Free Never Mind the Bullocks by Vanessa Able Page A

auditorium, there was no sense in standing apart from the madness, as that only made everything seem more demented. The only way to deal with it was by gagging my inner traffic cop and entering into the fray, horns a-blazing, brakes a-braking, engine a-revving – or, at least, that was the plan.

RULE OF THE ROAD #2
Pukka Protocol
    When two Indians meet as strangers, I read in an essay by Indian author Pavan K. Varma, the encounter is often a duel to ascertain the
aukaat
of the other.
    Emerging wet-handed from a gas station toilet cubicle where I’d walked in on a mortified attendant taking a shower, I found Abhilasha stationed in a bumper-to-bumper standoff with a Maruti Zen. The Zen’s owner, a prim-looking, mustachioed gent with henna-tinted hair and a shirt that looked as though it had spent the night pressed between two giant spring-fresh anvils, was pacing cautiously around the car, taking in her every detail. As I approached him, he shifted his gaze over to me and treated my crumpled cotton salwar kameez with the same level of critical scrutiny. Mr Fiery Redhead was apparently departing from the usual tradition of gushing sycophantic Nano-philia, possibly on account of his decision to splash out an extra couple of grand on The Other Compact Car, and was pulling no punches in checking us out. The duel had clearly begun.
    â€˜Good morning, ma’am,’ he greeted me, his shoulders back, his lips tight.
    â€˜Hello there,’ I responded, feeling my own eyes cast a damning glare in the direction of the Maruti, which was firing belligerent daggers into Abhilasha’s headlights.
    â€˜What is your good name?’ he enquired stiffly, as though it pained him to betray any hint of civility in my direction.
    I told him and volleyed the question back at him.
    He responded with a cascade of syllables that contained in them somewhere ‘indra’, ‘giri’, ‘dhar’ and ‘doctor’, among a torrent of other sounds that oozed authority.
    Something was definitely going on here, I thought. We were walking circles around each other like two dogs going for the scrotum sniff. What did the doctor want from me?
    â€˜Did you buy this car in Mumbai?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How much did you pay?’
    â€˜Two lakh four.’
    His eyes widened and I saw a brief glint of victory flash through his retina. ‘But this is the one-lakh car.’
    â€˜Yes, it is,’ I sighed, ‘but this one is the top model. It has air conditioning and, um, electric windows.’ I was still at pains myself to figure out quite how these features doubled the vehicle’s price.
    â€˜What is your fuel efficiency?’
    â€˜About 19 kilometres to the litre.’
    â€˜Oh, very good.’
    The doctor fell silent. I felt obliged to continue the conversation. ‘So are you, uh, planning on buying one?’
    The doc shook his head. ‘Oh no, I would never buy this car.’
    Hang on. What was going on here? Was I in the company of a hater?
    â€˜If you have one or two lakhs to spend on a car, then you can buy a second-hand Maruti Zen, or Tata Indica. It is much more reliable than a Nano.’
    I rose up like an owner scorned. ‘But I’ve driven all the way from Mumbai in this car and I’ve had no problems whatsoever.’
    â€˜Maybe you have had no problems
yet
,’ the man said, giving Abhilasha’s back tyre a light kick with his polished chestnut-brown loafer, ‘but maybe the next few thousand kilometres will not be so lucky for you.’
    It was a point against which I couldn’t really argue, irritated as I was at the fact his foot had just made contact with Abhilasha’s wheel, a gesture that was as good as an all-out declaration of war.
    â€˜I am employed with the civil service,’ the man said, thumbing his chest and moving his hand over to the right to finger the gold pen sticking out from his shirt pocket from