The mask of innocence

Among the highlights of our childhood, peppered with encounters with cobras and tigers and real life cops and robbers, were games in police vans. Sometimes, we sat where prisoners were meant to; sometimes we were the cops in the seat outside the enclosed space. It didn't matter which place we sought, both allowed our imaginations to soar, and in a time of few toys, fewer movies and limited access to libraries, there was nothing our minds didn't allow us to do!

We were fortunate in that our father had been in the Forest Service and then the Police and we got a bandstand view of both jobs. With numerous trips into the depths of the forest and days and nights in forest bungalows that threw up panthers at the kitchen door, kraits and vipers behind door knobs and curtain rods, one would have thought we'd have become savvy, able to handle ourselves anywhere in the world.

In some ways, we did. When we sat on a make-believe machaan and waited for the tiger to come for its prey, we had all our facts correct. We knew who held the weapon, we knew no noise was allowed, only gestures. The same for cops and robbers. We didn't go shrieking around the compound in chase of the designated thieves. Instead we crept up on them and had them pinned before they knew what had hit them.

But there were lessons that remained unlearnt in the safe world of make believe. For us, the thieves and the dangerous were clearly designated, and dislike it though we did, we all took turns at being the bad guys. No one told us then that almost the same thing often happened in the real world. One day you're the good guy, the achiever, the doer; the next day you've fallen flat and you're open to all kinds of revilement!

One experience stands out from among the many that should have taught us well. Father had been away for a long time and finally, mission accomplished, he called us to meet him in 'camp'. We went, all excited about the 'official' trip. There was plenty of khaki around to make us feel safe and we trotted into Father's office to watch him as he worked. He stood there with a number of policemen around, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, some we recognised, some we didn't.

Gravitated

One of the standing men smiled at us and at once we gravitated to his side. He struck up a conversation and we answered, taken by his interest in us and his overall mild manner. Quite a contrast from the other policemen who were known to throw their weight around, we thought, warming up to him and watching out of the corner of our eyes to see what Father would say to our distracting one of his men. But Father didn't interrupt. He let us talk until at last it was time to leave. Then the gentleman nodded to us and moved away, a phalanx of policemen around him. We watched from the window as he got into the police van.

Alone, he sat in the prisoner's section, cuffed to a bar. Not one but four policemen sat on the outside seats. We gaped, unable to believe he was a danger to anyone!

Our flurry of queries had Father explaining for a long time. Yes, he was a prisoner. No, he wasn't a harmless young man. Yes, he had killed people. No, we had not been in danger. Yes, he looked so innocent. Yes, looks were deceptive.

There it was in so many words, a lesson handed to us on a platter. We should have learnt it well, but somehow, despite growing up and facing the world on our own, we still have difficulty distinguishing between the mask and the man.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.