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| Ta da! |
I got my first pauti* last Saturday. (*pauti – receipt in
Marathi – slang term for the receipt you get when you pay the fine for a traffic
violation.)
On my way back from the first
free servicing of my new Honda Activa, I rode out of a one-way street into the
waiting clutches of a constable who immediately seized my licence to ride. He
asked more questions than all my interviewers in the past. He wanted to know if
I had all the papers, who owned the vehicle, where I stayed, why then my
licence said ‘Ambarnath’ and so on…all in an authoritarian tone, I think, they
teach you in cop school. He wrote all of this down meticulously in Marathi in
his tiny notebook.
I have always been terrified of
landing into one of these soups. I was trying to be cool and all that. The
mention of ‘Ambarnath’ had a kind of effect on him I wasn’t expecting. He
looked like he knew the place. Apparently he used to visit the place often,
since he used to live in Vithalwadi. I used to live in Vithalwadi too, I tell
him. Where? He inquires and then proceeds to tell me where his house was. Genuinely
surprised, I let him know that we might have been neighbours decades ago.
Fifteen minutes have passed in
this unlikely catch-up. He asks me if I know where the Chembur Police Station
is. That’s where I must go to pay the fine to release my licence and get the
receipt. I told him I had no idea where his office is. He said he’ll accompany
me there so I could pay the fine. But then he’ll have to vacate his spot. The solution
is to call the beat marshals doing the rounds in the area and ask them to
accompany me.
While we wait for the, this guy must
be wondering why I’m not in a hurry at all for he says to himself, “Aapko
chhuti hoyega Saturday Sunday.” I nod. “Aapko late ho raha hai toh aap jao. Mereko
fine de do. Main bhar dega.” I ask if I can then collect the receipt from the
police station later. He looks me in the eye and pauses for a few seconds and
calls the beat marshals again, telling them that they must be motherfuckers to
be keeping him waiting for so long.
Soon enough, they arrive. But they
don’t want to accompany a no-entry guy to a police station. Too measly. It is
decided that the cop who caught me will accompany me riding pillion while the
beat cops will stand in his spot. I relent.
On the way to the police station
(riding against the traffic with my upper and dipper alternating and me beeping)
he tells me Chheda Nagar is full of ‘tumhaare log’ meaning ‘your people’. I think
he means south Indians. ‘South ka log gentleman hota hai,’ he observes. I immediately
seize the opportunity to picture myself in a 3-piece suit.
Thankfully, I haven’t had the
need to visit a police station. I’d been pally with the cops at Ambarnath
Police Station because I would frequent it to plant trees for them. This was to
be my first tryst with Mumbai Police. I saw a few Singham types (lean and
built, with moustaches they seemed proud to sport) and a few who looked like
they were imitating Ashok Saraf playing a constable. A cop in uniform was
hanging up his regular clothes he had just arrived in. While I was being
charged Rs. 200 for riding into a no-entry street, I was amused at how a cop
station was nothing but an office – a workplace for these hardworking people. The
inspector who was writing my receipt seemed a wee bit annoyed that the
constable had brought me right when he was planning to leave for home. That explains
why my name on the receipt looks like it plans to escape from the paper.
Licence retrieved and fine paid,
the constable hops back on my vehicle. As promised, I am to drop him off at his
spot.
‘Sorry haan, mein aapko pakda,’
he says.
I am amused. I tell him he’s just
doing his job and wonder aloud as to why he was being apologetic for it.
‘Nahi mereko maloom nahi tha aap
gentleman hai,’ he says.
I laugh, awkward at what that is
supposed to mean.
He then proceeds to explain that
he couldn’t have torn my details from his notebook because then his seniors
will find out about it and cause a scene. Apparently every page in a traffic
cop’s notebook is accounted for.
I drop him off at his spot and we
shake hands dramatically.
And that, kids, is the story of how I got my first pauti.
