(FROM READERS DIGEST, NOVEMBER 2009) We Must Educate Our Motorists How we drive and maintain road etiquette is a measure of how civilized we are. And do you know that India has the world’s highest number of road-accident deaths? By Mohan Sivanand From Readers Digest Driving to work recently, I stopped at a crossroads as the signal turned yellow. Seconds later, a speeding Indica on my left jumped the signal and rammed squarely into two motorcyclists. I held my breath as the two helmeted bikers rose to their feet limping. I pulled over after the lights turned green and walked back to the scene, in case the young bikers needed help. Miraculously, they’d escaped with minor injuries and were arguing heatedly with the Indica’s driver, who was trying to dodge the blame. “I saw what happened,” I said. “The signal was still yellow, right?” the driver asked me, hoping to enlist my support. “Maybe,” I told him. “But, don’t you know that yellow indicates you have to stop?” I felt for the driver, not because his argument had fallen flat, but for his abject ignorance of a vital rule of the road. Like him, many Indian motorists view yellow as the reason to dangerously accelerate past the lights before they turn red! Once my college-age neighbour (I’ll call him Arun) did likewise. I went to see Arun in his plaster cast. “The signal was going to turn red, so I speeded up,” he explained. “I then swerved to avoid another car and rammed into a parked lorry.” Arun didn’t think he was at fault, and even had his mummy’s support. “He’s such a good driver,” she told me innocently. “You know, he even got his licence without taking any test.” I didn’t discuss that, because I know exactly how lots of teenagers obtain licences. Jumping signals, cutting lanes, over-speeding, overtaking and honking unnecessarily, road rage, getting licences on the sly—it’s all considered normal here. The result: India has more deaths on the road than any other country and the figure (1.47 lakh deaths last year) has been growing every year. Bad drivers also account for huge medical bills and insurance claims, lost workdays and devastating family tragedies. Yet, nothing is being done about it by an incompetent system manned by officials and traffic cops who are also, often, robbers. I’m driving to an office in Sewri, an unfamiliar, run-down part of Mumbai. There are big lorries in front blocking my vision. A traffic cop stops me as I follow the lorries blindly and jump a signal. “Didn’t you see the signal?” he asks. “Mera galti hai ji,” I admit. My fault, sir. “Hundred rupees fine,” he informs me. “Okay,” I say, reaching for my wallet. But he explains that he’ll be confiscating my licence and that I’ll have to pay the fine at the RTO’s office to recover it. A bit of a bother. But he also gives me a tempting option. “You could pay fifty rupees now, and keep your licence.” “Will I get a receipt?” I ask. “No,” he says. “So who gets my fifty bucks?” “This is different you know...” he tries to explain. “You may keep my licence, but I’ll pay Rs100 with a proper receipt,” I insist, raising my voice as I add, “Chai-paani nahi!” “Jao, jao!” he says, returning my licence hastily. “Go away.” Chai-paani is Mumbaiese for small bribes. I got away. But don’t think those who give chai-paani are more blessed than those who receive. You just help worsen an already flawed system. Another day. It’s nearly 8am, and I’m driving to work. In suburban Santacruz, traffic is busy near a high school. With no policeman in sight, I’m among the few motorists who stop at the red signal. Behind me is a desperate Maruti Alto. Through my mirror, I can see a little boy in school uniform with his mother. The lady keeps honking at me to move so that she too can pass. I won’t budge. Finally, it gets unbearable—for her. She backs up, shifts to the lane on my left and stops next to me. “What’s your problem?” she yells. “The signal madam,” I tell her, lowering my glass. “It’s red.” “But nobody cares!” she snarls, then triumphantly sails past the red light towards school, oblivious that a child’s education also comes from the examples parents set. I’ve called up city schools at times and complained about their reckless school bus drivers. The problem here is not just children at risk. Children also get the wrong message when they observe rash driving styles. All that overspeeding and law-breaking can be a thrill for them—and it’s cool to be fast and rebellious. That’s the lesson learned. So, even if they survive their mum’s cars and their school buses, as future motorists, they’ll become a hazard to everyone, including themselves. Speaking of bus drivers, they should be much easier to regulate than you and me. Take Mumbai’s ubiquitous red BEST buses, which look much like London buses, although that’s where the similarity ends. BEST drivers are notorious for jumping signals and cutting lanes with impunity and literally get away with murder. BEST buses kill and maim citizens with a ruthless regularity, and during one seven-month-long campaign by the traffic police to catch law-breakers, BEST drivers made 7200 out of 36,000 violations recorded. Delhi’s Blueline buses are even worse. And in Chennai, the local Pallavan Transport is nicknamed Pallavan kollavan (Tamil for killer Pallavan). Since these drivers belong to proper organizations, couldn’t they be strictly regulated? If Mumbai’s BEST drivers only followed what their initials boast and become its best drivers, they’d set a great example for everybody else. The city’s roads would be much safer. In today’s world, how well drivers maintain road etiquette is an important measure of how civilized a nation is. I think of this every time I’m in Europe, the US or the Gulf—where nearly all drivers yield to pedestrians, almost never honk and treat signals as sacrosanct. London bus drivers, for instance, are great role models. They drive smoothly, never intimidating other drivers. Why not start by sending batches of BEST or Pallavan drivers to London for training? They just have to watch their English counterparts working their routes with skill and style. We too have proof that things can improve with training and regulation. Take the Meru cabs in Mumbai. Meru drivers have told me that they are trained and made accountable by their company—the reason why they usually follow rules. Yet another morning. A Santro with an L-board in front of me has dodged a red light. The car’s rear also displays the name of a local driving school and its phone number. This is how somebody’s being taught to drive! I memorize the phone number, stop and call them. “If driving schools behave like this,” I ask the manager, “what can we expect?” “We’ll speak to the driver,” he assures me. I’ve done this a few times, but can’t tell if anybody took any action. The point is that unless we complain, things won’t change. It’s also high time the authorities regulated driving schools and made it tougher to pass a driving test. Even in neighbouring Gulf countries, they will fail you until you can drive perfectly and learn all the rules. But India’s driving schools manage to hurriedly get batch after batch of students passed, so that they can collect more fees from even more students. Often driving tests are a farce, if they are administered at all. As long as this doesn’t change, we’ll have menaces like Mohammad Anwar Mehdi Husain. At a Colaba red signal in Mumbai, Husain sped past the zebra crossing, narrowly missing a pedestrian, Armin Wandrewala, before halting his motorbike. Wandrewala, a Bombay High Court lawyer and author, called to him to drive more carefully, reminding him that he ought to stop before the zebra lines. But the young man got off his bike and started hitting Wandrewala across her face with his heavy leather sandal—until another pedestrian came to her rescue and handed him over to the police. Now the plot thickens. It appears Husain (if that’s his real name) managed to give the police a false address before walking away. How could he, when his licence should have had an address? Or, if he didn’t have a licence, why did they let him go? Such questions are being asked. “They ought to have locked him up,” says Wandrewala, whose swollen face required days of treatment. Weeks after the incident, thanks to mounting pressure from Wandrewala’s lawyer colleagues, we hear that the police traced the bike’s owner, but he claimed he didn’t know who was riding it that day! This is no earthshaking case to solve, but even as we go to press, “Husain” wasn’t caught. It’s vital to educate our motorists. And our cops (Thanks to Mohan Sivanand)
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 09:06:13 +0000
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