I look at my watch. Despite me rushing around the house in the morning, I’m going to be late for work.

The driver tries to talk to me again.

‘Looks like a long jam,’ he says and pulls out a beedi packet from his trousers, lights it with a cheap, transparent lighter and begins puffing desperately. I find the smell of the home-rolled beedi completely unbearable but don’t say anything.

I look around and realize that most drivers have turned off their engines—a very bad sign because it means the traffic isn’t going anywhere for at least an hour—if we’re lucky.

My driver seems to think the same. After a while I find that instead of returning to the auto, he stands near the cigarette stall, smoking with some more drivers. The cigarette stall is right next to the rear gate of IIT. Along with the drivers, there are some boys in school uniforms—they don’t look older than fourteen—smoking as well. A sign stuck on the tree next to the stall declares, ‘Selling cigarettes to anyone less than 18 years of age is a penal offence.’ One of the boys goes up to the stall and buys a packet of cigarettes. There’s a police constable standing nearby, who doesn’t seem to care and instead of helping regulate the traffic—or stop the sale of cigarettes to underage kids—he stands and smokes a cigarette as well.

I notice my driver light up his second beedi when the traffic starts to move. Many of the smoking drivers simultaneously chuck their beedies and cigarettes and run back to their vehicles.

‘Bless them, today must be a good day for jam, it is breaking up so soon,’ the driver says.

It takes us forty minutes to reach work. As the auto turns into the service lane that leads up to the Tabloid building, I notice several police jeeps, their lights flashing, parked in the lane.

However, ‘parked’ is stretching the meaning of the word—all the police vehicles are positioned diagonally across the road, effectively blocking the entire lane. Any other person who ‘parked’ his car in a similar fashion would have been summarily abused (or beaten up). But no one seems to be complaining about the police.

Naturally, I wonder why the police are here. The driver pulls up at least five buildings away from Tabloid and declares he is not going any further.

‘Little distance only madam, you can walk it,’ he says. He gets out of the auto and starts turning it around.

I don’t argue with him but give him Rs 10 less—our fare deal had been for him to drop me right outside office. The driver takes the money but glares at me. I have a feeling that had the police not been here, he would have fought with me.