Simple it may seem writing about an issue in question is not a cakewalk. Procuring the reputation of being a good analytic writer has been immensely demanding and I wish not to deviate from the job of uprooting the essence of habitual issues that we don’t pause and breathe to bother about. Time plays tough and makes you inoperative when you devote all your vigour seeking work. Incidentally it happened to be lethal, plunging me out of the globe into mind wrecking work, hampering me from experiencing a subject worth of putting my butt for straight two hours on the chair to pen about. Ironically the video which I saw also contributed to the urge of spinning this issue to focus of attention. The title may seem sarcastic at the start of the read but the requisite to intentionally use such a caption would be justified towards the end, for which I apologize.

Thirty five kilometres was all that it took to reach the adjoining state. Chithoor, a place notorious for trafficking of women and children was our ultimate destination. When we accelerated our bikes, the wind punched adamant and air was chilling tediously on our faces. Drops of tears emerged to be the reaction of over speed and I had no other go than to swirl my tongue around my lips to taste a drop and absurdly turned back to my friend to convey that it tasted salty, just to bug him and make my existence felt in that road of solitude very rarely hit by vehicles. He was swooping into ever blooming Illaiyaraja songs and was shaking mildly; his mannerisms were ample enough to induce any women to give a sound slap on his face. Now, I would like to make my second apology here. These facts mentioned above do not contribute anything to the article and the title.

A sudden jerk, I did not notice a speed breaker ahead. Luckily, juggling out into perfection I avoided a slide and conversely speaking a drive to puthoor, recognized for its fracture dressings. Everything was going fine, until my friend put his hand right in front of my face hiding the road ahead, to point out a blockade very far. I saw boards that warned us to halt. It was jam-packed. I did not stop my vehicle as I retained every single stuff that would avert any Indian from keeping on the road. Most importantly I owned a licence, for which I was very thrilled of. I parked my bike well in between two police men very arrogantly shifting gears to neutral, in a manner that would annoy even the kindest of kinds. Aware of the fact that verification was very casual as it was the border, I hoped that they would finalize their commitments in a short time and would allow us to make our way into the pathetic road. Was I interpreting impossible?

Reflexing his muscles as if I was rushing to punch his balls, he pulled out the keys in a pace twenty four times electrifying than any bowler in the Indian cricket team. Ten minutes later once my sweat initiated its way to the toes through my tummy unwittingly touching most of my parts, I assembled the courage and the force to question the traffic police to give us the reason for withholding our locomotion.

Twelve bikes, two auto rickshaws, five cars and twenty two buffoons (it does not include police men, for they made us so) were standing without any muster of muscles to open our mouth. The tenor of that place was extremely dynamic and restless. Later, one of the men in his forties elevated his tone to command for my license. I showed because I had no other go than to surrender to him blindly. Then many evidences were asked, one being our liquor content which he managed to check through the odour of our mouths literally proving to be void, were asked which I took out in the order of approval of his diligence. What seemed very weird yet very hilarious was he asked me to pay two hundred rupees for providing him with all the confirmations he asked for and when questioned he acquitted that our number plate had a shaded colour and was not formal, which would put a wild laugh even on the fierce and tough professors of my college. Without understanding the wrongdoing for being accused we gave the amount with a discount of twenty rupees to the Government of India, which was sincere in its intention to provide us the bill for the money that tumbled into their pockets. Fake or true, a big salute for that.

Drifting from my familiar routine of questioning the sincerity of the government or investigating the job ethics of the police men which has become ultimately tiresome, let me thrust a question that every common man should look upon; does licence manifest consideration from the police?  Our pride to keep on the roads of India is ruining its sense as it only remains the first question of approval and no traffic police stops with that alone, letting our drive resume after they examine our license. It has become a key to nag, to be harsh enough.

Precisely some fund can unchain you from any form of violation of rules on the road even if you don’t own a license. To all those people who pointlessly pride having one, learn the fact that it’s purposeless. An intense job of putting things right on road when the sun propels the face hard and chill flows through the ears is difficult, we understand. But you get paid for your job. You have the dominance; you have the power to interrogate us; you have the power to halt us. But does it deserve the hard earned money from public. Some even plead for money instead of throwing a fine, which is an ultimate shame to the profession of justice.

Not this time, the mistake should obviously be bestowed upon us. We in an impulse to abscond from the fine have been very pleased to lend our pockets to their grasp, who as a choice to earn hurried money has lingered its labour of rendering futile questions to snatch money withholding dignity. All red light areas do not have a red light to emphasize the portrayal of its profession, but some years from now if this holds on, the craft that warrants selfless sacrifice and flawless authority in public would be a red light warning to people on road to keep away from cops who effortlessly collects money to drive ahead. The choice is ours.