15 March 2010

And... cut to March 2010

I was tied up. With something as silly as work. There really is no time for all the nothing I want to do.

I would like to chronicle an adventure I had a few weeks ago on my beautiful street. Nor was I wearing orange, neither was in a mini skirt but still the following incident occurred. It was a quiet day as a local holiday was in effect. The chai shop at the corner of the street was missing and so were his auto driver clientele. It was enchanting in a way; once you crossed the overflowing giant open garbage cans on the side of the road. I stood at the usual spot for the share auto service and was enjoying a cool breeze when a white car sided up to me. The man looked fishy; my pervert-sensor was on high alert but having listened to parts of a Gita commentary the previous day, I was willing to set my sensor on vibrate and proceeded to lend this man my ear. The man mouthed something which I didn't understand so I moved a bit closer to the vehicle only to notice that up-down movement which all men should suitably execute only in the privacy of their own home, with the curtains drawn. The jerk was jerking off. For a minute I was fascinated: how does one drive a stick shift, place a hand on the wheel and have another free for the biological stick? This thought was swiftly swept away by the taste of bile that had started to collect in my throat. The man caught my expression and moved off. When such things happen, and women who are reading this blog will understand, you always wonder if what happened was real? Maybe you mistook the gesture? This fool though comes back for another round. And this time I was taking no nonsense. One bitten, twice fomenting. I informed him that if he asked me one more question I would call the police and began to pull out my mobile phone. I noted his license number; stupidly, only in my head.

I have the Banjara Hills police station on my speed dial. Ladies, as much as this stinks, let me tell you that the power of having a number on the phone itself was quite empowering. I informed the person who picked up what happened (no, I couldn't describe the scene in Hindi):

Hello? Banjara Hills police station? Haan, a man just came up to me and said dirty- dirty things; he was doing dirty things too. He is in a car.

Madam, we can't do anything till you make an official complaint.

Ahem, I am on my way to the office so I can't come right now but I can see that guy in the car and I don't want him to tease other women.

Madam, unless you come to the police station we can't do anything. You can come a few days later as well.

OK. That I could do. So the next weekend, I followed his directions and arrived at the police station. As soon as I walked in, a seat was cleared up for me in front of the information desk. At all points during my conversation there were at least 4 other people speaking in 3 different languages. A suspect too was being interrogated: retail chap accused of stealing. The policeman was attentive, took down my complaint and pronounced that nothing can be done because I didn't get the whole license plate number. I only clearly remembered the last 4 digits. Anyhow, he had a solution for me. He took my mobile, dialed a number from it and spoke to the beat cop, introducing my mobile number to the man. Next time I have an incident I have to just dial this mobile number and the beat cop will be there in 5 - 6 minutes (the cop's guesstimate) and I can have the pervert booked on the spot. So, in addition to the police station number, I now have the beat cop's number on speed dial as well.

How is that for service? Glad I pay my taxes!