<p>In the late 1990s, fresh from completing my master’s in social work, I joined a non-government organisation and was posted to Gudibande, a small taluk in what is now <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/chikkaballapur">Chikkaballapur </a>district, bordering Andhra Pradesh. One Saturday evening, I was in a rush to get home to Bengaluru for the weekend. The deserted, winding village roads and the exuberance of youth led me to push my Honda bike to its limits.</p>.<p>My weekend mood and thrill of speed were abruptly halted by a big, fat hen that darted out of the nearby bushes and onto the road. Despite my best efforts to apply brakes and avoid running over, the hen ended up right under the rear wheel of my bike. Overcome by guilt, I stopped the bike and nervously looked around.</p>.<p>During my short tenure at the NGO, I had learned about the financial implications of running over a hen in rural areas. One would have to pay a hefty price for the hen and, additionally, for at least four to five generations of chicks it would have hatched in the future.</p>.When office excuses went viral.<p>Although the closest village was a good 100 metres away, I saw a middle-aged man walking towards the ‘accident’ site. With only a few hundred rupees on me, the thought of negotiating compensation, handicapped by the fact that I barely spoke Telugu (which is commonly spoken in the region), and the fading daylight added to my misery. He approached me, questioning me authoritatively about the incident and whether I was aware of the financial losses I had caused the owner. I replied meekly that it was an accident and not intentional. I then asked if he was the owner of the dead hen. He was taken aback by this question and was fumbling for a response when another elderly gentleman joined the conversation.</p>.<p>He saluted me warmly the moment he reached the site and greeted me with a smile. In a soft tone, he asked the other villager if he recognised me. After getting a negative response, he introduced me as a ‘crime branch officer’ from the local police station. He then apologised to me and asked me to leave the spot and continue with my journey. Emphasising that it was an accident, he gave me a clean chit. The middle-aged man was completely taken aback by the turn of events and muttered an apology before leaving the spot in a hurry, lest he get into trouble with a ‘cop.’</p>.<p>I thanked my stars. As I rode away, wondering how the elderly man had mistaken me for a cop, I spotted him walking away briskly away with the dead chicken in hand. It reminded me of the Kannada proverb ‘Ibbara Jagala, mooraneyavanige laabha,’ meaning ‘In a fight between two, the third person benefits’.</p>
<p>In the late 1990s, fresh from completing my master’s in social work, I joined a non-government organisation and was posted to Gudibande, a small taluk in what is now <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/chikkaballapur">Chikkaballapur </a>district, bordering Andhra Pradesh. One Saturday evening, I was in a rush to get home to Bengaluru for the weekend. The deserted, winding village roads and the exuberance of youth led me to push my Honda bike to its limits.</p>.<p>My weekend mood and thrill of speed were abruptly halted by a big, fat hen that darted out of the nearby bushes and onto the road. Despite my best efforts to apply brakes and avoid running over, the hen ended up right under the rear wheel of my bike. Overcome by guilt, I stopped the bike and nervously looked around.</p>.<p>During my short tenure at the NGO, I had learned about the financial implications of running over a hen in rural areas. One would have to pay a hefty price for the hen and, additionally, for at least four to five generations of chicks it would have hatched in the future.</p>.When office excuses went viral.<p>Although the closest village was a good 100 metres away, I saw a middle-aged man walking towards the ‘accident’ site. With only a few hundred rupees on me, the thought of negotiating compensation, handicapped by the fact that I barely spoke Telugu (which is commonly spoken in the region), and the fading daylight added to my misery. He approached me, questioning me authoritatively about the incident and whether I was aware of the financial losses I had caused the owner. I replied meekly that it was an accident and not intentional. I then asked if he was the owner of the dead hen. He was taken aback by this question and was fumbling for a response when another elderly gentleman joined the conversation.</p>.<p>He saluted me warmly the moment he reached the site and greeted me with a smile. In a soft tone, he asked the other villager if he recognised me. After getting a negative response, he introduced me as a ‘crime branch officer’ from the local police station. He then apologised to me and asked me to leave the spot and continue with my journey. Emphasising that it was an accident, he gave me a clean chit. The middle-aged man was completely taken aback by the turn of events and muttered an apology before leaving the spot in a hurry, lest he get into trouble with a ‘cop.’</p>.<p>I thanked my stars. As I rode away, wondering how the elderly man had mistaken me for a cop, I spotted him walking away briskly away with the dead chicken in hand. It reminded me of the Kannada proverb ‘Ibbara Jagala, mooraneyavanige laabha,’ meaning ‘In a fight between two, the third person benefits’.</p>
