Now, my getting caught in a jam is not very unusual, though not being able to maneuver my four-wheeler is as unlikely as BanglaDesh winning the World Cup. But the impossible is meant to happen in this uncertain world because even Napoleon could not eradicate the word from the Dictionary.

I had an 11 o’clock appointment with an old Professor of Architecture and it was touching 11. I was in my brand new car, well almost, if you ignored the many dents and broken lights. Let me share with you the secret of getting a car in the first year of College. Close on my 18th birthday, Mom, asked me what I wanted for the D-Day. My reply was short: “Nothing much. Just a stereo….. fitted into a Car.” I had hoped and prayed for a Lancer, but settled for Wagon-R. Well, as I knifed this broken beauty though an array of gleaming chauffeur driven Sedans, Mercs, and BMWs, I thought of the old beaver for whom 11 meant 11. Either I reach timely to hand over my labour - not of love but of slogging for continuous 72 hours or else…. I shivered at the thought and wondered why most Architects’ hearts are incised out.

My fretting and fuming would have put the Bard to shame but I could do nothing as I had a solid wall of metal in front. A motorist asked a fellow driver the reason for the Jam. Normally I pay no heed to such queries as Delhiites are a smart lot. They hazard the most erroneous answers in the most convincing way. But the reply being short and different, gripped me:

“SALMAN KHAN.”

I rubbed my eyes, warding off sleep. May be I had begun to see and hear things that did not exist. I am a staunch Sallu fan and had earlier visited Mumbai to empathize at the time of Land Cruiser case, although no meeting took place even then. I had often dreamt of a bear hug from Sallu, minus of course the eagle-eyed vigil of Kanta Behen of KAL-HO-NA-HO fame. It was then that I saw the banner:

‘TOP SHIRT COMPANIES UNITE TO SUE SALMAN KHAN”

‘At a boy’! Sallu, you buddy, I yelped, they have done you in! Just then there was a rising crescendo of voices as out came Salman, nattily clad in an Armani. Alongside walked SIMI GREWAL, a graceful vision in white. The cops had a real tough time not for them so much as for Pooja Bedi who snuggled in with her camera crew, her two winsomes in full glitter of exposure. Was she 50% exposed or 75%, some geeks argued. The soft sensuousness had thrown the metric system in total disarray.

Soon the murmers died and traffic inched forward. I, too, raced and touched the Professor’s place 13 minutes too late. Although totally spent, I had to salute the Bard. Beware the Ides of March, he had warned all those aeons ago. Now I’m not the one to mope and fret and think of a Hamlet or a Lear or the whole of Thomas Hardy put together, so I retraced my steps, choosing to dump the Portfolio inside the luxurious confines of my car and await the arrival of other classmates. Some of them were better strategists and knew how to spin yarns. We were all to reach individually. So I had no option but to wait. My driving speed being famous, there was no use finding out whether any body had preceded me.

I kicked the car door shut and grimaced as an unknown ‘angel’ had actually chosen to appreciate and applaud my driving talent for I saw this on the windscreen:

PARKING FINE

There seemed no sense in removing the car for the duration I had to while away the time till my peers arrived, so I chose to walk around in the vicinity. A call to some friends, courtesy that infamous sperm count destroyer and heart ache inducer, the mobile - I knew the classmates would take another half an hour or so. I took the Service Lane to saunter around. In fact it was a short cut to the hind side of Tis Hazari. May be I could meet Sallu. The walls of the building were a Tourist’s delight, unless you term it a nightmare. Beautifully done graffiti, blended with the aroma of urine, perpetually renewed, greeted me so early in the morning. That too on an almost empty stomach and in near dazed state of mind.

Perhaps a little distance from the Service Lane would be more appropriate, I thought. So I came on the main road, fighting a constant battle with my eyelids that wanted to shut. In between my struggle I overheard a driver mutter a choice expletive as a couple of dogs went berserk chasing each other. He applied sudden brake. Glass crashed into glass as the mating season took its toll on the not so poor bitch. Since this was the back of Tis Hazari I thought Law Makers or Implementers would jump to notice, being prime witness. But no one naturally took cognizance. They were not the affected parties. Delhi is a place where even day light murders are not taken cognizance of by those unconnected. I chose to walk on.

Another check on the mobile and I traced my steps all the way back to the Professor’s place. I was so tired of the shitty smell that even a chance encounter with Sallu would not have made me smile. Well, perhaps,

We all rushed in a body. The Professor had melted. ‘Dad’ had talked him round. All batches have a ‘Dad” you know, who comes to act as a godfather. Our batch was no exception.

My assignment submitted, I drove back through a different route. No policemen ever came to patrol here. They had been substituted by Delhi’s dewy eyed cows who dotted, in varying clusters, this stretch of the road in bovine unison, daring Motorists to obey the loudly displayed instructions of the With You, For You Always”:

FOLLOW TRAFFIC RULES. LANE DRIVING IS SANE DRIVING.