not all cops

okay maybe trauma is real and sometimes, you gotta make like amitabh bachan from piku, and take that dump. so here goes nothing, trigger warning and all that.

if you told me a week ago, “aadi you'll be sitting in a police station at 3am and the senior police officer will come in and ask the juniors what you're in for and one of them will say ‘ise ladki banne ka shauk hai’”, i’d hold your hand in acute concern. a cute concern, heh.

but also, that's not the real reason you’re in for, they just got so distracted during their investigation by the picture of you in a skirt in your gallery that they invited themselves to scroll. all very intimate.

you're probably wondering how i got into this situation (i have always wanted to say that). rewind three hours, 12am, on munirka streets desperately looking for the perfect shot for my photography assignment due tomorrow, i’m documenting delivery bikers waiting outside a warehouse, making small talk with them, and stepping backward to get the right frame, when suddenly- three middle-aged men bump into me from behind and surround me. the smell of alcohol fills the air.

three unique characters, two in puffer jackets and jeans, their bellies wrestling with modernity, the shorter one more proactive, the taller one full support. the third one more gandhian, walking stick and all, shortest of them all, cozy in a shawl, just some protector. holy trinity of sorts- shiva, brahma, vishnu, chalo, in that order. creation supports destruction, while balance watches over. an exorcism! i love being everyone's favourite haunted house.

brahma really was a ceator, literally. as they started interrogating me about my motives and identity, brahma flipped on his phone camera and entered vlogger mode. content nahi rukni chahiye, he's just like me fr. both of us being annoying with our cameras and opinions.

vishnu asks for my id, i say “tum apna id dikhaoge?” and shiva’s heavy hand, full force, falls on my right ear + cheek complex. oh shit.

brahma says to his audience, “ye dekho, ye jamia me padhta hai. yaha photos kheech rha tha. baad me aake bomb fodega.” phone snatched from my hand. ohhhh fuck.

“iska camera lo.” heaves and puffs of drunk breath quickening.

resistance.

pulling, struggling, shoving.

searching passerbys eyes for recognition. re-cognition. “please help. look at what's happening. call the police. THINK!”

trance. mob?

“HELP!” echoing through the empty streets. people start coming to their balconies.

shiva rips the camera from me, i beg for gentleness.

brahma, calm and composed for his audience, “dekho ye kya kar rha hai.”

please dekho. aankhe kholo.

shiva, “police ko toh hum bulayenge bete. tumhara pura pata nikalenge.”

“haan, bulao na.”

retreat. to the side of the road, as a crowd forms around me, crouched in the cold. my camera trapped in shiva’s angry hands. passed to vishnu. created a narrative, destroyed my truth, preserved the proof. my eyes remain glued to the camera and the phone. locked in, survival mode.

the police is on their way.

brahma, “dekho ab ye chup baitha hai kyuki voh soch rha hai ki uski mummy paapa ye video dekh ke kitne dukhi honge.”

jesus.jpg

many moons later, a constable arrives. the dumbasses are so far gone in their heads, they start fighting w the constable rip.

constable: “kisne call kiya tha”

shiva: “maine”

constable: “naam kya hai tumhara”

shiva: “mera naam kya puch rahe ho??? iss aatankvadi se pucho!!”

subhramania swamiye! 🙏

“tujhe pata hai mai kaun hu?” apne baap se puch na. keep your identity crisis to yourself.

constable ends up having to call a senior to finally wring the camera and phone out of their hands, calm their masturbatory anxieties, stroke their egos, and take me away for the ‘investigation.’ cuz i was the abnormal variable, of course.

i was glad tbh, all the acab left my body in a heartbeat, call it stockholm syndrome. my camera and phone were safe again.

eventually, we got to the police station, and we discussed sweet nothings. they're not paid enough for the bullshit they have to deal with it on a day to day basis, man. to operate in such a fragile network of Big Power wears their language thin, their hearts strained. one says, almost desperately, ‘yaha bohot log hai jo tujhe ladki bana sakte hai.’

they see an ai generated picture of my mom with short hair that my dad sent me on whatsapp. they say “ye kya hai?”

i say, “mummy ki photo hai. paapa ne bheja”

“photo aisa kyu hai?”

“uhh.. paapa ne ai se generate kiya”

“kya? kyu? aise kaun karta hai?”

“pata nahi😭 khel rahe honge”

“pagal hai kya???”

“mujhe bhi lagta hai kabhi kabhi, par kya kar sakta hu, mummy paapa hai.”

loud laughter echoes across the night.