My first instinct was to dial the child helpline. I had got the number, 1098, after a frantic search at my desk. The wail of the child was still ringing in my ears, and I blurted out all that I had seen from my eighth-floor office. But the people at the helpline were of no help. They wanted concrete evidence. Not just the vague description of that wicked man that I could offer. So, that is where it ended — as I helplessly shed tears.
It was a routine coffee break for me, but, on that evening, around 5.30 p.m., an eerie sense of danger came over me. After spending hours before a computer screen at an information technology firm at Tambaram near Chennai, I had to stretch myself a bit. The pantry was deserted; empty chairs lay helter-skelter.
A steaming cup in hand, I walked over to the glass window beside the coffee machine. Looking northwards, I could see houses and lanes tiny from the distance. It seemed to be a residential area, but I had no idea of the name of the locality. Amid the concrete clutter, I spotted a patch of land. It was a small park-like area, with a couple of swings and see-saws and a merry-go-round in a corner. I had never noticed this before. But that day was marked to be a horribly memorable one for me.
There was a little girl on the merry-go-round. A man, in his late twenties or early thirties, pushed the merry-go-round for her. The man gradually started pushing the carts faster. A sense of anxiety and fear crept into me. As the wheel spun faster, the child clung on to the grip as if her life depended on it. The man then casually walked over to the other side of the park. Even from that height, I was sure that he was scanning for human presence. Unfortunately, there was not a soul there — not even a dog. By the time he returned, the merry-go-round had stopped spinning. He leaned over the child, and I was relieved at the thought that he was going to pick her up. But I was aghast when he now started pushing the wheel in the opposite direction. He was pushing it at such speed that the merry-go-round spun like a top on its axis. The girl was trying with all her might to hang on to dear life, but in vain. I could see her getting dizzy.
Then her little hands gave way, and she was flung like a rag doll to a spot some three metres away. My heart skipped several beats and I banged on the glass as if that could check the criminal. The child’s wailing pierced the air; I was able to hear it despite the distance. My hands and feet went cold and I was frozen in fear, with tears trickling down my cheeks. The offender looked unperturbed. His nonchalance terrified me. He slowly walked over, picked up the child and went out into the street.
I was certain I had witnessed a case of abuse. No normal person would cause a little child to be flung like that. I had never been witness to a crime of this magnitude. But no-one could help me, not even the helpline I had set much store by.
Recounting the incident to friends and relatives was an ordeal and it gave way to many doubts. Every day for a week, I watched from the window whenever I could, hoping to spot and possibly apprehend the abuser. Now I have abandoned hope.
A pang of guilt rises in my gut every time I think of that little girl. I only pray that somehow the child is safe from those wicked hands. And the guilt that has gripped me — I don’t know if it would ever go away.
ron.neethi@ gmail.com
