Returning home from a highly satisfying day of shopping with a friend for her daughter’s wedding, our autorickshaw was stopped by a tall traffic policeman at the Greenways Road (in South Chennai) roundabout. Top of the morning we’d been offered a delicious cup of coffee at the costume jeweller’s, we’d found the perfect sari for the bride’s mother, the lunch at Karpagambal Mess had been soulfully scrumptious, the search for the perfect evening dress had yielded the perfect evening dress, and the feet, too, had succeeded in being elegantly enhanced. What more could we have asked for. It came unasked: a close encounter that smacked of unabashed impertinence – or so it seemed to us.
Anyway, to get back to the story: The auto driver obediently pulled up to one side of the busy road and stepped out of the vehicle. “Insurance, licence,” the cop demanded. The driver pulled out the insurance papers and the licence which, these days, is a small card (gone are the passport-type books) and handed them over. “Pay 100 rupees fine,” said the cop, walking away. The driver followed him and disappeared to the back of the auto. My friend and I sat inside.
After a few minutes, I twisted around to see what was happening. A second policeman was making some jottings, with our driver standing in front of him, a hangdog expression on his face. The cop returned to him what seemed to be the insurance papers. What about the licence: the thought flashed in a nano-second. From words that floated in the air and some commonsensically deduced logic, we gathered that the auto driver had been hauled up for not wearing the regulation khaki uniform. He was in mufti, so to speak.
Then we saw the first cop walk into the nonstop traffic. He was a traffic policeman, after all, what needs he fear? Only horrendous intersections during peak hours. He held what looked to be the auto driver’s licence card in his hand. The cop then hailed a two-wheeler, hopped on to the pillion, and rode off, still holding the licence, like a trophy it seemed. We watched, flabbergasted. What would the driver do now? Where on earth was the cop going with his licence?
I looked back; everyone seemed so business-as-usual, standing there like nothing had happened. I got off the auto, clutching some packages, and hobbled towards the second cop and the driver asking, “What happened, is it done, can we go? Where’s the licence? That policeman’s got it. He got onto a bike and went away? What will you do? How can he do this? We need to go….”
You get the drift. The questions and confusion came, wave after wave, and very soon I was in a right pickle, as they say, and totally taken aback by the audacity of the cop – even if he was supposedly the enforcer of the law – in walking off with the driver’s licence right under everybody’s eyes. All the hullabaloo invited the attention of a third policeman who came up to ask what the matter was. In barely controlled fury I recounted the events, punctuated by the occasional squeak and squeal from my friend sitting inside the auto holding on to our shopping loot. “Oh really? Is that what happened? I see. I don’t know… He’ll bring it back….”
I think the third cop was trying to say something but I wasn’t listening. Meanwhile, I ranted about how definitely I would complain and I wouldn’t take this lying down and what nonsense and here I have the number what do you think. Of course, I had no numbers and all the names of my colleagues back at work who might have actually been able to “put in a word” had vanished from memory. All that registered was that Cop3 had a big grin on his face. So, too, shockingly, had the driver – except that his grin was of the sheepish variety whereas Cop3 was plain impudent. That’s probably because he was young. Cop2 was grey-haired and unmoved, literally, stuck to his place, writing up yet another fine receipt. Cop1 was clearly bossy action-man.
“Get in, ma,” said the driver. “Let’s go.”
“How?” I asked. “He’s taken away your licence.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll come back here after dropping you, and get it back.”
“But he’s gone.”
“He’ll come back. No problem.” He got the auto started and we were off. But all through the remainder of the ride home, my friend and I spluttered and expostulated, astounded by the cheek of Cop1. Even if the driver had done something wrong, very wrong – in this case, it was a minor infraction – he had no right to walk off with the licence. Maybe he could impound it, but to walk off with it right before our eyes — that was too much!
All the while, the auto driver smilingly tried to calm us down, and assured us all would be well. And as he dropped us off, he said, “Now I know where you live. If there’s any problem, I shall come to you.”
“You do that,” I said, still hissing and bristling.
It’s been a few days. He hasn’t come back. Now it strikes me: Maybe the licence Cop1 made off with was a copy, not the original. That’s what I do. Meaning, I carry a copy, the original’s safe at home. No wonder the auto driver was sanguine. Or maybe, this is what traffic policemen do to auto drivers. Harass them. Both explanations seem equally plausible.
Why do my friend and I feel like there’s egg on our faces?