Negotiation: Why should one keep mouth shut?

In the summer of 2002, I was caught in an unfortunate situation like many times prior to that and later. I started early one morning armed with twenty rupees and my tank-full Yamaha RX135, to eat masala dosa at at a famous dosa place in my area. At 19, I was unaware and felt no fear at the repercussions of the dangers of driving carelessly. Rather, I didn't know what was driving carelessly, or carefully, or either and both. With a cigarette in my mouth, I zoomed away at 90 kmph, giving as many fucks as Aryabhatta invented. 

People who've known me a while, know well that my blind confidence was at an all time high at that time. As I was about to cross a certain bus stop, I was waved at, by a familiar figure. I didn't bother much and zoomed past, but something from inside pricked me. I almost had reached the next bus stop. I slowed down and turned around to see this person called Y. Y looked fresh. He had probably visited a temple, given the vermillion and vibhuti he had on his forehead. I knew Y because of a friend. When you are bad with the bat and the ball, you become the umpire. Y and I umpired at a summer tournament for two years. That's how I knew him and his generous smile was unforgettable. That's probably how I recognized him even at that speed. 

'Hello! How are you?' he asked. 

'I'm doing great, how about you?' I asked. 

'Well, I'm fine. I'm going to ABC. Can you drop me at XYZ', he asked and didn't wait for a response. He just sat beside me and even I didn't think it was necessary to say a yes or a no. It was understood. I drove slow and as I passed by that hotel where I originally intended to eat, I realized that the smell of a freshly roasted dosa and its denial is a near death experience for a hungry soul. I just drove further, without complaining. Just a hundred meters before the bus stop, Y asked me to stop. He looked at me and said, "Deepak, there are people who are coming behind me. Will you take me as far as you can?"

"What do you mean by people? And why are they coming behind you?" I asked. 

"If you ask questions, I will be in trouble," he said. 

As I was about to start my bike again, I heard a massive thud. A well built guy with a thick beard had hit Y with a cricket stump on his head and Y was on the floor in front of a cycle shop. I knew the next blow was on me, or on my bike. Either way, my father was going to disown me and be very very angry. Before I realized, six people had arrived from somewhere and had started hitting Y. I didn't know what to do. If I ran away, I would be a coward for life. Also, actually, they would chase me. I went for the next best thing. I started screaming loudly and tried to stop them. Just then, a group of truck owners and contractors intervened and a giant circle was formed. And thus began, the most impactful conversation of my life. 

A neatly shaved tall man who reeked of Ponds powder came forward and asked, "What is happening? Why are you beating him?"

Among the fourteen to sixteen men who seemed to be interested in seeing Y's intestines, one spoke up and said, "This motherfucker has stolen gold from our house"

"So why don't you go to the police?" said the man. 

"We were going to the police station. But found him on the way," he said. 

"Who is this boy?" he said, looking at me. 

The next sentence just ripped my courage into tiny shreds. "He is the main dealer," said Y and looked at me as if we've lived together in the same house for ten years. 

"What?" I said, discombobulated. 

"It was his idea, he said he can get good rate for stolen gold," said Y and looked at me. I was expecting him to wink and he didn't. Motherfucker. 

My confidence shattered like two-mm glass when thrown on the floor. 

"Yes sir, I just trusted him and we were going to sell now," said Y as a person tried to raise his hand on me and as the blow was about to land, I just ducked, escaping it first time. Second time was no guarantee. 

"Take his bike. This guy looks educated and all but is a big fraud," said one guy in Telugu and they snatched away my bike keys first and then the bike. Since the entire argument was on the road, they decided to move a bit inside and by now, one person had held Y by collar and another ultra-intelligent guy went to call the police. 

There were passers by and there was oceanic embarrassment. My collar was held by a couple of youngsters who thought I was a fraud and was a smart one at that. Suddenly, a second blow was about to land on my face and just then, I couldn't help but cry. As tears broke into tears, he said, "Don't you feel ashamed to do all these kinds of things? what is the point in crying now?" 

I somehow gathered courage and said, "You can frisk me. You can check my wallet. If you find anything on me, except twenty rupees and Diya Mirza's photo, you can hit me as much as you want". (Diya Mirza according to me is still the most beautiful Indian woman. Will remain so, forever.)

"Let us check your bike," said one asshole, and they stripped open my bike. A third blow was about to land on my face when I asked them to handle the bike carefully. Somehow, on his own, he backed out, but they kicked my Yamaha like anything and mishandled it. I cursed them in silence. During this moment, I was observing Y. He was shamelessly borrowing a cigarette from a pan shop which had just opened and managed to get it. He displayed no remorse, whatsoever. He lit it up and in about ten minutes, two policemen arrived at the scene on a Hero Honda Splendor. One of them had a walkie talkie up his waist. The moment he saw Y, he spoke something into it and two other policemen arrived on a Bajaj Chetak. No discussion ensued. The policeman riding pillion on the Bajaj Chetak walked up to Y and slapped him hard thrice, punched his face and kicked him. "Motherfucker," he said and made him sit between the both of them. The twelve or so who had come to get him, vanished without trace. Never saw any of them ever.

I was asked to come to the police station and was asked what happened. I showed them the twenty rupees and told them I was going out to eat my favorite Dosa and all that happened. They never even made a call to verify my identity. The circle inspector spoke to me in English and I was through, safe. Didn't have to prove a thing. He just said, "Be careful, son. Don't mix with these people". The lesson of the day was, never ever ever, ever ever open mouth and express disappointment, which I have never followed in later life, but in any case, I got saved the first time.

Shamelessness has no limit. Rather, objectivity has no remorse. At about 9.20 am, one and half hour later than I had expected, I ordered one masala dosa followed by one onion dosa. As I savored the divine breakfast, I realized what role luck can play in life and why it is important to ignore few instincts. Had I just driven past, things would've been so cool. But then, I would've lost a valuable lesson, a training session on how to handle pressure - especially that involves physical violence. As I was about to leave the hotel, one guy stopped me and asked, "What happened?". I just stared my bike and said, "I got late for my breakfast". 

This morning, I was talking to my friend Varun Reddy about "pressure-driven negotiation skills", that's when I realized that this incident, which was buried in my memory, had to come to light. Any mention of this anywhere would only remind me of that terrible Sunday morning. But then, twelve years is a long time. I'm over it, although it still hurts. The inspector at the station had told me that Y was a seasoned criminal and fraud. He was wanted in many cases. And hey, last year, I learned that he died. No regrets. All men must die (Sorry, RR Martin) - some deserve to die earlier. 

I was glad that I escaped unhurt that morning. More than anything else, it was on that day, I guess I started observing people more keenly than ever. And that was probably the birth of the story-telling instinct inside me. 

- Deepak Karamungikar