Pappu and the Cop

So I was taking big strides down Marine Drive, enjoying the lovely moisture laden cool breeze that enveloped me during my routine evening walk. I love this part of the day -- it helps me clear my head and plan work for the next day and at the same time works out to be a super exercise regime.

It's also that part of the day when I listen to some great music, sing aloud without any care and return home satisfied that I gave myself some time alone. Wednesday evening was no different. Much of the day was spent at work editing stories, planning stories and well, scrapping stories. Through all this, I listened to Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti on loop. In fact I even pasted on Facebook some random lyrics of one of my favourite songs from the album, Trampled Underfoot. Enough digressing.

Surely enough, I picked this album to accompany me on my evening walk. As I paced "down by the seaside", I noticed there were hardly any cars in the northbound direction. No cars at peakhour, in the direction of the traffic? So strange, I thought. Then I noticed a barrage of policemen scattered across the promenade. Ahh, a VVIP is driving by, I concluded and continued clocking my steps as I did a Robert Plant. 

Just as I prided myself for holding a note a la Plant and effortlessly singing "Sure as the dust that floats high in June; When movin' through Kashmir", a constable gruffly brought me to a halt. "What happened?" I asked him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. It seemed like one of those times when the question seems so redundant. Like my mom knocking on the loo door and asking "What are you doing?" Umm... what do you think?   

I tried not to sound smug and I said,"Listening to music while on my routine walk." 

"What's that you're listening to?" he asked impatiently. "An English song. Do you want to listen to it?" I enquired earnestly. He put on my headphones and listened to Robert Plant croon. Just then he saw my recently lit iPod screen flashing Kashmir by Led Zeppelin. 

"Yeh Kashmir kya hai?" Just then it struck me. Trust me to sing aloud Kashmir in a high security area and distract a poor constable on duty. Incidentally the word Kashmir is mentioned just once in the entire song. How he caught it, God alone knows. 

In my halting Marathi I told him that its a famous song by a famous band and quickly offered to make him listen to any other song, so he knows I wasn't on any mission. I scrolled to the letter A on my iPod, chose A.R. Rahman and played him a chartbuster that makes me cringe -- Pappu Can't Dance Saala. He had this priceless expression; it seemed like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or to be annoyed. I'm pathetic with small talk. As I took my headphones back, I told him its a famous song and my nieces love it. Don't ask me why I gave him that fabulous piece of trivia. I'll never forget the look on his face. I'm sure he looked at me and wondered if I was some sort of moron.

And as I walked back home, I saw the President's cavalcade whiz past me.