Mumbai has its Constable Pandu, ridiculed by Bollywood , but also immortalised as the mascot of the Mid-Day website. It has its thought police in the uniform of those who want us to cover our history books in saffron. It has its culture police, as constituted by Pramod Navalkar. And now it has a new force called the Tourist Police.
Overnight, these guys seem to be more multitudinous than opinions on the US election results. Theyre prowling all over the place, in vans, in a slow crawl, and in dead earnest. I go to the Bandra bandstand, and theyre there, their wireless whispering as hoarsely as excited lovers. I go to Colaba, and theyre there, looking as seedy as a boarding house. Tourist Police is the unfamiliar legend emblazoned on their familiar jeeps.
Im intrigued. They look like the usual police presence harassing the public acting officious whenever theres suspected gangster visit or expected VIP movement. So whats all this Tourist Policing supposed to be? Are they there to protect the Visators from Vancouver, or to police them? Bet you one FIR that it's the latter.
I can just imagine how they'll go about their job.
Couple from Connecticut has picked up souvenirs at the Cottage Industries Emporium, hoping that the sandalwood for their crateload of carved elephants hasn t come from that guy, Veer-appan.
They move to the Cashier who resentfully drags himself away from his flirtations with Miss Smitha, the saleswoman, and mumbles, ''One percent surcharge on American Express credit card. Why you're not paying cash only.'' Mr Tourist resignedly begins to count out a fistful of crumpled notes.
Suddenly there's a high-pitched whistle . It's a Mumbai Tourist Police raid. The Officer in Charge of this search-and-seize operation yanks the money from the Yank. 'Fake currency notes!' he exclaims as triumphantly as Al Gore demanding a recount. He summons police reinforcements and a press conference. Not in that order.
The hapless tourist turns redder than TV anchors retracting their results. He protests, "I was only paying for this crate of elephants. " Crates! Elephants ! Smuggling, and on top of it shamelessly settling accounts in 'khokas' and 'petis'! You're arrested under the defunct COFEPOSA!
'Cawfee?' stammers the tourist, looking as confused as the American electorate. "Not Colombian. Not even decaf. In fact, not any Starbucks at all. We love your Indian tea, awnestly". Now the officer turns redder than the tourist or the TV anchors. "Do not crack jokes with a public servant, Sir. I am warning you."
He whips out his service revolver, and begins a slow theatrical walk like Clint Eastwood in 'A Fistful of Dollars' . He pulls himself up to his full height -till he manages to reach the American's ear. Then in a voice loaded like a Colt, with menace, he whispers, "I can get a part in a Hollywood fillum, no?"
Taut, toned, tanned Spanish tourist, her hair in a short crop, her long legs in cropped shorts, sits smoking a bidi in Leopold Cafe. Suddenly the air is thick with smoking guns instead, as a posse of the Mumbai Tourist Police screeches to a halt on burning tyres. Waiter Horatio drops the tea-cups and his jaw. Not in that order.
"Freeze!" says the Sub-Inspector. " At 30 degrees in ze shade?" murmurs the svelte tourist. In disbelief and Spanish.
"I've handled the Dons of Dongri, the Godmothers of Golpitha. Don't mess with me, Dona Tourista" thunders the police officer. The tourist knows several languages, but not this double Dutch.
Undeterred, the inspector continues his mayhem. Scratching 'Roast Chicken' off the menu board, he pronounces, 'Fowl Play!' . He is an arresting guy, but nothing warrants such behaviour.
Some bystanders - erstwhile by-sitters who have jumped to their feet in consternation - demand an explanation. The SI says in a conspiratorial tone, "Beware, this is Senorita Baptista alias the Firangi Phataka. She is on Interpol's 'Wanted List' and on that of every officer who isn't a gentleman. Everyone wants to take her in an encounter." He adds, "Even if these horny bulls don't actually say, 'O-lay!' ."
"Police excesses!" spits out a customer, pretending that he's dislodging a piece of Mutton Samosa from his molar cavity as the SI shoots him a look deadlier than an AK 47.
The Barcelona beauty looks totally nonplussed. A fellow-customer puts two and two together for her, and whispers, " Maybe the policeman wants his weekly bribe."She looks blank for a moment, and then her exquisite eye-brows arch in delayed understanding. "Ah," she says, "Hafta la Vista!"
bachi@mid-day.com
