There were a multitude of things to engage the people thronging the fair and therefore one could empathize with the apathetic attitude of the boisterous lot towards what should have been the prime attraction: the orange disk of the setting sun which when viewed along with the pinkish-cerulean backdrop resembled a massive flag that was not fluttering.
Voices of children thrilled at the prospect of putting their nerves to test on a roller-coaster (or in the case of the fainthearted simply sinking their teeth into a chocolate ice-cream and feeling the smooth, creamy, cold fluid ooze into their mouth) – rent the air like small bursts of firecrackers.
“Mamma, give me ten bucks, I want to ride on the green horse on that merry-go-round”
“Daddy, could you buy me some candy-floss?” and then with a giggle, “Grandpa’s beard would look like that if he coloured it pink, don’t you think?”
Some people were trying their hand at everything – Firing air-rifles at bunches of balloons tied together hanging from the ceiling ; throwing rubber quoits in an attempt to ensnare a bottle of perfume or bar of chocolate that would be theirs if they succeeded. A few canny parents were striking deals with their children as to the extra hours of studies the latter would put in if they were given tickets to an extra amusement. A flustered mother was trying to separate her twin boys who had grabbed each others’ collars each accusing the other of having deliberately dislodged the ice-cream from their cones. The victims of the altercation namely two dollops of vanilla and strawberry lay on the ground pining away into extinction.
In a corner of the football-field – whose goal-posts had been temporarily gouged out and markings removed so that could be used as one of the venues for the school-fair – Sanjeev was preparing to perform his stunt on his motor-cycle. Sanjeev loved his motor-cycle in the manner that old widows adore their pet cats. He had only ten minutes back finished wiping it bone-dry after having given it a wash and yet looking at it adoringly. He now wiped off a fleck of dust (perhaps more imaginary than real) from its bonnet. His love for his motor-cycle was an exalted form of love, more in the nature of devotion to God. After all, it provided him his livelihood. He had always had a fascination for motor-cycles ever since he was a child of four: almost twenty years back that is. Sanjeev’s father worked as a peon in the town municipality. His income was supplemented by his wife who worked as an ayah in the village-school.
Sanjeev unscrewed the cap of the fuel-tank to examine its contents. This was more out of habit since the fuel-gauge was functioning properly; besides he could reckon from the weight of the motor-cycle as to how much fuel it contained. There was still half an hour to go before he would start performing his stunt; he would have to perform it thrice with intervals of fifteen minutes in between two performances. This was the way he earned his living. He liked his job because he loved riding a motor-cycle as also the fact that he was his own boss as far as the task was concerned. The only thing he did not like was having to tour various places in order to perform which translated into being away from home for fifteen days a month at least. However this was preferable to having to stay at home with his parents (His father had told him that he could stay with them till he got married or reached the age of twenty-five whichever occurred earlier)and going to work as a mechanic in a local garage which he had been doing for two years before landing this job. His father never tired of chiding him for giving up his studies after failing in his first year of college. But Sanjeev was not too keen on obtaining a degree and then landing a job as a clerk in a post-office or registry office. For that would have been honourable by his father’s standards but humdrum by his own. Sanjeev could not blame his father for having wanted his only child to land some respectable job which would serve to silence the inquisitive village folk as well as hold up some hope of finding an educated bride for him. His cell phone rang. It was his father calling him for the seventh time in less than an hour imploring him to return home immediately so that he would have someone to help him and give him company at the hospital where Sanjeev’s mother had been admitted half–an-hour back complaining of severe stomach pain. Sanjeev patiently heard what his panicky, father had to say, his voice often drowned by his sobbing before once again informing him that he would leave as soon as the show got over and that it would take him three hours from then to get to the hospital. Sanjeev’s assurance had only served to anger his father once again and he began to curse him again for ignoring his pleas. This time Sanjeev switched off his cell phone before he had heard all the abuses. Even if his mother was as serious as his father had made it out to be, he could not abandon the performance at this hour and have his team face the wrath of a surcharged crowd incensed by the last minute cancellation of a much publicised event.
The Well of Death. That was the name given to the cylindrical structure of wooden planks arranged in such a fashion that it allowed motor-cycles and cars to ascend it and then go round and round it anticlockwise at speeds that enabled the tyres of the vehicles to stick to the surface as they moved. Adjacent to the top of the structure and skirting its brim all around was a circular pathway of a raised steel structure which served as the viewing gallery. Spectators thus looked into the well from above at the vehicles as they sped around generating a lot of noise and spewing a profusion of exhaust fumes.
It was dark when Sanjeev began his performance. He sat on his motorcycle and looked up and muttered a prayer as was his wont before each performance more out of habit than as a superstition or invocation to the lord. The crowds that had thronged the viewing-gallery appeared hazy set against the glare of the sodium-vapour lamps. He kick-started his motor-cycle and began revving it. Seconds later, the second motor-cyclist followed suit. Neither of them wore helmets. They exchanged smiles. Sanjeev winked and then they both set off. Two men got into a car which would soon follow the motor-cycles. The two motor-cyclists spiralled their way upwards and in a few seconds had reached the brim and were within a handshake of the crowds which were now leaning on the railing and screaming with raw enthusiasm. This was just the injection of spirit the both men needed to accelerate and whiz past the crowd thrice appearing like bullets. The car meanwhile was going round and round the lower portion of the well resembling a dog trying to catch its tail. It was now time for Sanjeev to get into the act of playing to the gallery. It was a privilege he enjoyed being the more experienced of the two motor-cyclists. So while the other motor-cyclist kept doing the rounds in what would appear monotonous fashion, Sanjeev took his hands off the motorcycle and rode it now saluting the people smartly, now folding his hands against his chest. As he passed by he could notice a few women covering their eyes; they could not bear to watch. Some children were saluting at him and some clapping with unfettered glee. He noticed the brows of some men moist with sweat glisten in the orange light. Laughing, he took control of the motor-cycle with his hands and accelerated vrooming past his surprised colleague only to overtake him again seconds later! The colleague shrugged his shoulders; this was a violation of traffic-rules but then he too was taking lessons from Sanjeev and would in a few months become a master himself. Sanjeev once again removed his hands from the control letting the motor-cycle ride on its own. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, the motor-cycle began wobbling eliciting gasps and cries from the crowd. God, had he fallen asleep, some wondered. Just as it appeared that the motor-cycle was poised to get unstuck and hurtle down to the pit of the well, Sanjeev somehow grabbed its controls and almost miraculously steadied it to resume its path of going around and around. The relieved people stretched out their hands for Sanjeev to brush against as he rode past them. They had communicated with a man who had perhaps just cheated death. Sanjeev was a perennial offender. Now was the time to collect his reward. He waved with his right hand to indicate that he was ready. People put their hands in their pockets to fish out a currency-note which they held out for him to accept as he passed by. He purposely refused to pick up some notes, not as a matter of disrespect but so that his colleague could partake of the offerings as well. Two rounds later he made his way down the well, his colleague in pursuit so that the car could claim the limelight. The car made its way up to the rim of the well. There were two men seated in front; a driver and an assistant who opened the right door and leaned out of the car caressing the fingertips of some outstretched hands as he supported himself by holding onto the inner portion of the roof of the car. The car took one round after another while Sanjeev and the other motor-cyclist were doing the same thing in the lower portion of the well. After a while, the second motor-cyclist climbed up the well and began following the car. After a while the man who had been leaning out of the car got inside and shut the door. The motor-cyclist was now the centre of attraction and the crowd clapped and cheered for him and wanted to touch him and pat him on the back. Sanjeev was still in the lower portion of the well; he just wanted to get over with this act, hoping he would be able to persuade the others to permit him to leave soon after it was over. A pang of ennui seized the motor-cyclist as he followed the car. To overcome it he decided to overtake the car. He would be then able to set his own pace. He accelerated a little waiting to find a gap to overtake the car. Moments (which seemed to the motor-cyclist like eternity) passed by, but the car never strayed from its path almost touching the rim’s edge. In sheer frustration, the motor-cyclist climbed down a notch and was preparing to overtake the car when it swerved a little to the left hitting him and throwing him off balance. The vehicle spinning out of control hurtled down taking Sanjeev on its way. The motor-cyclist, thrown off the vehicle landed on his back almost simultaneously seeing Sanjeev fall face down and the motor-cycles land on him one after the other crushing him, silencing him forever.
In a village-hospital, a three-hour ride away by bus, Sanjeev’s father cursed him before breaking down at the sight of his wife who he painfully realized would breathe no more.
