Waylaid on Empty Streets? Try a Different Vernacular!

WAYLAID ON EMPTY STREETS? TRY A DIFFERENT VERNACULAR!

Of late, a new kind of menace is wreaking havoc in Bangalore – of extortionists in motorbikes. In an era of mail/twitter/facebook/blogosphere-driven mass paranoia, it's amazing that the EXACT SAME method has been adopted by gang after thuggish gang (possibly from the same coaching camps) with stunning success. They seem to be following all the mantras of running a business – standard operating procedures, repeatability of processes and good returns on minimal investment.

The modus operandi of these gents (ladies haven't entered the game yet) is quite standard. You are traveling in your car in a fairly isolated or deserted stretch of road thinking about your mounting to-do list or unpaid bills or that wholly unnecessary morning argument with your kids/wife/ boss/boss's wife etc when suddenly you see one or two bikes ahead of you. Now, this by itself is nothing to cause major alarm since in our free country, public roads are constructed for the use and abuse of all and sundry starting with folks who set up football field sized stalls in full regalia (tents, loudspeakers, industrial fans etc) to sell their wares, approximately in the middle of major traffic junctions.

But this time around, you sense something different. After allowing the tolerance for lousy driving, you feel that the guys are coming a little too close for comfort, considering that the road is practically empty, barring the omnipresent stray cows. Before you realize it, you are surrounded by bikers in front and on the sides, all frantically gesturing at you to stop or better still, cut you off by literally blocking the road ahead. You have no option but to pull over. Is this police in mufti (plain-clothes) you wonder and have they found out by sixth sense that you're not carrying your registration certificate, insurance papers AND driving license since you forgot to put them back into the glove compartment after picking it from the last servicing which in fact happened six months back and that can only mean the car has been running minus most of the essential oils including engine, brake, door, steering, ceiling, cooling, heating etc?

Thus distracted, you get out of your car to reason with the police when the bikers reveal their true colors - unbathed, unshaven, wearing chains, random pieces of chunky jewelry augmenting garish shirts with top 2-3 buttons off or just vests, sporting drunk and bloodshot eyes. Guitars in hand, they launch into their first bass riffs and you recognize to your utter horror that you're being subjected to YET ANOTHER rendition of "Smoke on the water", which you've heard in every school/college festival and is so sick off that you violently lunge at them grabbing the nearest rock, fueled by years of suffering all those versions that sounded like a bunch of tomcats getting strangulated and then being thrown in boiling water.

Oh wait, that's the desi rock star stereotype, cut that bit about the guitar and let's proceed with the rest.

The bikers start shouting at you accusing you of a parade of heinous crimes. You'll be informed that their sometime brother/cousin/lover/friend/city councilor/local politician/cook/gardener/significant other AND full-time thug/goonda has been brutally knocked down by you just a few hundred meters back and has to be taken to the hospital right then and there or he/she will bleed to death and you will end up with first-degree, pre-meditated culpable homicide charge in your hands. No bail, no parole, your kids dying shameful deaths being called murderer's progeny and the REVENGE…. You're jolted back into reality.

You're now racking your brain wondering where in heavens you knocked down anyone, let alone fatally, but your conviction level starts flagging thanks to the absolutely certainty on the other side. As you start protesting, you slowly realize that (a) there's no one else in the road (b) these 4-5 guys with the bikes don't look like your average office going white-collar types and importantly (c) they're now slowly beginning to display their collection of implements all of which, singly or collectively can cause unpleasant outcomes on your body parts. To further prove that they're virile men who play by a different set of rules, you may find your bonnet dented with a handy crowbar or your rear view mirror contorting into some as-yet-undefined yogic pose.

If you continue your foolhardy protests, new and interesting charges will be hurled at you like (a) the fact that you rode over the toe/s of one of the folks while trying to dodge them (read: additional compensation) (b) you have hit their bike also and caused arbitrary damage (read: further compensation). Well preserved dents custom created once and used many times for this purpose, would stand mute testimony.

Before you know it, you're ushered back into your car with multiple folks for company, who in normal circumstances would be among the last people on earth you'd invite for a joyride. You're then "driven" to the nearest ATM machines (the downside of carrying four debit cards in the first place), divested of your daily withdrawal limits (or better still the ATM card itself with the PINs) after which the heroes drive off into the sunset (or daylight). As the movie comes to its finish and "The End" sign gets flashed on the screen, you realize that during the entire transaction, there was no further mention of the dying don you're supposed to have cruelly mowed down.

How can you ride on deserted roads to get to your destination faster? Can you avoid loss of cash, body parts, manly pride etc? Pondering over these questions, I came up with some options to pick from:

1. The non-violent way (brief version) – Don't protest, give in, listen to their stories, pander to their whims and testosterones and end up with a body (not just the car's) without too many dents and scratches though you may be poorer by ten to a few hundred thousand.
2. The tear-jerker way - Start protesting, negotiating, talk about your poor finances, massive debts, children dying of starvation, wife suffering from violent mental illness (true or not, this has really good dramatic quality) and generally behave as if you're the screenplay writer for the 2nd half of a Karan Johar movie. You may just be able to negotiate a better deal!
3. The macho-man way (hallucination version) – if you're carrying a weapon of some sort and sincerely believe that you have more male hormones per square inch that rest of the population in the planet put together, you can try this out. I can't guarantee the final results though.
4. The macho-man way (real version) - If the gang is just one or two people and you are a six-footer with a chest size of 46" who spends three hours in the gym daily lifting up a series of extremely heavy, complicated weights meant for various muscle groups, then this is for you. But then, I'm comforted by the fact that you will get married, have kids, lose those muscles and suffer reading the same Sesame Street story for the 17,000th time about how Zoe didn't feel like going to school and you'll happily let her be illiterate if only you can
5. The non-violent way (extended version): here you refuse to get out of the car, period. They can rave and rant, smash your bonnets or twist your rear-view mirror so that it reflects eagles soaring above, but you stay put. If you have the police emergency number and/or friends in the vicinity, you can pass time by calling them all before the inevitable step of getting your side windows smashed followed by step-1, 2 or 3 (read above)

As for me, if I ever end up with these good Samaritans, I've decided to speak in chaste Malayalam and nothing else - no English or Hindi for me and as for my Kannada, the less said the better. I can only think of two outcomes, repeating the story of their poor brother bleeding to death in Kannada, Hindi, broken English and finally in mime format so many times to no avail can potentially make grown men cry. Alternately, they may quickly cut to the chase and get straight to the wallet-snatching/car smashing part. So I may still end up shoving good money at them, but at least after some fun and free entertainment in return, so Malayalam it's going to be.

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Beware: Those Family Taxis Maybe Time Machines!

I was alone (with two stranger-anxiety ridden cats for company) at my friend Liza's house in a town quaintly titled "Village at Nagog Woods" in the OUTskirts ("out" intentionally capitalized) of Boston wondering how to get a taxi for my 12pm lunch meeting for a retail client. Google maps kindly informed me that if I take the highway option its 35 minutes, so I decided to go to local.yahoo.com and check out my luck with neighborhood taxis hoping that a hunter-gatherer-cabbie from the woods (lonely, dark and deep as Frost wrote, Zip code: 01718) would be faster than a faraway slick city-taxi crook. Yahoo local promptly gave me ten or so options and I commenced the calling process.

The first one returned a dead signal. The second one kept ringing (No voicemail? In a country where EVERYONE communicates through voice mail???). The third one rang a few times and hit a voicemail, though I had no intention of conveying my secret desires into a voicemail recorder. The 4th one had a voicemail which said the number has changed and I need to call a number elsewhere (would he be a city-slicker? I decided not to call). The 5th one called "Boxborough Taxi" was answered by a lady who sounded as if she was up all night screaming at a rock concert. In a hoarse drawl, she asked, "Baaxbrow take-see" and I told her about my plans to go to Framingham. "Well, that's kinda far, how do you go there?" With all the confidence and wisdom emanating from googlemaps, I gave some random directions which seemed to convince Ms.Hoarsey who responded with, "I'll be right there." "Huh?, Are you somewhere nearby?". "Just gimme a few minutes and I'll swing by".

The clock slowly ticked by. I tried calling her at 10.35 and received no response. At 10.40, she called me asking for directions again telling me to walk down the road to some intersection. Minus a local cellphone, this was out of question. She called again after 5 minutes and said that she's somewhere close by (realization dawning that she's NOT a call center person, but everything rolled into one, I decided to pick-up Liza's cordless phone, lock up the house and wander outside, imagining Liza's face when the kids come back from school and gleefully report the doings of her friend who ran away with, of all things, a cordless phone.

An ancient car, which looked as if it predated the withdrawal of American troops from Vietnam slowed down. As the beige colored car, approximately 27 feet long (not considering the bumpers, which looked like salvaged missiles from the same war), slowed down, I thought the lady inside was trying to get directions. Just as I was about to say that I am even more clueless than she possibly would be, she remarked joyfully "oh, you called for a ride". A little too taken aback since the cabs I've seen in the US so far had sported a signboard on top and their names proudly on the sides, I checked "Boxborough?" "Yeah, that's me, come on in".

Fighting aside my reluctance, I tried to get into the back, the standard norm for taxis worldwide. "No, no, come over here". The interiors at the front seat (or whatever was left of them) had violent tears on leather making me wonder about what all insect families I may possibly be upsetting. Sitting down I realized that Ms. Hoarsey who had a sunny weatherbeaten old face with wild frizzy blond hair was wearing the shortest denim shorts ever made by mankind, exposing 99.7% of her legs which may have been pretty some two decades before. As I was pondering about women in their 40s who live in denial of their youthful charms gone by, I was taken aback by what distinctly sounded like a yelp from the back.

Being a vet's son, I am quite fond of dogs, though one doesn't count on them yelping behind you in taxis driven by hoarse voiced blond old women wearing short-shorts. Turning back I saw a dog peering at me sleepily from inside a tiny cage. My disdain of un-dog like dogs being pretty strong (I would happily support any movements to tranquilize all Chihuahuas in the world and banish them to Mexican jungles or wherever they first appeared from), I decided to leave that dog alone. But Ms. Hoarsey was not be suppressed. She launched into a full length blast on the dog which is only 10 months which she bought for her daughter Amy, who's 19 and is a hair dresser and is attending an advanced course, which would give her better pay or job at a better salon in a place they pay more tips closer to downtown that could hopefully pay for a car so that Ms.Hoarsey can do away with her driver duties and then focus on her garden which needs some pruning... People like Greg, Mark, Fred and Tom came and went as part of the cast of characters with no explanation on who's an uncle and who could be Amy's boyfriend.

While this refreshing monologue was going on, I asked her the most obvious questions – "Have you been to Framingham? Do you need help with the directions?". "Oh no, no, I am not going to Framingham, I am just here to take you to my dad". "Why your dad?" "No,honey, I'd have taken you myself but I lost a good 25 minutes hunting for your place and now Amy needs the car and Mark would need to take her to meet Fred who plans to skin Tom alive for the barbecue party hosted by Peter so that they can do a cannibal dance before the police arrives…" As the blabberthon continued, I yanked her back to reality and asked, "Your dad is going to drive me to Framingham?". "That's right, I guess Greg will also be with him".

While Greg coming with me was least of my worries, it was already 11.10 and we were driving further into wooded wilderness when she suddenly stopped the car near a deserted underpass and pulled over to a dirt-clearing on the side. The war veteran car thudded to a halt, the dog yelped once more (upon which its owner patted the cage affectionately), rubbish at the back moved from one side and piled up at the other and the dog's cage was covered with a bunch of old towels. Ms.Hoarsey quickly swept them away as the dog sat down and closed its tired eyes. I followed suit and closed mine too for a moment.

A couple of calls later, I was offloaded from one ancient car to another which I was positive had seen the likes of Kennedy administration. "So, I need to go to THAT car over there?". "Right, my dad will take you wherever you want to go". I didn't like the sound of this open invitation, but banking on my philosophy of "go with the flow", I tentatively went to the other car. "He needs to go somewhere in Framingham and I need to give the car for Mark and Amy to go buy the hoola-hoop so that they can whack Peter with it when he starts digging over the Martha's graveyard and then prepare for Amy's homework that needs to be given before Todd comes in at 7pm to get…."

Inside dad's car, I realized two things within a couple of minutes. Dad was, for all practical purposes, deaf (now I knew why Greg wanted to join the joyride) and looked like a child of World War I vintage. Second, Dad's car smelled of years (and generations) of dried pee. After shouting without success to Dad about my destination, I decided to try my luck on Greg who casually remarked "Ooh, that's far, never been to those parts of the state", significantly improving my assurance levels.

As the Kennedy-era contraption started accelerating on the highway, I desperately wanted to cling onto something so that if we explode into thousands of pieces as part of the car's final death dance, I get to grab the biggest shard as a life jacket. But that stench, giving me vague memories of some distant, forgotten past where I had to travel in an unreserved compartment of Indian Railways which ended up with me sitting close to the only functioning loo, ensured that I don't hold onto anything and spoil the expensive suit that Anitha had gifted me on an earlier birthday.

As we finally found our exit, my battery started displaying its death warnings and Greg generally asked to no one in particular "what do we do now?". Trying to take control, I passed my laptop to him and told him to trust googlemap instructions. After 5 minutes, with my battery running low, he passed a pen & paper and suggested I write down what googlemaps said. The pen was wobbly (another war veteran?) and the paper was smudged with some reddish brown smear, which to my now splendidly biased mind could've been blood, ketchup, strawberry jam or all of the above fossilized over decades.

The laptop went into hibernation mode and I hadn't finished note taking, so between where I had reached in my notes and 500, Staples Drive, Framingham there seemed to be a gaping abyss. Thankfully, Dad (grandpa?) with all the wisdom of WW1, WW2, Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf War etc, made it to the office after a few false turns here and there. He then gave me a receipt (which said "Maynard Corcorde Taxis") and charged me $45, which sounded far too low for the amount of traveling we seem to have done. As a final irony, my blackberry fell onto the floor of the car as I was getting out. A near death experience via asphyxiation occurred as I my face came close to the unsavory underbelly of his front passenger seat. The time was 11.50.

Postscript: After the meeting, I called a lot more professional looking (and amusingly named) "Tommy Taxi" whose Egyptian lottery visa recipient driver charged me a princely $101 for the same distance. May be I should've asked Dad to wait for me there. Then again, maybe not. As a brown-skinned guy in an exploding car, I may have been all over global news channels with headlines like "Terror Trail: Fringe Osama outfit murders two innocent Bostonians", Ms. Hoarsey would've surely loved the TV microphones and Amy would've become a national icon for saving Greg who broke his leg when went to fix the roof for Tom so that the rains don't fall on the head of his poodle which was stolen by Mark….

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