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An Encounter |
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It was
with utter disbelief that I gaped at that huge piece of heavy metal crashing
into the side of my tiny, sleek beauty’s bonnet, and pushing it with
great force out of its course. My ears with reluctance recorded the loud
sound wave that the collision had created. ‘What!
An accident? Is it really happening?’ – these
words cruised through my head. My entire body, however, acted with restrain.
I was in full control of the steering wheel as I brought my petit car to a
stop at the first possible instant. All
the while I was keeping an eye on that ugly metallic giant that crashed into
my car. After throwing the driver’s side mirror of my car flying
skywards, it moved away from my car, sailed across the wrong side of the
road, and was halted on its movement as the front wheel on the driver’s
side fell into a ditch by the roadside. I opened the car door, got out hurriedly, barefooted, and
stepped on the tarred road that had started to cool down. The time should
have been around four–thirty. It is just the time at which the
doctors’ large-sized cars, announcing the self-flared status of the
inhabitants, whisk the roads of the Central Hills as they rush for private practices.
And, the
blue-cross sticker gazing at me from the windscreen of the metallic giant
with one of its feet in the gutters announced that the proud owner of him was
a doctor, indeed. I walked towards
the car that hit mine, in an excited state, as I did not know what to do next
– this being the very first accident that I have experienced, let alone
be involved with. I approached the front door on the left side
of the car, and tried to open it. It got opened, and the one in the driving
seat of the metallic giant looked at me with shear disbelief. I pointed my
finger at him, and told, ‘It’s your fault.’ The stout
man with jet-black dense curly hair, seated on the driver’s seat of the
metallic giant, got down from his car, barked at me irritatingly over the
hood of his car, saying that the accident was caused by myself trying to turn
my car to the right without having the signal lights on. He then
fully ignored me, told the people who had by now gathered around us, what
exactly to be done to raise the wheel out of the gutter, and got back onto
the driver’s seat to manure his car to bring all the four wheels of it
to the same level. I now
thought he was going to disappear with his car, and I hurried back to my car,
fished out a pen and a notebook from my briefcase, and noted down his car
number. Before, I
got down from the car this time, I put on my pair of
heels that used to give me an additional two and a half inches. I had a crude
feeling that an extra two and a half inches would be of some help in trying
to deal with the man who knocked my car. I walked to
his car, and told him that it was indeed his car that came from behind and
crashed onto the side of my car. I also told him that I did have the signal
lights on announcing that I was going to turn right. And, under no
circumstances, however, he could come from behind and hit my car as he had
hit it on the right side of the bonnet between the front wheel of the car and
the headlight. I said all these in a raised voice. He now got
down from his car, walked around his car by its rear side, and approached me.
He raised his right fist, shook his fist at me very close to my nose, and
said something in his mother tongue in a very threatening manner. At this
point I did something that surprises me even now when I reflect upon it. I
raised my right hand slowly, held his threatening fist that was wavering
close to my nose gently and firmly, brought it all the way down without
leaving my hold on it, and let it go when his fist had reached the minimum
possible level. He offered
no resistance. He was rather shocked - it appeared. He asked me, as I was
taking his fist downwards looking straight into his eyes, if I was going to
hit him. When I let
go of his fist, he took a few steps backwards, turned, and addressed the
people who were watching us, ‘Did you see? She was going to hit me. Did
you see that?’ He now
ranted and raved, walked up and down, and sideways. All the time, he was
telling in his mother tongue that he had never seen a woman like me. He also
said he could not do anything to me because I was a woman, and it would have
been altogether a different story had I been a man. He said
this over and over again. He appealed to the people around us to witness for
how I did not have my signal lights on when I turned my car to the right, and
how I was trying to hit him. The crowd was watching, and had not taken the
side of anyone of us yet. With an
animal instinct, I sensed what he was trying to do. His car, the metallic
giant with the blue-cross on the windscreen had already announced the people
around us his status. He was neatly dressed with a tie, and was holding a
moderately sized cellular phone on his left hand. My car was
a petit Maruthi, with only ‘Save the
Environment’ sticker on its rear screen of glass. I did not own a
cellular phone to carry it about. And, I was dressed fashionably, but only
comfortably. I
understood that his chances of getting the people to witness for him were
much greater than mine, unless I did something at once. So, as he
did, I also addressed the people, and told them pointing to the blue-cross
sticker on his windscreen, ‘Look. He is a doctor. See how he lies even
though he does a respectful job as a doctor.’ I continued, ‘I had
my signal lights on when I turned to the lane on the right, but he came so
fast that he crashed into my car. He knocked my car coming from behind, which
he should not do.’ * *
* * * Now, he put
the matter of the accident aside, and started to stress on the point that I
did not behave like a woman. He told the people who had encircled us that he
had never seen a woman like me, and asked them if they had. He asked them if
they thought my behaviour was fitting for a proper
woman. I tolerated
his ravings, as I did not know how to deal with his unrelenting assault on my
character. At one point, I thought I had enough of him talking about me not
behaving as a ‘proper’ woman. I
approached him with definite steps looking straight into his eyes. I could
see his whole body becoming very receptive to my approach, may be because he
really believed that I could hit him. When I was
quite close to him to talk into his face, I put my hands into the pockets of
my wrap-around, slanted my head, and told him still looking straight into his
eyes the following: ‘I am
an engineer by profession, and I work in an environment full of men. In my
job I have to deal with men all the time. As a matter of fact, I have to deal
with men like you as well. So I have developed a personality to deal with men
like you. The issue here is not whether or not I am a proper woman, but the
accident. So, please get on with it.’ At this
juncture, two moderately well dressed gentlemen appeared on the scene, and
one of them whispered into my ears with reverence, ‘He is a
Doctor.’ I looked at
him over my shoulder, and told him ‘So am It was
however practically impossible to get anywhere with the business of the
accident with the Doctor, as he was constantly at his cellular phone either
taking calls or receiving calls. Whenever I tried to talk to him in between
his cellular phone calls, he barked a ‘shut-up’ at me, and dialled another number. When he was
not on his cellular phone, he went about telling everyone how he had never
seen a woman like me, and how I was about to hit him. In the rest of the
time, he went on repeating how properly he would have dealt with me had I
been a man. Now, it was
my turn to look in bewilderment at a man of such character. He was abusing me
all the time, but telling that it was I who did not behave proper, that was,
of course, as a proper woman. After
hearing him for a while, I burst into a loud laughter. I threw my head
backwards, and laughed. ‘You are one of the most interesting characters
that I have ever met,’ I told him chuckling,
‘I would like to write a story about you.’ Instead of
taking it as a complement as I would have done, he flared up again. He came
close to me, held his face close to mine, grounded his teeth, and hissed some
incomprehensible words at me, further amusing me. Time was
passing, but none of us, his friends, wife of one of his friends or I, were
able to get a word of business to pass into his ears over his excited self. His friends
and I talked. I told the Doctor’s friends, ‘Why don’t you
go and bring the Police? We can then settle the matter.’ They told me,
‘You are both highly educated people. You should solve this matter in
style, not by involving the Police in it.’ They asked
me what I wanted. I said that I really did not mind, also I know my husband
would not mind, paying the bills of getting our car repaired ourselves. But,
I would not leave that place when he, the Doctor, kept on repeating that it
was my fault that he crashed into my car coming from behind. * *
* *
* I now
thought it would be better to get my husband to the place of accident as we
lived quite close to the place of accident. I thought that I could ask him if
he wanted to go to the police over the accident. I also
figured out that it was my gender that blocked the Doctor who, as I found out
from the wife of one of his friends, was a VOG, where G stands for gynaecologist, in a nearby hospital. The presence of my
husband, I thought, might remove the gender block, and we, rather they, the
men, would be able to talk business. I then
asked the Doctor if he would let me call my husband on his mobile phone. He
said, ‘No, for the way you behaved, I would have nothing to do with
you. I will not permit you use my phone.’ One of the friends of the Doctor, blushing, rushed to his car
and brought his mobile phone, and helped me call my husband. I told my
husband that I had met with an accident, told him the location of the
accident, and asked him to come to the scene of the accident as soon as he
could. We then
simply waited for my husband to arrive. The Doctor kept telling his friends,
‘Let her husband come. She does not know anything.’ I ignored
those comments. My husband
came. The Doctor told me to tell my side of the story first. I told him
briefly what happened, took him close to our car, and showed him where the
Doctor’s car crashed into my car. My husband asked me what I wanted to
do about it. He wanted to know if I would want to call the Police. I told him
that he himself could decide on that matter, as I had no firm opinion on what
we should do. I told him what seemed impossible was to make the Doctor to
talk about the accident. Then my
husband approached the Doctor and his two friends. They talked and talked and
talked. I stood far away from them in order to prevent the Doctor from
drifting on to the topic of my gender once again. End of a very lengthy talk,
they decided to part with each of us paying for our own repairs. One of the
two friends of the Doctor produced a paper from his file. It was torn into
two halves, and two copies of a letter of mutual agreement reached were
prepared by my husband in consultation with the Doctor’s friends, two
very decent gentlemen, well experienced with the ways of life, but appeared
to be not so very highly educated as the Doctor and
I were. I signed
both the documents first, and then the Doctor was given the documents. He
signed them both, handed over my copy to my husband, and then both of them
shook hands with each other with the display of mutual respect. Looking at
which, I laughed. I laughed because I thought the Doctor should be shaking
hands with me not with my husband for it was I who signed the document. Seeing me laugh, my husband prompted me to shake hands with
the Doctor. I approached the Doctor, and offered my hand. I was of course
having a lot of fun by now. The Doctor said, ‘I really do not want to
shake hands with you.’ Saying this, he took my hand that I offered him.
What started out as a
handshake was slowly turning into the Doctor squeezing my fingers together,
while grinding his teeth. I was amused. I told him
with a broad smile that I also knew to do what he was doing. ‘Shall I repeat
the same,’ I challenged him. In reality, of course, my hand was very small
against his broad palm, and there was absolutely no way that I could wrap his
fingers together in my hand, let alone squeezing them. Hearing what I said, the Doctor went another round of
squeezing my fingers – harder this time. My husband’s eyes watching
over this silly game were filling with concern that I could see, and he acted
quickly and pulled my hand out of Doctor’s hand. I was of course still laughing, even though I was starting to
sense a slight pain in the fingers, particularly in the finger on which one
puts on a ring even though I had no rings on my fingers. The Doctor,
appearing to be still very unhappy about the way he dealt with me, told me,
‘I must tell you one thing - that no
respectful woman would behave the way you do.’ I told the Doctor,
‘You need not bother about that.’ I then put my right hand around
my husband’s waist, and told the Doctor, ‘Here is my husband, who
loves me as I am.’ As I
finished saying that, the Doctor walked towards me, and put his hand around
my neck, as if I were his long time friend, whisked me to a side in no time,
and whispered into my ears, ‘He may be able to deal with a sour woman
like you, but not me.’ He now
turned and walked briskly towards his car and got onto the driver’s
seat. My husband and I shook hands with his friends, and the wife of one of
his friends, and got into our car. His friends and the wife of one of his
friends got into their cars. We all parted away from the scene of the
accident. So were the spectators. My ring finger sending small pulses of
subdued pain kept reminding me of the whole episode until the morning of the
day after. Then, it became an old story – but a funny one, indeed. * *
* * * The
accident was by no means a funny one, as we found out later from the
‘bass’, who repaired our car. He had
told my husband that the car that crashed into our car must have come with a
tremendous speed. ‘However,’
he had continued, ‘fortunately for the Madam, it was the front wheel on
the right side and its sub-axel that had taken all the impact of that deadly
blow.’ The damage
to the sub-axel was so severe that the car had to be taken to Associated
Motorways’ workshop in It nagged
us for a while that, had we gone to the Police then, the Doctor or his
Insurance Policy would have paid the Rs 20,000/=, not
us. As the months passed by, however, we thought less and less of the
accident and of the Doctor and of the Rs. 20,000/=.
One day,
about eight or nine months after the accident, we received an email from
another Doctor, who was a research-collaborator of my husband. The
end of the email read like this. ‘I saw your VOG friend involved in
another accident. This time he had rammed into a lorry on his front.’ ‘The
driver of the lorry wouldn’t be another “improper woman”, I
guess,’ I told my husband. He said, ‘Too bad for the VOG that
women don’t drive lorries in this country.’ - Nov
2003 |
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Uploaded on January
01, 2007 |