You have been bundooed. Part I.

The car was zipping down the winding road of the hill when the inspector spots its missing number plate from the bottom of the hill. He sends his crony forward waving his three and a half foot bamboo lathi trying to stop the car. Predictably enough, the car brakes at the last minute and plasters the black road with rubber, to stop inches from the vacillating crony in khaki.

The super dark window of the gleaming white car rolls down with the characteristic whirr of a power window. The crony, still shaken by the smoking rubber on the road, hobbles up to the window and screams, “pagal ho gaya kya re, makade!”

In one quick, bone chilling second, a head turns outwards and upwards to face the crony. The crony realises his knees have now turned to a mass of wobbling jelly under the white hot, intense gaze of the driver. His skin turns a glistening wet. His tongue finds the deepest recesses of his mouth to hide. And is bladder just about to give way, when a hand falls with a thud on his shoulder.

The inspector pulls the crony back and steps forward towards the car. He bends into the window, looks straight into the eyes of the driver. And in a menacingly level, no nonsense tone, says to the driver, “bahar nikal.”

Holding the inspector’s gaze, the driver considers brushing this fly’s ass of an inspector aside for all of 45 seconds. And he decides to step out of the car. He had this desperate urge to pee.

Sensing his victory in the first battle, he says in the same level tone to the driver as he gets out, “license nikal!” The driver pulls his pants up to its right millimetric position at his own sense of leisure. Then he raises a palm up to the inspector and gives him a look powerful enough to make the most villainous run for the cover of their mothers’ pallus. And he walks across the road leaving the open-mouthed, seething inspector frozen in his tracks.

The driver unzips and opens the gates of his dam. Soon, a large puddle forms at his feet. A buffalo’s youngling sets off on a gallop sensing a mud wallow. The driver zips up and starts back to the car with his uncanny swagger that vaguely reminds the inspector of Rajni. He reaches the car, and in one smooth, almost choreographed movement, changes his direction, leans on the car and fishes out a packet of chota gold flake, and sticks one in his mouth. Head slanted low, eyebrows raised, the driver looks at the inspector from the gap between his duplicate Gucci shades and his brow.

The inspector tilts his head, amused by the driver’s antics and asks him, “naam kya hai tera?”

The driver lights his chota gold flake, takes a deep drag and looks up towards the inspector al la Clint Eastwood, and blows his shitty cigarette's smoke straight into his face.

And he says, “James. Sumanth James.”

To be continued.