Whistle blowing......वाहतुक , मी अणि शिट्टी

Gotcha ! Ha ha. (Not that I am her fan (far from it), but ever since Sarah Palin popularized "Betcha!" as part of mainstream vice presidential vocabulary, I've been dying to say something similar, just for fun. I am not running for anything, except, probably the bus. But more about that below. ).

This really is about blowing whistles. Real ones , not idiomatically.

Our roads in Mumbai , now figure on world records.

In the meanwhile, I have heard motorcycle aficionados say things.

Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul.

Well, one wheel comes close to crushing my left toe. ( We will talk about 3 wheels later).

The arterial road outside the campus where I live, continues to be marked for redevelopment and widening, for the last several years. While it may make municipal folks living in South Mumbai, feel important , as they pour over road development maps and plans, for what they may consider, the deplorable suburbs going to seed, etc etc., there has been a completely unexpected benefit from all this, for the common man and woman, in terms of quick reflexes and alertness.And we dont really speak of certain law enforcement folks , who have, in this case, what may loosely be described as a Midas touch.

What do you do, when 6 lanes of speeding , fairly random traffic, of various sizes and power, is suddenly forced into 2 lanes , that too, on a turning? What do you do when pavements and footpaths, hitherto a sign of civilized road development, are dug up with a vengeance, leading one to wonder if they expect a fortune to appear in barrels underground?

The walk to the market to get items of household and kitchen use, has become like a obstacle race. Most motorcycle riders have now perfected the art of overtaking the rest of the traffic from the left, tickled no end about the small width of their motorcycle. (We are a country that drives on the left; hangovers from the Raj. )

I was returning from a trip to a rather posh suburb of Mumbai, by bus. The bus, generally kind of hesitantly stops at a stop, and sometimes even doesn't, unless you stand close to the exit door, and tell the driver, after having huffed, puffed, squeezed and sworn your way through a mass of people in the bus aisle, that gives a new meaning to "no free space". Just when you reach the third and last step of the bus, and are about to hit Terra firma, there is a recurring revving to your left, and an apparition with a helmet, on a motorcycle, if you are lucky, stops a centimetre away from your toe.

When this happened too many times, I took to carrying a whistle in my purse. One of the few things that has actually become cheaper during the current meltdown.

But look at the irony. The next time I had to get down, folks were treated to an aunty type person, laden with bags, whistle in the mouth, adjusting bags on the shoulder (akin to getting organized for war). As the bus asymptotically stopped, I leaned out and stepped down , blowing my whistle. The motorcycle person stopped dead in his tracks, speechless with rage , shocked by the spectacle, but so did a lot of the traffic ahead of the bus.

The bus driver from his seat on a height , higher up than the rest, saw a traffic cop looking quizically, walking over.(The cop presumably hadn't known another "cop" was around). The bus driver quickly motioned me to hide my whistle and carry on on my way home, before the cop noticed this unplanned stop.

Sometimes you have to do petty crimes to stay alive.

Another time, I was standing respectfully at a distance at our Institute gate, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the road. We stand there for ages, watching the light change to amber , organizing ourselves to accelerate our feet as it turns green for us, and red for the other traffic.

Unfortunately, a three wheeler rickshaw behind me was doing the same.

The minute the light turned red for the main road, , the three wheeler revved up behind me, crashed into gear, started forward, and took a sharp left, coming from my right. Just as I was about to cross, I felt a hand emerge from the passenger side of the three wheeler, and I was rudely pushed back. Stumbling, , half falling, I shouted at the guy to ask him what he thought he was up to. And I was told in no uncertain terms, that he pushed me to save my toes being run over by a three wheeler; and never mind that he could have taken a wider turn.

In the meanwhile the main lights changed to green , and the impatient traffic on n-wheels, continued its relentless flow down the road. While some folks came up to check if I was OK, others speculated from a distance , whether it actually served me right, for being in such a hurry; The watchman looked on in boredom; this probably happened several times daily.

What this does to you, is it makes your reflexes very sharp. Sometimes too sharp. You suspect everyone. The entire family of 15, stuffed in a van on its way to a wedding, the corporate type pretending to read a paper while having serious economic discussions on his cell phone (prey, whats the use now?), while his driver swears at the traffic (and probably me), few private taxis taking people to the airport, a lady in her small compact car carrying the not so compact week's supply of fruits and vegetables back to her apartment, and before we forget, an entire hoard of two and three wheelers, which I am convinced, are bearing down on me. Guilty until proven innocent.

After hearing of someone whose fluttering dupatta (long scarf worn across your front and shoulders) got stuck in a passing motorcycle (but luckily left the lady traumatically dupatta-less), as she stood on a central divider while crossing, I have now taken to folding mine and sticking it in a bag as i cross the road.

The interesting thing is none of these motorcycles and rickshaws get caught for what they do , which may euphemistically called, driving. Like I said, the cops haul them over to the side of the road, and demand to see papers. Some types of rectangular papers, make these cops feel they have the Midas touch.

In the meanwhile, if you see a tired, middle aged, bag-laden, lady trying to hesitantly cross the road , stuffing her dupatta in a bag, with a whistle in her mouth and anger in her eyes, and you find no one listening, then please, do step on the brakes.

I even wonder sometimes, if the road development project will get done in my life time.

In the meanwhile, it has occurred to me , that , sometimes you have to be a whistle blower to succeed ......

Sales and Service.......दारावरचं पाव्हणं .....

Many moons ago, when business was something you did because your family was entrenched in it, and no one went and acquired degrees in it, I used to think that marketing was selling something you enjoyed to people who came to you and asked nicely.

By and by , I realized it was all about convincing people about things; and never mind if they didn't have any use for the item. Still, there continued to be an iota of suspicion in people's minds regarding smooth talkers, and i remember my mother soundly telling off someone who came selling some oil at our door once, and spouted so many erroneous properties, that after listening to my mother he must have resigned and gone back to school.

Today, the type of things that are marketed door to door, have increased in variety.

The top prize has to be the guy who comes with a huge bag of nonstick and semi stick pots and pans. He asks for your old ones and then offers you 50% off on the new ones. These guys always come on a holiday and/or weekend, and it's always around the time, when you have finished getting lunch ready and are just sitting down for some light reading or television, waiting for the family to turn up. Notice how they never land up when you are about to fry the onions a golden brown, boil the milk, or throw mustard seeds into hot oil. If you have a female relative visiting then, it's as if he has hit the jackpot. Good sense has a habit of disappearing at such times.

Then there are old bearded semi grandfather types, who arrive with a fitter younger assistant, whose job is to simply carry rolled up carpets on his head. They manoeuvre themselves to the top most floor via an amazingly small elevator, without crushing the carpets. Ring your bell, and put on their most benevolent smile as they address you as behenji(sister) or beti(daughter) and convince you that you simply need a carpet immediately.

Kashmir,Persia and other details are casually bandied about. They are indefatigable as they roll out each piece, and quote totally outrageous prices. The rule of thumb for me is to always start bargaining at 50% of the price. I have stopped entertaining these folks, after a spot on the carpet suddenly gave up its color while being cleaned.

The latest addition to the lot, are the smooth talking chaps who come to sell intellectual stuff, like dictionaries and encyclopedias. They all have a secret predilection for Websters, something which continues to amaze me. It doesn't matter if you have left things halfway in the kitchen, and your hands are full of dough that you are kneading. It doesn't matter if they have disturbed you while are sneaking up on a well deserved nap. These guys, who sometimes arrive wearing suits and ties, will often offer a small dictionary free with a very thick large one. The minute you open the door, their verbal performance kicks in. I have often acquired a totally unrequired dictionary just to get rid of these guys.

Then there are very traditionally dressed women, with a child always on their hip. selling big and small brooms for housecleaning. They are probably the most successful sellers, as their sheer variety, and homely approach , and a request to buy one more, always elicits a positive response, along with a sweetmeat or fruit for the child, who probably wonders if all aunties are always this nice......

But sometimes, the intention is questionable, and happens when the individual is selling a "service".

Many years ago, when my parents were in their early eighties, in Pune, a few grandchildren-graduations in the US loomed on the horizon, and my father's passport was sent off, by post, for renewal. Here in India, a police clearance facilitates a quick renewal. Normally, for folks my father's age, this is an automatic thing. They check things with your neighbors, and personal visits are never made unless properly preplanned and required.

Not this time. Some new police recruit wanted to make a quick buck.

My father, an inveterate writer, whose hand now had Parkinsonian tremors, was in the midst of writing an angry letter-to-the-editor , and dictating stuff to a student who came daily to help.

My father was hard of hearing.

The bell rings.

Normally, for two old folks living alone, most visitors are known. This time the student went to open the door, and returned with a policeman in uniform.

My father motioned him to sit. Continued dictating.

"I've come to ask you some questions", he said, trying to sound pompous. "Police verification for passport renewal".

My father holds up his hand. "Shhh. Wait, let me finish what I am doing. Sit " And waves him to the sofa.

The police guy restlessly looks around for some magazines. He finds religious, and health magazines . Keeps them away.

"Do you have a newspaper ?" he asks. My father holds up a copy with a pair of scissors, that he is using, to cut a news item,which has made him angry about something, which he is attaching to some letter.

"Wait", says my father.

The cop has never had to sit still so long. Several minutes go by. He glances around.

"Can I put the TV on?"

"Absolutely not", roars my father. The TV with its huge emphasis on serials with crime, films, and many things considered harmful by my father, was a sore thing with him. News was what you watched, if at all.

The cop had never been treated this way. Clears his throat.

"I need to ask you some questions" he says. It has already fallen on deaf ears as he is sitting on the side my father cannot hear. My father holds up his hand, and gives the guy a look that headmasters give to their errant students.

"What was the name of your primary school ?" the guy asks.

At this point, having just climbed a bunch of steep stairs, my mother came in from the temple and was absolutely aghast to see a police chap sitting in the living room, and my father merrily carrying on his work.

The primary school query was a new one. She was convinced the guy was up to no good, and asked why he had come.

" Why do you want to know about his primary school ? Who sent you ?

The police chap stands up, twirls his mustache, clears his throat and launches into what he thinks will be something that will intimidate my mother Passport check. Questions. Correct answers required. Fee .

(he cooked his own goose with the last item)

She drew herself up to her 5 foot 2 inches. "We have travelled with passports since the last 40 years. Renewed passports several times. Physical restrictions made us do this by mail this year. But then no one has asked such stupid questions about primary schools of a person going into his 83rd year. And we know, there is no fee payable here. We have the original fee payment receipt."

"Give me your badge number" she said. "I will call the Inspector "

And she walked to the phone. Didn't have the faintest idea about the Inspector or his name.

My father just glared at the cop, shook his head and waved him away, imperiously.

The guy simply did the fastest about turn and disappeared , before my mother could give a piece of her mind to the police station about vague chaps being sent over for unnecessary visits to elderly folks.

The student who came to transcribe the letters, had just had a lesson, on how crime never pays. And how never to take grandparent types for granted.

He also learned how to stay with it, after observing my mother seeing the matter through with the station in charge, who apologized. Don't know what happened to the cop who tried to make a quick buck.

Sometimes, some "services" at the door , like this have an unexpected reward. The "friendly" cops subsequently kept a watchful eye on our house, and no one ever tried selling anything there after that.