Fate or Faith?

New Year (2008), dawned horrendously for our women. All over the country women out to usher in the New Year were pushed, molested, groped or raped. Is inebriation a must for celebration?  Do our men regard women as chattels fit only for prattle? Earlier at least it was slam bang thank you Ma’am. Now it’s bang bang, run before you hang. What a sad state of affairs that in a free for all ruckus, women are deemed to be free for all. 

These sad happenings made me hark back to an incident that took place not very long ago. I was on an official trip to Siliguri. Having completed my official assignment, I was free till the following afternoon. I decided to take a trip to Gangtok, which I was told about 4/5 hours journey by road. I hired  a cycle rickshaw, more because the poor puller pleaded that he was in need of money, to the ST Stand. Imagine my disappointment on being told that due to some agitation, the buses were staying put in Siliguri. The Trekkers (Jeeps), which ferried passengers, also shut shop in sympathy. I was looking quite gloomy in the fast approaching dusk. Suddenly two seedy looking guys walked up to me, asking if I needed any help. Well nothing ventured nothing gained, so throwing caution to the winds I told them  I wanted to go to Gangtok but there seemed no way I could. They smiled like Cheshire cats in tandem and informed me in chaste Hindi, that my prayers had been answered. One of them owned a Maruti Omni. They would drive me to Gangtok and bill me Rs.2000/- I knew I was about to be made a fool by two hardy hilly-billies. What the heck, would I ever travel this way again? So in a moment of foolhardiness, I agreed. We set out immediately. The other guy sat with the driver and immediately engaged him in non-stop drivel.

The hills were lovely, green and very forbidding. The raging Teesta river below was in spate and roaring like a wounded tiger. It was also raining gently. The fog made me misty eyed. A perfect setting for romantic reminisces. Unfortunately the company in the car was hardly romantic, in that enchanting, exotic locale, I dozed off. I got up with a jerk. The van had stopped. Was I going to be mugged? If so, I would go down fighting. Then I heard a girlish voice. The two men in front were chatting up a school girl, who was walking all alone on that lonely jungle path. One of the men got off, opened the passenger side of the van and very courteously let her in. He then informed me that they had offered the girl a lift to her village, which was enroute. My antenna immediately began to hum. Did the sight of the pretty Miss spur these two guys into cooking up mischief, would she soon become a child of Misfortune?  Would I also have to face the flak for being an accomplice? I was torturing myself with worry, cursing my misplaced bravado in venturing out on this needless trip.

In the fading light the girl was a lovely sight. She was wearing her school uniform with a neat jacket to match. She was in animated conversation with the two benefactors in Bhutia or Lepcha. She seemed quite in control of herself, not in the least perturbed about her impending fate. I grudgingly admired her faith in her benefactors. I decided to cross the bridge when we came to it.  I hesitantly asked whether she spoke English. She rewarded me with a dazzling smile and informed me in a melodious accent that she attended an English public school, in which Baichung Butia  had also studied for some time. Bingo. If there is one way of breaking the ice with me, it’s talk of football in a lingo I understand. When she realized I was from Mumbai, she asked the inevitable questions about Bollywood and John Abraham! I made it sound like I John and I go for coffee every other day! I just couldn’t disappoint her. I could sense the hostile vibes from the duo upfront. Obviously the amount of attention I was getting from the Mountian Maid, made them mad!. Having got their goat, was it just a matter of time before they go for my throat?

The car screeched to a halt outside a shady (in the literal sense), structure. I was steeling myself for the final countdown. Boss, chai? I was taken aback. This was a chai stop. An old woman served black chai. In that cold and gloom, the chai tasted like some divine elixir. We were also served sour butter biscuits. I learn’t later that the biscuits were made from Yak’s milk.  Welcome to the ilk. I offered to pay the bill, the duo would have none of it. They even wrapped up the remaining bicuits and gifted them to the little angel. This left me quite nonplussed. We drove for another 20 minutes or so in almost complete darkness. The child continued her banter, alternating between Lepcha and English with increasing adroitness. At one stage I asked if she was not afraid to walk all alone in the gloom. She seemed quite amused. Why would she be afraid. She was born in the hills and on several occasions had even encountered bears! On this occasion she has gone for tutions after class and then went to visit a friend. Hence the delay. At last her village loomed near. The duo dropped her at the village, did not charge her a dime and reminded her to take her gift pack of biscuits. She thanked them profusely, me too and skipped happily  to her home.

I found that amazing. An adolescent girl with three men in a car on a remote mountian trail. The men could have done anything to her. Yet she was so trusting, so innocent, so pure, there was never any fear about her. She trusted the men implicitly. The men repaid her trust by not taking advantage . It was my perverted city bred thinking that made me imagine all sorts of ghastly things. I even doubted the duo who I hired to drive me. Is it something in the mountain air that makes mountain men act like gentlemen and not like city bred animals? Today as I read such horrendous stories of atrocities on women, I keep harking back to this incident. Salaam Sikkim
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