Velan was cruising at a speed of eighty kilometres per hour in his bike on the beach road. The bike was shaking and tears were flowing freely from Velan’s eyes. They soon dried up but his eyes were bloodshot. He couldn’t remember what he was thinking except that he was thinking of his parents and brother and how he was fortunate to have them as family especially his brother. How he was waste of a life and a failure. He wasn’t thinking properly as his mind was thinking in different unrelated tangents. He was stopped by a cop.
The cop said, “Stop, you don’t look right. Check this guy first.”
Velan saw a police car on the side and a lady sub inspector leaning over its hood. There were two other cops. Velan stood by the road silently not answering any questions.
The cop asked, “Boss, whose boss are you?”
Velan’s bike number was 8055 that can be stylised in to the word Boss. It was a VIP number that Velan got paying extra amount. No one got numbers like this for a bike.
Several more questions followed but Velan was finally booked for driving without a helmet and he paid the fine 100Rs and moved on.
He turned left and went to the beach. There was almost no one around but there were an unusually huge number of crows around. It was an eerie feeling. He stood there seated on his bike for long. Then he emerged out and instead of taking the road that will take him to his house he veered elsewhere. He sped madly on his bike and once there seemed to be a high checkpoint where he remembered leaning under the check post and driving past it. He was lost and he was worried. That he had a mobile in his pocket and could call for help eluded him. He was not thinking straight.
He was stopped by a policeman in a different uniform from normal. He later surmised that he might be a cop of the central force to protect the port. Velan wasn’t sure if he was in Tuticorin anymore. He thought he might have reached somewhere near Madras by now. He was taken in to a PSA Sical office waiting room. He remembered this somehow. He was taken back to the road outside and three to four policemen were grilling him while a crowd of onlookers had emerged. One policeman was using obscene words and saying he will immerse his lathi in to some places that can’t be named. But no one touched Velan.
Then from amidst the crowd came his brother’s friend, a volleyball player working in the port on sports quota. He said something to the cops and a few calls were made and Velan was again made to wait, this time in a security room. Velan had a mental or psychiatric condition called Bipolar disorder. It led him in to episodes of insanity at times such as these and then he would have to be medicated for months or weeks to bring him back. At such times the world seemed almost magical to Velan. But at other times he was quite normal and intelligent.