Delhi Almost-Cut

Hey all, I typed this up just after it happened a couple weeks ago. Hope you enjoy it.

As I'm crossing the bridge on my way back from the doctor's office, I see a couple of young men up ahead on the sidewalk next to a wall that is solid concrete blocks from the ground to about three feet up and vertical iron posts the rest of the way to its full height of 6 feet. These two men are rough-housing over a white textile bag, the style of which are very commonly used to haul around garbage. These two men are most likely Garbage-Pickers, a job which is common among the extremely poor. As I get closer I see that one of the young men is probably about my age (early twenties), and the other man is actually just a boy, maybe 12 or 13. I'm quite close to the pair when the man pushes the boy onto his back up against that wall/fence and suddenly the scene snaps into an adrenaline fueled focus. This is not happy-playtime. The man-bully has one hand locked on the bag and looks calm and in control while the boy has both hands desperately clutching the bag, his face twisted with desperation, tears, and that legitimate fear that manifests in the eyes. There is something about true fear that really separates itself from just being worried or nervous or even scared – and goddamn if you don't know it when you see it. The first time I remember seeing it was when someone I was eating with started choking on her food. The look that comes into the eyes brings forth survival instincts thought forgotten.

Once again the hibernating portion of my brain came forward and the rest happened as if it had been scripted. Like the event was on tracks and only later on the walk home was I able to look back and start applying conscious thought to what had happened. I hurried forward pushed the man-bully's free arm. It wasn't hard enough to move him, but enough to let him know that I demanded his attention. He turned to look at me, and words tumbled from my mouth. “Hey, man, what are you doing? What's going on?” He responded, of course, in Hindi and started to turn his attention back to the boy. There was little else I could do but give him another rather feeble push and step around to face him more squarely as he tried to turn his attention back to the boy. “Hey, what's wrong with you? Are you hurting him?” He turned back to me and said something different this time, but making the universal gesture for an alcoholic drink, his thumb towards his lips, his pinky extended, and the rest of his fingers curled closed. “Dude, what?” I replied cunningly. It was as I was saying this that I realized this man-bully was drunk. His eye lids looked heavy and I noticed for the first time that his face, which had a worrying number of scares on it, was being held with that lack of muscle tension you only find in those who are stoned, intoxicated, or zombies. He did the gesture again but as he did the kid used the distraction to try and rip the bag out the drunk-man-bully's hand with a full-body, double-handed tug. For all the effort of the kid the only thing he managed to accomplish was forcing drunk-man-bully to take an awkward step to keep his grip. Drunky immediately lost interest in me, turned and took a swing at the kid. It looked like it might have half connected, I didn't really stand there and wait to parse out the details. I stepped between the two, and turned to face the attacker. 

At this point I still don't know the story. I don't know what the hell is going on, only that there was a conflict. The gaps I was filling in were that this man was trying to take the bag from the kid, either because there is alcohol in there, or there is something of value with he deems might bring him alcohol. The kid is most likely the victim of what has quickly escalated from theft to robbery. There was a small chance that the kid was trying to take something from the man, but if you were trying to take something from someone much bigger than you and you got caught, would you keep desperately tugging at the bag and start crying? No, you'd run away. Clearly. 

With that story in my head, and having just watched the man take a swing at the kid, I face drunk-man-bully and push him back. Not hard or with much power (i.e. acceleration), but enough to make him let go of the bag and realize that he now has no say in what's happening. I'm not a big guy, but I'm strong. 5'7”, 175 lbs and about 12 or 13% body fat. Before India and moving got in the way of my regular lifting, I was squatting (below parallel) 315, sets of five; dead lifting 310, set of five; pressing 140, sets of five; and benching 230, sets of five. I have a black belt in Taekwon-do; wrestled in high school; and have trained Jeet Kun Do, Muay Thai, and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu at several instances in my life since college. I'm not saying I'm a good fighter, I've never even been in a real fight, but as Jeff Winger says in regards to physical conflict: “I've got theories.” So although I didn't lay into the guy, he certainly became aware that he was being moved. He took the three or four steps required of him to not fall as I pushed a little harder to keep myself between him and the kid, while putting some distance between us so I would have time to react if he tried anything. Now that he was a few feet away I chanced a glance over my shoulder to see if the kid was okay. Still with his face smeared with grime and tears, the kid has the bag in one hand, but now slung over one shoulder to free up his other hand which is otherwise occupied – holding a fucking brick. My left hand is extended out towards drunk-man-bully to make sure I've got something between us, especially since I'm mostly looking at the kid now. I quickly point and the kid and say with three parts authority and two parts surprise “No! Put the brick down” and point to the ground. The latter gesture hopefully being clearer than the gibberish my mouth keeps throwing around without bothering to check in with my brain. I glance back to make sure drunk-man-bully hasn't moved, then back at the kid who has now dropped the brick. I swing my hand, tossing my fingers out a few times in a shooing gesture while I, again despite the fact that it is not becoming any less unhelpful, say “Go. Leave”. I look back at drunk-man-bully as he starts to try and walk around me. It's not an aggressive move, just a move as if he is planning on sauntering right past me. I step in front of him and push him back again, pointing behind him “No. Go, go.” Much to my surprise he steps one foot back and reaches his hand quickly around his hip and into his back pocket. I remember that my brain didn't register the fear it probably should have, but rather a heightened sense and a single summary thought. “fuck.” This next part, much like everything else only more so, happened without any consultation of the rational part of my brain. It's really nice that it worked, because the probably-knife he was reaching for wouldn't necessarily win him the fight, but would definitely leave me cut and was almost certainly filthy. I took a quick aggressive step forward and slammed my hand down and forward unto his collar bone. My arm had already been mostly stretched out in a pacifying/warding gesture, and when my hand landed it was open and turned so that it might seem like I was reaching for his throat. The combination of those two things made it less of a strike and more of a proverbial chest-beating. When my hand connected I looked straight at him and yelled “No!” As he stumbled back a few paces I adjusted my footing so that I was facing straight at him, my arms halfway up and ready, but not yet in a fighting stance. His hand stayed in his pocket. I didn't move, but again shouted at him to leave. He turned his body so that he was still half facing me and slowly walked away, his hand not leaving his pocket. I watched him until I deemed he was far enough away and, keeping one eye over my shoulder, turned to go find the kid. He was standing around a corner towards an alley not far from the confrontation, but he was nearer to people now. I again gave him the shooing motion, this time accompanied by my best, and hopefully most cross-linguistic, look of “come on kid, get the hell out of here”. The kid turned and walked down the alley, looking back every few steps (smart kid). I too turned to go, keeping an eye out to avoid being Julius-Caesar'd.

After walking about ten steps I noticed that drunk-man-bully had turned from where he'd stopped a minute ago and took a few testing steps in our direction. I stopped, turned around and starred at him while I, seriously I did this and cannot believe it worked, rolled up my sleeves. I'm really glad I hadn't changed out of my button up after work because the effect would have been completely lost in a tshirt. He had been watching me the whole time, of course, so when he saw this he stopped, turned, and left, walking a bit away and around the corner of the last building before the bridge I had come off of about one or two minutes before.

After that I rode the ensuing adrenaline wave home, keeping my head on a swivel to make sure I wasn't being followed, and finished up my errand by buying medicine and Gatorade for my sick brother.