I was driving back home last Friday afternoon, bobbing my head to some old-school Prince, when I attempted to make the last seconds of a green light. It didn’t pan out and I slowed to a halt, perhaps a foot or so over the white line. Something in my mind was telling me I was being watched, and so I tried to reverse but another car was already behind me. That’s when a traffic cop sauntered out from behind the bushes like a squirrel with a grudge.
We exchanged the usual insipid pleasantries before he asked me if I knew that I was parked well beyond the line. I looked down and looked at him. “It’s barely 18 inches over, I was revers…”
“Yes,” Mushtaq, my would-be inquisitor, said, taking out a pad and pen. “But it’s technically over the line…” He had a silver tooth in the back of his mouth but otherwise looked like any young cop. This was most upsetting. I had made it for years without being stopped by the traffic police, mainly by smiling at inopportune moments (it’s guaranteed to freak most people out).
He began asking me where I lived and what I did and I asked him how a man could be so cruel as to give me a ticket for being a few inches over a line when no less than three Honda Civics had cut the red light just during our conversation. Unmoved, he began scanning my car. He glanced at my gym bag and his eyes widened slightly when he saw the laptop lying next to it.
“You know…” Mushtaq began sweetly, as if talking to a rape victim, “between us brothers, I do have a quota to fill.” He locked eyes. “It’s really unfair, I know, but what to do?” He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in an exaggerated pose of helplessness. I had the feeling he was telling me what to do.
“It’s not fair,” he continued “That I’d take your license now and you won’t be able to get it back until next Monday because the office will close for prayers in five minutes. Really very unfair…”
“Yes,” I muttered, “that isn’t very fair. Also, it’s not going to happen. I have a flight to catch in three days and I can’t possibly leave my license for the weekend.”
[quote]Chai paani, or "tea-and-water", is a euphemism for hospitality, which of course is a euphemism for bribery[/quote]
“Well, sir, chai paani…” he said, while looking around him to see who else was eavesdropping, “can go a long way.” Chai paani, or “tea-and-water”, is a euphemism for hospitality, which of course is a euphemism for bribery. Usually when someone in a uniform says this to you it’s a cue to take out cash. This really pissed me off. Suddenly I went into a white-hot rage at being shaken down for money at a traffic light.
“You want me to give you something?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“The world works in barter, sir ji.”
“Well, Mushtaq,” I said, raising my phone, “It used to. It really did.” I decided to play this like a dramatic court case episode of Law and Order. “But the world works with this phone now.” He seemed confused, so I explained: “I just recorded everything you said. Every. Little. Bit. So, either you stop asking for a bribe or see your face over the 9 o’clock news.” (Do they still even have that?) I was breathing heavily now because lying to authority figures does that to me. But I managed to say: “They love catching corrupt cops on TV, I hear.”
He looked at me for a beat and, contrary to my master plan, gave me a ticket anyway. “Thinks he’s being clever,” he muttered. “Go! Try and get your license now!”
Well, that didn’t work out. I made it to the bank where I had to pay my ticket but like my nemesis had predicted, it was closed and surrounded by an angry mob of fellow traffic violators, mostly motorcyclists and cabbies. When I walked up to the window they parted and looked at me like I was a stripper in a church.
The man at the ticket counter told me I had to return Monday and said how sorry he was that he couldn’t do anything. As I walked to my car dejected, this little kid ran up to me, tugged my sleeve and pointed to an alleyway next to the bank. There, hiding behind a pipe was one of the door guards of the bank, gesturing for me to follow.
I did. It was like one of those drug deals in 80s movies: following a shady figure through darkened alleys and pathways until you get to a niche in a building. There he stopped, turned, and looked both ways before saying he could get me my ticket paid earlier. He said this in a deep voice full of gravitas, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about a traffic ticket and not getting my jail time brought down to 25 years.
“The fine is Rs 300. I’m leaving in a few days. I need that license.”
He nodded. I gave him Rs 1000 and said I didn’t have “change”, code to keep the rest. He smiled and shuffled into the bank from the back entrance. I had scarcely been waiting in a my car ten seconds when he emerged again from the front doors, walked to my car, handed me a ticket and thanked me for my time.
The whole thing took me just under an hour, and my civic duty was throwing up inside my head at having done what I’d promised never to do. Everyone saw what happened. No one said a word.
Believe it or not, I’ve made it all these years without having to bribe someone with actual money. It seemed too sordid, so base, so unlike something I would ever have to do. That is a patently stupid delusion to hold if you live here. At some point, everyone has paid a bribe. Whether to a traffic cop or a customs officer or a minister of state, bribery is the one great SOP in this country. Which is why when I finally got to driving home, I felt both dirty and relieved and part of the national fabric.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
We exchanged the usual insipid pleasantries before he asked me if I knew that I was parked well beyond the line. I looked down and looked at him. “It’s barely 18 inches over, I was revers…”
“Yes,” Mushtaq, my would-be inquisitor, said, taking out a pad and pen. “But it’s technically over the line…” He had a silver tooth in the back of his mouth but otherwise looked like any young cop. This was most upsetting. I had made it for years without being stopped by the traffic police, mainly by smiling at inopportune moments (it’s guaranteed to freak most people out).
He began asking me where I lived and what I did and I asked him how a man could be so cruel as to give me a ticket for being a few inches over a line when no less than three Honda Civics had cut the red light just during our conversation. Unmoved, he began scanning my car. He glanced at my gym bag and his eyes widened slightly when he saw the laptop lying next to it.
“You know…” Mushtaq began sweetly, as if talking to a rape victim, “between us brothers, I do have a quota to fill.” He locked eyes. “It’s really unfair, I know, but what to do?” He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in an exaggerated pose of helplessness. I had the feeling he was telling me what to do.
“It’s not fair,” he continued “That I’d take your license now and you won’t be able to get it back until next Monday because the office will close for prayers in five minutes. Really very unfair…”
“Yes,” I muttered, “that isn’t very fair. Also, it’s not going to happen. I have a flight to catch in three days and I can’t possibly leave my license for the weekend.”
[quote]Chai paani, or "tea-and-water", is a euphemism for hospitality, which of course is a euphemism for bribery[/quote]
“Well, sir, chai paani…” he said, while looking around him to see who else was eavesdropping, “can go a long way.” Chai paani, or “tea-and-water”, is a euphemism for hospitality, which of course is a euphemism for bribery. Usually when someone in a uniform says this to you it’s a cue to take out cash. This really pissed me off. Suddenly I went into a white-hot rage at being shaken down for money at a traffic light.
“You want me to give you something?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“The world works in barter, sir ji.”
“Well, Mushtaq,” I said, raising my phone, “It used to. It really did.” I decided to play this like a dramatic court case episode of Law and Order. “But the world works with this phone now.” He seemed confused, so I explained: “I just recorded everything you said. Every. Little. Bit. So, either you stop asking for a bribe or see your face over the 9 o’clock news.” (Do they still even have that?) I was breathing heavily now because lying to authority figures does that to me. But I managed to say: “They love catching corrupt cops on TV, I hear.”
He looked at me for a beat and, contrary to my master plan, gave me a ticket anyway. “Thinks he’s being clever,” he muttered. “Go! Try and get your license now!”
Well, that didn’t work out. I made it to the bank where I had to pay my ticket but like my nemesis had predicted, it was closed and surrounded by an angry mob of fellow traffic violators, mostly motorcyclists and cabbies. When I walked up to the window they parted and looked at me like I was a stripper in a church.
The man at the ticket counter told me I had to return Monday and said how sorry he was that he couldn’t do anything. As I walked to my car dejected, this little kid ran up to me, tugged my sleeve and pointed to an alleyway next to the bank. There, hiding behind a pipe was one of the door guards of the bank, gesturing for me to follow.
I did. It was like one of those drug deals in 80s movies: following a shady figure through darkened alleys and pathways until you get to a niche in a building. There he stopped, turned, and looked both ways before saying he could get me my ticket paid earlier. He said this in a deep voice full of gravitas, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about a traffic ticket and not getting my jail time brought down to 25 years.
“The fine is Rs 300. I’m leaving in a few days. I need that license.”
He nodded. I gave him Rs 1000 and said I didn’t have “change”, code to keep the rest. He smiled and shuffled into the bank from the back entrance. I had scarcely been waiting in a my car ten seconds when he emerged again from the front doors, walked to my car, handed me a ticket and thanked me for my time.
The whole thing took me just under an hour, and my civic duty was throwing up inside my head at having done what I’d promised never to do. Everyone saw what happened. No one said a word.
Believe it or not, I’ve made it all these years without having to bribe someone with actual money. It seemed too sordid, so base, so unlike something I would ever have to do. That is a patently stupid delusion to hold if you live here. At some point, everyone has paid a bribe. Whether to a traffic cop or a customs officer or a minister of state, bribery is the one great SOP in this country. Which is why when I finally got to driving home, I felt both dirty and relieved and part of the national fabric.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter