On the road, life matters, so do the rules

SANDEEP SINHA

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Last week, I received my first traffic challan in Chandigarh, in fact the first since I learnt to drive. It was for a minor offence, crossing the zebra line at the Sector 33/34 light point, requiring me to pay Rs 300. It came by post and after sitting on it for a day, I finally mustered up enough motivation to go and pay.

The office of the traffic police in Sector 29 is on a route that I frequently take on my way back home from work and the familiarity stood me in good stead. The cops there, in civil dress, had all the efficiency of a call centre. There was no rush and the gentleman whom I met offered me a seat, unthinkable otherwise in a thana, before making the entry in a register. The cash deposit counters were manned by women constables in civil dress. But make no mistake! The iron hand in a velvet glove was subtly visible when it came to brass tacks. “Licence dekhao ji,” was said with a firmness that would have been the envy of many a top cop. Then followed a genial discussion about the geographical location of my home state. “UP mein aata hai,” I was asked. I explained that it was a separate state but soon realised that “UP” was a generic term used for the Hindi-speaking types. “Camera challan hai,” I was asked. I told the lady cop that I could not make out but that it had come by post. The traffic policemen were slightly puzzled that the challan had no date or time of the offence committed mentioned on it. “Kya karein,” the gentleman asked. I told him that the date of dispatch was given below as March 12 and in any case it was a minor offence. So, we proceeded to complete the formalities.

But I found the traffic policemen quite helpful and reasonable. There was no reason to feel harassed for I had escaped being issued a challan on half a dozen other occasions, the bespectacled frame and a Press lineage inviting their munificence. Whenever they have flagged me down, they have had a reason for doing so—taking a free left turn even where there was a light, driving in the opposite direction on a slip road— and occasionally having a close brush with a breath analyser. My vehicle was once stopped during a routine checking at a naka, though in another city, and god forbid, my driving licence had expired and the receipt issued in lieu of it had been forgotten at home. I had then walked up to the officer and explained everything. He let me go.

The challan for a traffic offence has to be seen in a larger perspective. We might chaff feeling that we have been at the receiving end. But do we realise the enormity of the task that these policemen have at hand? One only has to look at the rush of traffic on Dakshin Marg and Madhya Marg to realise what work they have at hand. When the traffic lights conk out after a downpour, it is to them that the commuters turn to for a semblance of order on the roads.

Traffic rules are also meant to ensure our own safety and that of others. Flouting it can endanger lives. A simple violation like not wearing a seat belt or helmet can result in the loss of life. Flouting it might be an act of bravado but is actually fraught with grave consequences. Once people realise that traffic rules and regulations are for their own safety, they will not flout it. Similarly, there are other rules meant to ensure the safety of pedestrians and other commuters. Visiting a West Bengal town once, I saw boards kept at filling stations, “No helmet, no petrol.” It was another way of creating awareness, through a kind of socio-economic ostracisation, but effective. The City Beautiful also carries out campaigns for order on roads, the latest being the drive to make the city honk-free.

Enforcing traffic rules is not just about being strict, it also has to do with the pride residents of Chandigarh take in their city and is more collective than individual in nature.