The steady beat of the train had
barely appeared to be settles when an ear-splitting squeal pierced the air. Passengers
around and in front of me shut their ears in disgust as our train screeched to
yet another halt. The third in ten minutes.
It
was typical of India. Those who pay more get direct train services. Those who
pay less- well, an hour trip would be turned into a four hour one. Yawning
slightly, I paid a slight glance at the sign dictating, in its usual and
orderly fashion, the name of our stop: Rajnagadi. An icy claw of fear plunged
into my heart. Perspiring and pale, I sat up straight and looked at the sign
once again.
Rajnagadi
was the sight of one of India’s most disastrous cases, one that had left all of
our agencies clueless and prey less. The Oil Mafia had struck back, on the 23rd
of September, 2008. A young boy, Mulan Gaekwad, had been on his way to the
local vegetable store when he spotted his brother, Popat Gaekwad, setting fire
to an oil tanker. Rushing over, he asked Popat what he was doing and why he was
doing it.
Popat,
an overbearing and controlling man, struck Mulan across the face.
“I
will tell Mother!” Mulan exclaimed.
Popat
was more protective of the family name than of his brother. Informing their
mother could force the family to move out of the village. Believing that he had
an insight that his borther lacked, Popat recklessly poured oil onto Mulan and
set fire to him.
In
his haste, Popat had accidentally pour oil onto himself in the process. The
fire quickly spread and engulfed him, incinerating the two brothers.
I
shuddered. The story was told many times around the villages, in order to
strengthen the moral belief, “Haste Makes Waste.” Children all over Maharastra
were enthralled, disgusted, and fear-stricken by this story. Despite it being
such a violent story, children were not taking it for granted and were adhering
to their parents’ wishes.
The
adrenaline rush had long since abated, and I glanced yet again out of the
window to see who was getting on at this remote area. What I saw recommenced
the adrenaline in my blood.
Mulan.
The dead boy.
He
was ambling towards the train, at his own pace, carrying a dusty bag. Smiling
good naturedly at all the angry faces staring at him from the train, he finally
climbed up the short metal stairs to the train.
Kicking
his torn shoes on the ground, he made way and sat next to me. The smell of oil
and burnt skin floated through the air.
Mulan
was not dead.
How
could he be? When he was sitting next to me?
My
smile could only have been described as malicious when Mulan turned around to
me and said: “What are we doing today, Popat?”
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