The roads in the early morning were deserted and I, oblivious of the many traps laid out by Kolkata’s maze of one-way streets, came out of Middleton Street onto Chowringhee. Before I knew it, a policeman emerged out of nowhere flagging me down and announcing balefully that I had come down the wrong way.
Instinctively, I did the act of a newcomer unaware of the ways of a big complicated city — and, as proof, pointed to the car’s number plate. He nodded and said, “Kerala”, and I shook my head and replied that the KA stood for Karnataka. The doubtful look meant that geography was giving trouble, and I suggested helpfully, “Bangalore”. His face lit up and there was a long exchange on what newcomers were meant to know. When it became clear that he would let me go for a small consideration, I declared that we journalists didn’t do such things and drove away. He looked like an angler who had seen a fish nibble at the bait and swim away.
A few days later, it was Act two of the same plot, only this time the lowly constable was accompanied by a slightly senior colleague, who firmly told me that lack of knowledge was no self-defence. Then followed a few moments of sparse dialogue with the senior fellow asking, “So what shall we do?”, and I pretending not to understand. Suddenly, deliverance came in the form of the junior policeman walking up with a walkie-talkie and telling his senior that the deputy commissioner was coming. I immediately ceased to exist; the fellow kick-started his motorcycle and drove away — letting me also drive away, with the junior chap looking distinctly unhappy.
I firmly told myself that being twice lucky was lucky enough, and thereafter looked high and low for a “no entry” sign every time I negotiated a side road that I had not taken earlier. Then my luck ran out. Act three unfolded a few days later. A junior policeman signalled me to stop and told me solemnly that I had just come out the wrong way and I should park my car and talk to the sergeant. The firmness of the interrogation indicated that being let off was out of the question, and I was asked to produce my driving licence. He was quite unfamiliar with the smartcard type of licence and I helpfully showed him which side was right side up.
That over, the policeman adopted the air of a quizmaster who asks the final, most difficult question in a particular round, sure that none will have the answer. He asked for my pollution control certificate. This is going to be tough, I realised, for no one had asked to see that even once in the last four years. When I journeyed back to the car and returned with the papers, including the pollution one, his face took on a vague expression as if to say, “what do we do with you”, and he asked the sergeant for guidance. That gentleman, who had been following the conversation till then, suddenly lost interest and walked away saying, “Do the needful.”
It was followed by the junior fellow taking down, in turn, the car registration, driving licence and pollution numbers in his challan book and telling me grimly, “You will get a letter in the mail”, as if that would contain a direction for some severe punishment. By this time I was longing for a return to Bangalore, where things are sorted out much more quickly. Once you are stopped and it is clear that you are not going to pay up a little bit, out comes the BlackBerry handset. The central database is checked over wireless to see if there are any unpaid fines, and you are promptly charged Rs 100 or thereabouts, given a receipt and asked to go.
Then, early one morning something different happened. As I was driving back from my walk around the Dhakuria lakes, I spotted two smartly dressed young policemen, on their way to work, waiting at the bus stop next to the traffic light. Soon a very old man appeared in a short dhoti and with a Gandhiji-type long walking stick — he was either blind or simply unable to follow the changing traffic lights and cross the road. One of the policemen saw this, asked his companion to wait, held the old man firmly by the arm and took him across the road. Then as he came back, I couldn’t resist the temptation to tap on the horn and, as he looked up, I gave him the thumbs-up sign. He grinned, a little embarrassed, but it was clear his day was made. I drove away a bit light-hearted, my faith in Kolkata Police restored.
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