Antennae of a nobody

On a morning after a particularly self-reflective night, I found myself in a Kafkaesque situation. A look at the mirror hinted I may have grown a pair of antennae. But when I landed on my two feet, I realised the metamorphosis was not quite so dire as Gregor Samsa’s. Unlike him, I was free to do what I pleased, and as anonymously as I had lived much of my life. Yet, with a sense of alienation and a deep desire to find my kin, I headed towards Jantar Mantar, to explore if I had an affinity with the cockroaches.When I reached Parliament Street, it was so full with policemen and barricades that there was little room for the young protesters. These were lean and muscular guys, drawn from a special inventory. Hoping to slip past, I was approaching a barricade when a cop thrust himself before me. “Are you a cockroach?” In a state of self-doubt, I told him I wasn’t. “Substantiate,” he said. I said that I was neither young nor angry. I had made peace with everything odorous, so that I didn’t have to cover my nose anymore.The answer should have set me free, but it made him smile. He said he had the gift of x-ray vision, just by looking at people he could figure them out completely. “Isn’t that what cops mostly do – decide cases by looking at people?” Unhappy with my reply, he examined me as if under a microscope, and concluded that I did not have a govt job, a govt house, retirement funds, lifelong health cover like CGHS, and membership of elite clubs at discounted rates – “all the qualifications of a disgruntled cockroach.” Then he said conclusively, “Your cover is blown.”I was nearly certain that he could see my antennae, which I thought were hidden. “The only thing that I need now is a confession,” he said.He was right, of course. I was a nobody. I could not get anything done without paying a bribe, or standing in a queue. I neither had authority nor connections. Like most people of my country, I had lived in the back lanes, unprotected, uncared for by the state, always scared of authorities, but somehow managing to survive in the gutters on my own. “I think I am a cockroach,” I said. “I am never wrong,” he rejoiced, reaching for his baton.Disclaimer: Views expressed above are the author's own.