Dude returns to the Motherland after
many years in Amrika, buys a flat, wants to get his driving licence.
Goes to the RTO where he's told he needs a doctor's certificate. He
asks which is the nearest hospital and everything, life as he knows
it even, screeches to a halt.
The silence is pregnant.
He is then slowly told, as though he is
a child with special needs, “What do you mean 'Hospital'. There's a
man in the building next door who is, of course, a certified
physician and he will sign what you need.”
So Dude goes next door. Said physician
answers dripping wet from a disturbed shower, towel wrapped around
his waist, and waves Dude in. When asked if he can do the needful,
physician says Certainly.
“Now tell me, what colour is this pen
I'm holding?”
“Red,” Dude says.
“And what colour is the lawn
outside?”
“Green,” Dude replies.
“OK, here's the signature. Rs 100.”
Now that he can differentiate between
the traffic lights, and how First World and Third World functions,
Dude leaves a wiser man; he also knows now why people here drive the
way they do.
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