Loitering without intent

If I ever make a list of rules for cyclists in Delhi, then ‘Avoid Jat cops’ would be up there among the top three. Indeed, ‘Avoid all cops’ is a good general rule to follow, but the Jat variety is a particularly dangerous species and should be steered cleared of at all costs.

I had the misfortune to run into them at the Delhi-Faridabad highway border a few weeks back. It was a warm Sunday morning and I was out on a ride with my friend Mohit. We had covered some 30 kms and were going back through this less-explored road.

Mohit likes to take pictures of strategic locations and upload them on Google Earth for the benefit of other cyclists who he thinks would be inspired by our pioneering efforts. Unfortunately, this particular border was outside a police station and it was being manned by Jat cops, one of whom happened to spot him. (I shall call him Constable Hitler, though in real life they tend to have innocuous sounding names like Ram Singh.)

Constable Hitler came charging at us. “How dare you shoot me?” he thundered. Mohit calmly explained that he was just shooting pictures of the road and meant no harm. The story sounded very thin to Constable Hitler who was now joined by two of his colleagues who I shall call Constable Mussolini and Constable Franco.

The three constables took turns going through Mohit’s pictures: there was one of the road preceded by one of me posing in front of a dump truck near the border; there were also a few other pictures we took on the way like that of a bare-chested old man who owned the dhaba where we stopped for tea, and some cows curiously nibbling at our parked bicycles. Mohit volunteered to delete the pictures of the road and the one with me in front of the dump truck if they were causing distress.

“What are you doing cycling around these parts?” Constable Hitler asked, losing interest in the pictures and changing tack. “You have long hair,” he said looking at Mohit. “And what’s worse, you have a beard,” he accused me, glaring hard.

“Show me your identities,” demanded Constable Hitler who was now treating us as if we were members of the Laksher-e-Taiba.

Mohit said he usually doesn’t go cycling with his driver’s license and passport but fortunately I was carrying my wallet. I fished out my British Council Library Card with my photograph on it and gave it to Constable Hitler. He took it, turned it over and spent and inordinate amount of time reading the fine print that explained in great detail what to do if the card was lost or stolen.

Constable Mussolini and Constable Franco were beginning to lose interest in the proceedings now that there were no more pictures to see and slowly drifting away. We thought our ordeal was coming to an end but Constable Hitler was just warming up.

“I know you are here to take pictures of ladies,” he said, making a startling accusation. “So I am going to book both of you for loitering without intent,” he continued more bizarrely and hurtled a series of Indian Penal Code sections at us. “A bail will cost you Rs 5000, not that you are guaranteed to get one.”

I wanted to point out many inconsistencies: that the camera did not have any pictures of ‘ladies’ (unless he was referring to the cows); and that if our objective was to shoot ‘ladies’, the last place we would be is outside a highway police station at noon on a Sunday. Besides, if he wanted to book us for loitering without intent it was also illogical to accuse us of such strange intent in the first place. Instead, I kept quiet and let Mohit do all the reasoning.

“Please let us go,” he pleaded, trying to see if Constable Hitler had a soft spot. “We are just out cycling for fun on a holiday. We haven’t done anything.”

“You are unruly elements out to create trouble,” said Constable Hitler, getting nastier by the minute. “Follow me,” he barked and marched us into the police station across the road.

In Haryana, I believe the accepted practise when accosted by cops is to whip out your Blackberry and start making calls to various high-ranking officials. The other recommended method is to take out your AK-47 (which everyone carries around for such eventualities), and start firing in all directions. Since we didn’t know anybody important or have any firearms at our disposal, we were entirely at the mercy of Constable Hitler.

Inside the police station, we saw the Inspector (whom I shall refer to as Inspector Stalin) with a tough-looking chap in plain clothes poring over some files. No doubt they were calculating the number of terrorists who infiltrated the border or perhaps taking stock of the cocaine they seized that week.

Constable Hitler went up to him and proudly presented us as Exhibit A and Exhibit B. “Sir, I caught these two cycling.”

Inspector Stalin stopped everything he was doing, waved away Plainclothes, and looked us up and down. He was not a man who believed in preambles and came straight to the point. “Why are you cycling?” After a short pause he added with a sneer, “Are you practising for the Olympics by any chance?”

“No,” I replied in all earnest, ignoring the sarcasm, “We are not that good.”

“Why are you cycling then?” he repeated.


“For exercise,” I said, thinking of a good one.

“Exercise?” boomed Inspector Stalin, “Why don’t you go to a park and do your exercise?”

What I wanted to say was that I live in a free country and have all the right to cycle wherever and whenever I jolly well want to. What I did, of course, was shut up.

Constable Hitler passed my library card to Inspector Stalin who gave it a cursory glance. Mohit showed him the pictures and tried to convince him that we were recreational cyclists and not terrorists on a reconnaissance trip with plans to blow up the police station. Inspector Stalin was more interested in fiddling with the camera than looking at the pictures or listening to Mohit.

Constable Hitler, sensing that matters were getting out of hand, played his trump card. “Sir,” he said, “I think they are out to shoot pictures of ladies.”

There was a nerve-wracking moment as the Inspector mulled over this. And then, looking at Constable Hitler, he said, “What’s wrong with shooting pictures of ladies? Let them shoot pictures of ladies if they want to.”

Even on this surreal Sunday morning, we were not prepared for such an extraordinary outlook. Nor for that matter was Constable Hitler who was totally deflated and was sulking like a child from whom all his favourite toys have been confiscated.

Inspector Stalin, now thoroughly bored of the whole affair, dismissed us with a brusque wave of his hand. “Go away,” he said.

“But,” he warned us as we proceeded to leave, wagging his finger like a stern principal admonishing a student he caught doodling dirty pictures on the toilet wall, “don’t ever repeat it!”



One of the 'ladies' we were
accused of shooting.