King Vikram wore a bristling look on his moustache. It was the look of a man determined to kill a vampire. My self-survival instincts kicked in. As soon as he carried me on to his back, I began to tell a story.
-Let me tell you a story O’ King, I began. At the end of the story, I will ask you a question. If you know the answer to the question and speak it to me, I will fly away. But beware! If you know the answer to the question and remain silent, your head will break into a thousand pieces.
She was at the age when Indian youth get a burning desire to travel to the very lands that their film stars once visited to sing, dance and experience the first pangs of love.
-Humph, the King said dismissively.
In the town of Bombay O’ King, I began anyway, there lived the daughter of a man. Not just any man, mind you. Her father was a powerful minister in the state’s legislature.
The girl turned seventeen, the age when Indian youth get a burning desire to travel to foreign lands — specifically the very lands that their film stars once visited to sing, dance and experience the first pangs of love.
She went to the passport office equipped with a form, and the correct application fee. She didn’t carry the extra amount of money that is usually needed for a bribe, for she was at that young age when the spring gardens of her idealism had not been rained upon by the harsh snowflakes of reality.
On the way to the passport office she ran into a thief. He made a persuasive case for her money with honeyed words and a gleaming steel knife.
- Let me go, she said. I need this money for my passport application. But come to my house tomorrow, and I will give you the money you need.
The thief agreed to her request. He removed the tip of the knife from her throat and cleared the primary obstacle in the path of her progress.
The government bureaucrat at the passport office was an old hand in the art of making money by winning friends, influencing people and exploiting the general helplessness of the passport applicants. As was his norm, he proceeded to point out a number of flaws in the girl’s application, wrinkles that could only be smoothed over by the efficient iron of the bribe.
-Your application is all wrong, he told the girl pointing vaguely at her neatly penciled entries.
When she pointed out that the application was in fact all right, the enterprising bureaucrat shook his head from side to side. He said he couldn’t possibly grant a passport to a person with such faulty footwork on the tennis court unless…
The silence created by the pause was filled with the rustle of a large wad of hundred rupee notes.
The girl sighed deeply.
-My father is a minister, she said simply. Be careful of what you ask for.
Her words had the desired effect. Instantly, the government bureaucrat saw visions of her angry father transferring him to a remote region of India that was so boring that even the Sound of Music aired without any songs. He promptly cleared her application.
Armed with a passport, the girl went home. The very next morning, the thief called on her. As promised, she paid him the money.
-Tell me O’ King, I said. Of the girl, the thief and the government official who didn’t take a bribe, who was the most honest?
-The thief was the most honest, said King Vikram readily enraptured by the story.
The girl dropped the name of a powerful father, which in a country like India is no different than a bribe. The government official acted out of fear. But the thief had no reason to respect the law. He let the girl go. In fact, he even trusted her enough to believe that she would pay him the next day. In doing so, the thief exhibited a faith in humanity that is most reassuring.
-Well said O’ King, I said. In your wisdom lies my freedom. I flew back to my tree and proceeded to do what I had been doing before the callous King interrupted me. I began to ruminate.
