Bangalore Travels Pvt. Ltd.

By Deepak M. Rao

Convoys for politicians have always been a question of respect, prestige and the pull they can garner. It's a Power Index, a visible measure of the official power and pomp. Longer the lineup of cars and louder the hoot of the siren, higher up the political ladder is the Sahebru seated at the heart of it all.

In usual circumstances, when the convoy of a dignitary is expected to grace the roads of a city, traffic is either blocked on those streets or it is stopped until the grand juggernaut passes by.

In a recent such episode, I happened to be traveling on my bike, tuned into music from my iPod - Hush by Deep Purple, for those interested - when the world seemed to be tapering right in front of my eyes. All the traffic was being moved to one corner in a V fashion and bundled up, thus clearing up the road in front of me. It was a while before it hit me that this great exercise was not being done so that I may have an un-interrupted journey back home, but to allow the passage of a fleet of white cars, most of them with flags atop the bonnet hood. My head, already reeling from the shock I received when I thought the world was tapering, got a bigger jolt when I saw the speed at which the cars were traveling. Since mine was one of the last vehicles allowed to enter the road before the drama unfolded I was in such close proximity to the cars that I could feel the exhaust of each one of the cars in my nostrils.

Just when I thought it was all over, and shifted to the first gear, three other white cars zoomed past me. One of them almost got my leg under the wheels of his cart and I was not amused. While I was just about readying my tongue to shout at him a word or two in a language that may at times be called colourful, the man behind the wheels in a sparkling white uniform called me a *******. Woohoo! I thought. Much stronger than what would have come out of my own mouth if I had tried hard.

And this is no standalone case. It happens quite often and the common man is always subjected to such atrocities.

Once safe back at home, I wondered what would have happened if I had actually got out of my bike, caught the driver by his collar and dragged him to the road. It would have resulted in a huge fight embellished with raised voices, uplifted arms and legs, maybe an innocent finger too, words in languages that have not been in use since the time of Shakespeare and much more. Having been involved and played audience to a few such fights, I knew what the opening sentence would have been. "Een nimmappan roada?" I shall not translate this to English. Certain gems are best told in the native tongue.