Chowkidaar: The Guard

Chapter One: Beginnings

Daylight rose on New Delhi over the sound of adhan, an imam's religious call for Muslim prayer crackling from the loudspeakers of dozens of mosques. The color of the sun was distorted; brighter, glowing more than it should have been, flickering like a flame, its rays refracted by the thick blanket of toxic smoke choking the state capital's inhabitants. In spite of the new city's emission standards and a government-led crackdown on vehicles in violation, the air quality metrics were no longer measurable by modern scientific standards. While farmers in the rural outskirts burned crops, firecracker ceremonies had commenced the previous evening to mark Diwali, the festival of lights, which was to take place on the following day; both activities had contributed to near-zero visibility in what was now known in parliamentary circles as the city of smoke.

The city threw off its smoke blanket in spirit to rise from its slumber, steadily humming to life, scenes of typical Indian inner-city life forming. Homeless children relieving themselves on street corners. Swaying rickshaws driven by grimy old men. Chaiwallas peddling over-sweetened tea at crowded train stations and bus stops. The core of India's apple was continuing to rot while the fruit itself grew, its flesh fueled by skyrocketing flows of cash, greed and corruption.

The well-known Sarkar Apartments society lay compacted in a 5 acre plot of land out in Mayur Vihar, a chronically traffic jammed district on the southeast side of the city. Eight run-down 20-storey high-rises packed with small 2 and 3 bedroom apartments added up to form this suburban apartment complex representative of India's burgeoning middle class; lived in by about 200 families fathered by government officials, accountants, and other civilians. Some residents who weren't public servants had had the good fortune of purchasing land after the resale restrictions were lifted by the state for their highest performers, a task quietly achieved by showing up to work on time for 18 months. Rust lined the walls of Sarkar Apartments, thin streaks of brown water stains bleeding from the rickety old air-conditioning units outside the dusty windows. It made it seem like the buildings had been crying dirty tears for years. If the buildings could feel the emotion of souls living within, it may have been an understandable psychological state to be in.

A ten-foot high wall had been erected around the fading compoundment, topped with a row of jagged glass and haphazardly placed barbed wire. An opening at the center of one of the walls marked the only entrance and exit in and out of the society; two narrow lanes for inbound and outbound traffic, split up by a small security guard's quarters the size of a small bedroom. On one corner of the compound was a small single-storey row of a dozen mud huts with straw ceilings, forming what was increasingly becoming a necessary luxury for societies built under modern construction - a place of residence for the society's lower-class labor, including its security guards, drivers, cooks and servants.

Within one of the huts lay an inhabitant brutally representative of the struggling lower classes; one of the several security guards for Sarkar Apartments, able-bodied Ram Singh of 30 years. Not too dark or fair, not too gaunt or fat, and maybe even a bit handsome, although there wasn't a woman in the city's borders that had ever noticed it. He lay sullen on a straw mat, mind awake but body resting, his eyes staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression masking his thinking. His thoughts were limited, matching the short education which had ended for him in the eighth grade.

The grey sky was visible in parts through the straw patchwork straw, the omnipresent smell of smoke ruminating. Ram slowly maneuvered himself to an upright position, swinging himself as he rubbed the four-day stubble on his face. He considered whether this would be one of the special days he should use his expensive shaving cream and razor to give himself a clean cut. Walking over to a dusty mirror, an inspection followed for signs of any of his limited possessions having been taken away.

Everything was intact in its painful mediocrity. Ram's chocolate-toned skin, his gangly limbs, the thick whispers of hair, and every one of his slightly yellow teeth, far straighter or kempt than they should have been for someone who had never visited a dentist. Dipping a mug into a pink plastic bucket, Ram splashed himself and wiped down his cavities.