The following essay placed in the top-10 (humour) of the Youth Express Scribe Hunt for 2012
No one likes being cold, no one likes being
scared and no one likes being alone. I was about to be all three in the middle
of Siberia. As I crossed a busy road in the town of Omsk, I saw a giant
policeman waving frantically at me. I immediately knew why he wanted my
attention. As dumb ideas go, what I had just done was even dumber than my
decision to spend the winter of 2006 in this snowbound town.
I had just jaywalked. You see, Russian drivers,
vodka notwithstanding, are surprisingly caring about pedestrians. Unlike in
Delhi, they won’t try to run you down just because you crossed in front of
their car. They stop and let you pass. In return, all they ask is for you to
let them get through green lights without interruptions. By darting between
cars, I had ruined that experience for at least two motorists. Now, the
not-so-friendly cop wanted a not-so-friendly word.
At first, I pretended I didn’t see him. What
was with these dumb ideas today? He was at least 6 feet tall and about half as
broad; in other words, hard to miss. So I stopped and waved back. “Privet,” I
ventured in broken Russian. “Minya zavut Pierre”. To the cop, this limited
introduction was all the proof he needed that I could understand po-Russki
perfectly well.
A long explanation of my ‘crime’ followed.
I was sure it was only an ill-judged jaywalk. But his ears were red and he
wasn’t smiling. For all I knew he was charging me with treason. “Ya tourist”, I
pleaded, half-truthfully. By then, a small crowd had gathered. He noticed it
too. “Come,” he said gruffly in English.
People don’t usually scare me. Like the cop,
I too am six feet tall and about half as broad. Still, I’d heard stories about
Russian prisons. And this cop was about to take me away from the public eye. All
I could think was “There won’t be any witnesses”.
I followed him into a large police van. He
motioned me to sit down. “Wait,” he growled and left. A lady cop sat next to a table
laden with equipment. It was mostly radios and walkie talkies but all I could focus
on was a black baton hanging from one corner.
“This is it. He’s going to beat a
confession out of me,” I thought. The lady cop, probably sensing my unease,
offered a glass of water. I liked her already. But wait, was she just playing
‘good cop’? As I nervously twiddled my thumbs, the door opened. A squat,
middle-aged officer walked in followed by Big Cop. Some gesturing and facial
contortions followed.
Then the older cop turned to me.
“Passport?” he asked. His face betrayed no emotion. I was told to always carry
mine when alone for exactly such situations. As soon as I handed it over, the
older cop smiled. “Indie?” he asked again, his smile brodening. “Da,” I replied,
slightly confused.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, could prepare
me for wht happened next. My passport in one hand and the big cop’s wrist in
the other, the older policeman began to dance. And sing. “Awara hoon...! Davaye
Indie!” he said encouragingly. “Awara hoon...” He wanted me to sing with him!
I’ll commit sacrilege here and admit I’m
not a Raj Kapoor fan. But I knew the song. So, I did as asked.
“Awara hoon,” we chorused a third time. In my mind, I could only think one thing: “What the *%#@ is going on here?”
“Awara hoon,” we chorused a third time. In my mind, I could only think one thing: “What the *%#@ is going on here?”
Then the older cop stopped swaying. He
seemed genuinely pleased at what had just happened. “I love Raj Kapoor”, he
declared in a thick accent and handed my passport back. “You go! No problem”.
Had a popular 1950s bollywood song just
saved me from a long, cold night alone in a Russian slammer? Or was my
transgression far too minor for this gentlemanly Siberian cop to offend the
memory of one of his favourite movie stars. I didn’t care to find out. With a
silent vow never to jaywalk again, and a big thank you to Bollywood’s first
international superstar, I sped off to my friends and a waiting dinner. Man,
were they going to love my story!
Very entertaining read - I remember you telling us this story...ma
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