Tormentor the Saviour

A Bicycle was my mode of transport to college in the second half of 60s. A Hercules cycle that cost all of ₹ 300 then. The Rupee had not yet begun its plummeting like an aircraft shot by an air defence gun, yet. May be it had just been hit!

Once when I was going parallel to a Standard Herald car (a car that I admired and liked) trying to see whether I can keep up with her, the well dressed owner-driver turned towards me and asked with a smile, “Do you know at what speed you are going? You are going at 40 Kilo Meters”. So what, I thought and smiled back in acknowledgement. However I stopped racing him after that day. I felt a bit embarrassed, though we used to meet often. Another vehicle and person that I admired and tried to keep up with was a Bullet and its well dressed rider. He used to go at a steady speed with dignity and the bike would emanate its royal steady beat. Man, what a beat at cruising speed! Those days Bullet had dignity. Now that any Tom, Dick or Harry is able to procure one and ride it without the dignity commanded by that bike, I feel sad.

Having been addicted to anything cowboy, not to speak of just the movies, horse riding was a dream. So I tied a wire across the handle bar of the cycle. That’s what I used to hold and not the handles. Only rarely when the breaks had to be applied, the handles were held. In fact I used to avoid applying the brakes at all and used to control the speed merely with proper timing, even on turns. Those days the traffic was not mad, though people did complain! All depends on the time period. Holding on to that wire like you hold the reins of the horse, I deliberately used to go over any bump or ditch on the road, leaning forward and up from the seat imagining the cycle to be a horse as it galloped or jumped! Yes, I was crazy. I remember there were some who would look at me curiously about my bike riding. By the way those days a cycle was called a bike and a motor cycle was called a motor bike. Now the former is cycle and the latter is simply bike, right?

One day after lunch I started from home for college as we had a football inter collegiate match and I was in our college team. It must have been a holiday, perhaps. Otherwise why start from home in the afternoon! As usual I took off on my “Chetak” and made him gallop at full speed. At a T junction there was this “stop, look, go” sign. As I approached it, controlling my speed (without the brakes, remember), I looked left and right and since there was no vehicle in sight either way, took the right turn at a respectable clip. And there I rode onto a policeman! There was this dreaded species known as Sergeants those days, with motorcycles. The motor cycles of course were Bullets, what else! And most of the Sergeants were smart, good looking Anglo Indians, in very smart uniforms. The boss of the constable who stopped me was also one. They were almost invisible under a canopied tree (yes there were trees along the roads of Madras those days), and just far enough from the junction purely to trap rule breakers like me. For the record, let me tell you, nobody ever thought of running away from policemen those days, unlike nowadays, and neither did I. In any case with me on a Hercules pretending to be Chetak and them on a Bullet, I would have had fat lot of chance of escape! That apart, I got down and tried to plead with them about the importance of reaching the college, which was not far from that spot, due to the match etc. They just smiled in all understanding, made out a challan and pointed out to the Mobile Court parked on the opposite side of the junction, again under a luxurious tree, quite concealed. If you take right turn as I did you run into the Sergeant with his team and if you take the left turn you go straight to the Mobile Court where also there was a posse of policemen. My policeman accompanied, should I say escorted, me up to the Mobile Court.

A word about Mobile Courts. Those were the days when law breaking was not the norm. Hence for the few idiots who broke the law, especially for minor traffic violations, to impart swift and instant justice, there used to be vans parked at random junctions on random days at random times. In my case, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon was not a peak hour or anything you can understand. But the guardians of law were there. Peak hour as a terminology, did not even exist those days to my mind, as I had never heard any one mentioning it as such. When traffic became chock-a-block, with cars being sold like vegetables on hand carts, that expression found, well, an expression. They have done away with such smart Sergeants and the Mobile Courts in totality, I think. I haven’t seen one in years, if they are still there. They were effective, I can tell you that. The Anglos have disappeared, in any case. A likeable breed! By the way, they were incorruptible.

As I neared the Mobile Court, I found a few more people. That was surprising for I never thought there would be so many customers for the court! Obviously there were sufficient traffic violators. I was wrong in my thinking. My escort handed over the paper to another constable at the entrance to the van and we waited for my turn. During that time, my policeman warned me not to argue with the Judge, a Magistrate actually, I think. I said okay, for in any case I had no defence to argue on. Soon I was called in and at that time two Anglo Indian boys were being dealt with by the Magistrate. “Did you go abreast?” he asked them. (Riding on two cycles abreast was a violation then. Now motor bikes go in twos and threes. Who’s there to question?) They tried to say, yes sir, but sir. He said; “Two rupees”. Again he asked but a little more sternly, “Did you go abreast?” Again they began; “But Sir...” “Five rupees” he cut them short abruptly and more sternly asked the question again, glaring at them. By then the boys got the message and I too understood why the policeman warned me. The boys looked down and meekly said “Yes Sir”. So the five rupees stood. The principle is you are there because you made a traffic violation. Simple. Now if you try to argue your case, the Magistrate would raise the fine a couple of times and if you persisted then you were asked to stand aside and further proceedings would be carried in the actual court with all its ramifications, manifestations, seriousness and unpredictability.

I was called in next and I moved up to the cage and the Magistrate asked me; “Did you stop at the stop, look and go signal?” I said “No Sir”. I am always truthful and respectful. He said “Two rupees” and followed it with “Next”. So I knew I have been dealt with and I came out of the van. I searched my pocket to see how much money I had and to my horror I found only one rupee in a corner of the pocket - one single, measly rupee coin! From the cashier’s desk which was on the platform (that also used to be there in Madras – you know alongside the road on which pedestrians walked? – I am forced to explain such alien words and things, alas), I moved to my escort and told him my financial condition.

I must tell you at this point that one rupee was normally enough for a good boy like me, who might need some change for a puncture of the cycle or so. I was not like many others who would stop by a tea shop, have a tea, a snack and a cigarette to boot, just for style. And perhaps ogle at girls passing by. Not me. Cycle down to college, play games and cycle back home.....oh some classes too, apart from NCC parades. That was me. So at times I may buy a chiki or something to keep biting while cycling back home, when too tired. To mend a puncture of the cycle would cost 25 paise and a chiki 10 paise or so. So in fact one rupee was quite sufficient. Under normal conditions that is. It turned out this was not a normal condition.

I began to panic. I felt very ashamed too. As I said, I moved towards my policeman and told him my predicament. He said that the option then was to surrender the cycle and pay the fine in the regular court and take the cycle back from there. Now that was not as simple as it sounded. That was a huge rigmarole as even I could understand. I must have nearly cried, though I hadn’t shed any tears, I remember. My countenance must have been at its most sorrowful state, though. I told him about the distance to my house which was about 10 Kms from my college and more so about the match that day which I could not miss and God knows what all. I rambled a lot, I remember. I was in the abysmal depths of misery. It was also going through my mind that I had to tell my father about my misadventure and the need for another rupee, if not the whole two and wondering about the consequences, especially since his constant reminder to us kids was, “discretion is the better part of valour”. The policeman kept looking at me through my blabbering and came up with a solution. He loaned me one rupee with the condition that I return it next day at his police station, which fortunately was close to my college. He gave me his name and number. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that my pocket would be empty and what would happen if I had a puncture, so why not loan me the whole two rupees? I decided I would push the cycle all the way home in such an eventuality. With that loaned one rupee I paid the fine of two rupees and was a free man, till I repaid that loan, and so could take my bike back.

To cut the story short, I reached the college for the match, that had already begun and so had to enter as a substitute, and later reached home and narrated the story to the amusement of, and the admonishment by, the family members. But their admiration for the constable was total. Next day I went to the police station, found him and paid him back his one rupee in full, with profuse thanks.

That was how my tormentor himself became my saviour! He was a lesson for me for my future discharge of duties. Do it humanely, he taught me.

PS. I wanted to own a Bullet myself, when I became able bodied but by then my then sweetheart was deadly against motorcycles. I believe one could not carry vegetables on it! So I settled for that cute and more powerful of the two scooters in the market then, a Vespa. What a beautiful scooter, with just three gears! And yes, that scooter cost ₹ 3,300, for which I had to take a loan! Our salary was such.

I made up for not owning a Bullet in two ways. One, by manipulating a Commanding Officer to get a brand new one issued personally to me in a field station and two, by learning and displaying stunts on it. Bullet was so manly and absolutely a “gazab ka savari” as the advertisement said those days.

As for my love of horses, I still kick myself for not using the opportunity of learning horse riding in the Academy. I can not remember why I didn’t join that hobby club to realise that dream! Sigh!