‘But you’re in the press!’

Having stayed and travelled through several cities in the country, I can say with confidence that there is indeed no city like Lucknow. From ‘hobbies’ that range from incessantly chewing pan masala to collecting antique cars, the Lucknowite isn’t known for holding himself back when the heart desires something. It is a land of connoisseurs where everyone thinks they know where you can get ‘the best’ biryani, and even those who feel queasy travelling in anything other than a cycle rickshaw have something to say on the Paris fashion week. When it comes to traffic, the city could well be an anarchist’s paradise. There are only two or three functional traffic lights in the entire city, and these too require the presence of cops to ensure that they’re followed. However, nothing less than a cop with superhuman alertness would do, as commuters invariably mistake the turned back of a cop for a green signal. But perhaps the most interesting is the game of hide and seek played between bikers without helmet and traffic policemen aka ‘maamus.’ Not wearing a helmet, for most people, is strangely a matter of dignity. “For God’s sake, you’re in the press!” I have been lambasted by many well-wishers when I picked up my helmet before a ride. Those who do not have ‘press,’ ‘high court,’ ‘vidhayak’ or ‘social worker’ written on their number plates resentfully go and buy a ‘formality’ helmet, a cheap one that offers no protection, to appease the cops. The more enterprising, and the ‘purana chawal,’ however, know all the streets and bylanes that can be taken to avoid police checking. Not ones to be outsmarted, however, the cops now hide behind parked cars in the unlikeliest of places, jump in front of the unsuspecting biker at the most crucial second, and pull out the keys from the bike before the poor guy realises what hit him. What follows is what makes Lucknow so different. In a city where you can get a delicious and filling kebab roll for 10 bucks, corruption is more humorous than frustrating. So, a monetary bribe is not the only thing that can get you off the hook, unlike in a harsh and demanding city like Delhi. The hunter and the hunted here could just discuss the weather over a pack of ‘Shyam Bahaar,’ before exchanging pleasantries and going their way. Or well, (believe me because I have witnessed this) the biker could just act like he’s come from some obscure village near Gonda, and has no clue that a helmet is compulsory or that there is a thing like vehicle insurance. The key here is looking especially blank and helpless. A friend was recently stopped by a traffic cop for not wearing a helmet. The insurance too had expired. The cop mentioned a cumulative challan amount which ran into several hundred rupees. “But how do you expect an outstation student like me, staying in a hostel, to pay so much?” complained my friend. “That’s not my problem,” said the cop, denying any ‘chai-pani’ with the dialogue- “I can either love Gandhi on the note, or his ideals. I have chosen the latter. ” “Okay then,” said my friend with a pitiable face, “I shall give pay the fine with my mess fee.” The cop’s countenance suddenly changed. He slowly inserted the key back in the bike. “Ah, get lost,” he said, “wasting your parents’ hard-earned money like that, you!” My friend rode straight to a helmet shop and bought a helmet with the money he’d saved that day. He has not been seen on the bike without a helmet ever since. Like I said, Lucknow is different.