It was a chilly November night. It had rained in the evening and puddles of water were everywhere reflecting the lamplight all along the road. Traffic was almost nil with an occasional vehicle passing by without stopping at the signal. The traffic police switch those signal lights off around ten every night.
The clock tower counted eleven in its out-of-tune gong filling the city centre with its muted music. One could hear its faint echoes while standing in front of the church some half-a-kilometre away as the crow flies, if one happened to stand there at that time of the night.
Stand he did, on the sidewalk bordering the compound wall of the church, no, swaying he did, much like the pendulum of the clock tower, counting each strike, “one, two, three,” the fourth strike was interrupted by a hiccup and he missed.
“No, no, this is not fair play, let me count it again, “one, two, three, four, hiccup, five, hiccup, six.”
No more strikes were heard, and he said, “six, yes, six, hahaha, Munisami is Munisami. Even after seven rounds of raw Brandi, I can be steady, hiccup,” he swayed, teetered, and fell on the compound wall and lurched back, “steady! Steady! I will reach my place at six thirty, sharp. Punctuality punchua-aaa-laty!”
Munisami was a man in his late forties, lean, average height, with a weathered face below a bald head that sported half a crown of white hair dishevelled and slightly wet from a few raindrops that had dripped on him while passing under the trees. A dirty grey shirt hung from his shoulders. A pair of black pants and a pair of worn out bathroom slippers completed his appearance.
Munisami weaved to-and-fro like a water lorry in a traffic jam, move, brake, lurch, one step back, lurch, move, and brake. With uncanny knack or by sheer luck, he missed every opening left by a missing concrete tile on the sidewalk, and reached the junction where the road branched in all directions.
His right foot went forward, splashed a puddle, the left foot followed, slipped, Munisami lurched and his right shoulder struck something. Instinctively he brought his hands up, caught hold of the post, and hung from it for a moment. He lifted his face up to see what it was.
A circular plate of steel at the top of the pole stared at him: “Keep Left”. It was a signpost.
“keep Left,” he read it, “English! That’s easy, I could read it, speak it, can those stupid little boys speak English? No, but Munisami can speak English, what is your name? humph, what IS your NAME?” he asked the signpost and looked at it in triumph when it stood dumb without giving him a reply.
With a wide grin on his face, he went past it. Two steps ahead, and he suddenly stopped. He walked backwards tracing his steps if it was possible. He looked at the signpost again and read aloud, “Keep left!” he enunciated each word slowly and shook his head wondering at the new-found wisdom:
“it says, keep left, but it is on the right,” he said to himself.
He lifted his right hand up and said, ‘this is right.”
He lifted his left hand up and said, “this is left.”
Now, he smiled in confidence. “the signpost is definitely to my right.” He spoke aloud.
the board says … ‘keep left’ … but … some idiot has kept it on the right. … Irresponsible … idiot!” saying this, he began to pull the post off the ground.
Munisami shook the post left and right, pulled it up, and removed it from the ground. The rain had softened the soil and it was easy for him to pull the signpost out.
Munisami then carefully turned to his left, placed the post leaning against the compound wall of the church, dusted his hands, shook his head in satisfaction and said, “now it is correct. Keep left!” he then began to lurch away.
“Oh wait, oh you wait,” it was a voice from behind. Munisami turned slowly, lifted his head, and peered at the voice. He saw a single man, large and menacing, no, two men small and tiny, and with confusion, he blinked his eyes.
“Come here,” the voice was slurred but commanding. Munisami obeyed. “What are you doing?” the man spoke in a strong voice. Munisami’s face reddened in anger. He took a threatening step, saw a large man standing, some three feet away, half hidden in shadows. A closer look would have revealed that the man was also equally swaying like Munisami, but he did not notice it.
“The sidewalk is not your backyard, to dump all your junk.” The man continued, “I saw you leaving the post against the wall, quite stealthily, do you think no one will question you? I am there, I … am … there, a law-abiding citizen, one who always speaks what is just.”
Munisami began to splutter his indignation, but the man raised his voice, and Munisami swallowed his reply in fear.
“Take off the post from the wall, now you do it. Go keep it safe in your backyard,” Ordered the man.
“Oh yes, yes-yes, I will carry it away sir, don’t you worry, you could have said it softly and Munisami would have done it once sir,” Munisami spoke in an ingratiating voice.
The man, a good Samaritan he was, came near and helped in lifting the post up. Munisami placed it on his right shoulder, and turned away. The signpost swung as he turned, struck the man smack on his face. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes and lay motionless and still on the sidewalk.
Munisami did not notice all that, he was busy staggering to keep his balance, what with the signpost on his shoulder. He suddenly remembered the words, ‘keep left’, and shifted the post to his left shoulder and staggered away down and across the road.
It was how the policeman at the next junction, in front of the railway station, saw Munisami, a drunkard staggering along the middle of the road with a signpost on his left shoulder.
Munisami was arrested and charged with theft, stealing public property, and was taken to the police station. The next day, a small write-up in the local newspapers appeared with the headline – ‘The Man who Stole the Signpost’.
Bleary-eyed, sitting up from the corner of the police station where he was dumped earlier, not knowing why and where he was, just-sobered Munisami was able to read only the headline on the back of the newspaper that was facing him, as the policeman reading it held it up in his hands. Looking at it, Munisami said to himself with a chortle, “A man who stole the signpost? hahaha, I am eager to meet him one day.”
– A. S. Mohanagiri
The author of the book, ‘Bedtime Stories for Grown-ups: Folktales from India’
Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/Bedtime-Stories-Grown-ups-Folktales-India-ebook/dp/B081DRMR6R
Google Play Books
https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=HsK9DwAAQBAJ.
The Dreamer Talks 