This was a long time ago. Actually it was just three years ago but when one compares it to the four months I have spent in journalism, it does seem a different age altogether.I was then in college and U-specials were already extinct. So if you were one of those deprived groups who did not have a car, or any other set of wheels for that matter, and you were too exhausted to ward off harassment in a bus, you just shared a three-wheeler with people who were as sad as you.Of course, this meant that you were forever impoverished and you begrudged the auto driver every penny you gave him some things never change! And if they dared push you around and try to make a sucker out of you (which they did, anyway), that was it you would shout, sc-ream, rave and rant with empty th-reats which fell on deaf ears. ``I will co-mplain about you.'' ``Do I look like a fool?'' ``Let's go to the thana.''Now, usually at this stage, the auto driver would look at you with an ``Oh, yeah? I dare you!'' expression; or he wouldjust look around in a bemused manner as if to tell people around him, ``Don't worry about these hysterical women! They are like this only!''We too were just letting off steam we didn't want much out of it, just that the creep would charge us the right amount (which would be about five or ten rupees less). It wasn't just a question of money, you know, it was the principle of the thing.So when on this eventful summer afternoon, when a feisty auto-driver threw it right back at us with ``Chalo thane!'', we were gobsmacked. We had no clue about what we would do once we got there. But being the ``women of substance'' which we believed we were, we weren't exactly going to back out of it now.So there we were, my friend Pooja and I at this shady station in Kalkaji (all stations according to us were shady at that time). Apprehensive of the situation, all that we could do was giggle like giddy-headed teenagers. The whole station was empty like a ghost town and this big man in a vest popped out. He was hardlyour idea of a policeman but he had to be with the line, ``Haan madam, kya hua?'' If this crudity of language was not bad enough, he came menacingly close to me and was right at my face so that his already bulky structure took on monstrous proportions. It was definitely too close for comfort.Although, by that time, all our heat had dissipated we mumbled something about the auto driver overcharging us. The auto driver by this time was standing like a mouse in the corner. ``Tu zyada paise le raha tha?'' Before the man could say anything, the sound of four resounding slaps filled the air. That was the point at which we lost our cool and all we wanted to do was run. This was definitely not what we wanted. By this time, a comparatively more modestly clothed cop entered from the inner quarters. He joined his ``ogre'' colleague in checking us out from head to toe, so that even we felt like we were minimal in our attire.My friend, who was formerly a firebrand in countering lewd gestures, seemed to have lost hertongue. So I just mustered up enough to say, ``We don't want to complain, he should just take the right amount of money.''``No, madam, you have to.'' The panic button had already been pressed too far. Let us go, we promise not to disturb you in your afternoon sojourn again, our minds screamed. Out of some weird rationalisation, he made us give in writing that we did not wish to register a complaint. That done, we ran for our lives.After that day, the next time I entered a police station was four months ago. Although I dressed and looked exactly the same, the cops addressed me as ``Madam''. I guess there was one difference. I had become a crime reporter.
