Words that work magic

The sentence is a powerful anodyne for the insult and injury that we sustain daily in buses or taxis, in debates and discussions. Nothing succeeds more quickly than this incantation. Do not think what I am telling you is a mere sermon. It’s all tested and can be tried, I bet, by any one of you.

Here is an assortment of my encounters with this truth.

Once I was running frantically on the Patna Junction platform in a vain bid to enter any compartment (I had no reservation) of a Delhi-bound train which is always jam-packed. I had no option I had to reach Delhi the next day. Hassled, and cursing my inability to cultivate any connections in the railways, I forced myself into a reserved compartment. The train had just left the station. I tumbled upon the conductor, Chhote Khan. He in turn fell on a lady passenger in the passage. Chhote Khan regarded me with bloodshot eyes. But before he could give his anger free rein, I blurted out those infallible magic words. To my great amazement and surprise, it worked like a charm.

After regaining his composure, Chhote Khan scanned me from tip to toe. Convinced that I was a gentleman, he advised me to `adjust’. With redoubled confidence I tapped the back of a burly man who had stretched out his massive form in sound slumber on a middle berth. He obliged me by giving me a few inches to sit on, introduced himself as Mr Samba, and again fell asleep. I heaved a sigh of relief on the prospect of a relatively comfortable journey. I started dozing.

Hardly 30 minutes later, there was a bolt from the blue, right on my head. I screamed with pain. I rounded on Mr Samba and there he was, saying “I am sorry,” his voice rich with pity and pain. Soon my frightened frown turned into sweet forgiveness. My sleep-laden eyes closed again.

Mr Samba was in the habit of tossing his legs in his sleep. The bolt from the blue was fated again. Darkness swam before my eyes. When I returned to my senses I found him the embodiment of apology. My sleep had melted into thin air and anger was brewing in my heart. Soon I hit upon an idea worth experimenting with. I picked up courage, concentrated all the energy in my legs and dashed him down to the floor. The whole issue was settled with my formal expression of dismay: “I am sorry.” Through the rest of the journey, I discussed politics peaceably with Mr Samba.

My other memorable experiment with this truth was when I first fell for a girl, Leelavati, during my college days. After much consultation with my friends I finally decided to propose. To ensure that no one was witness to the encounter, the outcome of which appeared quite dicey, I asked Leelavati to come to a dingy corner of the college premises. She obliged with some hesitation. I murmured, “I don’t know how, but I have developed a liking for you.” She blushed, stared at me in disbelief as if I were a demented brother, and shot back, “I am sorry…”

The denial was shocking. I vowed not to propose ever again. And I never did.Tintin, my girlfriend, still complains about it. In fact, she must have asked me at least a hundred times over the last seven years, “Why didn’t you propose to me?” And my answer always has been the standard `I am sorry’.