Cops and Jams.

“Too bad,” Bai Goanna said as we were driving towards Panaji, “The jams we have these days.” Shri Husband, who always takes things literally and has the imagination/diplomacy of an ant when it comes to dealing with Bai Goanna said: “What’s bad about strawberry/mixed fruit? Red in colour, sweet to taste, packed neatly, loved by young and old, been there for years. What about it is too bad?” Bai Goanna rolled her eyes and rephrased what she’d said: “Really bad, the traffic jams we have these days, especially between Porvorim and Panaji.” Shri Husband’s twisted logic: “Would you be happier if they existed between Vasco and Margao or Pednem and Mapusa? Just asking.” “No,” Bai Goanna responded as gently as she could. “I don’t like traffic jams. Anywhere, anytime. Right here, there’s no space at all, between cars, in between lanes. See those ambulances? Must be transporting very ill patients, no? No one’s moving to the side to give them place to go.” “Where can any vehicle move?” Shri Husband uttered the truth. Then he said: “Both patients and vehicles are wailing in despair. Sad.” Bai Goanna took over: “Look at those taxies. They’re in such a hurry… maybe to make sure their passengers don’t miss flights or trains. And those women on the scooters, must be mothers racing to fetch their children from school. People must be heading for exams/interviews, worried about reaching on time.” “And,” Shri Husband interrupting her, looking at someone in the rear-view mirror, “people who can’t bear the thought that they’ll have to miss the first few minutes of a movie. They honk so much.” “Everybody honks,” Bai Goanna said, “out of frustration and irritation.” “Does it, will that make this traffic move?” Shri Husband can’t bear to hear anyone speak more than two sentences max, before he barges into any dialogue. “Look at those chaps coming from the back. They’re trying to overtake, adding to this chaos. They’re blocking the on-coming traffic as well, converting snarls to stand-stills.” Often, he’s says something that makes sense and Bai Goanna and I have to keep quiet. But Bai Goanna was in a spirited mood. She said: “It’s the fault of the cops, you know.” “I don’t see how,” said Shri Husband. “Tell me how it’s the fault of the cops.” “They don’t know how to handle traffic,” she said with an air of ‘I’m-going-to-win-this-round’, adding: “They’re not tough enough to handle so much traffic.” There was a drop in the conversation, something that happens periodically in any conversation. Amongst the three of us, conversations ascend from debates to arguments in very little time; the latter sound like quarrels in mere moments. Full blown fights never happen, have never happened. Regarding the future, our motto is que sera, sera. But the amount of noise we made inside our car and the gesturing we did whilst talking, worried the neighbours. Car-neighbours in that traffic jam, I mean. We had plenty of audience around, though with all the windows up, bless the a-cs, only expert lip-readers would have known what we were ‘discussing’. However, as I said, there was a lull in the conversation. At such times, Shri Husband seizes the opportunity to talk… not that he needs to be given a chance or encouragement. “We need fewer cars on the road, not wider roads,” he said. “Haan?” said Bai Goanna, her eyebrows hitting the top of her forehead in surprise. “How so?” “We need more parking space, we need to enter crowded towns. Bypasses have their advantages, but …we need less vehicles on the roads.” The firm tone was scary. Bai Goanna doesn’t get scared easily. “So-o, will you walk everywhere you go?” “We need to car-pool. We need buses, public or private, comfortable and reliable. See all these people stuck in their cars, one or two persons per car. If they had an option of travelling in a clean, maybe air-conditioned bus, they might take it; it’s much cheaper than taking one’s own car and one doesn’t have to do the first-gear-second-gear exercise, one can read/browse on the move.” “Who’s going to walk to the bus-stop?” Bai Goanna pointed out. “You have to walk to a bus-stop or have someone drop you there by car/scooter. Villages could have satellite/shuttle services at fixed/convenient times for short trips from waddo till main road.” The idealist Shri Husband versus the practical Bai Goanna. Sometimes they reverse roles, though, so it’s hard to predict at the beginning of a dialogue who will play which role for the day. She: “I wouldn’t mind walking to the bus-stop, will exercise my limbs, give me a chance to breathe in the outdoors and meet my friends enroute. But…” Always that qualifying ‘but’. She continuing: “…I can’t stand the garbage heaps that I have to pass. Inside a car, all ugliness gets shut out.” Shri Husband added: “Everyone thinks like you, so we get traffic jams.” She: “It’s the fault of the cops. They can’t handle the traffic. They should have diverted the vehicles some other way and avoided this.” He: “They may have considered it and had a reason that you don’t know anything about.” She: “I’m a tax-payer. I expect all government servants to do their jobs well.” He: “The government servants expect you to shoulder your responsibility, follow the rules of the road, obey traffic regulations...” She: “Cops have to make sure no one breaks rules.” Our in-car battle had warmed up. He: “You can’t have one cop per car, like you can’t have a municipal worker for every person who litters/spits.” That’s when we noticed the number-plates. Various scripts, different languages, fonts and sizes… some ‘arty’ ones we couldn’t read. If the cops were to challan them all, the traffic jam would have carried over to the next day. We discovered the causes for the jam: a broken down vehicle and crowds of long-weekend visitors. I’d sat through the dialogue without saying a word. I’m impressed with myself, I can stay quiet sometimes. Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

No Lights on My Car

          Poilee the government took away the tint from my car’s windows and now it says I can’t put a light on top. I loved all the lights on my car-top. I’ve removed them now because I’m a law-abiding Goan. I had devised a way of blinking them one at a time or all together, depending on my mood. Solid my car looked, like a disco on wheels.

When I put the red one on all the other vehicles screeched out of the way. Some cops saluted and no-body dared cross the road.

When I used the blue and yellow swivelling one, I’d sing neele-neele amber pe… at the top of my voice. All cops saluted me; some bystanders, too.

The pure blue bulb I removed. Not nice to imitate an ambulance. Might bring bad luck, I thought, what if some dying patient put a curse on me. Worse, if the patient got better, he or his mogachi might take revenge by releasing the varo from my tyres. Why take a chance? Like that I’m bhitrey haan.

I couldn’t pretend my car was a hearse because in Goa at least we don’t have red hearses. Don’t know about other places. Don’t know if hearses have lights on top because they’re never in a hurry. Or shouldn’t be. What if the dead (wo)man is a VIP? Maybe then they put a red light on temporary basis.  Must check.

Man In My Life (MIML) heard me grumbling to myself. “What are you going to do now? You’re not a VIP, no red light, nothing,” he said.

I gave back: “Government can make rules, poon haanv aikataa kai kitein,  haanve kitey kelaa zaanna… I took an idea from the truck-wallas. I strung purple, red and green fairy lights on my (oops, sorry, my car’s) fenders.  From the Jai Mata Di types I maroed another idea: I tied on the windows and the outer mirrors golden-bordered orange cloth festoons. And I’ve installed this fantastic horn, men, can make you deaf at half-volume.”

MIML said: “Just because you’ve dressed the car like a Bollywood item ….” And then he started laughing. (I think he’s jealous of my ideas).

Forget truck, I retorted. I know how to get my car to look respectable. I said: “I will get ‘Army’ written on my back number plate. I haven’t seen any with Coastguard/ Postal Services written on them. Maybe there’s a law against that and I’m law-abiding.” I got ‘Army’ painted neatly, visibly, before MIML said anything else.

Whilst I was at the garage, I thought I might as well get ‘Press’ painted on the front number-plate. In red and in capitals: PRESS.

Looked quite impressive, I thought, should be able to enter any enclosure at any event.

It was much later that I added the doctor’s insignia. Nowadays the simple red cross won’t do, you have to have those snakes going around some dagger/sword-like thing. Not difficult to find; I asked around and got a sticker. Dotoralee gaadee means I can park where I want, not many people will question me. I chant “Emergency” like a magic mantra. Everybody stands around in awe, staring, hoping some television-type excitement will happen. Bedecked car can bend rules.

Today I’ve added the lawyer’s black and white bow-tie sticker right next to the doctor’s one. So if I’m stopped for something, I can say I’m either a doctor or a lawyer. (Our cops will get stressed out trying to figure out who the owner is. Or impressed.)

Can’t leave religion out. I’ve got stickers for both Sai Babas, two ‘oms’ of different sizes and one ‘devak kaalljee’. Oh yes, one metal kurees to hang from the rear-view mirror with a Hanuman in an aerial dance-pose for company. Inside I have magnetic murtis of Mangeshi-Shantadurga – cultural necessity.

Best of all, I have installed fog-lights. Those bluish-white ones, zaannaa, that all the Mercedes, Audis, BMWs and other Big Money cars in Goa and neighbouring states have? They can effectively blind any driver in any weather. I don’t know whether there’s any rule regarding them, but who will enforce it? See, be practical, you can’t catch car after car after car, no? Plus, my number plate is also single digit. Shows Paid-Money status immediately.

Having loud music coming from every corner of the interior and saare jahaan se acchaa linked to the reverse gear helps.

There are so many ways to shows who’s the boss. Never mind the red lights.

(Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)