The character of Sanzi’s mother in this narrative has been referred to as “Mom” on purpose, with the earnest intent of glorifying an indomitable role-otherwise eclipsed by societal clichés. It should not be misconstrued as a generic usage of "Mom”
Warm summer afternoons are harbingers of siesta and pipe dreams - one that drifts you away to the breezy seaside, with splashing waves stirring up an ice-cold cocktail right next to gently swaying hammocks - seemingly hamstrung by delicate snap-at-any-moment palm trees. The afternoon at Sanzi’s would have lived the mid-summer day dream, had not her MOM realized the missing accompaniments for the next meal of the day. So, she decided to snap out of the sloth-state and gear up for the errand ahead. This meant cajoling or at times coercing her 16-year-old daughter Sanzi for a scooty ride- these rides never stretched beyond a 1 km radius. Being a true-blue teen rebel that she was, Sanzi piped in with customary protests when Mom placed her request. “Why should I ride the scooty now? You never let me ride it whenever I want.” It would end with the customary flat-lining statement – with the whining undertone beyond rhyme and reason that infuriated Mom - “Why can’t you let me ride the scooty alone?”. Diversion was the key and Mom too had evolved with refined blueprints to deal with her once-teensy- now troublesome teenaged daughter. She would ever conjure with devious ways to strike reason or truce with Sanzi, to buckle her up for the mission. So it was this time. The prospect of a bucketload of potato chips and other fritters that would sustain a week-long binging.
Just as every social and political system that
worked at microcosmic level to give into bribery, Mom too yielded at times, to
placate her daughter with small treats. It was definitely a safer though
unhealthier route to preserve one’s sanity than to have her heart-rate spiking
up with the misguided zeal and adventurous streak of Sanzi. Thus Sanzi was
convinced to chauffeur her to the shop that housed the needed commodities.
Now, the shop was within a radius of 500m and both Mom and
daughter did not deem it as much of a risk to venture out: in letting an
under-aged behind the wheel of a 2-wheeler. There was of course the added bonus
with the ride in the blazing heat. While it gave Sanzi the highs of being a
roadie, seated on one monster of a bike, whirring through non-maneuverable terrains;
Mom took the outing as an outlet for
expending some ounce of her daughter’s energy. Sanzi was, to quote her
Mom in an exasperated state of mind, “One supernova that would create chaos in
the universe”.
What was reassuring about safely venturing out on a
two-wheeler was the summer heat that vowed to cast a sleep spell even on the
law and order machinery on the road, as the spell had shown effect innumerable times in the past(Not that the
weather played a pivotal role in deciding the wakefulness and
hibernation/aestivation state of the traffic police).This meant that they would be
off duty and the Mom & daughter duo would be off the radar,
So the dynamic duo set off, on their sputtering TVS scooty, carefree with no helmets on. Sanzi’s theory on helmets was that these ‘headgears’ can cause claustrophobia, headaches, hair-fall et al. Above all, the argument-killer against helmets was “Which traffic police would want to station himself under the scorching heat, just to check whether motorists have licenses or are wearing helmets?” The otherwise law-abiding Mom, with no energy left to pick the skein of another quarrel with her daughter, would eventually yield. Even for Mom, donning a helmet was like bearing the burden of the world– More like Atlas, with no place to shrug off his world of worries. Helmet-less, they stepped out of the dinghy basement to face the brunt of a fiery sun, the blinding glare and the refracting glass walls of the surrounding office buildings that painted a picture of a desert with several mirages.
No sooner did they get past the entrance gate of the society,
Sanzi and her mom were caught by surprise. Their trail was intercepted by a
trio of police officers who seem to have appeared out of thin air. On being
accosted to the side of the road, Sanzi and Mom realized how they missed
spotting the officers from a distance.
The dust-ridden foot paths that ran alongside the compound
of their apartment, also sported half-grown trees planted at regular intervals. The
trees did not boast of lushness or promising canopies as they were covered in a
coat of dust as well. The 'living greens' of the area blended in perfectly
with the urban background of pale colored compound walls, cloud of smoke and an
aura of cold concrete. It seemed that the tree had taken the perfect camouflage
to hide from the axe – Would any machine or man bring down a wall of concrete
or anything that even remotely resembled with the like? Whether the trees would escape the axe or not in the near
future was left to question. But what they gave the uniformed goons looming over in the present, was the needed camouflage to remain in hiding, for watching and then, springing
into action to catch hold of
unsuspecting and supposedly law-breaking motorists. Their act was comparable to the hunting games spearheaded by Jim Corbett and
Team, on a trail to catch a man-eater in the wilderness of the Himalayas. The only wilderness the traffic police was confronted
with was the concrete jungle and its lop-sided pavements, trenches and
pop-up-anytime manholes. Unmindful of such treacherous trails, the two-wheelers played it up with aplomb,
engaging in hop-scotch with pedestrians, Sumo-vehicles and countless roadside
encroachments that would even throw the most skillful of drivers off-gear!But which traffic cop would brook that!
Mom’s reverie was broken by the inspector’s interrogation in
Kannada and Sanzi’s dismissive answering. Though they had been nestling in the
homeland of the Kannadigas for more than a decade now, the local dialect was
something still foreign to them. Mom could manage a cockney dialect or a hybrid
of Telugu, Tamil and Kannada to connect with the locals where Hindi failed to
play its part. Whereas Sanzi would make brazen attempts to converse in Kannada –
thanks to the newly-burgeoned interest, spurned by the discovery of a pocket “Learn
Kannada in 30 days” book. “Sir, it is
there in the scooty, I can show it you now”, rallied Sanzi in a high-pitched
voice. The police replied, with a mouthful of paan, repeating his previous statements “Not wearing helmet means,
1500 fine, no license means 1000 fine”. Sanzi persisted “Our apartment is right
behind. I can bring the license”. The police smacked in disapproval “How old
are you?” . Sanzi braced up for the inevitable and muttered “I am sixteen”. The
inspector with a smug look “Do you understand that licenses are not issued for
those below 18 years of age?” Sanzi was stumped. This was when Mom came out of her ‘suspended
state of animation” and intervened “Sir,
sorry sir, this is the first time sir, let us go, Sir”. The guys in Khaki held
their pedestal high, running the same lines, “1500 for no helmet, 1000 for no
license”, like an old gramophone record that would go in a loop, rendering
age-old classical songs in still time frames. But for Mom and Sanzi, these did not sound like
melodies, they were more like jarring rock bands, drumming in unpleasant revelations
on your head – in this case, the whopping fine amount. They were both in a
tizzy and at a loss of what to do next. So while Mom continued with her “sorry
chants”, the "catcher-in-the-rye" inspector roped in another from his team, to deal with
the duo. Apparently, as the duo discovered later, he was the “Vasool Raja”(the bounty collector)
officer to make the offenders cough up
the pennies.
The gang of cops exchanged glances, while Mom and Sanzi
glanced at each other furtively. Mom
clutched her wallet tight, aware of the impending doom – parting from a huge
sum would mean dealing with one Grumpy Grinch of a husband for weeks together +
an unwarranted economy drive to cushion the unprecedented monetary loss. But
she was also a wee bit thankful that the
wallet was not hoarded with cash, and she knew intuitively that Vasool officers preferred hard cash to
the new-age avatars of online payment. Even if they did not, Mom was hatching a
plan to evade using GPAY or phonepay or even PAYTM for paying the penalty.
Network issues, low battery or a
dysfunctional touchscreen – Mom’s phone embodied the prime qualities of a
cranky gadget.
While giving shape to her plan, Mom continued pleading before the Vasool Raja for not having
the required fine amount. Then came the twist in the tale. What led to it was
something to wonder about. The mulish officers who were, without a soupcon of
doubt, on a fine-collection spree to fill their coffers, softened up and asked Mom “How much do you
have?” Mom whimpered back in reply” Just 300”, pulling out crumpled 100 re
notes. The Vasool Raja reconciled
with the reality that only a paltry sum that would be extricated from Mom. Mom
paid off the fine amount to the Vasool
Raja, who issued a warning or two about following the laws of the road. She was relieved and could not help wondering
the reason behind the fallback. Probably her careworn, bedraggled look might
have stalled the cops from embarking on the money-wresting endeavor, lest she
passed out? She lingered with an inkling
of expectation that she would be rendered a receipt but when she noticed that
the Vasool Raja gang had hunted down another "prey" and were preoccupied with their
sniffing and mauling(interrogation), she made a safe retreat with Sanzi towards
their apartment. Mom looked back
shiftily, once she was at a safe distance from Vasool Raja and team. She noticed that they
did show a tint of resemblance to the iconic trio featuring Clint EAstwood in yesteryear
Hollywood blockbuster Bounty Killers- sans the cowboy hat and the chewable cigar. But that
was copiously made up for with outshining
baldness or overly greased mane and an overload
of paan, Mom thought so, as she and
Sanzi reached the gate to the safe haven of her society.
On getting back home, Mom plonked on the sofa, heaving a
sigh of relief and wiping the sweat off her brow. Sanzi on the other hand was
in delirium, dashing off to her gadget-hooked brother, jostling him out of his
moorings to regale the entire episode. While she did, Mom could only muster up
enough strength to tell her daughter “I told you so, but you never listen!”
The parley never ends, and so don’t the misadventures when there is a teen rebel
in the house, a bedgraggled Mom and a system full of loopholes – that even
traffic cops never plug in. So, when chaos reigns on hot summer afternoons who would resist going adrift in a mid summer
day’s dream?
