It was a
reflex action, there was no other way to explain Mamta’s juvenile getaway. The
traffic policeman was squinting at her papers when her right foot took on a
life of its own, the silver Honda retreating in a nebula of guilt and anger.
A law
abiding citizen belching on values, Mamta had a strong sense of black and
white. “How can people break rules? I was brought up to respect authority,” she
often simmered at the apparent state of anarchy around.
“Madam,
do you realize why I waved you down?” the cop had said. She had apparently stepped
over the yellow divider, literally crossing the line! There had been a car
snailing ahead and Mamata had swung the slightest right to overtake. This was
embarrassing! Another policeman had sauntered up to her window putting pen to
the challan book. “License and pollution papers?” he had drawled. It rattled
her to be at the receiving end of such pedestrian demands. “This is a copy,
where is the original license?” Mamta remembered silently cursing her
husband “Damn Hari’s cautiousness, he advocated carrying copies, just in case.”
“Please
hurry up and take whatever you have to. Don’t ask me all these questions!” she
had glared at the lukewarm men. “You will have to pay penalty Madam. Copy not
allowed ” and Mamta was gone, leaving the traffic keepers clutching at her
history.
Foolishly
enough, she had dared hope for sympathy at home. “You just drove off like
that?” her husband was aghast. “Leaving your license and papers behind?” his
voice climbed a scale. Mamta was frigid, “It was your idea to carry a copy!”
Hari was crestfallen,
an organizer to the core, his study shelves arrayed with files on everything
from family finances to the dog’s medical records. “I know, I know but to slip
away like that, from under their noses…I don’t believe this!” And of course Mamta
found it convenient to be defensively dismissive “Forget the license, it was
just a copy”
“No way,
I will have to retrieve the lot. You must keep your wits about you and that
Radio FM plays too loud in your car. Get into the habit of anticipating honey.”
Mamta tuned him out, pulling the original license from her metal cupboard to
tuck it carefully into her cards pouch. She was livid with herself already and
Hari’s litany sounded like he was rubbing it in.
A highly
educated professional, Mamta took pride in her self-sufficiency “I am not
clinging to my husband like a vine.” She was therefore self-contained when Hari
dropped a white packet on her work table the following evening. He was puffed
up and preening with victory “Here are your car papers Madam Bolter!” In that
moment, the traffic policeman seemed almost a friend.
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