Our Days Are Numbered.

          Ever since the Delhi government decided to allow even numbered cars on odd dates and vice-versa (ie odd number-plated ones on even dates), there have been deliberations in our house. There may be consideration/confusion in other minds, too, over such issues, but in our house, the quality and quantity (of confusion, not minds) is higher.

          “What about buses?” I wanted to know. “Would it be illegal to board an odd-numbered bus on an even date? What about taxis and ambulances?”

          “It isn’t a law, it’s a suggestion from the government. They’re working on ways to reduce pollution in Delhi. In any case, why,” Shri Husband asked in that what-did-he-do-to-deserve-me tone, “are you bothered about what’s happening thousands of kilometres away?” Shri Husband uses the metric system when he talks/writes. No miles/inches or other backwardness: he believes in moving with the times (nothing to do with any newspaper with that word in it, but the chronologic meaning).

          So I scanned the local papers for what was happening on Goan roads and saw one photo and write-up of someone blocking a car parked on a pavement in front of a shop. I read that article aloud: one senior-ranking member of a newish political party had sat to obstruct the car. He and his friends, amongst them a doctor and an architect, both well-known, actually complained about the car-owner-driver to the cops. The owner-driver’s guards had clearly told them (the politicos, not the cops) to leave. In spite of threats they (politicos, not guards) did this.

          “Good,” Shri Husband said.

          “What’s good?” I retorted. “Poor car-owner.”

          “Going by the size and make of the car, not poor,” claimed Shri Husband.

          “I didn’t mean literally,” I said. “She mightn’t have found a vacant parking slot. How much could she have driven around searching for one? Poor thing.”

          Staring at the photograph in the newspaper, he said, “Poor thing? If she drives, she’s possibly been to school and is from a privileged home. If she owns that car, she’s moneyed. If you’re saying ‘poor thing’ because she’s angles-challenged and therefore can’t park or ignorant of traffic rules or completely deprived of common-sense and courtesy towards others, then her licence should be revoked.”

          Harsh words, typical Shri Husband. Trying to soften his mood, I said, “We don’t know what tensions she had. Maybe she had an appointment to get her hair styled or a pedicure done. When she didn’t find a parking space, she had to put her car somewhere, na?”

          Shri Husband, unrelenting: “Emergency situation, hanh? What would she do if she didn’t get to park near her beauty-parlour?”

          Me, hastily interrupting, before he got into lecture-baazi mode: “I guess she’d just double-park and leave the car wherever convenient. People do that.”

          “Then the private guards, parking attendants and constables on duty will tell her to move.”

          Sometimes Shri Husband behaves like an ignoramus. I wondered: “Why would she bother about them?”

          “You mean she’ll bribe her way out of bad parking?”

          Bai Goanna, who wasn’t taking sides until now, butted in: “Not necessarily. If you treat people like dirt, if you’re indifferent to them, they listen, they obey. It’s better than bribing. We’re paying taxes, no, so we have a right to park on the road. If you have a loud voice, you should see what-all you can get away with.”

          Shri Husband stared at her like she’d arrived from outer space. Slowly, he said: “We don’t deserve our rights if we don’t take responsibility for the things we do. Everybody has a right to use the road, we have to use it judiciously. It’s not someone’s baap ka maal.”

          Bai Goanna and I rolled our eyes at each other. The things he says, so out of sync in today’s India.

          Bai Goanna said to him: “That’s why she must have parked on the pavement, no? She must not have got parking on the road.” I nodded in agreement. We were now the clear majority, two of us versus one of him; we’re a democratic country, majority wins. But Shri Husband doesn’t bother about such facts. (Conversely, such facts don’t bother him. He uses logic and other such nonsense when he talks.)

          “You two do understand that rules are made so that it makes life easier for the majority, right?”

          We nodded, cautiously, because such questions are usually a trap to get us to agree.

          “If everyone parks correctly in the marked slots, it’s easier for more cars to be accommodated. Correct?”

          Ok, sounded reasonable enough.

          “If people shared cars to go shopping, to work, to drop children to school, there’d be less traffic on the road, less headache for parking. Right?”

          Well… right.

          “If more people took public transport, there’d be even less cars on the road, less hassles for parking. See?”

          I didn’t ‘see’. If I wasn’t taking the car, the question of parking wouldn’t arise. Before I could say anything, Bai Goanna said: “The public transport’s pathetic, that’s why people avoid taking it.”

          “So that’s what we should be clamouring to get. Less cars on the road will mean faster transportation, less pollution.”

          “There’s not much pollution in Goa,” I interjected.

          “So far,” said Shri Husband. “We don’t want to be like Delhi, do we, where quality of air is concerned?”

          Bai Goanna shook our heads from side to side.

          “New development this is, with people are getting after bad drivers and parkers,” Bai Goanna whispered to me.

          I whispered right back: “Our days are numbered, no?”

          Shri Husband overheard that. “Odd or even?”  he asked before walking out.

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