ASSISTANT police inspector Anil Patil’s advice at the Pranati police chowky was simple enough: Raise your right hand and blow the whistle. One could manage the flow of traffic standing anywhere as long as one was seen, he added. And so, at 4 pm on a lazy, drizzly Sunday, I stood in the middle of the road, next to constable Vijay Dhende, dressed in a bright green tee, with the words ‘Traffic Control Branch, Pune’ embossed in bold red, and a canary yellow cap to boot. Nobody was going to miss me. The traffic was light, but I could sense a buzz. The hunch was confirmed when Patil’s walkie-talkie crackled: ‘‘The CM has left the venue. Clear road to airport.’’ The activity suddenly increased as more traffic constables emerged from nowhere, and ear-piercing whistles rent the air. ‘‘When a VIP is expected, the lights are switched off and we direct the traffic manually,’’ said Dhende, in a conspiratorial whisper. A tense half an hour later, a fleet of police jeeps and a blur of white cars with flashing red lights passed by. Bandobast duty was over and a seemingly relaxed Patil turned his attention to me, dishing out advice on how to tame traffic. The evening rush had begun to build, and the drizzle was now a downpour. Five streams of traffic, comprising smoke-belching trucks, buses, rickshaws, cars, and two-wheelers converged continuously. Patil took stock and asked me to watch, as he controlled the unruly jams with practised ease, standing in the middle of the road. And as I headed out to do my bit, I kept his advice in mind: ‘‘Identify a big truck or bus in the distance and raise your hand when it comes close.’’ Stop a big vehicle, he said, and the smaller ones behind will also come to a standstill. But I had to remember to let the other streams of traffic flow. I took guard, feeling pretty powerful. Spotting a giant truck ambling towards the chowk, I raised my right hand and blew. I must have been invisible to the driver. He kept coming right at me, ignoring my wildly flaying hands and the, admittedly, feeble emanations from the whistle. The truck headed straight for me, zooming past the ‘Safety first, Speed next’ cautionary message. All of a sudden, a ear-shattering toot brought the giant to a halt. It was constable Dhende to the rescue. There was, of course, no time even to thank him, as I realised that, with all my energy focussed just on the truck, I had goofed up on the general traffic situation. Cars honked persistently, while rickshaws screeched like restless crickets. And the oncoming traffic was still waiting for directions. Dhende appeared again, getting things back on track. As luck would have it, the electricity had played truant, and the traffic now had to be controlled manually. For the next two hours, I aided Dhende who worked tirelessly in the rain. And between putting up with my fumbles, he also gave me an insider’s tip on the whistle: Wet it two hours before you use it. ‘‘It makes the seed inside bloat, and the whistle works better,’’ he said as we took some time off to have tea at an Irani restaurant nearby. It was close to 7 pm now, and my feet ached. Plus, the roar of traffic and the constant glare of headlights were making me dizzy. ‘‘Tired after just three hours? We work 11 hours every day. Go rest,’’ laughed Dhende, pointing to a booth in the middle of the road. I entered the booth, which had a stool, a battery set, a microphone for the public address system and a bottle of water. Cosy, I thought. Until the mosquitoes began to bite. It was dark and damp. The pollution was making my eyes burn and I was soaked to the skin. Calling it a day, I decided, was the need of the hour. I left for home, full of admiration for constables like Dhende, and with an ambition that I someday hope to achieve—to bring a big, fat truck to a complete halt with the mere toot of a whistle.
