The Mean Streets of Dehradun . . . it takes nerves of steel, an iron resolve and a certain measure of masochism to venture out on them – whether as a pedestrian (really dangerous), a bicyclist (even worse), or a driver (in which guise you engage in delusional thinking by believing you are in control).

Nevertheless, I do it all the time, using all three of the above options. Proof that you can get used to anything.

The story I have to tell, however, is not a moving vehicle one. In this story, I was parked. Illegally, as it happened.

I parked, as I often do, in front of Ellora’s. It was New Year’s Day (which will be important in the story). I knew it wasn’t allowed, but I was in a hurry and I only had a few errands to run. As usual, they took longer than I thought and it actually occurred to me as I walked back towards my car: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I’d been towed?”

I thought it would be funny because it NEVER HAPPENS. In all my years in Dehradun (almost 20) I have never been towed and, until a month or so ago,  I had never even seen anyone towed.

But in December, Dehradun got a new traffic superintendent and he was a tyrant, determined to impose some order on our hapless, crazy city – see above photo. In the month previous, I had witnessed numerous towing incidents, motorcyclists being ticketed for not wearing a helmet, people running red lights being pulled over and a general atmosphere of zero tolerance.

I loved it. I am a maniac on our roads because I am one of the few who know there are traffic rules and I insist on following them. This automatically creates mass confusion because everyone else follows the “like water for traffic” system in which you simply go with the flow. If you meet with an obstacle, you FLOW – either to left or right. Not me. The obstacle is always in the wrong and I get out and screech. Mass confusion.

So I was all for the crackdown in Dehradun. I cheered every time I saw an arrest being made and I would have garlanded the tow truck wallas if I could have. I mean, the way people park wherever they feel like it, regardless of impeding traffic and pedestrians – it simply has to stop.

Thinking such thoughts, and amusing myself with the funny idea of my own car being hauled off, I rounded the corner and found, to my dismay, that it had actually happened. My car was gone. I did what I suppose every “victim” does: glanced wildly in all directions, certain I must have been mistaken, must have parked somewhere else, couldn’t possibly have been towed. But slowly, the truth dawned. I asked a man sitting in his shop if he had seen it happen and he nodded happily: “Silver Santro? Yep. They took it three minutes ago.” He told me where to go and I hailed an auto rickshaw and headed for the pound.

By the time I got there, I had recovered my equilibrium. I saw my car standing lonely on one side and the policemen around it knew immediately it was mine (I suppose the “Obama” sticker helped). I could see them snickering as I walked by to pay my fine. But they were in for a surprise. “This is EXCELLENT,”  I said as I pulled out the 350 rupees. “You guys are doing a wonderful job. And I’m so glad it happened today. My New Year’s Resolution is that I will never park illegally again. Thank you. I’ve really learned my lesson.”

There was a stunned silence. Then the cop holding my ticket said “Come with me.” I followed him in to an inner office where a woman sat behind a large desk. she signed my ticket, then glanced at me and asked the policeman in Hindi: “What’s her problem?”

“I just wanted you to meet her,” he said. “She thinks we did a great thing by towing her car. She says she’s made a New Year’s Resolution never to park illegally again.”

I left the station in good humor. The cops were all smiling and cheerful and I drove home full of the milk of human kindness.

Two months later I took my Dad into town for a haircut. I parked the car as close as I possibly could to the barbershop because Dad has a hard time walking even in the best of circumstances and the streets of Dehradun don’t qualify as even close to being the best. When we got out of the shop, Dad picking his way through the rubble and the potholes with his cane, I found, yes, indeed, that I had been towed again.

Muttering under my breath, I hailed an auto, took it all the way out to Vasant Vihar, dropped Dad, then rode all the way back into town to the police station. There was my car in exactly the same spot and there, surrounding it, were the same exact policemen who had been there the last time. All grinning. When I emerged from the rickshaw, they greeted me cheerfully: “Madame! What happened to your New Year’s Resolution?”

I didn’t smile back. “This time, it wasn’t my fault.” I said. “This time, you made a mistake. This time, I was with my father. He’s 87 years old and he can’t walk too well. I had to park as close as I could to where we needed to go, but you don’t have any special provisions for people with disability. It’s not fair!”

Once again, there was silence. Then one of the cops said “You know, you’re right. Why don’t you go and meet the Superintendent? Tell him what you told us.”

Once again, one of them escorted me to the inner sactum. The Superintendent was sitting in lonely splendor. He heard me out, then sat and stared at me for a few moments. “I have to admit we never thought about this before. Do you have any suggestions?”

Did I have any suggestions? Did he have any idea what he was asking? For starters, I just happened to have one of our Right to Ride bumper stickers in my purse:

“I work with an organization for people with disability”, I explained. “This city is hellish for us. We’ve got to make it work for everyone!”

By the time I walked out of his office, not only had my ticket been torn up and my car set free with an apology, the Superintendent had promised to organize an awareness program on the Parade Ground for all of the bus, vikram and rickshaw drivers in the city the following week. And he did. But that’s another story.