The Criminal - Memorable Instances

Late one night, around 2 a.m., a Canara Pinto Travels passenger bus travelling from Goa to Mumbai was stopped by the police.

Three cops climbed aboard.

One quick sweep of the torchlight told them that the bus was almost empty. A few families were travelling, all fast asleep. One passenger, however, caught the attention of the senior officer.

He was in his mid-thirties, travelling alone. Exhausted from the journey, he was in a deep sleep on the recliner seat. Two bags occupied the empty seat beside him.

"Excuse me, sir. Please wake up."

The bright torchlight strained the poor man's eyes. He woke up confused, unable to immediately understand what was happening. The moment he realised that policemen were standing before him, he sat up straight.

"We want you to open your bags."

"Sorry?"

"Open the bags. Right now."

The young officer in the crisp khaki uniform wasn't asking.

The sleepy traveller fumbled for the tiny keys attached to the miniature locks. After a struggle, both bags were finally unlocked.

The first bag was packed with cashews.

Salted cashews. Plain cashews. Cashews with skin. Masala cashews. Chocolate-coated cashews.

There were packets of authentic Goan masalas too — recheado, cafreal, vindaloo, roast masala and more.

The officer looked at him suspiciously.

"For relatives and friends back in Bombay," the man quickly explained.

Just as they were about to inspect the second bag, the torchlight flickered and died.

The flap of the second bag was opened in the dim light. Inside were clothes and a few more packets of goodies.

"Sir, I know the rules," the traveller volunteered nervously. "I'm not carrying liquor in any of my bags."

The cop ignored him.

He instructed his team to dig deeper.

The officers gathered around the bag looked like surgeons around a patient on an operation table.

The traveller was so tired that even this midnight inspection couldn't keep him awake. His eyelids kept drooping.

He didn't realise when he drifted off again.

Then suddenly—

"Sir! Look what we've found!"

One of the constables shouted.

The man woke with a start.

Three medium-sized transparent zip-lock pouches had been pulled out from the bag.

Each contained white powder.

White powder.

The constable handed them to the senior officer.

"Can you explain this... sir?" he asked, holding the packets before the traveller's face.

The poor man started sweating.

"Sir... please believe me. I have no idea where these came from. They're definitely not mine."

"Don't worry," said the officer coldly. "At the police station we'll help you recover your memory."

The officer opened one of the packets and sniffed it.

The traveller was moments away from being dragged off the bus.

That unfortunate, sleepy traveller was none other than my Dad.

---

Two days earlier...

Back in Goa.

Eight-year-old me and my elder sister were playing in a park in Ponda.

Even today, I remember that park vividly.

To my young eyes, it was the prettiest park in the world.

Colourful flowers bloomed everywhere. White round pebbles lined the pathways, and soft white artificial sand covered parts of the ground.

I filled my little bucket with a dozen shiny white pebbles and proudly carried them to my mother, who was seated on a nearby bench.

"How many times must I call you girls?" she said. "It's getting late. I need to get back to the room and help your dad pack."

Just then my sister came running.

"Mummy! Sharon wants to take those pebbles home."

I shot her a dirty look.

"Of course not," said my mother. "Sharon, empty that bucket and come immediately."

My mother got up to leave.

My sister obediently followed.

I stayed behind.

Thinking.

As a child, I had a peculiar hobby.

From every new place I visited, I had to take back a memory.

A dried leaf.

A train ticket.

A hotel writing pad.

Anything.

I would label it carefully with the place and date and store it in what I proudly called My Memories Box.

My mother, unfortunately, never appreciated this hobby.

I emptied the bucket obediently.

Or at least, that's what everyone thought.

I walked back to the hotel room carrying an empty bucket and a victorious smile.

---

That night, because the bus was nearly empty, my mother took my sister and me to the last seats so we could sleep comfortably.

Dad sat alone a few rows ahead with some luggage. 

Completely unaware that one of those bags contained my secret.

Back at the park, before leaving, I had quietly stuffed my shoes full of the beautiful white sand.

At the hotel, I emptied the sand into three transparent toiletry pouches from the washroom.

Then I secretly slipped them into Dad's bag.

Mission accomplished.

---

The next morning, after reaching home, I woke up to hear Dad narrating the entire incident to my mother.

How the police had discovered the mysterious packets.

How they had sniffed them.

How one officer had even tasted a little.

I froze.

My stomach dropped.

I felt terrible.

My poor Deda had almost become a drug smuggler because of me.

Just then my sister looked at me.

Then at my parents.

And announced loudly,

"Mummy, Deda... just look at the guilty face of the criminal!"

Everyone turned towards me.

And burst out laughing.

I don't remember whether I laughed.

But I shall always remember ....

For a few terrifying minutes on that lonely highway, my little collection for My Memories Box had nearly landed my father in a police station.