It’s a small world but its not really the same world. Cross a couple of seas or oceans and things change for good or bad, while you are still on the same planet Earth.

Not very long back, I think it was 2004. I was working in Delhi and I had a very strange experience. It was a Saturday and a bunch of us in the bureau had gone for a lazy late lunch. It was one of those rare Saturday lunches when we decided not to drink any beer. Just food and no booze we decided. We were all in a colleague’s car and trying to park it in the ever crowded Fleet Street in Delhi (Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg) right opposite to Business Standard office. My chief was driving the car and was maneuvering the car to park it with some difficult gear shifts. This dude follows rules to the point of irritation. All indicators were on and he was watching the rear view mirror all the time but still a couple of trigger happy goons managed to bump their bike behind our car. What followed as a typical Delhi-style testosterone fight. Goon number one who was riding the bike wanted to prove a point while my chief was trying to explain why the fault was not his but Goon No.1’s. I was fairly new to Delhi so I decided to correct the situation. Leaving my two colleagues (who were bigger and more street-wise than me anyway) to handle the goons, I ran to the nearest police picket and brought with me two fat cops, one actually carrying a big gun — the one with lots of holes in the nozzle. Then came one more cop and he said we all need to go to the station (IP Estate) to file a complaint. I was happy. See, who said this is jungle raj. It worked like a charm and the bad guys will learn their lesson today.

The three of us, along with the two goons where asked to wait a bit. We were introduced to two more cops, one lady and another big Jat cop (am guessing by his size and his accent). Then the lady cop casually dropped the bomb. All us were asked to strip for a medical check up. WHAT? I don’t go topless in my hometown’s Marina beach, leave alone stripping in a police station. This is one of those moments when you get that strange ticklish feel in your sole and certain parts defy gravity and move upwards (you know what!).  That strange churn in the stomach ensued. Eyes start to dilate and normal sounds assume Dolby Surround Sound effect in the head. My poor boss looked at me in shock. Ok, I am going to be taken out of the auto beat and asked to cover chambers for the rest of my life!

Luckily, my other colleague got this brilliant idea. Call the big boss, that is my boss’ boss’ boss. (No names please). He came to the station and spoke to the lady cop and explained to her that all this was not necessary and we don’t want to register a complaint. Suddenly the two goons and all us were shaking hands and putting up a grand show for all to see, how we were almost like childhood friends who failed to recognize each other and all is well. So bye bye.

Phew, close one. On the way back to office, one question was in the top of every one’s mind. Why did I call the cops? Someone even asked it. That is when the big boss said, what I did was the right thing. The only mistake was I forgot it was in Delhi. For small harmless altercations you don’t call the cops. We are not living in the West. This is India, I was told. But isn’t it how big fights start? So why not nip it in the bud by bringing in the cop early? May be, but don’t do that again I was told. Ok, said I. It made sense actually.

Five years later, something eerily similar happened here in London right outside my house. It was Friday evening. My wife, visiting mom-in-law and I were coming home after an evening stroll at around 8 pm.  It was still bright outside and a green Honda was parked outside my apartment building. We walked around the car and it suddenly started to back up, slowly at first. I managed to cross, then my wife and just about when my mom-in-law was about to make it the car accelerated. We had to pull my mom-in-law right on time and avoided what could have been a serious accident. My wife screamed at the driver. It was a lady behind the wheel and she looked Asian. At first she gave a lame apology. My wife and I were shocked and it must have shown on our face. Now that really ticked off the nice cement-footed lady behind the wheel. She went off the handle and said, “I apologised didn’t I? So why are you making faces” she asked.

Hey I have a question, I said. “Does your lame apology make your wrong right? Don’t we have the right to express shock?” asked I. Now this nice lady gets better by the minute. “I did not hit you, did I? Be grateful I did not run my car over you, ok?” Not a nice lady anymore. She asked us to “@*&% #*%”. Back home, still a bit shaken, I decided to call the cops. Control room came on the line right away and the lady at the other end calmly told me, since we were not hit by the car, there is very little they could do. But then she said something that surprised me. “You can register a complaint just in case should you encounter this person again in your apartment complex. I can record the complaint and give you a reference number,” she said. I was happy. That is exactly what I wanted. Being the victim  of this unpleasant event, I wanted to be the first one to record it with the police. That we got to do and we got the reference number as well.

That night I went to sleep with smile on my face. My big boss in Delhi was right. I am now living in the West and even as a working class immigrant, I have rights. A right I am constitutionally entitled to in India but seldom get to exercise. A few hours later India will wake up and celebrate Independence Day for the 63rd year!