Head Or Tails?
By creator_by_heart
Word Count: 2367

Rising din scratched the air as the vendors yelled their throat out. Among the massive moving crowd, here was I, peering above heads to look for a way out.

I was swinging a paper bag with me, a hot paper bag under a large paper bag, and tossed a coin of change I got back. The coin slipped. I rushed through the crowd to pick up the coin from the ground. And one more thing, I felt angry. The reason for my rage was that I joined police station a month ago and all I was ordered was: "Get us something to eat, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

First week, it was fine for me to swing the paper bag.

But then: "Hey Rakesh, everyone's bit hungry, quite a case we have here. Get us something."

And . . .

Next week: "Constable, Rakesh, is it? Here. Now go."

"Yes, sir."

Yes, sir. My ass.

Afternoon is boiling, since always, like me. Whenever I asked to put me somewhere more useful, 'boiling blood', they would say. And put me to my former work.

Also, they would sometimes give me extra money saying, if I wanted to get my hands on anything. They say I should be thankful for that, getting something from seniors this early, but I don't really think so. Like Twenty rupees extra and you can get your hands on Taj Mahal.

I held the paper bag in the air to avoid rain of pakodas and chutney due to a sudden push or jerk. Sweat drops trickled down my back. The coin was still enveloped between my fingers before I tossed it in the air again.

And the case. Oh, of course. A kidnapper had terrorized the town. He mocks at the town's police, more like real mocking, sending tapes or something. He would never get caught I guess. One month, two kidnapping and one on-going. We even have a damn sketch or sketches. Each witness provides different information, a different look. But then, disguising is an old game.

I took a detour to avoid further bustle.

My phone buzzed. I replaced the coin with the phone.

On the screen, with a person's shadow hung a name - Inspector Pal. If anyone is worth calling a fat-free person on the station excluding me, that's him.

"Hello."

"You're coming back to the station?"

"Of course, sir."

"Haste, things are turning bad."

" . . . Sir, I'm halfway."

"Good. And most important, grab packet of tea from that stock seller nearby. Tea-boy is not here, sick I guess."

Call ended. Tea now, huh? Why else would you call yourself?

* * *

Entering the police station always gives me something vital, other than water-cooler's cool air, a sense of importance and loyalty. My Ma used to say (she still does) that my grandfather was a honored policeman and it was her dream to see me in a uniform.

I stared straight at the wooden chair, where an officer was supposed to be sitting, but saw a bundle of registers.

Ramlal stood beside the table. Old Ramlal. That means experience, but experienced in what, I'll tell you.

"Good you came back son, put those here."

Like I could have run away with the possessions I had.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"That Kidnapper called and asked for the change in the time for the money exchange."

"Suddenly?"

"Apparently, yes. Probably a psychopath who thinks he can outrun us."

I turned to Inspector Pal as he made a cameo appearance for the room scene. "Sir."

He was wearing a blue kurta and denim jeans. Unfaithful combination, but the thing to be was that everyone else that came from the room were also in civil dress.

He glanced at me, "Oh, don't stare at me."

Ah.

He continued, "Ramlal provide him information for this whole operation."

"I know everything already, sir. We'll be catching a–"

Inspector turned to constable Ramlal, "You're his in charge, provide him better info," and then he walked away.

Ramlal is a constable. He holds experience in numerous things: blabbing, boasting to a limit that is hard for anyone to master and being in charge of amateurs.

"You're moving or?" he asked me with still eyes.

"Or what? You will carry me in your arms?" I mumbled as I went for the command.

Once he told me he ran all the way to the Chowk to catch a crook, but then . . .

* * *

Where was I? Yeah.

But then the Chowk is 2.5 kilometers long. And that's just my estimation, god knows how long it is really? I once got lost there in the market. And not to mention where he left his fat belly while running marathon. If it would ever had happened, he would have been slim as a straw pipe.

Once he said that when he was young, he chose to remain a constable despite of many promotion offers. He surely thinks I'm a kid.

Do you . . .

Well I could just ramble on his chronicles or I can tell you my first venture, right?

* * *

The kidnapper had called the estate manger to the town's centre attraction and the biggest market of the state, meaning the famous Chowk crossroads, near the highway.

We had to ensure the safety of manger's son and catching the other man. Simple as that.

But since the market was huge, and the people flooded the area for it was Sunday, it became hard for us to resurrect our spirits.

The plan was to block all of the exits ushering the way out of the market. The the blocking party will blend in the crowd, as civilians with the siren-less Jeeps and cars ready to jump into action as soon as the other party signals the money exchange and successful recovery of the lad.

I came with my motorbike, late, for it seemed hard for my mother to decide what I should wear. I can almost face-palm.

The sun stared above me. On me. Our town is the most detested town in summers because of such capable roasting heat.

As I came closer, Ramlal waved. A casual, demotivating wave.

I thought I was late. I mean I was. But I thought I was too late.

He was with two other officers, in a white T-shirt and shorts. I can face- palm again.

"You are late, son."

"What's up with the getup?"

"I had same words for you."

I rolled my eyes and then gave my clothes a hitch.

"It's called trend, old man."

Others gave a little laugh. Annoyed, he looked away.

A regular buzz moved through the roads with people crossing the roads, complaining about heat and children's crying.

Among the small shops, and moving wooden showcases was a coconut seller. A short, short-tempered looking man (I'm not good at judging, it was just because he frowned all the time). He was quarreling with a lady over prices, seemingly.

Heat was overwhelming.

"You lost your appetite, young man. Why don't you come sit on the Jeep?"

He was overwhelming too. I knew it was going to be a long wait.

Time is overwhelming too.

* * *

Twenty minutes of waiting and I felt like running away to Antarctica.

The coconut seller was still there. Tapping at coconuts, twisting straws and clearing his throat at intervals to keep the yelling at pace.

Beside there was the television store with a board reading, 'We telecast lives'. The windows were transparent enough to see through the LED televisions and electrical appliances and stuff. There was a TV near the window, telecasting India's most prominent sports, cricket.

The coconut man stared at the screen while yelling simultaneously. Maybe the voice of that box was audible too.

I was attracted to a different side of the scene, though. The coconuts. I needed something to drink. Or more like a distraction.

"My good old sir," I said, turning to Ramlal, and rushed out a coin, "Want to toss?"

He and I were, from the last month, on a debate that which side of the coin was better (Believe me, when you'll have nothing better to do but to salute seniors and sit all day doing nothing, an argument breaks out on random things). Head or tail? I said head. He said tails, the face of the coin. I ask him why? He would answer with some unknown philosophy, "Head reminds me of three Lions, constitutional ways of doing my duties. While the tails is considered as the face of the coin, and . . ." After a break, "Its face is a reminder of myself, of doing duties my way." And then he would chuckle at me. I will retort with the coin toss. I lose most of the times. But this time was different.

"Tails?" I pointed at him. He nodded.

I tossed the coin in the air, it flipped on continuous loop and descended on my palm which I immediately closed.

He grinned. I grinned better.

Head it was.

He frowned. Looked back at others, one staring (a constable) at the game and other was busy on a call (Sub. Inspector), probably his wife.

"Again, chicken" he demanded.

I tossed it again tossed it. Nevertheless the result didn't change. But I knew what I was starting, a series of tossing events. So, I stopped there.

"I need something to drink," I spun around and started walking and stopped as he called.

"One more time," I tossed it towards him. He caught. "Its head, damn it."

I sauntered off to the coconut seller across the road.

I walked over to pick up a coconut and tossed it on the seller, who caught it good luckily.

"Sorry, it came out in flow," I apologized as he arched his brow and prepared the drink for me.

In the meantime, I noticed the TV was audible, so was the commentary of the match.

The drink was prepared and served, while our team was very close to victory and my old man motioned to buy some for them, too. There was no call yet from the scouting team, which was guided by Inspector Pal, which was all good as long as I sipped.

One thing occurred to me that if the criminal was thinking to get away from here with a vehicle, he couldn't. For sure there was a lot of people and traffic.

TV was playing Ads. I grabbed three of the coconuts and balanced them on my arms one by one, straws between fingers.

As I started to move forward, I noticed a sudden agitation in crowd, like something was coming. A roar. An engine. Bike. Kawasaki, just like mine.

The bike emerged making a huge stir in the crowd movement and I saw it coming towards me.

The rider wore a helmet, and he was honking the horn hard. I tried to move out of the way and fell on the footpath. The bike came screeching to a stop in front of me. Coconuts parted from my arms.

The TV was still audible, 'CEAT tires. For a game called road.'

Talk about telecasting lives.

He turned his bike's handle and broomed away. I stood up, confused but undaunted, and called for the others, "I'll get my bike! Follow him!"

I saw earlier what he was carrying but later it hit my senses, a money bag.

I ran with all my might till I saw my vehicle parked under the tree, but since a hour passed, the shade of three had betrayed me. I jumped on the seat, which felt like a 'stove', and yanked the accelerators after turning the engine on.

Kawasaki jumped into action.

I shifted between road and off-road to gain pace. With a solitary minute, I saw him riding ahead but unfortunately the Jeep was stuck between the traffic. I didn't stop. After all, I was the warm blood.

He turned around to a corner which lead to the highway.

I tailed him but he was ahead of me.

*  *  *

I chased him as his bike, same model but somehow better than mine, growled and sped like fire.

We were on the highway. He was having helmet while I had nothing to protect my vision from blurring.

Then he took the decision that earned him the title, 'idiot'. He turned to the opposite lane of the highway. I knew I was going to regret this but I followed him, murmuring, "Idiot."

I levelled my speed with him, and after few frail attempts, I grabbed the strap of the money bag.

He struggled but shook my hand off.

I balanced my bike and dodged a car coming from the front. Then, with another attempt, I grabbed his shoulder from a little behind.

He was losing control, it seemed.

A horn was screamed ahead, a truck, maybe overloaded, was coming our way. He let go of the bag but lost control, and I did what I could to steer my ship away from the storm. Horns blazed and I felt my heart stopping.

I managed to get away from that huge vehicle and then I lost control . . .

My bike hit the divider and I was tossed over to the other lane.

In one single moment, I was flying in the air, I was crying my throat out and then I bumped onto the asphalt and faced the sun, squinting and lying. Then dizziness took over me.

In case you're wondering, I left hold of the bag on the flying part.

*  *  *

Let's end it here. Because the next month wasn't my glory month. I was appreciated, for sure. Still, that was while I was mummified in a room of a crappy hospital under plasters to heal my broken bones. The kidnapper lived, but was no better than me.

And ironically, more ironic than that TV add, we couldn't receive the call earlier of a man in a motorcycle coming our way because our Sub. Inspector who was chit-chatting with his wife on the phone, which was being called.

Anyway, Ramlal found out that it was a toy coin with both sides head which was working at my will.

He said I was a cheater. But I won't cheat you. Really, you want to play? Head or Tails?