But surprise was in store. The gate was closed all right but the traffic stood in an incredibly disciplined single file. The reason was also clear. The stocky, pot- bellied police officer with pouches beneath his eyes and a voice made raucous by years of imbibing harsh fire water, strutted about and threatened murder to anyone whose wheels were even an inch out of line. Beside myself with joy, I jumped out of my car and said, congratulations, welcome to your new station of duty. If only you knew what life was the last time when you were not here. He looked at me balefully and snorted, this is not my permanent duty; I am only here to make sure that the gate is not blocked when the VIP passes through. I beat a quick retreat and soon enough came the wailing white Ambassador with darkened glasses and its double behind it. The train passed, the gate opened, the VIP was gone and so was the senior petty officer of the local force in his Gypsy.
The approach of Moradabad raised pulsebeats again, in memory of the other hour spent trying to get past the bus stand with its entering and exiting buses neatly blocking the traffic from both directions, minus the services of even a lowly constable. But hope soon rose at the sight of a bypass sign and the firm directions of all lorries to it by the constable or duty. Moradabad does have a bypass, we thought, the way one elatedly discovers a shortcut to Shangri La. But no, said the cop, not for you. I was about to protest when he explained, yes there is a bypass, yes lorries can and are forced to use it but not for you with your little car, he said condescendingly.
Thus it was, stretches of smooth highway, well surfaced, interspersed by the odd truck coolly coming down the wrong side of the road and the inevitable jams caused by upturned trucks with their loads strewn all over. Until we came to the vicinity of Ghaziabad, where traffic stopped again.
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A group of menacing youths blocked the way with what looked like the biggest drill the dentist ever thought up wanting to etch the number of your car on the window glasses, lest the car be stolen.
Behind them stood another group with coal tar tins and brush in hand, presumably waiting to blacken your face if you did not play ball. But my number is already etched, I protested. On that the second set moved up and to our great relief started to paint the top of the headlights and not our faces black.
As we succumbed to it and prepared to speed up came the clincher, a receipt for Rs 15, for services rendered. But I only got the black job, I protested. SP sahebs orders, uttered the set, studying my moronic incomprehension.
We paid up and moved on. It was UPs best road all right, linking Delhi to Lucknow. Well surfaced and without potholes. But that was about it.