Gangs of Chhatarpur – Short Fiction

The man took out two country-made pistols from his pant pockets. No, he did not swing them with a cigar in his mouth. It wasn’t the scene from a Western classic – it was the scene from an afternoon in the District Hospital in Chhatarpur, Madhya Pradesh. And the reason for the guns to have come out in the Sun was that the bike at the entrance was too slow to move.

“Do you want me to empty this in your chest?” asked the kind stranger who sat on the pillion seat while the man riding the Pulsar 220 stared blankly in an abyss that seemed to have formed in front of his face for perpetuity. A lone policeman watched the whole scene in silence. His instinct was to hide but he knew he was dressed in the khaki uniform so he stood and watched bravely with his arms crossed.

The biker who was blocking the way moved at the expense of an old man’s toes. He had started apologising profusely to everyone and no one. The old man remembered, as his toes were trampled, not to scream because the scream may have offended the pistol guy. The Bajaj Pulsar cut through the crowd effortlessly after that. The policeman went back to his chowki and brought out a paper and a pen to note down the registration number of the motorbike. He needed to show his seniors that he had done everything he could have. Unfortunately, the bike had no number plate. So, the only thing that the policeman could do, was impossible to do. He looked around and saw that the crowd’s sympathy was with him. He relaxed and went back to snoozing. An hour later he was woken up by a phone call. He walked around with a walkie talkie in his hand, looking super concerned.

In the newspaper next day, the news was about how in broad daylight, two men entered the District Hospital and shot down a rape victim thus silencing her forever. The Police had registered a case and had begun investigations.

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