(Quite a few months back, I had chanced upon the story of Rajlaxmi and her distraught family. Me and a few friends tried to pitch in by taking the story to the masses through media and get justice. Sadly, we have been not successful, and to a great extent our own lethargy is to blame. But everytime I pass through that stretch of street, I can almost see a ghostly apparition waiting on the sidelines, wondering whats gone wrong. I am publishing this piece that was meant to be circulated to all newspapers et al. May her soul rest in peace)

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Next time, you happen to be drunk and whizzing across the Link Road in the Western Suburbs of Goregaon or Malad, or just plain reckless, and happen to run over a person. Be calm; get out of the car, act concerned and offer to take the unfortunate person to the nearest hospital. Hoping there is no one accompanying him or her, drive down to Siddharth Hospital and admit the person (don’t forget to remove any belongings that might give the person’s real identity like a diary or so). Pose as a Samaritan in front of the doctors and nurses. Remember to give a false name and worry not for they will not ask for your contact numbers or any other details. In fact, they would not even bother to jot down your vehicle number or anything. Finding an opportune moment, under a pretext of getting medicines or something like that, give a slip. The staff at Siddharth Hospital is not only rather careless in the way it functions but it suffers from collective amnesia.

You might think it is just another fictional account, or another accusatory claim. Yet it is the horrific truth, for there is no other reason in the world, why woman in her forties met a sad end and her murderer is still at large. Rajlaxmi Pillai, was in her late 40s, unmarried and employed in a company in Kandivili (W). She lived with her old and ailing mother in Bangur Nagar, Goregaon (W). Everyday Rajlaxmi would leave for the company early in the morning and return in the evening. As she was ranked in the lower echelons of the employer, Rajlaxmi earned a few thousands every month. To be able to fend for herself and her ailing mother, she would cut every corner she could to save money.

Thus, Rajlaxmi would pack last night’s leftovers in her rather old steel tiffin-box and tug it along to office. She would often walk down to nearby places and travel strictly by the BEST buses. It would be a rarity, if she indulged herself and led a staid and somber existence till September 14, 2007. The day she met with a deathly accident.

It was around 6.30 p.m. in the evening, and Rajlaxmi had just disembarked from the bus at Bangur Nagar bus stop. The road has become quite crowded ever since Inorbit and Mindspace has come up in the area. She was in the process of crossing the street, and was half through when a speeding vehicle dashed into her. The impact was so strong that Rajlaxmi was lifted in the air and thrown quite many meters away — evident from dents on her tiffin box and her wrist watch that froze at that moment in time. Her head took the maximum impact and she lapsed in a coma immediately.

It is after this point that the story gets hazy. The people, namely slum dwellers, and a nariyal paani wala that who witnessed the accident cannot recall a thing about the person and the car. The coconut vendor (who would not have been more than 20 meters away from the accident spot) feigns complete ignorance of the incident. All that one can gather from the numerous interactions is that the murderer got out of the car, looked at Rajlaxmi and fearing public outcry offered to take her to nearest hospital. According to one person, there were two people, but it cannot be substantiated. The time was around 6.50 p.m.

Putting her in the backseat, the murderer took her to Siddharth Hospital in Goregaon (W). Dr. Nishad was on duty that day. According to Nishad’s account, the person  — aged around fifty and seeming like a south Indian – claimed that he had witnessed the accident was helping out a fellow being. There was no record made of him on the hospital registers (OPD Case 42273) and the hospital staff customarily wrote down the name, Shivkumar, as mentioned by the person. The hospital is also not equipped to handle serious cases. There are two creaky beds and there is no provision for even an X-Ray machine. Thus Rajlaxmi was given first-aid the kind given when you bruise your knees. The royal exception was a saline drip. According to Nishad, that is the best they can do and calls it ‘stabilizing treatment’.

Next the doctor says, they realized that Rajlaxmi (whose name was not known to them) needed to be shifted to a hospital with neurological care. So supposedly the doctors prepared an OPD document that would be required for the shift. The height of incompetence being, they did not have a copy of that document and even handed it to Shivkumar. It was around 8.30 p.m. and the police were yet to be informed..

The story gets even more bizarre. Under some pretext, Shivkumar makes an escape from the hospital with the OPD document. He drives away in the car and not a soul (namely the security folks) note down anything. After around an hour, the doctor is supposedly looking after patients in a ward and the nurse on duty calls him up to inform him that the murderer had escaped. Nishad rushes down and makes a note of Shivkumar’s car. “It was a red Alto and the last three digits of the registration number were 735,” he states. So, though he might seem incompetent, he had indeed bothered to ask about the vehicles number from Shivkumar but remembered only last three digits. Why did he not make a note of the number in the register itself? Time, around 9.30 p.m.

The hospital staff finally decides that it is time to call the police and rings up the Goregaon police station. Vinayak Jhimil a constable at the police station makes a trip to the police station, and makes note of the case. As murderer Shivkumar had removed Rajlaxmi’s diary, the police could not confirm the identity and were completely clueless about when and where the accident took place. Meanwhile, Nishad had left for the day and Dr. Bansode took charge (who was supposedly late and hence Nishad was working late). With no clues to go the constable returns back to the police station near Cinemax theatre on SV Road, with Rajlaxmi’s handbag that contains a small purse with some cash and a dented lunchbox.

Back in Bangur Nagar, Rajlaxmi’s mother is anxious. “My daughter was always on time, as she knew how worked up I used to get,” she recalls with tears streaming down her face. She calls up her daughters who stay with their families in nearby suburbs. Her two son-in-laws make inquiries at her workplace and find out that Rajlaxmi had left as usual on that day as well. The mother fears the worst. After some deliberation, the duo visit Goregaon police station to register a missing complain. It is past midnight and constable Jhimil shows them Rajlaxmi’s purse, which they recognize immediately.

They family rushes to Siddharth Hospital, and finds Rajlaxmi in coma. The hospital staff has made arrangements for her to be shifted to KEM Hospital in Lower Parel, as there is an ambulance that is waiting to take her there. The family is aghast and someone suggests that it would be more feasible for them to take her to Sai Clinic, a private nursing home rather than a government hospital. The arguments are clinching, as a trip to KEM would take over an hour at the least and Sai Clinic happens to be in close proximity.

The grief stricken family takes Rajlaxmi to Sai Clinic, and admits her at 1.30 am in the night. Not even once has Rajlaxmi showed any signs of life. The doctors attending to her at the clinic give a gloomy assessment. But there is little that the family can do except hope and pray.

Over the next few days, a number of tests are performed on Rajlaxmi, which display extensive damage to her brain. The lady had lapsed into a vegetative state. After 4 days and Rs. 75,000 later, the family decides to shift Rajlaxmi to Nair Hospital. The shift was necessitated by economics more than anything else. Rajlaxmi’s brother Vijay Kumar, who worked as an AC technician in the Middle East, had to chuck his job to return back to India. Thus, Rajlaxmi was admitted in Nair Hospital on September 19, 2007.

The hit and run case is being handled by Inspector Hande from Goregaon police station and he calls up Rajlaxmi’s brother-in-laws a few times to enquire about her state and to find any clues. They register the family’s views and could not go any further. After many agonizing days, Rajlaxmi succumbs to her injuries at Nair hospital. The date was October 3, and the post-mortem mentioned head injuries as the cause of death.

It had been over a fortnight since the car had knocked down Rajlaxmi, but the investigation carries on at a snail’s pace. It took police officials 3 days after Rajlaxmi’s death to complete the panchnama procedure. In fact, in was on October 27 that Inspector Hande took a statement from the doctor at Siddharth Hospital, Dr. Nishad. Over a month after the incident, he was candid enough to mention that the face impression made according to Nishad’s description might not be quite accurate due to the passage of time. And quite contrary to claims made by Nishad, he does not know that Shivkumar was supposedly driving a red Alto, with registration number ending in 735. “He did not tell me about it,” he says. But then why did he not do so earlier? He would not reveal anything more as investigations are on.

It has been over a month, since Rajlaxmi breathed her last. The police are completely clueless and the case is in a limbo. The Pillai family is in mourning, Vijay Kumar is jobless and Rajlaxmi’s mother is recovering from Malaria that she was stricken by in the past fortnight. Even though, Rajlaxmi was unmarried, she had hopes and aspirations for a better life. She had registered herself at one of the matrimony camps organized by the Kerala Kala Samithi in Goregaon. Alas, she is now dead and forgotten. No one from the community (the Malayalee Community), neither did the neighbors and resident of her building come to Rajlaxmi’s aid.

There are so many questions, but no answers. Why did Nishad at Siddharth Hospital let go the murderer? Was there really a red Alto with a driver named Shivkumar? Why is the police investigation proceeding in such a ludicrous manner? What is the link between Sai Clinic and Siddharth Hospital? Is there some sort of collusion between the investigative agencies and medical team at Siddharth? Why so much apathy in general?

The crest-fallen Pillai family is still trying to find answers but don’t know where to go. All the mother, weeping interminably, wants is justice. “My Rajlaxmi suffered a lot in life but bore on with fortitude. Her sad end merits some amount of dignity. She shouldn’t be just another file in a police station that will be closed in due course of time. Let the person who has done this pay for it. How else can I find peace,” she says. But more than that, it is also a matter of subsistence as well. With Rajlaxmi, the household income has vanished as well. The mother and the son are in dire situation currently. Some sort of monetary help would indeed alleviate the pain and suffering. The Pillai’s are too dignified to beg. But are we so heartless, so as not to listen?

Good ol’ Pope Benedict XVI seems to have a special affinity for things that stoke controversies. So unlike the more ‘saintly’ Pope John Paul II earlier, he is not really known to mince his words when it comes to things that should be better left unsaid. Some years back he had derided the Prophet Muhammad in his speech; later he had hinted on how Jews should return to the real fold by urging them to convert to Catholicism; supposedly when he was a cardinal in 1997, he had termed the Buddhist fate as form of ‘spiritually self-indulgent eroticism’. He has taken a tough stance on issues like birth control, HIV, homosexuality, etc. The list just goes on and on.

India also got a taste of Pope’s indiscretion recently, when he poked his nose in what can be termed as internal affairs of our nation. Pope Benedict has reportedly condemned the violence that has taken place in the state of Orissa and appealed to “religious leaders and civil authorities to work together to restore among members of the various communities the peaceful coexistence and harmony which have always been the distinguishing mark of Indian society’. This seemingly harmless comment gains notoriety if viewed in complete context of the communal clashes that are going on in the state of Orissa.

The eastern state of Orissa has been a flashpoint for clashes between Hindus and Catholics for the past few years. The reason has been the changing demographics of the region. But first a brief outline of the state; the nine largest and the eleventh largest state of the Indian union also happens to be one of the poorest. This poverty has encouraged a lot of Christian missionary organizations to set up base and start preaching their faith to the tribal population.

To be honest, if a person is dying from poverty being a Hindu or is ostracized against due to the caste-based discrimination; there is nothing bad if by changing his religion he can attain a better life or stature. But when he or she is being unduly influenced and his naiveté is taken advantage of, that’s just not right.

These missionary organizations have been able to carry on their religious agenda without much hindrance as the administration has turned a blind eye to it. They are easily able to influence the poverty stricken into their folds through monetary emoluments. The people who convert to the new faith are provided with food and shelter and the ones that don’t are left to suffer.

Thus right in the midst of the tribal land in Orissa, once can find churches and other such religious paraphernalia. The activity has increased in the past few years and this almost sudden change of demographics has resulted in lot of heightened tensions. The have-nots who continue to suffer are immensely jealous of the new haves. The whole issue came out in the open during the ghastly murder of Australian missionary Graham Staines and his two young kids some years back by Hindu fundamentalists. Post this event the chasm between the haves and the have-nots has increased steadily. And often nowadays one comes across such sectarian clashes in news reports from the region.

The latest flare up happened when some henchmen shot and killed a Hindu leader Swami Laxmananda Saraswati. This murder resulted in mobs of Hindus torching missionary offices and churches in the region, leading to death of over a dozen people in the Kandamal region in Orissa. Pope Benedict expressed his solidarity with his ‘Christian brothers and sisters’ who have borne the brunt. Almost immediately, the Catholic Bishop Council of India, called for a day long closure of catholic schools and institutions across India as a mark of solidarity to the victims of violence.

All this is fine and can could be understood. But what the Pope should have known (and respected) is that this is completely an internal affair of a sovereign nation that has millions of Catholics residing peacefully with the Hindu populations. Every day scores of Indian lives are lost due to violence and terrorism, but never before was the Pope saddened like the way he was now. Never before did he express his solidarity with the people who suffered at the hands of such ghastly incidents. Indeed, does he feel as saddened for the millions in Gaza who suffer at the hands of the Jewish administration in Tel Aviv? Or the millions that died due to Iraqi invasion by a Catholic country?

The killings in Orissa have been a result of communal frenzy, but the perpetrators are criminals and cannot be branded as some religious individuals. Don’t we Indians hate it when after some minor clashes between the Hindus and Muslims, suddenly the Islamic countries start expressing their solidarity for their fellow Muslims in India. National identity is and must supersede religious identity. By expressing his grief for Catholic victims, the Pope is insulting millions of countrymen like me, who are equally appalled by the incidents.

The Pope should have respected the sentiments of Indian citizens and should have avoided talking about the whole incident at the moment. But then, Pope Benedict wouldn’t have been his natural self, if he hadn’t spoken out. After all, he isn’t like the earlier Pope, who though a religious leader, was a human first and a Christian later. How I wish, Pope Benedict could be likewise. But if not, the least he can do is not poke his nose in domestic affairs of our nation. Can you not, Pope?

Evening time, Andheri Station, the atmosphere is sheer chaos. Thousands rushing in, a few more thousands rushing out and a couple of hundred thousand individuals passing through the 6 railway tracks. Each train rake is filled to the very brim, people hanging out of the doors like ragged dolls, shrieking, shouting, cursing and more importantly shoving with their lower torsos. As these trains keep moving from one end of the city to another, so many of these ragged men lose their grips and slid down in between the wheels. If they are indeed lucky, death comes instantly else a few limbs are lost and life turns into a living hell.

Commuters, hanging on to the doors, have become immune to such incidences and barely would bat an eye-lid on seeing a bleeding dismembered corpse lying on the side of the tracks. There is barely room for humans on these trains, let alone humanity. Day after day, millions travelling on these trains are dehumanised steadily; etiquette, civility and propriety are ritually shred from the insides. Death, accident, blood, tragedy, pain, trauma; all of these things lose their significance till it doesn’t happen to oneself. This steeling process is repeated twice a day, once in the morning from Virar to Churchgate and in the evening from Churchgate to Virar. In some strange way, this is one of the secrets behind the famous and resilient ‘Mumbai spirit’ that so many of our news channels keep harping about.

It was on one such evening that I found myself standing on Platform 1 at Andheri. Myself and my friend Abhijit Deb had a meeting fixed in the suburb of Goregaon (a mere two stops from Andheri), and much as we would have liked to take the road, the two tiny hands on our wristwatches made us decide otherwise. Now Abhijit is a gritty person hailing from mountainous paradise of Meghalaya, who though cribs about the unruly millions of Mumbai, but has made his peace with them.

Whereas, I don’t really know on which ground I stand; I hate the crowds and this sea of humanity every passing day and fantasise constantly of the day I will not be counted as one of these. Yet, I lack the courage and gumption to break free. Thus these crowded trains truly scare me. Also, another factor that works against me, is my BMI or body mass index, with the weighing scale pointer dancing around the 100 kgs mark, I am hardly athletic or even fit. And if that wasn’t enough, I had both my hand in bandages on that day, sign of a stupid me (but that is another story).

The clock made the decision for us and compelled us to join the thronging multitudes that shift with each passing train. Thus with the 7:09 Borivali approaching, visible from the bright circular yellow halo in the near distance, we geared ourselves as best we could; stiffen the muscles and tried to move as close to the edge as possible. Now, trying to board a train at a major junction like Andheri is a very tricky and dexterous business. While there are 50 shoving to board the train, some 20 are frantically pushing from inside trying to come out and a couple of them are standing on the door unwilling to give up on their advantageous positions. The key is to get in the train even before it comes to a complete halt. If you are unable to do so, then you will have to grapple and labour at the door trying your luck. All this, getting in-getting out-staying put business, needs to be accomplished within 30 odd seconds that the train halts for. And though the frequency of the trains are high during the peak hours, every 5-10 minutes, yet nothing can be gained by waiting for the next one as it will be as bad as the previous one.

Now as the 7:09 Borivali Slow came to a halt, both of us were unable to board the train, we were pushing and shoving the person in front of us. It was kind of odd, as the train wasn’t as badly packed as we had imagined. In the sense, 2-3 people were able to shove their way even when it was stationary; this was making a lot us who were pushing from the outside quite optimistic. But even when it isn’t usually crowded, it is still unusually crowded. Hence, after some customary shoving, I gave up and decided to try my luck in the next train. But gritty Abhijit wouldn’t, and would not let me either. Even with his blithe build, he managed to push a person standing on the door and asked me to do the same, i.e. push him inside.

With bandages on my hand, clutching a small valise, I caught hold of the rod that is bang in the centre between the two compartment doors. Now, I have my honest doubts as to why the rod has been put, where it has been put. I believe on seeing so many people slipping out day after day, the Railways in their generosity installed the rods, so that it can support at least a few more as they hang on to their dear lives. Thus, in no real mood to continue on, I was clutching at the life-saving rod when the train started moving towards its destination.

Hanging outside the door of a crowded compartment is infinitely better than smelling armpits and saving your toes inside. But certainly not, when you are hanging as precariously as I was. I had the valise between both the arms, and barely had my toes on the footboard. To the credit of the commuters, every time a crowded train moves out of the station, it tries to attain equilibrium, and in the process the whole mass expands and contracts rhythmically. And as this equilibrium state was being sort by the hundreds inside, I was getting the jitters. With the train gathering speed, I was being subjected by the external forces, termed as centrifugal in Physics textbooks. The person next to me, standing rather comfortably, was cribbing rather obscenely about my valise poking him in the arms and then there was huge wall of bodies that was pushing at me.

It took me a few seconds for my confidence to get shattered and I started to panic. I started to plead with all around, imploring them to shift sufficient enough for me to squeeze in somehow. The train was moving real fast by now, and I was sure that life, if it remained, would never be the same again if my hands slipped. The wind was bellowing at me, trying to unsettle my ungainly form. In a few more seconds and now I was completely shaken and stirred, my pleas to the wall became rather frantic and I was asking a person who was looking at me strangely through his spectacles to at least hold my hands. Probably, he was waiting to see me fall, so that he could talk about a ‘fat fool’ meeting death in front of his eyes, while discussing Mumbai with his folks and friends. Or probably, he was just benumbed by it all. Finally, he caught my hands, but not strong enough to reassure me.

The train was moving at top speed now, and I was still hanging the same way like I had, when we started from Andheri. Meanwhile, Abhijit had got into full action mode, roused by my frantic please he was pushing wildly at the crowd in front, and when it wouldn’t move an inch he was spewing cuss words on them trying to wake them from the comma they were in. Somehow, every time he pushed at them, the whole mass would budge like a big lard of fat on an enormous beast and then fall back again. My both hands had stiffened by now, and I could feel my feet were shivering. It was as if, my arms didn’t want to carry on the burden of my body anymore and had asked their friends (the feet) to end the trauma by letting go.

Panic was replaced by complete desperation, and sweat forming on my brow, I was doing everything I could, pushing with my torso, begging the crowd in front. Abhijeet was also desperately pushing at the people in front. And probably, my pleas and his push worked, as a little room was made and now, while I was hanging still, it wasn’t as precarious as earlier. Finding a bit more space, I could concentrate and push with my weight now, and I wasn’t as pitiless state as earlier. Abhijeet grabbed my arms and with my full force, I pushed at the lard of weight and finally managed to make some space and squeeze myself.

The train takes close to 3 minutes from Andheri to Jogeshwari, the next stop. So, all I had to do was to hang on for some 3 odd minutes, but that seemed impossible to me. I must have hung for some 63 seconds or more at max. And in that minute, my whole existence was completely shaken. I was sweating profusely, heart beating like a drum in my chest, shivering over self. Standing on my feet inside, I was unable to believe the trauma that I had just undergone. There was such a relief at being alive, to have escaped death by a few inches and a few more seconds because had I hung on for a few more, my hands would have given up.

The people inside the compartment were not exactly sympathetic to my state, holding me responsible for the situation I was in. A few people, like the bespectacled fellow who held my hands, were indeed moved by my cries and were trying to make some way and egging me to push more strongly. But, except for those few, no one else seemed to bother. I remember, there were times in the past when I was inside the compartment being forced to smell armpits, I had heard a few frantic pleas like the ones I was making today. And how I wasn’t moved by those pleas, as I blamed the person for trying to board an overcrowded train and then imploring people to save his life. But, here I was on the other side, with people staring at me in a weird odd disdainful manner.

Jogeshwari came and the train came to a halt, a few people got out and I was comfortably inside. Abhijeet had moved to the door, probably trying to shield me from the trauma or just wanting to feel the rush of air against his face. One middle aged person, who had timidly managed to squeeze in earlier, was talking about how difficult it was for him and how bravely he had faced the situation. I stood there, with my face down, thinking about those 63 seconds and how everything would have changed in those few very moments. 32 odd years dissolved in the chaos and frenzy of 63 seconds.

To be honest, when the train had started from Andheri at that very moment, I had thought of getting out, but that would have been a catastrophe as well, since the way I was hanging, I would have surely tumbled rather painfully had I done the same. By now, my arms were hurting, and I didn’t know whether to thank them or curse them.

A few minutes passed like that and our destination Goregaon came and we disembarked. I was never happier to have firm ground beneath my feet, and a thought passed, how fortunate I was to have survived those 63 seconds and how a few like me today and a few hundreds every year did not and would not survive those 63 seconds. A lifetime was nipped by a few seconds every day. My antipathy towards our animal-like existence only increases and how I wish no one would ever have to go through this trauma. The best thing about this tale is that I lived to tell it. And thank god for that. Without a doubt, those 63 seconds were the longest 63 seconds of my life.

I was 16 and it was my mom’s birthday. All of us were waiting for Papa to come home so that we could go out to Juhu beach followed by dinner at the Evening Post, a restaurant where prices were a wee-bit higher than the usual ones and the waiters were also dressed in starched whites bowing and nodding frequently, thus making it a special place fit for birthdays and anniversaries. Post afternoon, I was standing outside our home and I noticed something quite out of the place, nervous people were rushing hither-thither and one could spot a motley group talking quite animatedly.

It had not been much time, since the city of Mumbai had witnessed the worst kind of communal violence after the demolition of Babri Masjid, we were all edgy and worried, fearing and scared about the worst. It was then that we came to know that a series of blasts had rocked the city of Mumbai. Rumors were flowing thick and thin, the news on the television or the radio was not much of help. Some were saying that there were 15 blasts and some claiming it to be 5. With every passing moment, I would hear of a blast at some another location, Air India Building, Zaveri Bazaar, Sea Rock, Sebi, Centaur, Passport Office. I was extremely worried about Pa, this was the time before mobile phones become ubiquitous, so there was no way to reassure self.

Standing there outside our home, I remember looking to heavens in utter helplessness, pleading with the divine powers to take care of my pa, many promises were made, many bribes were offered. What else could a puny teenager do in the wake of these circumstances? Fortunately for me, the gods were kind. Pa missed one of blasts by a whisker, so as to say. But that wasn’t the case for hundreds of poor individuals who on March 12, 1992 met a horrific death. For so many hundreds of teenagers like me who lost their parents on that day, life would never ever be the same.

There have been quite a few bomb blasts post 1992, even another serial blasts in suburban Mumbai trains and every time my blood curdles up. What really pisses me is the impunity with which these bastards commit the crimes and get away with it. It is as if, there is little that we can do to really protect ourselves, it is so easy for these gutter-snipes to place a bomb or two where they wish and never for once does our administration wake up. Every time, I see or hear about a blast, I remember my mom’s birthday, the day I was imploring and pleading with gods to take care of my Pa. So, when I heard and saw the news on television about the blasts in Jaipur, I felt like screaming, shouting, hitting out at somebody, anybody, I felt like crying. I needed to do something, and the piece below was written in angst and in pain. I just wish I didn’t have to return to that day in 1992, again and again.

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Jaipur blasts: A bloody soft state

The real answer to terror could come from hardware and software, and nothing else

Blood was splattered on the soiled ground; there was single leather shoe with singed laces; cycles, bicycles, handcarts all twisted horrifically out of shape; shattered glass everywhere; somewhere afar one could discern the silhouette of a human form – life snuffed out, and in the neighborhood, wails intermixed with groans, for the dead and for the living.

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