19th Sept 2011, 8AM Swabhumi, Kolkata.
When I ordered to open the gates, little I knew that I had just ordered the youth to exhibit the first bloodshed of this Roadies season.
I prayed all to go well.
The guard moved the key unclockwise in the lock, and I moved a step back from two thousand strong arms and feet rubbing against one another to pass through a 20 ft space, flimsyly held between two wrought iron columns.
I don't know when or how quickly it happened, but I'm really sure it all started with one small fumble. I could loudly hear the feet stamping against the brick embedded ground as they gushed towards the entry lane, on the opening of the gate. They ran like cattle, and I could see the rush of impatience rising to a rumbling madness of becoming a Roadie. Within seconds I saw four five legs collapse in the center and building into a chain reaction of falls. The constant push of people created a force that made it look like lumps of sugar grains rolling off a spoon tip. The heavy thrust turned loud cheers turn into a handful screams and groans. I could almost feel the unconscious layer beneath the face of the human rubble while the top still laid shouting. To harness some mobility, I pushed harder, screamed louder for some movement on unanimated bodies. The mid aged and less weighed bengali bouncers helped with an unusual muscle power and I could finally see a clumsy pair of shoulders stuck to the ground. Two bouncers next to me lifted him by his check shirt, and I saw a face rising from the pool of blood underneath.
"Is this a stampede? Is he dead? or alive? still breathing? Oh shit.. I dont want him to die! Someone please check. God! Fuck!"
On seeing the blood pool, a deep silence shot me - maybe that one moment I just went numb a heard nothing around me. But in a moment I could see a crater of shocks, shudders and anger, which worked back my conscience.
There he was - Arjun, the youth of India. An innocent blood smudged face, scrubbed against the soil by his own compatriots.
When I ordered to open the gates, little I knew that I had just ordered the youth to exhibit the first bloodshed of this Roadies season.
I prayed all to go well.
The guard moved the key unclockwise in the lock, and I moved a step back from two thousand strong arms and feet rubbing against one another to pass through a 20 ft space, flimsyly held between two wrought iron columns.
I don't know when or how quickly it happened, but I'm really sure it all started with one small fumble. I could loudly hear the feet stamping against the brick embedded ground as they gushed towards the entry lane, on the opening of the gate. They ran like cattle, and I could see the rush of impatience rising to a rumbling madness of becoming a Roadie. Within seconds I saw four five legs collapse in the center and building into a chain reaction of falls. The constant push of people created a force that made it look like lumps of sugar grains rolling off a spoon tip. The heavy thrust turned loud cheers turn into a handful screams and groans. I could almost feel the unconscious layer beneath the face of the human rubble while the top still laid shouting. To harness some mobility, I pushed harder, screamed louder for some movement on unanimated bodies. The mid aged and less weighed bengali bouncers helped with an unusual muscle power and I could finally see a clumsy pair of shoulders stuck to the ground. Two bouncers next to me lifted him by his check shirt, and I saw a face rising from the pool of blood underneath.
"Is this a stampede? Is he dead? or alive? still breathing? Oh shit.. I dont want him to die! Someone please check. God! Fuck!"
On seeing the blood pool, a deep silence shot me - maybe that one moment I just went numb a heard nothing around me. But in a moment I could see a crater of shocks, shudders and anger, which worked back my conscience.
There he was - Arjun, the youth of India. An innocent blood smudged face, scrubbed against the soil by his own compatriots.
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