The police batons falling on a sack of potatoes

 

Rashe Ram smokes weed. Eats lots of chapattis. Works like a beast as a daily wage earner. On top of that he hasn’t got a mind bugged with over-thinking. So he is hefty and relaxed. There are many in the village who share his weed-filled beedis for free. He gets it from the slum areas in Bawana and after meeting his personal needs sells the extra stuff at a very small margin of profit. If we take into account what others smoke for free from him, it’s a no profit no loss venture. Still he is a weed seller in the eyes of law.

Someone informs upon him. The police pick him up. The cops basically beat the vagrants, giving prodigious pain to body as well as ego. They enjoy both. They love taking bribe as well and let out the beaten guy after making his wallet weightless. But in the case of Rashe Ram they instantly realize that there is hardly anything to be drawn out of his wallet. So this source of pleasure is gone. They take recourse to the other—beating. Normally, in case of routine offenders, it gives the policemen a sadistic pleasure to see their ego melting and identity crumbling. But unluckily for the police, Rashe Ram’s detached self is beyond the bruises of ego. So as they thrash him, very soon they realize there is hardly any fun in beating this guy. Just plain wastage of energy. It’s like hitting a wall, or some street bull at the most. They can feel that their strikes aren’t penetrating beyond his thick skin. It feels like they have been beating a big heap of sack cloth. The policemen feel cheated. They just throw him out to get rid of him.