;t know what to do. Soon a crowd had gathered around us, with everybody exhorting me to pay the 8220;poor8221; boy his money. I passionately defended myself. I had bought no camera and possessed none, I told them. I even offered to be searched. No one believed me. People soon started to call me names.
The commotion brought a constable on the scene. The matter could be solved only when I took them all to the parking lot and made my driver encounter them. The driver whispered something into the ear of the constable who immediately ordered dispersal. I even saw the cop winking at the boy who had made those false accusations. Clearly, there was a nexus here but there was no way I could establish it. The driver had evidently told the constable that I was an influential man and that he had better leave me alone.
Back home, my family had a good laugh at my expense. Piped up my younger son with a straight face, 8220;By the way, Papa, did you come across Tagore8217;s stolen Nobel medallion?8221; I vowed that I would never visit Chor Bazaar again.
Incidentally, the pens had no refills, the brown tape never unwound and the tie lost its colour the moment it was ironed for the first time!
