How I got my first pauti

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.