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Crime and Commitment

Conjeevaram J. Nandakumar

    Mr. Raman, an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old outfit of an old tunic gathered in loose folds about his skinny frame, was rushing hastily on his bike deeply cogitating in his mind the ways and means of paying his mounting credit card debts, for which the bank, of late had become rather pressing.
    He was steadily maintaining his speed with the city bus that was moving in great speed just two metres ahead of him. He would have hardly crossed the upcoming signal, when suddenly from nowhere three traffic cops sprang up and threw themselves into the middle of the road and forced him to stop, but letting the city bus pass through. He looked behind him to see what the matter was, only then he realized that he had overshot the stop line roughly about two metres when the signal had already turned into red.
    The cops demanded his papers. After checking that everything was in order they took to him to their sergeant, a fat gentleman with a beefy face at his retirement age who seemed to have been staggering with his own weight. He eyed him for an instant askance with a glance so sharp and fierce as if he was alarmed by his traffic violation.
    “Look here sir,” he said in a low reproachful voice.
    “You have jumped the signal and more over you are driving over the speed limit. Do you have any idea of what’s the penalty for it?”
    “No sir,” said Raman candidly with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity.
    “If I book a case and give you a challan you may out to shell out Rs. 10000 as penalty at the mobile court.”
    “No sir, I don’t have that kind of huge amount with me,” said he with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that anyone can imagine.
    “Okay, I am here to help you. Just part with Rs. 500 and we can settle the issue between us without going to the court.”
    “I don’t have that neither.”
    “Well in that case I can’t help you. I am bound to do my duty with issuing the challan and take you to the mobile court.” Apparently his expectations were greatly disappointed at his much anticipated second proposal had been declined by the offender, but at length he composed himself, withdrawing his eyes from him in a manner that it was no great matter, and said, “Ok, it’s your choice then. Come with me to the court,” and rose briskly to his feet. A few minutes later, they had stopped at a large bus freshly and brightly painted “Chennai Mobile Court” on either side of it, in the busiest thoroughfare. There they saw a huge crowd of traffic violators waiting for their turn to be called in for the trial.
    Raman cursed his stars for having to undergo this additional trial of ordeal other than that he had already been suffering. At the same time the traffic chief furiously scratched his head, constantly referred to his watch, paced up and down and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience. He was frustrated over his loss of sizeable income that he might have made had he stayed put on his post rather than wasting his time here delivering the traffic offenders to the jury.
    After a long wait they were at last admitted inside the mobile court. Raman felt like entering a dark and gloomy den for it was bereft of any scattering light but only a focusing light right above them from where they stood and at the far end of the room where Raman found the magistrate seated behind his table and the spot light above him produced a clear visible effect upon him. The traffic chief saluted the magistrate with conscious condescension and with all due reverence. He gestured Raman to stand on the raised platform what supposedly, and presumed to be a replacement for a dock, under the focus light, and darted forth towards the magistrate, carrying the charge sheet, and placed it on the hands of the bailiff with most impressive solemnity. The magistrate took only few minutes to scrutinize the charge sheet. The magistrate then raised his head, stared at the person at the dock and said,
    “What’s your name sir?”
    “Raman”
    “Do you accept the charges against you that you had willfully violated the traffic rules by jumping the signal?”
    “Yes sir, but not willfully. I was just trailing behind the government bus that obscured my visibility of the signal and I haven’t had any foggiest idea of whether the bus had jumped the signal or not.”
    “Please say your full name with initial sir.”
    “It’s C.J. Ramakrishnan sir.”
    As soon as the magistrate heard his full name it struck a chord in his mind. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash before his eyes, and they were gone. He looked transfixed for a moment but then he had recognized him. The initial C J unquestionably has proved an indifferent refresher to his memory and he perfectly remembered the accused that stood in front of him a person who had been fondly addressed as C J Sir his English teacher.
    “Please tell me about your profession sir.”
    “I am a retired private school teacher sir.”
    “Can you tell me at which school were you working about twenty three years back?”
    “No sir, I was in and out of many a school during my entire career. It’s hard to remember.”
    “Does this name St. Sai Matriculation Higher Secondary School ring a bell in your mind or does it mean anything to you?”
    “Yes sir that was the residential school in which I had my longest tenure of service.”
    Upon hearing his reply the magistrate at once gestured the bailiff to come near him and whispered something to him in his ear and he nodded his head, exchanged few short whispers in his ear and withdrew. He walked towards the exit with an air of stately majestic. As he walked he waved his right hand at the traffic chief, with a dignified, but surly manner announced the magistrate’s intention of dispelling him out straight.
    Raman remained motionless on his post with a perplexed mind and countenance. The magistrate rummaged his satchel and after few minutes was successful in retrieving a bulky red file. Some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, descended from his chair and walked slowly towards Raman holding the red file in his hand. He opened the file and showed it to Raman drawing himself closer to him and said, “Sir, do you remember this student? It’s me.” Raman cast a look at the photograph and after several differential glances at it shook his head and said, “No sir.”
    “Sir my name is Vincent Sagayaraj. Now do you remember me?”
    “No sir.”
    The magistrate hastily shuffled through the papers and showed another photograph and said, “Do you remember this boy sir? His name is Prashant.”
    “Yes the assistant director’s son. I remember him because of an unpleasant incident. One day this boy lost his costly gold strapped Rolex watch during the break time and he threatened to lodge a complaint with the principal and the correspondent. I had to pacify him and made all the students in my class to stand in line with blindfolded, checked them and finally retrieved the watch from one boy’s pocket.”
    The magistrate’s face brightened up.
    “Yes, Yes, that’s it. If you remember that incident you must be remembering me as well, because I am connected to that incident. It was me who stole the watch. I did that at the spur of the moment just to lessen my single mother’s suffering in educating me through a residential school that was beyond her reach, but you never revealed this to anyone in the class or the school administration. Otherwise I would have been expelled from the school and my entire future would have gotten into ruin. Because of your act of kindness and magnanimity I stand before you as an honorable magistrate.”
    “But I ...”
    “But the irony is sir, Prashant became a drug addict and was involved in a chain snatching case last month, tried for most atrocious felons, found guilty and I had to sentence him to imprisonment. He pulled out a sheaf of documents from the file and showed him the sentence order with great attention and respect.
    “Oh my God!”, Raman vented his insupportable load of anguish off his heart.
    “Now please tell me sir, how is that you could so vividly remember the incident and also Prashant, but not my face who actually stole the watch.”
    Raman looked intently at his questioner and said somewhat alarmed at the temerity of his own voice,
    “How do you expect me to remember your face sir, when I myself was blindfolded with my hanky while frisking the pockets of the boys so that I shouldn’t be having any prejudice or disparity with my students when I see them again. I didn’t reveal this to any of the boys or the authority of the schools, because I swear, till today I never saw or remember the face who did this act.”
    The magistrate staggered a bit backwards with an expression of considerable astonishment that was mingled with disbelief and wonderment, and said,
    “You are really a great person sir.”
    He said in a low voice and in a pleading manner, “Sir if you don’t take it as an offence when you go out will you please inform the traffic chief and the bailiff to come inside the court. The protocols of the magistrate don’t allow me to perform the act myself.”
    “Sure Sir.”
    “Sir please don’t call me sir.”
    “It’s not for you. It’s for the chair and the office you assume, my boy.”
    Raman came out of the court with pride swelling all over his face, and informed the chief and the bailiff that they were called in and waited patiently for the chief to return. Within minutes the chief rushed out and said, “Sir you can leave now. The constable is bringing your vehicle here.”
    “What about the penalty?”
    “It’s all been taken care of and nothing to worry about it. The magistrate himself has paid the penalty on behalf of you. Here is the receipt. But please tell me one thing sir, what is that you told him so impressively to plead your innocence to convince him on your case.”
    “Nothing particular, I just said that you let pass the government bus, but demanded Rs.500 from me to cover up mine.”
    The chief’s face turned red in panic, and Raman smiled much to his own satisfaction that his reply would sure to give him several sleepless nights, a fitting revenge for his unpleasant ordeal.
    “Well, well,” added the chief with an attempt of pacification; “The magistrate said that you were his teacher and to treat you with respect and you’ve indeed tutored him well to be a fine gentleman sir.” He said this with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless.
    Just at the moment his bike arrived and nothing fell into the ears of Raman, as he mounted on it and drove away with a mind least concerned about his accomplished student, but more worried about his other iniquitous student, who had gone astray and the only thought darted across his mind with the same dismal feeling was like that of the son of God for his lost sheep and like that of the loving father about his prodigal son.

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