The Chameleon People

 

Fiction

It was a scorching June afternoon. The sun blazed down with unforgiving fury as I drove from the village to the city along a wide highway. My car sped down the black asphalt at 140 kilometers per hour. On either side, there was silence stretching into the distance—only scattered dwellings, some brick, some mud, flashed by like cinematic frames. The heatwaves rising off the road formed mirages that shimmered and vanished. I watched it all unfold through the windshield as I drove.

As I rounded a curve, a donkey suddenly appeared in the middle of the road. I slammed the brakes, but not in time. The car struck the animal and jolted to a stop, stalling instantly. The donkey lay badly injured on the road.

People from the nearby settlement rushed to the scene. Some asked if I was okay, while others helped fix the broken bumper and tried to get the car started. I thanked them.

One man, in his forties or fifties, said angrily, “People just let their animals roam freely—no wonder there are so many accidents!”

Others chimed in, “Absolutely. It’s reckless. Someone could’ve died.”

“Owners should tie up their animals. It’s as much their responsibility as it is the government’s,” added another.

I stood there, dazed by the accident. For a moment, it all felt unreal—like a dream. But the heat, the broken car, and the crowd forming around me reminded me this was no dream.

A white-bearded man brought me water. I accepted gratefully.

Then a young man near the donkey exclaimed, “Hey, that’s Karmi the dhobi’s donkey!”

At once, a few others rushed to examine the animal more closely. Someone ran off to fetch Karmi.

Now the whispers began. The tone of the crowd shifted.

“Karmi is a poor washerman. That donkey is all he owns,” said an older man gravely.

“That poor creature won’t walk again,” another muttered.

“These rich city people are blind behind the wheel,” said someone in a voice I recognized—the very man who’d earlier offered me comfort.

“He hit the donkey on purpose. He must pay compensation,” declared a dark-skinned man twirling his moustache.

I stood speechless. The same people who were earlier supporting me were now turning against me. My car was still dead, but now I feared something worse.

A man in a turban walked up to me. “Sahib, the donkey won’t survive. You’ll have to pay damages. Karmi is a poor man.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand rupees,” he replied.

“Fifty thousand—for a donkey?” I was shocked.

“This isn’t any ordinary donkey,” he said. “It’s a purebred and very expensive.”

“But donkeys aren’t worth that much,” I protested.

Interrupting me, the turbaned man said, “Karmi will have to go to the livestock market in another city, pay for the animal, arrange transport—it all adds up, sahib.”

Someone from the crowd interjected, “Come on, he’s a traveler. Be fair.”

“I don’t have that much cash on me. I can give you ten thousand,” I offered.

“That’s far too little,” he snapped.

A few people began speaking in my favor. “The donkey will recover—it’s just a broken leg, not fatal,” said a man wearing only a loincloth.

Then a couple more voices joined in to defend me.

Just then, Karmi, the washerman, arrived.

He said, “Yes, the donkey used to be mine. But I sold it just yesterday to Ausu, the policeman. You’ll have to talk to him now.”

The moment he mentioned a policeman, the entire crowd fell silent. The turbaned man said, “Sahib, if the donkey belongs to a policeman, then the law will decide now.”

I felt my heart sink. Dealing with a cop was a whole other matter.

The same crowd that had been debating back and forth now aligned unanimously—demanding I be punished and fined.

Soon, Ausu, the policeman, arrived. He eyed my car, then me, then walked over to inspect the donkey.

Karmi and a few others huddled with him, whispering while glancing in my direction. I could tell they were plotting how to extort money from me.

The policeman walked up, sniffed the air dramatically, and said, “You were driving drunk, weren’t you? Couldn’t even see such a big animal!”

“No, officer. The donkey suddenly appeared while I was turning. I even hit the brakes,” I replied.

He began inspecting the car, trying to intimidate me.

“Who are you? Where were you headed?” he barked.

“I’m the brother-in-law of Raees Karam Khan. I was returning from his place,” I replied.

The moment I mentioned Raees Karam Khan, the officer's expression changed. “You’re his brother-in-law?”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“My apologies, sahib. The villagers didn’t recognize you. They all vote for Raees Karam Khan,” he said respectfully.

Then he turned to the crowd and shouted, “You useless parasites! You let your animals loose and then try to extort money from decent folks. What the hell am I supposed to do with this damn donkey now? Scammers, all of you!”

He cursed the villagers, drove the crowd away, and helped get my car started.

With the help of an elderly mechanic from the village, we finally got the engine running. I drove off, without paying a single rupee, toward my destination.