Mumbaiites love its seasons but the one that enjoys most adoration is the Monsoon. After an eternity of hot and humid Summer, the month of June begins to herald the advent of clouds. However, it is the month of July that exemplifies the phrase “when it rains, it pours” completely.


For me, personally, the month of July signifies a coming-of-age: a growth spurt for a teenager beyond the physical. Not unlike literature, the rains of July 1985 were transformational. An epiphany of deception, dishonesty among law keepers, and of jugaad, a term unique to India meaning an innovative solution to a problem using the easiest and most basic means at hand. It was, to be specific, the night a traffic cop pulled me over.


A gray monsoon day in Mumbai means a lot of rain, traffic, chaos, potholes the size of the Indian Ocean itself, and traffic cops, for whom, it is time to make hay while the sun does not shine.


So, on this particular July evening, I was riding along on my dad’s 1980’s Lambretta, completely drenched, watching for potholes, wary of people that rushed across the road, and wet stray dogs. My best mate, Sunny, was riding pillion. Although it wasn’t too late into the night, it was rather dark and the rain appeared like cones of needles at each street light while the cold water added to the piercing sensation.


Navigating the scooter was a hard enough task when a traffic cop, wearing a Darth Vader style raincoat motioned me to pull over.


“Hey you! Stop! Stop!!” He shouted and brandished his umbrella almost as if it were a light-saber!