The best news for me was Kishor Pujari, the twenty-year-old shopkeeper on the Colaba Causeway, who took me to the Hospital. Blood dripping, breath choking, I was aware of the goodness Kishor was showering upon me. The effort he made in finding a taxi and rushing me to the hospital, the fight with the hospital authorities who took me for a gangster and were hesitant in treating.
Despite the chaos, police scrutiny, Kishor stood by me. After recovery, when I asked him what prompted him to help me, he said, “I just thought it’s my duty to keep another human being alive, whoever he may be.” Kishor, born and brought up in a small village in southern Karnataka state said it was his mother’s teachings that that forced him to act naturally during the occasion.
Kishor confessed, he also thought I was a gangster and had a gun with me like most fellow shopkeepers around. The Police questioning at the hospital was more about why I was shot and why Kishor brought me for treatment. There was no hurry in treating me though I was the first to reach the St George hospital.
I faintly remember the sleepy looking policeman, whom the hospital staff summoned for recognize whether I’m a gangster or not. He said, “Madam isko to nahi janta tab bhi puchhna padega control room (Madam I don’t know him..will have to ask the control room)
It was a piece of a puzzle for the thin exhausted policeman and hospital staff that had associated clues happening elsewhere in the city, which was to soon answer their questions.
