Two encounters with the law

Encounters take one of 3 forms, motorist denies, or asks “do you know who I am?” or contributes to policeman’s fund.

The government employee for whom I feel a great deal of empathy is the traffic policeman; not the bloke who drives the four-wheeler with his siren wailing from the bowels of the engine, or the bloke with the helmet and motorcycle who lurks behind a bush, ready to pounce on the unwary motorist who is about to commit a felony. I am referring to the chap in the dirty white uniform who has to deal with an assortment of traffic and the baking summer sun, who is not only in desperate danger of being run over, but also has to ingest a daily lungful of freshly distilled carbon monoxide manufactured on a regular basis by prehistoric buses, trucks and rickshaws. Some charitable and public-spirited senior officer in the constabulary did once issue cloth masks to the fellows on duty in an attempt to stop them from pegging down from unnatural causes. But the masks appear to have disappeared.

However, when a motorist crosses the red light, the policeman’s eyes light up. This is his moment of triumph, something he has been waiting for. He becomes the boss man on the plantation. The encounter usually takes one of three forms and on occasion, all three gambits are employed. The first is the strong denial. Astonished, the motorist says he certainly did not break the traffic light because he crossed it before amber had turned to red. This invariably results in a display of sarcasm, accusations of gross impropriety, rancour and rage… until it ends in a cordial handshake. If this does not work, the motorist employs the second manoeuvre normally reserved for people in high places. “Do you know who I am?” Now this is a difficult one for the chap who has six children and a wife who is in labour. If the policeman has a brother who is married to the sister of the second cousin of the personal assistant to the chief minister of Balochistan, he might be able to hold the fort and take away the driver’s licence. If he doesn’t, he might just settle the issue by persuading the motorist to contribute to the policeman’s benevolent fund.



In the 45 years that I sat behind the wheel of my car, I had only two encounters with the traffic police. The first occurred while I was listening to Liebestod from Wagner’s opera Tristan und Isolde and Kirsten Flagstad was about to hit the high note. Now, I am one of those people who believe that one should always be courteous and polite, irrespective of the circumstances. I immediately apologised, said I was in the wrong and had no excuse. The policeman was completely taken aback. He had not expected an immediate capitulation and probably thought I was the kind of person who would drop the names of a few mandarins in Islamabad. After recovering from the initial shock, he politely asked me for my driver’s licence. Now I had been using the same booklet issued to me in 1958 full of revenue stamps. However, it was the black and white photograph, in which I sported a moustache that was a cross between Lord Kitchener and a sergeant in the 27^th Bengal Rifles, that did the trick. My licence was respectfully returned. On the second occasion, a policeman with a scowl on his face said in the tart tones of repressed rage, “Lee sance”. The following dialogue followed. “I beg your pardon/This is one way street gentleman/I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t know/Okay you can go.” Who says all traffic cops are bad?

Published in The Express Tribune, February 23^rd, 2014.

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