Account of an accident

I HAVE been driving cars since I was 12 years old. Those days there were very few cars on the roads. No policeman stopped me and asked me to show my driving licence, as my father was an Honorary Magistrate, Second Class, who imposed fines on people who drove cars without licences. I have driven cars in most countries of Europe, the USA and Canada. I never had an accident because I was a cautious driver who never took risks. At 85, I still drive my own car. When people ask me why I don’t employ a chauffeur, I reply: "What for? I belong to a race of taxi drivers. I drive well and have never had an accident."

For the past few weeks I have been driving to Lodi Park every evening to take a stroll. My daughter or grand-daughter accompany me. I need somebody to be with me when I walk as I have become somewhat unsteady on my feet and my vision is no longer as good as it used to be. On weekends some lady friend or other volunteers accompany me. Usually it is Sheela Reddy who works with Harper Collins; at times it is Uma Nair who is a school teacher. The evening I had my first accident I was accompanied by Uma Nair.

We set out earlier than usual as the days were getting short and the afternoon sun was pleasant. At 3.30 p.m., I parked my car as I always did close to a fruit-juice vendor’s booth on the left side of the main road. There were no other cars there. A bus was parked some 15 yards in front facing the other way. We got out. I picked up my walking stick, locked the car and proceeded towards the entrance gate of Lodi Park. We were about 10 steps from the rear of my car when I heard the sound of a crash. I turned round to see my car rolling backwards towards me. Uma pushed me out of its way. The bus in front had reversed and bashed the front of my car, its bonnet had buckled up to form a metallic pyramid. I could detect no other damage. I brandished my walking stick, shouting obscenities in Punjabi all the way to the bus driver’s seat. There was no one on it. The engine was running, the radio playing full blast. I saw a boy of about 15 come out of other side, take a quick look at the damage done to my car, run across the road and disappear round the corner.

A small crowd began to collect. A man noted down the number of the errant bus: DLIP 7022 and gave it to me. Uma took a three-wheeler to go to my flat, inform the family and ring up the police. A gentleman who had a mobile phone got the number of Tughlak Road police station from the fruit-juice vendor and rang up the SHO. Another went into the park to look for the bus driver who had brought a party of school children for a picnic.

Fifteen minutes later, came the bus driver. He examined the damage done to my car; then on the pretence of switching off the engine of his bus, drove it off. A few minutes later, a couple of policemen rode up on a motor cycle. One had three red stripes on his sleeve; his name— Balram Sharma— was on a tab pinned on his chest. He was a paunchy man, exuding self-confidence: "Kahaan jaeyega’ — where can he go?" he said and switched to Punjabi. "We have his number, we will get him." The other was a South Indian. Sharma took out his pad and asked me to narrate what had happened. He sent his colleague to look for the bus and its driver at one of the other entrance gates of the park.

I gave my name to Sharmaji. It meant nothing to him. I told him my father’s name. It meant nothing to him. He wrote out the details of the incident as narrated by me in Devnagri and asked me to sign it. I asked him to add that both the cleaner and the bus driver had fled the scene — faraar ho gaye. He did not think it was necessary but on my insistence added a couple of sentences. I signed the FIR. Just then a white car pulled up and Hari Jaisingh, Editor of The Tribune, stepped out. "What’s up?" he asked, "Can I do something?" I was pleased to see him. I thought his presence would impress Sharmaji. Neither Hari’s name nor his designation meant anything to him. Sharmaji obviously did not read The Tribune.

I thanked Hari Jaisingh and told him I would look after myself. The other policeman came back to say he had found the bus driver and had taken his licence. The bus was parked near Gate 1. The owner of the bus had been informed. Whereupon Sharmaji got on his motor cycle, assuring me that he would be back in a few minutes. I sat down on a stone on the pavement to await his return. It turned cool. My son-in-law, my daughter and grand-daughter turned up in their Sumo. We waited for more than 40 minutes. There was no sign of Sharmaji. My son-in-law is a man of quick temper. "I’ll go and look for him," he said as he drove off. He found Sharmaji and owner of the bus enjoying ice-cream at Gate 1. He let him have a piece of his mind. Sharmaji was back and complained that my son-in-law had quite unnecessarily lost his temper at him as all he was doing was to draw up a term of compromise between the bus owner and me. "What compromise?" I asked him sharply. "They’ve bashed up my car and run away." For the first time I decided to throw my weight around. "If you hadn’t returned in another 15 minutes, I was going to ring up the Commissioner of Police." It worked: Sharmaji turned sugar and honey: "We are for your sewa etc.

My mechanic had my car towed to my flat. A few minutes later Sharmaji and the bus owner, Harmesh Dhiman, arrived. Dhiman was full of apologies. He said he had read my stories at school and often seen me on television. At long last Sharmaji was also impressed and said I was like his father. He left, asking us to come to a settlement. I asked Dhiman if he had to square the police. He gave Sharmaji a clean chit. I asked to see the driver of the bus. The young sardar was ushered in. He touched my feet and stood with his hands joined in a gesture of repentence. I called him besharam for running away from the scene of the accident. He did not reply. I called him a bewakoof for not realising that the number of his bus had been noted and he would be caught. He said nothing in reply. I gave them cola to drink, and asked him take the key of my car and have it repaired. I made Dhiman put down in writing that he would have the repaired car delivered back to me in 24 hours.

They took away my car. Two days later they returned it with bonnet repaired and re-painted. The glass of one of the front lights that had cracked had not been replaced. The rear-view mirror close to the driver’s seat had been taken away. The petrol tank was empty. I protested and was assured that all my complaints would be attended to at once. I waited a week. No one came. I decided to cut my losses and never again trust the likes of Balram Sharma and Harmesh Singh Dhiman.

Farewell to Hyderabad

The morning started with a call on Idrees Latif, retired Air Chief Marshal, and his wife Bilkis who have a cottage close to my hotel. Idrees has grown exotic plants around his villa. He also has a clutch of quails which live in a wire-gauzed room where he has his morning tea and reads the morning papers. The birds scamper all over the room. If their master is late in giving them their seed breakfast they line up in front of his chair, and twitter in protest. I find such human-bird or animal friendship very heart-warming. I am sure it has therapeutic value and does a world of good to people who lead busy lives full of tension.

My first assignment was to visit Akhshara Book Store run by Lakshmi Narayan Rao. It is a very airy, spacious place, below road level, catering to the elite that live in Banjara Hills. There were not many buyers of my books. I drank coconut milk, signed a few books and returned to my hotel for my siesta.

The ringing of telephone interrupted my slumber. Khursheed Shah Zaman, whom I have known over 50 years as a close friend of my youngest brother (now gone), turned up unannounced. She was in tears as she embraced me — all in memory of my late brother. She clung to me like a long lost relation. We proceeded to the Secunderabad Club for the main function.

The Secunderabad Club retains its ye olde British atmosphere except for the fact that its bar has been closed down. There were children running around while their parents sat indoors playing Bridge. I was pleasantly surprised at the turn out for my meeting — almost 400 men and women. And even more for the reading of extracts from my novels selected by Shankar Melkote. I felt very elated. I was brought down to earth by three youngmen who minced no words to describe The Company of Women as vulgar and demeaning to women. My protests that they were being narrow-minded provoked a volley of abuse. I lost my temper and said, "Making love to women is not demeaning them; putting them in burqahs is." However it ruined my appetite for Scotch and dinner. I told Firdusi Hyder who sat by me of the exchange of words that had taken place. She did her best to make up. I felt very depressed and turned back to my hotel. The next morning I left for Vishakhapatnam, of that next time.

With apologies to Gurudev

Years after Independence , an ordinary Indian bewails:
Where peoples’ reps don’t dare move without Zed security,
Where school doors are slammed on the kids without capitation fee,
Where the society is broken up into minorities, Sawarnas, SCs and OBCs.
Where daily new words like Bofors, Chara and Hawala get currency.
Where hands need grease to reach the nearest file.
Where kittas, guns and bombs are the latest reasoning style.
Where thought and action are confined to narrow, still narrower identity.
Into that abyss of gloom and despair.
Why, oh why, my father, was the country led by thee?

(Contributed by A.P. Kishra, Allahabad).

(Khushwant Singh is abroad, so there will be no column next week).

This feature was published on December 18, 1999