JUSTICE

Reflexly, I slam down the brakes to a screeching halt.
Now don’t tell me that i have actually knocked down the kid.
Shit! That’s what i have exactly done!


The mob is already closing upon my car, threatening, abusing, and shouting.
“Killed! You have killed the child!”

“Pull that bastard out!”

“Don’t let him run away! We’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Drunk or what? Gone blind?”


I sweat and shake behind the wheel. What the hell i have done? Where was i lost? What on the earth, is this mob going to do with me now?”

And then, a middle aged man rushes in, and calls out authoritatively above the melee.
“Hold yourselves, you all! Please understand, taking the child to the hospital – that’s the priority.”
“But it’s a police case, man..,” objects somebody.
“That can wait – and you, come on, quick!” he orders me; he is already in the car, next to me, with the injured child across his lap.
Though somewhat assured, i am still sweating, shaking, and palpitating. Nevertheless, i press down the accelerator hard.
The good man takes out his shirt, and covers the victim.


“You may slow down. The mob is left far behind.”

“But..the child?”
“It is..was already dead.”
“..?”
“I wanted to take you away from the angry, wild mob.”
“..?”


“Drop me at the hospital, and go your way. I shall take care of postmortem and the police formalities. Don’t worry, i don’t need your identity or your car number. The mob in its fury, or the law in its format, seldom punishes the culprit alone: the entire family suffers, and is ruined in the process. And i am not interested in such justice.”
“But, what are going to tell the child's parents?”
“Well, i am the bereaved father.”


None of us utters a word after that.
I drive on.
He sits with dead child across his lap.


We reach the hospital.
He signals me to stop.
He steps down with the child’s body in arms.

He pauses for a minute, walks up to me, and touches my shoulder.
“Please be a bit careful while driving, dear friend. God bless you.”