Can I park? (Can I see?)
The perimeter of a south delhi park that I occasionally jog in has suddenly become a MCD Authorised Porking (sic) area.
Men in limp fluorescent orange sleeveless jackets, some swaggering rowdy youth, others, wearing the uniform look of migrant labour whose life force has been sucked out by Dementors, now materialise out of nowhere (just after I've parked and turned off the engine), demanding that I park closer to the car on my left.
In orange life jacket, life force sucked out by a Dementor. - a parking attendant in South Delhi
This time, I get the cocky young kind, sure that he will magically fit another car into the bicycle-only space between my car and the tree on the right. The tree gives me a "yeah right!" look, but the Marshall is already in the rear view mirror, miming directions to get my craft into the bay only he can see. I comply grudgingly, wishing I could simply reverse into him. After a minute of maneuvering back to pretty much where I started from, Marshal bangs the rear windshield in satisfaction.
Get out, fuming, and he's already torn an orange parking ticket from his book, the "Rs.10" printed in the largest font on the cheap thin paper, "MCD" coming in a close second; the first tells me what I gotta pay, the second, ostensibly why.
"Since when?" I ask, keeping my voice a studied pitch lower than normal, trying to convey the quiet confidence of a local.
"A long time," he says, "at least 3 months now."
I chuckle to show my disbelief. "I come here everyday. I've never seen you before."
"I'm here everyday," he says, walking away towards the next car slowing down, "except when I'm on leave." "Beat that, smart-ass" say the subtitles.
I stuff the ticket angrily in my pocket and walk away towards the jogging track. This is not over.
When I return after an hour, a different orange jacket is there, leaning on my car. I get in, not rolling down my window, no intention of paying the thug voluntarily. I start the engine, and raise it just a bit more than needed. They're taught to judge body language very quickly, these guys. But this one is younger than the rest, probably a new recruit. He's a little unsure, and nearly falls over, trying to half-block my vehicle with his body, lest I speed away. He quickly sashays up the front to knock on the window. I roll it down.
He thrusts an eager hand in.
"Since when do I have to pay parking here?"
He tries the standard gambit. "Long time now."
"I'm not paying." I shut the engine. "Go get me evidence that you're allowed to collect parking here."
He points to the "Porking" board. "Everyone pays."
"It takes nothing to put up a board," I say. "Get your owner here."
"He doesn't sit here," he says, his anxiety growing.
"That's not my problem," I say. " If I can't see the MCD papers, you get nothing." I start my engine, raising the stakes.
He stiffens, holding the car door with both hands now. I expect him to call for help from the senior thugs any moment now. The climax will soon play out, the winner to be decided by intricate game theory. Net-net, it's about whether I'm likely to create a loud enough nuisance to incite other car owners to join my protest and if I do, how sure the attendants are, of their bona fides to collect the fee.
But the trainee doesn't call for assistance. "Wait," he says hurriedly, breaking into a nervous smile. He reaches into his trouser back pocket and pulls out a brand new rexine wallet, with a flourish.
I'm surprised. This script has taken an unexpected turn. I'm curious. I relax and sit back, just a bit.
He produces a piece of paper, creased and folded many times over, out of the wallet, an unsaid "Ta Da" ringing in the background . He opens it halfway, then just thrusts it to me, his smile widening.
I open it slowly and try to decipher the smudged photocopy. It's a tender advertisement, copied from a newspaper - The Municipal Corporation of Delhi, MCD, invites bids to manage vehicular parking in the area.
The young man is standing to my right, a few inches taller no doubt, having produced documentary evidence of his right to fleece me.
"Ha!" I think. "He most likely can't even read. The senior goons have put him up to it." I turn, my mind racing to point out the various lacunae in his reasoning - an ad is no evidence that his contractor actually won the bid, or even that the auction was ever held. He doesn't see me turn towards him. He's looking over his shoulder. I follow his gaze, and notice his superiors, who are observing his performance from the distance. I'm about to begin my demolition when he turns to face me.
His expression is not what I expect - of a ruffian gloating his victory over someone he thinks he's got cornered. His goon smile is not fully developed yet; it has no malice... just the excited anticipation of a kid who thinks he's won a game, unexpectedly, but fair and square. That too, with his bosses watching.
I hand him back his piece of paper and a ten rupee note. He grins happily. I smile.
The foot soldier has won this battle. I'll be back to fight the war with the porking contractor another day.
Waiting for an update on the next round of this war!
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