CRASH COURSE

As our correspondent mans traffic, he whistles, waves, grabs collars and even swears under his breath —but all in vain

As our correspondent mans traffic, he whistles, waves, grabs collars and even swears under his breath —but all in vain

The vehicles at the busy Jedhe Chowk in Swargate, Pune, came to a screeching halt as my mentor for the day, assistant police inspector Vishwas Gole, blew his whistle. Then, with the air of a king, he casually walked towards a young motorcyclist, grabbed him by the collar and pulled the keys from his bike. He then yelled at him in Marathi, which in English —minus the expletives—would be, “Can’t you see the stop line? Give me your licence and come to the corner.” The signal turned green and while the rest of the traffic moved ahead, the hapless biker wheeled his vehicle to the corner.
And what was I doing there? Well, I was a traffic control volunteer under Gole. I wore a white shirt and a fluorescent orange jacket that bellowed in kingsize letters, “POLICE”. After having scared the young man into “paying his dues to the society”, he instructed, “Now, you man the signal,” leaving me stumped.

Aping Gole, I blew the whistle. Except that unlike Gole’s shrill blast, mine was a whimper—a weak, diluted note flew out of the whistle, thanks to the automobile fumes choking me. In an attempt to restore my pride, I walked up to a motorcyclist and politely asked him to step back from the zebra crossing. Leave alone listening to me, he started his bike and even swerved it on the spot.
Guessing that it was pointless to haggle, I accepted defeat and walked away. But my mentor came up to me and said, “No politeness with irate motorcyclists, just pull out the keys and send them over to the corner where they are collecting fines.” He then deftly practised what he just preached. As the signal turned green and the vehicles zoomed away, the man wheeled his bike towards the corner, grimacing at me all the while. I felt vindicated and nodded cheerfully.

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The next time the signal turned red, my lungs didn’t fail me and a loud, shrill note came out. Except that, it got drowned in the din of a huge truck that stopped right in front of me. I demanded the licence from the driver. But the impudent fellow offered me Rs 100. I ordered him in a firm and loud voice to park his truck in the corner. Sulkily, he surrendered.
This pumped up my courage. And so when the signal turned green, I grabbed by the collar a cheeky youth who had driven off into the main road, leaving the stop line leagues behind. He shrieked, “Lay off,” startling me. As if by reflex, my grip on him loosened and he zoomed off.

Patting my shoulders, Gole comforted me, “Now you see how hard it is?” I nodded, realising how hard the shoes of a traffic constable hurt—metaphorically and literally.
For the next three hours, I battled unruly youths, irate rickshaw pullers, indifferent truck drivers and jumpy bus drivers, after which my duty ended. Whistling, waving, gesturing, and even hurling abuses under my breath—I had done it all. I had started out with a lot of enthusiasm but the noise, the rude people and the fumes left me exhausted. I wondered if any job was as thankless as a traffic controller’s.
The signal turned red one last time before I could hang up my boots. Disillusioned, I blew the whistle as the cars came to a stop—some ahead of the line, some into the zebra crossing and some half-way into the road. Gole ran towards one of them as a callous youth sped off.
I walked away to the corner. The signal turned green and another batch of callous drivers sped away.