Only the shell inherited

I was shattered. The memory still sends shivers down my spine and haunts me with nightmares. As I ran shouting after the fast disappearing scooter, the world came to a standstill. I was inconsolable, though concerned neighbours and family tried to help me recover from the shock. I did try to be grateful to the Almighty for saving me from injury. Money, after all, can be earned again. I wanted to recover but it was not to be so. I was in for another shock: the experience of lodging an FIR at the police station. The policemen werecourteous and well-mannered but were bound by cumbersome formalities. It took them four hours to write down a 30-sentence report, which they wanted me to fill with false information. I was to assert that I would be able to recognise the two scooterist, who wore helmets and drove fast. I would have needed X-ray eyes to see through their opaque helmets.

I was warned that I had a weak case as I could neither tell the number of the vehicle nor recognise the snatchers. I realised that it was another way of suggesting that I should cut my losses and wipe the slate clean. I wished I could do so.

My family and friends were sure that I would get my papers back through the post. Three months have gone by and the postman is yet to deliver that particular envelope. Hope has dwindled, but my parents are still positive.

They had a better experience of police efficiency more that 50 years ago. My parents were forced to migrate during Partition. Like millions of uprooted people they came empty-handed. But my father gota good job due to his high education. They stayed in Pilani for a year and to better his prospects, my father went to Simla for an interview. On the way home, he changed trains at Katha for Delhi. He would take a bus from there to Pilani.

Tired, he was soon lulled to sleep by the chugging steam train. He was woken up by the familiar sounds of a station. It was Ambala. He wanted a cup of tea and while searching for money, he found his woolen overcoat was missing. Disturbed, he lodged a complaint at the police beat box on the platform and reboarded the train. Not expecting much, my parents did not bother to inform the police when they moved from Pilani to Simla. Three or four months later, my mother, basking in the glorious sun of the hills, saw a man descending the path leading to the cottage. He wore a khaki coat and carried a parcel.

On reaching my mother he asked her, 8220;Do you have a sister who lives in Pilani? You resemble her a lot.8221; My mother presumed that my aunt has sent a gift through the man. itwas a pleasant surprise to find that the man was a constable deputed to return my father8217;s overcoat. The overcoat had been recovered from a woman just outside Ambala station. It was a time of turmoil but as soon as a man could be spared, he was sent to Pilani. And he trailed my parents to Simla.

Fifty years have passed and my parents cite this experience whenever there is talk of police inefficiency. And today their embittered daughter is disillusioned by the custodians of the unlaw, who have inherited the uniform of that policeman but not his competence and dedication.