Brush with Police

An incident yesterday prompted me to reflect on my interactions with Police over the years, so here I go.

My first brush with Police came in 1961, I was seven years old.  My father will walk me to school (Bambalapitiya Hindu) in the morning; I will hold his hands and cross a main road (Galle Road).  My school finished around 3 pm, I will walk to the main road, wait at the pedestrian crossing, a police officer will hold my hand and help me cross the road.  I will then find my way home (17 Castle Lane, Bambalapitiya) and narrate the details to my mother – how smart the police man looked and how kind he was and so on - a new Police Uncle every day, and my mother will smile at my innocence.

In 1970, now I am a teenager, I happened to be in Jaffna Town around twilight hours on a bicycle, finding my way home.  It was not dark yet, but my bicycle did not have a ‘head light’.  I was stopped at a make-shift Police barricade, detained for a couple of hours, many more joined, at around 8 pm, all bicycles were loaded into a truck, so were we.  We were at Jaffna Police Station, told to squat on the floor, till cases were filed.  When my turn came it was almost midnight, and I was allowed to go home.  Our house was about 5 km from the Police station, I literally ran fearing the dogs which may chase and possibly bite me.  I had to go next day to collect my bicycle, and two days later, a local Magistrate dismissed the case.

In 1977, I was in Jaffna during University vacation, a friend of mine and I went for a late movie which finished just after midnight.  We went to a tea boutique, had a cup of tea, and were at the counter paying our dues.  A Police jeep stopped in front of the tea boutique, and an officer walked towards me.  I thought he was going to ask me for something, instead he slapped me strong and hard.  Another one did the same to my friend.  We just RAN………..

In 1981 summer, I was staying in a trailer home at Weslaco, Texas, a town in Texas along Mexican border.  Around 8 pm or so, I went to throw garbage, without taking the key to the trailer home.  A strong wind shut the door, and now I can’t get in.  I asked my neighbor to call the site manager.  Instead, he walked to my house, took a credit card, slid it between the door and door-frame, lo and behold, the door opened.  He then said that, he is a Police officer and he had to know everything the burglars know.  We had a laugh, he has never met a Sri Lankan, and we became friendly. 

In 1985, I was charged by a Police officer in Houston for exceeding speed limit at a school zone, and the fine was 80 USD.  It was a big amount in 1985, for a graduate student especially.  I pleaded him to cancel my ticket.  He advised me that I could appeal to the local Magistrate, which I did.  The Magistrate agreed to cancel the ticket, if I attend a defensive driving course run by the Police.  It cost me 20 USD, and eight hours of listening to lectures and watching videos.  It was well worth, getting the ticket, and then attending the course.  I still remember the lessons I learned.

In 1987, I was stopped by a highway trouper between Dallas and Fayetville.  He said I was doing 65 MPH in a zone for 55 MPH.  I said no, it can’t be right, he was half convinced, walked around the car and noted that my tire size was somewhat bigger than what it ought to be.  Hence I was travelling at 65, but my speedo meter was registering 55.  He said he will give me a warning, and I should change the tire soon. Phew….

In early nineties, my wife and I lived in Griffith, a sleepy country town in New South Wales, Australia.  Around 2 AM someone knocked on our doors, we woke up, and opened, to see there were two young cops.  We haven’t closed our car door properly, the internal light was on, and noticed by the patrolling officers.  They shut it, and then woke us to tell – which they are required to.  Thanks, but, they could have shut the door and left.  There was a smug on their face, which told us – we are just having fun waking you up.  It’s OK with us too.

Between 1996 and now, either I or my drivers had to pay bribes in Lahore, Madras, Patna or Delhi for traffic violations.  Police in this part take advantage of traffic violators to get rich.  I have become used to them.  When they approach me, I think of beggars in Police uniform.

It was the event yesterday, which brought all these memories.  I was in Little India, a part of Kuala Lumpur, hailing a taxi.  It was just after a shower, I was a bit wet.  A new white car went passed me and stopped.  The man at the passenger seat called me, and I assumed that he was going to offer me a lift. 

Well, I was wrong.

He introduced himself as a Police Officer –did not show any ID, and he and his driver were both in mufti.  I worked it out that the passenger must be a Senior Officer, because the driver was not joining the conversation, but gleaming in pride at the way the passenger was talking to me.  He was trying hard not to look at us.

The passenger asked me what I was doing.  ‘Hailing a cab’, I replied.

‘Where is your passport?’  ‘It’s in the hotel, but here is the ID given by the Hotel’.

He looked at it and then said that I should have made a photocopy of my passport and visa pages, and carried with me.  I said sorry.

Interrogation continued.

‘Are you carrying any drugs?’  ‘No, I do not even smoke’, I said wryly.

‘Well if you cooperate, I will make it easy for you’.  Now it’s a threat, and he showing the ugly face of Police. ‘Come near’, he was still in his passenger seat, so, I walked closer to him. 

‘Empty your pocket’.  I had a camera, a phone, a wallet, and a handkerchief.  All pockets were bulging.  He went through my wallet a few times. I had an equivalent of 100 USD in Ringgits.  Then frisked by tummy and moved his hands to my abdomen area, while sitting on his passenger seat.  This was on a public road at 5:30 PM in full day light.

‘You are embarrassing me, I am a Professor’, I said assertively.  He returned my stuff, and left.

So, what do I make of Police in my life?  Overall, only a few do their duty, I think.  They were good – like the men who helped me cross the road, I respect them.  Most are bad, like the uniformed beggars in Indian sub-continent.  There is no difference between them and criminals.  I pity them.  Some are real ugly.  The guy who slapped me and the one who embarrassed on KL streets – very ugly, I reckon.  I detest them.  They have a sick mind, and abuse their power, because they know that they will get away. 

I hope they do not. 

Hotel Living - No Good, I think

I travel a lot and stay in hotels.  During the past two months, I have stayed in eight different hotels, for a total of forty nights.  These were in eight different cities in three different continents, but guess what, they are all the same.

They all have nice beds, but it would so happen that I will have to leave the hotel by 7:30 AM, so, I rarely get a chance to sleep in.  Most of them will have four different pillows, each with different levels of softness, but by the time I figure out which is good, the alarm is on and I have to get up, often with a neck pain.  Yep, I did not choose the right pillow.

I rushed to bathroom, get dressed and go for breakfast - which is included in the room tariff - in other words, its free.  I do my best to take advantage of it, albeit, I end up usually harming myself.  If I am in Colombo, I get stuck into hoppers, and string hoppers with all the condiments and curries available, and if I am in South Africa,I treat myself to some delicious sausages and bacon.  In the end I over eat, and of course add kilos to myself.  No good.

Then I dash to work, often sitting through meetings, but occasionally, sitting in a four wheel drive hitting a distant and remote part of the world.  I return in the evening, back at the hotel of course, and the boredom starts.

From 6 PM till I hit the bed, I am lost.  I try to be good, so, I go for a walk, then drink and at eat more than I should, before returning to my room.  As I walk, no one pays attention to me, except if I am in Colombo.  Its the pimps.  Colombo is infested with pimps, they mistake me for Indian tourists, who are their prime clients.  Initially, they bemused me, then irritated me, but now I feel sorry for them.  I wonder what had propelled them to be pimps, and wonder, if they had a choice, would they do it?

Now I am in my room, dead tired, but I am also a email -internet junkie.  So, I get into the virtual world of amusement.  After an hour or so, I am tired, I crawl into my bed and start checking out pillows.

Sometimes, I wish I could enjoy all the luxury a five star hotel gives -lazy mornings, quiet and long breakfasts, walk past busy streets doing window shopping, a light lunch, then a siesta, gym then pool before a drink and a a dinner.  It appears that I am not entitled to them despite my office taking the tab (or is it because my office taking the tab)!  

Remembering Ayesha

Ayesha was our maid in Oman for a few years.  When she worked for us, she was a young woman, probably in mid to late twenties.  She got married when she was 10, had a child at 11, left the child with her family in Kerala, India, to join her husband in Oman.  Her husband Jaffer was a kitchen help in one of the many kitchens belonged to the Sultan of Oman.

When we moved to Oman in 2002, she found out that we were looking for a maid, and knocked on our door.  My wife thought that she was 'interviewing' a conservative woman, well covered on purdah, for the position.  I think my wife was half-hearted, so, she asked for my opinion.  We were in need of a maid to look after our two kids,three and one.  I said let's give it a try.

Ayesha joined us as a maid.  Without purdah, she looked young and nice, did not speak much with me, but it seems that she was talking a lot with my wife.  They exchanged recipes, stories of women in Oman, and so on.  She will come to work around 8 AM, and leave by 3 pm, so I hardly saw her except on Thursdays, when we both were home.  In Oman, Thursdays and Fridays made the weekend.  She did not work on Fridays.

The first month came to an end, and we gave her a fifty rial note as her salary.  Its 130 USD, considered a good salary for part-time maids in Oman.  That was the agreement.  Ayesha was not happy.  She thought we gave her a ten rial note, which is a similar color note to a fifty.  Its then we realized that Ayesha could not read.  She did not know the difference between 10 and 50, and she had never seen a 50 rial note.

Later she found that two other families, resided on house numbers 22 and 24, required a part time maid after 3 pm, and she wanted to check them out.  My do-gooder wife wrote 22 in her right hand and 24 in her left hand, and told her if the house is on right its 22 and if its on left it will be 24.  Pretty sad.

Whenever I traveled, Ayesha will stay home over night, she will not do any work on hours other than from 8 AM and 3 pm, but being at home was helpful.

There are many interesting incidents between us and Jaffers.  Once they wanted us to have lunch on a festival day, and we agreed.  Both were so happy.  Jaffer offered me a bottle of whiskey (about 5 USD - still twice as expensive than the whiskeys they drink).  He will come to our place occasionally, and cook some very good food.  The first time, I too wanted to reciprocate, I offered a bottle of Chivas Regal, he cleaned half a liter in no time, as he was cooking.  I could not make similar offers every time he came, it was not easy to get Chivas Regal in Oman.

My wife and Ayesha got along well for a few years, then things started going sour.  My tolerant wife will complain to me, but will not confront her.  She just do not know how.

One day, my wife called me from my kids' school and said Ayesha had to go.  I was in the College, I went home, called Ayesha, and said we do not need her services anymore, paid her dues, and told her to leave.  I was polite but firm.  She was in the middle of ironing, she too was mad at us, yet, she said she will finish ironing and leave.  I told her that there's no need for that and she should leave straight away.  I had to get back to work.  She covered herself, walked out of the house, paused, returned, but finally left without making any fuss.  She was proud too.

So, how come I remembered her after almost 9 years?  I am in Pretoria today, and I had chicken wings for dinner tonight with South African red wine. Ayesha's husband as a kitchen help had access to bags full of frozen chicken wings.  He will send them through Ayesha, she will fry a few every day for me to have it with my whiskey when I come home.  That was good.  Just think about it.  A maid's husband sending  food for her Master.  Funny isn't it.

My wife and I have seen Ayesha a few times later on the streets.  She will wave, we too will wave, make a polite small conversation and move on.  I think she regretted offending my wife.   We have no idea where she is.

Its disappointing when a reasonably good relationship ends on a sour note.  But, that's the way life is.  All good things must and will come to an end.