Ghost rider

What began as a usual day for Mani soon became a rescue mission.

The sun rose over the mountains touching the tops with its pale yellow light, awakening the birds roosting in the hedges and trees. A melodious chirping filled the air. Slowly, the town woke up to the humdrum sounds of daily life. People shivered, as they came out of their warm beds and prepared to face a new day.

Humming to himself Mani, the milkman, began his rounds. His bike skidded to a halt at the sight of a man lying on the road. It was an uncommon sight. Mani got off his bike and looked.

“That’s Mr. Dastur,” he said to himself. “How did he happen to come here?” Dastur’s house was further down the road.

Mani went over to Manasi’s cottage, his first port of call. He asked for a bottle of water and told her that Mr. Dastur had fallen on the road. Manasi threw a shawl over herself and joined him. They splashed water on Dastur’s face but there was no movement. Gently they turned him over and felt for a pulse. Yes, there was a faint pulse. They splashed more water on his face. Mani shook him, calling his name. Just as they were giving up hope they heard a faint groan and he turned his face.

It was then that they saw the imprint of a palm on Mr. Dastur’s left cheek.

 “The motorcycle rider,” they said.

“I’ll call the ambulance and bring him a cup of hot, sweet tea,” said Manasi, as she hurried back to her cottage. Mani continued his first aid.