Adventures of unsafe alley can

Unsafe Alley Can whined as he made sorties back and forth from Phillum City to the Jogeshwari godown where the costumes and property for the shoot were being stored. Unsafe Alley Can whined

as he made sorties back and forth from Phillum City to the Jogeshwari godown where the costumes and property for the shoot were being stored. His licence had been taken by the cops at a

nakabandi last night. “They just made me breathe into a machine and took my licence,” he complained, “After all the long working hours, surely a man is entitled to a drink or two at dinner,

especially if work is stretching beyond that.” I tried to make him see sense. “It is illegal to drink and drive and if the breathalyser establishes you were drunk then you should be glad you

weren’t arrested,” I told him. He just harrumphed at my ‘self-righteous smugness,’ and whined some more. “You know if Safe Alley Can can be allowed a 12-hour breather so that the booze is

flushed out before the pandus checked his levels then so should I. After aren’t we all equal in the eyes of law?” I laughed at his naivete; and told him he should watch it. Imagine this

humble driver comparing himself to the haloed Bollywood elite. “Safe Alley Can is just trying to follow in the footsteps of greats before him like Sanjay Dhat-tere-ki, Hulkman Khan and

Turdeen Khan among others,” I told him and reminded him of how the police take special care of these starry guests. I reminded him of how the then Narcotics Control Bureau head Ujay Abale

had ordered a large barbecued chicken pizza for Turdeen when he was caught with some funny white powder. “We can’t let him go hungry just because he’s under arrest,” Abale had told the

waiting media posse outside his office when asked about this Atithi-devo-bhava behaviour. “Preventing you from running down hapless pedestrians or worse sleeping pavement dwellers is more

important than actually ensuring someone who’s actually mowed down people is kept in the chiller. After all everyone respects midget-with-muscle hit machines,” I pointed out. I asked him

whether he had any Babe-Oh or Malai Khaa to stand up for him and make statements to the media in his support. “Maybe if you had anyone fluttering fake eyelashes with equal frequency you

would have a ghost of a chance,” I told him. Insisting on his royal family upbringing, he asked me whether shooting deer at the Sanjay Gandhi National Park would help. “That could establish

my credentials as the Nawab of Pot Toddy,” he insisted. I wondered what and how much he had drunk last night, since its effects clearly hadn’t worn out. I told him nobody would buy the story

that a royal was a truck driver at Phillum City and he should settle for the mandavli instead. “But what if the hawaldar asks too much money and still doesn’t return my licence?” Unsafe

asked despondently.  Bored by then with his tale of woe, I gave him the only advice I could. “Well, you could just break his nose then!”