Of bags, logistics and rickmen of honour

This is the kind of thing that always happens to other people; the kind of thing you always get to listen to and then react in awe or amazement or pure melancholic understanding, depending on how the thing ends. The difference here, as you may have guessed by the predictability of these opening two lines, was that this kind of thing happened to us, namely Dolas, Athar, Naren and yours truly.

We were doing all we could to get out of the house in time to get hold of a rick that would take us from Aundh to Wanowrie without making too much of a fuss, the kind of fuss rick drivers normally make when they smell a meaty fare from a gullible customer. Thanks to the new 'badge rule', our industrious rickmen at the auto stand who always drip with the essence of honesty and have the sun shining out of their backsides didn't dare to risk a ride into the city, as they didn't have/couldn't get hold of any badges (and one would normally think these blighters were the pioneers of the practice of jugaad). We eventually had to flag down another passing rick and get down to brass tacks immediately. After a short, hurried mutual consultation regarding the distance to be travelled, the actual fare and the leniency to the rickman for breaking the cardinal law of ricks by seating four brats like us, we scrambled into the confined space, applying the back forth back forth principle of confined seating, with a bag and a guitar in tow.

We spent the next 45 minutes seated in akward positions. Naren squeezed in at the far corner, me squeezed in laterally opposite to him, Athar seated at the edge of the seat with the guitar in his hands, between Naren and Dolas, who was, of course, seated comfortably like he always is. When we finally reached Om's place in Wanowrie we tumbled out of the rick gratefully. It was quite like the relief you feel when you unbutton an agonizingly tight pair of trousers and collapse on the pot to take a well deserved dump. Another round of haggling issued between us and the rickman who bravely stood his ground despite being confronted by the four of us blokes. Ten minutes after the dust settled and the rickman had gone away fuming,:

"Give me the camera. "
"Who has it? "
"You took out the camera, no?"
"Where's the bag? "
"Oh Shit!!!!"

It's not rocket science. You guessed right.

Naren and Dolas immediately turned around and set off walking in hot pursuit of the rickman who was probably halfway back to wherever he had wanted to go next. To be fair, one could always hope against hope that the fellow hadn't gone more than thirty feet before stopping to refill his stock of beedis or gutka or whatever. But alas, that was not to be. The mutterings of expletives gained momentum, frequency and amplitude as the shock and the realization of the loss washed on to us, especially on to Naren whose camera it was, like a tidal wave.

Sense prevailed soon, and we got down to the task of doing whatever we could to figure out a way to get the bag back. Hopeless as it sounded, we left our phone numbers with the security at Om's place, just in case the rickman returned with the intention of returning the goods. I also mobilized Jd into action, calling him up and asking him to do the same at the rick stand from where we had caught the blasted rick. (This may not have worked either, as this rickman was not a member of that stand).

Well, what was done was done, and there was no point hanging around in the cold feeling sorry about the whole thing, hence we proceeded to A's place for the party which we were on our way to attend and become the soul of, albeit with a bit of a tropical cloud hanging over our moods. The party and the next couple of days passed with repeating the story to others and basking in the reactions and suggestions of the audiences, much like the kind described in the opening lines of this anecdote. Maybe it was my excessive reading of Sherlock Holmes stories, but I also had the idea of putting up an advertisement in a local Marathi daily, with the description and contents of the lost bag, requesting the finder to apply at 221b, Baker street, and tipping off inspector G. Lestrade too for good measure, so he could calmly step out of the shadows of the doorway at the last minute, arrest the culprit and take all the credit for the success of the investigation without any objection on my part. The master stroke of the plan, as the good Doctor might have written four years later.

But before any of this could happen, Dolas got a call from the virtuous rick stand where Jd had given his number, inquiring about a lost bag. Our honest rickman, all reasons for fuming forgotten, drove all the way to Infosys Hinjewadi armed with our goods and showed up smiling from ear to ear, as if he was in a Happy Dent advertisement. He also insisted on a reward for his honestly much higher than what Dolas had estimated, relieving him of a sizable wad, and offering his number and guaranteeing his unfailing services, whilst beaming all the time and overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Not that we ought to complain too much though, it was pretty good of him to do what he did. Needless to say, we were more than elated and amazed at this new development, and we sort of felt like how old Red Rakham might have felt had he stumbled upon his treasure in the cellar of Marlinspike Hall instead of getting stabbed and blown up in his boat!

Shit happens, like Forrest fleetingly said. But shit sometimes un-happens too. That blows away the rain clouds and replaces the scene with the lark on the wing and the bird on the song and God in his Heaven and all that. All’s well that ends well!