A debt repaid, and how

IT was the end of the 1980s, and terrorism was on its peak in Punjab. People preferred to remain indoors after sunset. I was preparing to retire to bed, when the telephone rang and a relative from Chandigarh had a message to convey to his parents living 2 km from our home. Landline phones were few then. The message was important, so I wrapped a muffler and set out on my bicycle. Though our small town was situated along the GT Road, roads were deserted. 

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On return, three trucks and an Ambassador crossed me. The driver of the leading truck appeared to know the area well and was moving at a speed of 70-80 kmph. The rear two trucks were equidistant. The moment the trucks passed by, the air was filled with the fragrance of apples. Undoubtedly, the fruit was being transported from Kashmir. It reminded me of the late 1950s, when grapes from Afghanistan were taken to Delhi by trucks driven at neck-breaking speed. 

After covering a distance of half a kilometre, the Ambassador stopped and the driver, along with a policeman with an SLR, cornered the truck and ran towards the truck driver's seat. Perhaps they wanted to teach him a lesson for not giving a pass to the car. The driver quickly locked the door from inside. Luckily, the door did not have a glass pane. The policeman started hitting the door with the butt of his rifle and ordered the driver to come out. I tried to stop the offenders, who were in a ferocious mood. They did not stop and without wasting any time, I dashed to the official sitting in the car and said in Punjabi: “Sir, apne aadmi vapas bula lao nahin taan garib driver mariya javega”. He kept quiet as if nothing was happening. I rushed back and told his driver and gunman: “Tuhadey saheb bula rahey ne!” They walked back to the car and drove off. All this happened within a couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, the occupants of the other trucks noticed that something was wrong and reached there, as did four-five men from the fire station located nearby. The terror-stricken driver got off. He must have been a young man of 20. He fell at my feet, “Maa kasam aap ne mujhe bacha liya!” Men from the fire station nodded in agreement. 

Soon the trucks resumed their onward journey; and the firemen went back. My house was nearby. I was in no rush to get back and sleep. I began walking, the bicycle by my side. A few questions popped up in my mind: What made me help that driver? How did I gather so much courage? The answer came itself. I had repaid the debt of an unknown person, without knowing his name, caste and creed. I was relieved.