“Ladiesu idhdhaare?” asks the cop. “What the *&^% problem is it of yours?” I reply.
As it is, I’m pissed because there’s no party to hit tonight. To have ourselves a social life, three of us are sitting in a barsaatiin Sanjaynagar, sinking a bottle of Khodays rum. Alice Cooper’s serenading us out of a 60W (PMPO, as the maker hopefully stated) tape player. Overall, I’d love to have a nubile female in reach, but here I am, blearily confronting two constables who’ve traipsed in at 1 AM asking stupid questions. “Out you go. Come back with a warrant.” is my stock reply to anything they say.
They go but, on the way out, one casually grabs the tape player. “Pick it up at the station” he said “you students have no respect for police?”
Aha – so that’s it; the pigs have taken us for out-of-town engineering students from MSRIT!
Cut to the station. “Vat is your name?” asks the inspector. “Amitabh %$@#!% Bachchan” say I, “Lock us up if you like”. But no – we’re shoved into a Jeep and taken to a hospital.
“You guys driving or riding?” asks the young doc in the Casualty Ward. “Us? We were sitting at home.” says a buddy.
“Oh...drunken sitting...you’re the third case this week. It's the latest shake-down the guys are running” he tells us. That said, he blows into the Breathalyzer. “Perfectly sober” he tells the cops, poking his head out of the cubicle.
“But, they’re stinking of yenne!” stammer one of Bangalore’s finest. “Who’s the doctor here?” asks the doc, Hippocrates bless his pointy head.
Back at the cop shop, Alice Cooper’s singing “Poison” for the denizens. “Sorry guys, party’s over” I tell them as I shut Alice up.
And take him home for another Khodays.
(At Sanjaynagar Police Station)
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