The next day as we were having a leisurely breakfast, there were
loud thuds and heavy banging on the front door. I walked out and opened the
door and was shell shocked. There was a cobra (Toyota land Cruiser) parked in
front of my house and a bunch of cops.
There were at least four to five young cops (may be our constable
cadre, any how it was a herculean task to ask their ranks as my Amharic and
their English would be at the same level – rudimentary, to say the least). And
two or three senior cops. They were all wielding heavy artillery, (pistols and
AK – 47s).
A sneaky doubt was forming in my mind. Did something go wrong in
the university? Did any of my students complain about the grades awarded? My imagination
was running wild.
Seeing my bewildered expression, the senior most cop opened up, “You, Anil??!!” It was more than a question;
it was an accusation. “Me, Anil”, I
responded sounding as meek as possible.
“Enquiry” he announced in a pompous voice. The realization dawned.
Oh Oh, they were here to enquire about the robbery!!! (“but why the excessive
force both human and weapons wise?” I asked myself. But who am I in the bigger
scheme of things, especially in the matter of Ethiopian law and order).
To protect myself from being the laughing stock of the kable, I
invited them in. They reluctantly followed.
Padma and the kids were shocked at the cavalcade. The police force
stopped in the verandah. “Here?” was the cryptic question. By now, I was
familiar with the Ethiopian short gun version of talking in English. Fire, but
fire short…. precise bullets. Talk using as few English words as possible.
I nodded a silent affirmative. The senior cop took over. We
watched them open mouthed as he walked up and down the verandah. Padma pointed
out the nails from which the clothes line was hung. The Police chief went and
peered through the rickety green boundary wall between our house and
Chidambaram’s. He was quite annoyed. His annoyance was further enhanced when he
looked at our front door. He muttered something to himself in Amharic.
He plonked himself in our bamboo sofa and Padma and I, sat in
front of him. “What you lose?” Padma started off, “Anil’s shirt and his
favourite pant” “PANT!!??” was the anguished
yelp. “Yes” Padma was on a confident wicket, “His favourite pant, this pant was
special. It is the pant that he wore on our marriage reception. He had been wearing
it for the past 12 years’. She was laying it as thick as possible.
“Favourite pant,
wearing it for 12 years!!!” The top cop was wailing.
He was nonplussed. “OH MY GOD” I muttered to myself “there is a cultural issue raging
on”. “Trouser sir, Trouser” I responded quickly dousing the flames of cultural misunderstanding.
I threw an almighty glare at Padma gesturing her to be silent.
“Trouser” said the relieved SP. He was clutching at proverbial straws.
He made a very dramatic recovery. “Umhh, he said, “What colour?”. “Slate” Padma
replied. “Slate? What Slate?!!” “Greyish
black” I said in a consolatory voice. “BLACK” he said as light dawned on him.
He quickly made an inventory of lost items. It was a herculean
task to describe the clothes. Necessity, the mother of invention took over. Padma
brought out similar clothing and showed it to him. The SP very solemnly and quite
laboriously scribbled all our lost clothing in a note book. He had the exasperating
habit of asking us the brand names of the clothes that we lost.
He frankly did not understand the concept of getting clothes stitched
by a tailor and expected us to remember brand names of the clothes. The SP
asked Pranav to come. Pranav who was speechless at the sight of the guns came
forward. “You” the SP pointed out “You lose anything?” Pranav responded, almost
in tears, “My suspenders”. “Suspenders??!!”,
the SP queried.
Presto, Padma ran inside and brought out another of Pranav’s
suspenders and showed him. “Anything else?”, “Yes” replied duty conscious Pranav
and he noticeably brightened “My Strap Shoes”. “What Strap shoes and what brand?”. This was wearing us down.
We were not able to fathom which was worst: losing our clothes or
being interrogated for a long time. Sahithi was scared out of her skin. She
kept hiding herself behind her mother. Her worst fears had come true. She was
not at all perturbed about the lost clothes. She was petrified at the sight of
the tough looking policemen.
“Mitu (Cute baby in Amharic)” said the SP. “You……….”. Before he
could finish his sentence, Sahithi burst into tears. She was inconsolable. It
took Padma quite some time to cajole her. Later over hot cups of Shai, the SP
counselled us.
“You need to be careful. This is Bahirdar and people are very
poor. Never hang anything outside in the open. Infact do not even keep anything
in the verandah. Keeping or hanging things out is an invitation for the poor
kids to come over and steal. You are asking for trouble”. He assured us that he
would try his best and promised that one of his team members would keep visiting
us in the future too. He said with obvious pride, “You are our guests and are
here to teach us and make our country more literate and help us in development.
We will take full care of you”.
Saying that, the police party left our house and we let out a collective
sigh of relief. It was an ordeal by fire. To cut a long story short, we never again
saw the light of our belongings. They were gone forever. But something very
significant emerged out of the enquiry. The SP made scathing comments in his
enquiry report about the very poor boundary wall between our house and
Chidambaram’s and also about our woebegone ‘look at me with a frown and I will
topple over’ front gate.
This prompted our house owner to build a solid nine-foot-tall
concrete wall between ours and Chidambaram’s and also constructed a thick
concrete front wall and fixed a solid metal door with a calling bell and a very
secure locking system by the starting of our next contract. Talk about small mercies
of life!!!.
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