Lal batti in many colours

Rajnish Wattas

MANY, many years ago when I was a young academic, the frosty formidable boss, ensconced in his office, would be unavailable to anyone between 10 am and 12 noon. No, not even the faculty. A lal batti — not a beacon with a flasher — but a simple 100 Watt tungsten, red bulb would be on! The pompous peon didn’t even have to scowl, the blood-red bulb said it all — ‘Saheb is busy... ’

No raging fire in the college was urgent  enough to allow anyone entry to the sanctum sanctorum. Many years later, of course, we found out that the ‘head’ used to be merely busy inside writing his 300-word weekly column for a local paper. He, meanwhile, had got his red-bulb eureka moment from hours of cooling his heels outside the Education Secretary’s office, waiting for divine darshan to get urgent sanctions approved.

Occasionally, on the  annual day, a cavalcade of flashing, hooting  lal batti white Ambassadors, followed by dust-raising escorts, security details, police Gypsys, descended on the placid, arty Corbusean ambience of our institution. It hit us with the force of Hurricane Katrina and the thunder of chariots of gods descending in a Ben-Hur chase.

In fact, the red beacon car is (was) privileged to  intrude into any space. At the scenic golf course, where I tee off, beyond the parking area limits where even members’ trolleys are not allowed — the gates flung wide open when a lal batti arrived for a game. And quite mysteriously, it usually occurred during official working hours. Maybe just the mandatory constitutional perk for weary souls carrying the nation’s burdens, as prescribed under rule… para (ii a), sub-clause of fitness rules!

No high-profile wedding could be solemnised without the ‘blessings’ of the gods of red beacons. And greater the array of white Toyota Corollas with red beacons parked outside the pandal, greater the social standing of the hand-folded, humble host.

The lal batti ingress powers recognised no sacred boundaries. At the cremation of a VIP notable, the bereaved family was kept on hold from lighting the pyre till mantri saheb arrived. Hundreds of mourners waited patiently in solemn silence. Finally, the cavalcade arrived with the roar of a tornado and a huge black Mercedes drove right up to the inner court, just short of the ready-to-light  pyre. The worthy alighted, surrounded by a bevy of AK-47 totting black commandos, hobbled to the effigy, laid a hurried wreath and vanished like an apparition! And finally the delayed, departed soul got its divine deliverance.

My only liberated moment occurred   at a cocktail party hosted by rather an extraordinarily, contrarian civil servant friend. Uncorked by quite a few free-flowing Blue Labels, I turned into an unstoppable wit. Turning to a group of sahebs, I posed, ‘Metaphorically speaking, which would be the   biggest ‘red-light area’ of  the city?’ A grim silence followed. ‘Well, it would be, it would be...’ I mumbled weakly, realising that my wisecrack alluding to the VIP sector as the location had misfired. I stuttered a feeble clarification and melted into social oblivion.

Just like the lal batti, my own funny bone too had fused out.