random fiction

Rummaging through the ancient files on my computer, i chanced upon this, something i wrote years back in school. Given the age of this computer, it would have been lost soon, so i decided to put it somewhere safer, as a memory.



It was one of those Sunday mornings, when the sun is out, the land is green and the mind of a young boy, at its freshest and most imaginative, pushes his body to go out and enjoy itself. It is on one such immortal Sunday morning that I found myself in a dilemma as to whether I should go for a swim with my friends or whether I should start working on the patch of loose soil in the eastern end of the garden, something I had been dying to do for months. As I pondered over this difficult question, there were a series of knocks on the front door. The knocks sounded like the hooves of a horse that is perhaps not feeling very well in the stomach. Judging by that, it was certainly my uncle Ravi. Large and rubicund, he stormed into the house like a dangerous, yet well-meaning, elephant. I must say my mother looked rather relieved when he finally seated himself on the sofa. She is always a little concerned about the crystals.

Uncle Ravi, it may be mentioned, is always upon some “venture”. The success of these ventures, unfortunately, is not as considerable as their number. But he keeps on trying, which is heartening. I was sure that we would soon get to know what his current venture was. Why, we might even receive the “high honour” of playing some role towards its fulfillment. Soon enough, we discovered that Uncle Ravi was “shipping” cash for a well-known bank from town to town. One must remember that this story is a few years old and at the time cash flow was still tedious and time consuming and Any-Time-Money machines were virtually unheard of. So, by “shipping” cash out to the bank’s widely dispersed costumers, he hoped to make cash transactions faster and popularize the bank. One might say that this was not a task to be performed by one man, but Uncle Ravi was not a man who thought much of such trivial arguments. As I soon came to know, Uncle Ravi was going on one such trip that day. It being a Sunday, he felt that by delivering money on a holiday, he would be able to show off a shining example of his bank’s efficient customer service.

“Look here sonny boy,” he said to me “there’s a lonely stretch on the road that I’m heading for, and I’m carrying a lot of money with me, fifty thousand to be exact. I wouldn’t mind having a strong young lad with me.”

I nearly blushed at his praise, but at the same time realised that Uncle Ravi, being as large as he was, couldn’t really have meant that. He was probably just looking for company, and I was more than willing to comply. Going on a long drive on a lonely country road certainly made swimming or gardening seem hollow.

Soon I found myself in a taxicab heading north along a beautiful stretch of golden yellow cornfields. Uncle Ravi once had a car, but his stint as a professional motor-racer had made short work of his automobile. That was why he now generally moved around in a taxicab.

The driver of our cab was a young man of about twenty-five. He seemed eager to make conversation. Uncle Ravi, who was sitting next to me in the back seat, casually pulled out his wallet to check his cash. Now there is something about Uncle Ravi that I must tell you. He rarely remembers to carry his money with him. It is not as though he were cheap, though that is the impression some people get. It is as though his fertile mind is to full of his ingenious ideas to be bothered with things so trivial as remembering to carry some money with him. I should have anticipated this and reminded him. But now it was too late. Uncle Ravi was looking at his empty wallet with look of pure amazement. He couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten to bring some money along this time.

The young, jaunty driver sensed something was not right.

“Anything amiss, sir, ?” he asked in a friendly sort of way.

“Amiss? Certainly not, young man.” Said Uncle Ravi, quickly changing his expression. “It’s a pleasure to ride on these country roads, undisturbed by all the hustle-bustle, traffic and pollution of the city.”

“You’re dead right there, sir,” said the driver. “I worked at a tannery in the city for a year sir, and I was beginning to get quite rich sir, but was never happy, ‘cos there’s money in the city sir, but there ain’t no peace there. I moved to the country about a year back and now I’m a happy man.”

“You should be, with a nice little car like this. Its got the feel of the old times in it.” said Uncle Ravi.

“Yes sir, she’s a little old and bit rusty but she hums along just as well as those fancy new cars,” said the proud owner of the taxicab.

“Would you, by any chance, be willing to sell this little jalopy?” inquired Uncle Ravi.

“That depends on what you would be willing to part with sir,” came the prompt reply.

“Would fifty thousand be fine with you?” Uncle Ravi asked nonchalantly.

The driver tried hard to mask a look of extreme surprise but I could see he wasn’t finding that very easy. The previous Sunday he had found an old man who ha reluctantly agreed to pay him fifteen thousand because he wanted the engine as an antique for his automobile museum. The driver was ready to dispose of it as soon as he found an alternative employment. Now he was being offered thirty five thousand more for the same piece of junk. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Fine, er…I…I mean,” he stuttered, “ yes ,I think that should be fine sir,” he said finally.

“Very well then, here’s the money,” said Uncle Ravi, handing him the bag full of the money that was to be delivered to the bank’s customer.

The driver took a peek inside the bag, saw enough to please him, and continued driving.

“She’s yours, sir,” he said loudly.
Uncle Ravi merely smiled.

I didn’t have any inkling as to what was happening, but knowing Uncle Ravi, it was certainly some ingenious scheme to get us out of paying the taxicab’s bill.

Sometime later in the afternoon, Uncle Ravi spoke again.

“Young man, the car’s been making a strange sound for the past half hour. I don’t think I want to buy it. I’d like my money back,” he said.

A look of dismay crossed the driver’s face.
“But sir, she’s a nice little thing, just like you said, she and you, they’re made for each other sir, she’s just fine,” he cried out in despair.

“All that was before I heard these strange noises. Now I think I’ve got a raw deal. I’ll take my money back, thank you very much,” was Uncle Ravi’s firm response.

“No, sir I don’t want to buy it. It’s yours. I don’t want to buy it. I’ve got nothing to do with it,” the driver said, almost triumphantly.

Uncle Ravi quickly brought out a tattered old book from his pocket. I could read the words “The Indian Penal Code” on the cover. What in the world was going on?

“Here it is, section twenty eight, clause two,” said Uncle Ravi. He then read out the words of the clause, “objects sold, if returned within twenty four hours of sale, in the same condition as when sold, must receive full and complete repayment from the person they have been bought from. (This clause does not include articles of an edible nature. For list of articles, see clause three).”

The driver, who could read, knew he was beaten and handed back the bag of money to Uncle Ravi.

We soon reached our destination. Uncle Ravi got out of the car and started to walk away without paying.

“My payment sir,” shouted the driver from behind him.

“Payment?” said Uncle Ravi, “surely, you don’t expect me to pay for a ride in my own car.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” asked the driver, who was unable to understand anything.

“Look here, my dear fellow,” Uncle Ravi began explaining, “when I was in that taxicab, I bought it, so it was mine. Now you can’t really expect me to pay you for that, can you? I was in my car.”
With that, Uncle Ravi walked away.

It was evening and Uncle Ravi had just come to the end of his story. Everyone was laughing.

“But we were right legally, weren’t we, uncle?” I asked.

“Son, that’s a very old copy of the Penal Code I had there. That law was abolished in 1966.”

“So shouldn’t you pay back the poor driver now?” I asked.

“I’ve already done that son, I like to keep a clean conscience,” he said somberly.

I joined in the laughter.