Just a Writer

Sub-Inspector Gowda sat in a dingy bar and asked the waiter for peanuts. They called him sub-inspector because he wore khaki and prattled on about his time in the force. 

“When I was in the force,” he’d say and belch. “A minister’s son tried to act smart. But I grabbed him by the collar, gave him a few slaps, and told him to cry to daddy if he wanted. I didn’t care. I was the man.”

The waiter brought him his peanuts and asked him if he wanted anything to drink, and the sub-inspector launched into another spiel, slapping the table and burping and farting. “When I was in the force—”

“Order fast. Whiskey or rum or the usual mix of whiskey, beer and rum?” the waiter impatiently asked him. 

“When I was in the force—”

“Bloody hell, man. I don’t care. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get you cheap rum, since your tab is already crossing a hundred rupees.” 

“When I was in the force…” Gowda said, and put his head on the table and cried. “Without my stories, I have nothing. The alcohol also doesn’t soothe me anymore, and everybody takes advantage. If this were twenty years ago, when I caught that minister by the balls, I’d have…I’d have…bloody hell! Was I a sub-inspector or a gutter rat? A madman or a prophet? Oh! I don’t know… I don’t know…” 

The waiter returned and placed a glass of cheap rum on the sub-inspector’s table, and looked on as the man wiped his tears and the sweat from his brow, lit a beedi, and puffed and coughed while the sun sank slowly, coating everything in crimson.