I’ve been having a bad time driving wise. It doesn’t have anything to do with my technique (my driving skills have always been, and still are, flawless!!). I’m just finding it very difficult to control my temper. I’ve always been susceptible to horrible bouts of road rage, and I’m getting increasingly intolerant of excessive honking, meandering taxis, lane-switching, headlight-flashing and the almost bovine ambling of pedestrians. Driving is also the only time I use uncharacteristically foul language. It’s got so bad that I can’t even drive down the street outside my house without letting loose a couple of swear words. I get sadistic pleasure from scaring the hell out of pedestrians when I drive up close and fast to them and then watch them make a dash for it. I get cheap thrills out of overtaking particularly aggressive Sumos. And I took some incredibly stupid risks once when I was racing an infuriating Qualis from Sewree to Wadala. (I won!)
And I’ve literally been ‘driven’ to this kind of behaviour because of all the disparaging remarks and contemptuous looks and resigned shakes of the head that I would attract simply because I used to be a law-abiding lady driver. Discrimination on the roads against the fairer sex is deeply entrenched in the Indian psyche. It doesn’t matter if you’re perfectly well behaved - it only makes it worse. Caution and discipline are inevitably mistaken for incompetence. If you don’t rush the last few yards when the signal is amber, you’re subjected to a volley of honks and abuse. The same goes for when you stick to the speed limit or refuse to start the car even though there are still 10 seconds to go before the signal turns green. And yet, it really hurts the male egos to have a female driver overtaking them. There are a couple of examples right where I live. My sister and I (on the rare occasions that we leave home at 7 a.m.), have fought silent, yet furious battles on the bends of J.J. flyover with some dads in our building who drop their kids to school. The scores are more or less even.
But a few weeks ago, I notched up a minor victory at the Traffic Commissioner’s office. Of course, why I was there in the first place is a painful story. I was returning from a concert at the NCPA and dreaming about the cute French cellist, so I didn’t notice the signal turning red at Pizzeria. The inevitable cop was lying in wait at the corner. My licence was impounded and I was furious that I would have to make a pointless trip to the Fashion Street police station the next day. I kept putting it off until I happened to glance at the sheet of paper that was supposed to be a substitute for my licence and realized that there’s apparently a time limit within which you have to collect your original (duh). It was already too late to go back to Fashion Street; it would now have to be the Commissioner’s office at Worli. And I was running out of time- it was the second last day and the sheet of paper didn’t say what would happen to your licence if you missed the second deadline as well. I stormed off to Worli only to realise when I got there that it was Mahavir Jayanti and a bank holiday. I was so mad at myself that I crumpled up my substitute licence before good sense prevailed. (I generally need to tear and throw things around when I’m really angry). When I returned to the office the next day, I was appalled at the queues. Incidentally, I was also the only female person in the building, not even a token lady constable. (Which again, goes to show how impeccable lady drivers must be.) I’d come armed with a book, thinking that it would probably take me an hour, but after observing the steady stream of taxi wallahs flowing in,I was convinced that I’d have to return the next day.
And I’ve literally been ‘driven’ to this kind of behaviour because of all the disparaging remarks and contemptuous looks and resigned shakes of the head that I would attract simply because I used to be a law-abiding lady driver. Discrimination on the roads against the fairer sex is deeply entrenched in the Indian psyche. It doesn’t matter if you’re perfectly well behaved - it only makes it worse. Caution and discipline are inevitably mistaken for incompetence. If you don’t rush the last few yards when the signal is amber, you’re subjected to a volley of honks and abuse. The same goes for when you stick to the speed limit or refuse to start the car even though there are still 10 seconds to go before the signal turns green. And yet, it really hurts the male egos to have a female driver overtaking them. There are a couple of examples right where I live. My sister and I (on the rare occasions that we leave home at 7 a.m.), have fought silent, yet furious battles on the bends of J.J. flyover with some dads in our building who drop their kids to school. The scores are more or less even.
But a few weeks ago, I notched up a minor victory at the Traffic Commissioner’s office. Of course, why I was there in the first place is a painful story. I was returning from a concert at the NCPA and dreaming about the cute French cellist, so I didn’t notice the signal turning red at Pizzeria. The inevitable cop was lying in wait at the corner. My licence was impounded and I was furious that I would have to make a pointless trip to the Fashion Street police station the next day. I kept putting it off until I happened to glance at the sheet of paper that was supposed to be a substitute for my licence and realized that there’s apparently a time limit within which you have to collect your original (duh). It was already too late to go back to Fashion Street; it would now have to be the Commissioner’s office at Worli. And I was running out of time- it was the second last day and the sheet of paper didn’t say what would happen to your licence if you missed the second deadline as well. I stormed off to Worli only to realise when I got there that it was Mahavir Jayanti and a bank holiday. I was so mad at myself that I crumpled up my substitute licence before good sense prevailed. (I generally need to tear and throw things around when I’m really angry). When I returned to the office the next day, I was appalled at the queues. Incidentally, I was also the only female person in the building, not even a token lady constable. (Which again, goes to show how impeccable lady drivers must be.) I’d come armed with a book, thinking that it would probably take me an hour, but after observing the steady stream of taxi wallahs flowing in,I was convinced that I’d have to return the next day.
I was pleasantly surprised. The constable to whom I presented my battered substitute licence very courteously directed me to a tiny room grandiosely named the Chief Court. There was complete and utter chaos inside and I was quaking at the thought of having to battle that crowd. The queue outside the Court was equally tortuous. I was about to take my place in the line, when the constable outside the Chief Court asked me to wait at the head of the queue. He took the substitute licence and the hundred rupee fine from me and bravely plunged into the madness inside the Court. He was out in five minutes with my original licence intact. As I walked off triumphantly, I glanced back at all the other men jostling and sweating it out in the line. I estimated that they had, at the very least, a good two hours to go.
For all the times that I’ve been subjected to the fury of their impatience on the road, I felt vindicated.
