MONOCHROME

A flash of green. 

The screen of his ancient Nokia lit up. He answered the call.

"Chacha, there's a malfunction on S.V. Road, Santacruz. You'll have to look into it."

He sighed, gulped down his cutting chai and prepared to leave. He didn't mind being called "Chacha". He didn't have a name to begin with anyway.

As he arrived at the crossroads, he noticed the all-too-familiar chaos. It always amazed him how the malfunction of a single traffic signal could throw hundreds, even thousands, of commuters into disarray.

He had been fixing signals since 40 years and was now the go-to man in the Municipal Corporation for any and every issue regarding the 3 ruling lights of Mumbai's monstrous traffic. His proficiency at the job had earned him a lot of respect from his co-workers - which was something he treasured. He didn't have a family to love him anyway.

Two traffic policemen arrived on the scene at the same time. Saluting them cheerily, he brandished the papers that certified him as an employee of the Corporation. The cops waved him right on; his reputation had preceded him and almost every white-clad constable had heard of the 'signalwalle chacha’.

This signal held a prized place in his heart. Back in the 1970s, when he was just another homeless and orphaned teenager reared by the sidewalks of Mumbai, he befriended a technician who had been installing the first traffic lights in the area. One day, when the technician arrived, he found the teenager fixing one of the newly-installed signals by himself. At first he was annoyed, but when he saw how perfectly the boy had solved the issue, he offered him a rupee for every signal he would fix on his behalf. He graciously accepted the deal. He needed money to buy his own chapatti anyway.

A flash of yellow.

The electric spark from the signal box awoke Chacha from his flashback. This task would be dangerous. The wires were live. It wouldn't be an easy repair job. He fished out his little toolkit and got to work. As he drudged on, his mind slowly drifted back to his younger days.

After several years of their master-apprentice relationship, the technician had finally declared that he was hanging up his boots and had offered him to take up his job at the Corporation. When he landed the job, he was only in his late twenties. But owing to his venerable features, the monicker of 'Chacha' was instantly thrusted upon his till then nameless existence. He was even allotted a tiny room in the employees' quarters. He now had a name, an income, a home and friends. His life was finally falling into place.

Large droplets of sweat raced down his forehead as he tried to focus on the signalbox. His hands were not what they had once been -  which did not help assuage the complexity of the task. The traffic was now under the control of the policemen. They looked apprehensively at Chacha's hunched figure and skinny limbs contorted around the signalbox like a mantis. It was rare to see him take so long.

Dusk fell swiftly and Chacha considered calling it a day and returning the next morning. But he knew it wasn't right to jeopardise the safety of commuters for his personal leisure. He switched on his torch and continued to work.

Suddenly, his eyes widened and his heart began pounding at a breakneck pace. He had attached the wrong wire and within milliseconds…

The brilliant flash and agonising scream brought the junction to a standstill. The two policemen rushed to Chacha's burnt and prostrate body. The electrocution had shut down his heart. As his mortal remains were laid down on the ambulance's stretcher, he was once again nameless and friendless. Lifeless too.

This very signal had brought colour into his monochrome life. Now all his eyes would ever see was monochrome.

A flash of red.

The ambulance's beacon lit up as it sped away and Mumbai's signalman dissolved forever into the multitude of taillights.

- Rtr Aman Vasavada

Editorials,
Rotaract Club of N.M. College