Red light vendetta

There was this peanut back in school. He was and still is a really, really nice person. Well respected, highly educated and all that sort of thing.

He was also talented and was one of a few pioneers from our school to be selected to represent the school... abroad! Now that was a big thing back in the day.

These days going abroad is just slightly easier than making an infant sleep through the night. OK, I admit, I was lying there...its a lot easier.

However, when this happened, it was really, really tough. Only film stars on shoots and cricketers went abroad for work. So, our man went to OZ land representing the school. So with all the hero worship and fanfare, he set off for a 3 week trip to the land of the unknown, also known as Australia. At a time when email and IM did not exist for the layman, we heard nary a peep from him while abroad.

One fine day, he returned. I say 'twas a fine day, but it actually was a pretty sucky day, raining and all. The full wrath of monsoon was unleashed upon Ooty.

As was the convention back then, the conquering hero and a couple of other teachers gathered in our house to discuss important matters such as the state of the nation. On this particular evening, the flavour of the day was about Australia. I was, as usual, 'accidentally' overhearing the conversation while [pretending to] study(ing).

The much travelled man was regaling the audience with tales of Aussie Awesomeness. Roads you could eat off of, the smooth roads that didn't have a single pothole, the way traffic moved in perfect harmony, no honking, cleanliness and all the lovely, paved sidewalks on which only people and pets walked. I mean I was surprised there weren't even any cows on the road. It had my pre-teen mind in a whirl wondering where they kept all their cows.

Of the many tales that were told, one stuck to my head. I'm not sure why or what made it stick, but it stuck. He mentioned that there was this super advanced traffic light that was controlled by the pedestrians. Push a button, traffic stops, you safely cross the road, the light turns green again. At the time, it was cutting edge, the stuff of science fiction. Indulge me, while I explain why. Drivers in India love playing whack-a-mole. You know, the funky game where around 8 or 9 moles randomly pop up and you take a hammer and whack 'em on their heads to win a point? Road users in India love playing this game, except for one major issue. While you can find cows, donkeys, buffalo, elephants, goats, dogs, humans and all members of the animal kingdom on the road, I honestly think you cannot find moles on Indian roads. There may well be places where moles roam freely on the road, but I haven't seen one. So, our eager drivers settle for the next best thing, humans.

If you cross the road in India, expect to be run over. Setting this expectation is vital to survive as you can then get your survival instinct to kick in and cross safely by deftly sidestepping the lorry hurtling towards you.

So with this being the road crossing experience I had, hearing about automated pedestrian operated traffic lights was epic. Unbelievable even. Hearing that traffic actually stops when the light turned red made it even more fairy tale like. In fact, being the teacher that he was, he said he tested the system to check if the vehicles stop every time by pressing the button a few times without actually crossing the road. Apparently, they did stop and nobody jumped the light or honked at the Indian guy pushing the button and standing by the side looking very amused.

Fast forward a couple of decades and here I am. England. England, as you know, loves its pedestrians. In fact, councils here go out of their way to ensure pedestrians rule the road. So much so, the average high street in England would not look very different from the diagram below:

There is always a sea of red because of the pedestrian traffic lights. The lights are red, so all the vehicles in front of you brake, so all their red brake lights are flashing at you. It often feels like a blood bath. And, yes, they are all pedestrian controlled.

Getting stuck at the bottom of a wall of traffic on Wembley high street the other day, this story came back to me. It was no fairy tale, it was a nightmare! I imagined our man trying out all lights, starting with light #1 and running to #2 and so on, ensuring all lights stayed red! All of a sudden, whack-a-mole looked like a promising game to play...

Game, set, match

The year - circa 1995. Boris Becker's at the twilight of his career and Pete Sampras is at his peak and some kind of a morphed version of the two is in action at the cement courts at Lovedale, Ooty.

The Player had it all - the swaggering walk that characterised Becker, tongue hanging out and a small hunch at the shoulders confusing onlookers into thinking its Sampras and not Becker. Just like the (in)famous auto drivers in India who can confuse even best policeman by indicating left, signalling right and going straight, The Player was capable of throwing even the keenest observer off his real identity by serving like Becker and rushing in to volley immediately like Sampras. Only to pick up the ball that rarely crossed the net and rush back to the baseline to try serving again.

The technique was perfect while serving - the number of times the ball would be bounced in preparation for the serve, holding the ball to the racket and swinging it up and down a couple of times, tossing the ball in the air, arching the back and smacking the ball with an almighty smack - into the net. It boggled the mind. If Becker could serve up 20+ aces in a match and get in 80% of his first serves across with that technique, why not The Player? Much analysis was done and the problems identified included:

• Becker has a better racket
• Becker has a better tennis ball
• Becker has a better pair of sneakers
• Becker's t-shirt is better
• Becker plays on a better tennis court

The brain storming resulted in one solution - ditch Becker's style and take up Sampras's. After all Sampras was younger and in his prime. He served aces with the same frequency with which a waiter in Saravana Bhavan would serve coffee. The Player went back to the drawing boards and mastered Sampras's style. Same result.

Like a desperately sick man willing to try anything to get better, Goran Ivanisevic, Andre Agassi and even Steffi Graf and Monica Seles (including her characteristic grunt - just in case the sound waves somehow gave the ball additional momentum to cross the net) appeared on Lovedale's tennis courts to no avail.

In hindsight, The Player realises, that it was perhaps that he was too short at the time (4 ft. compared to an average 5'10" for the players above) or the absolute absence of power in those tiny arms that caused the ball to stay firmly on the wrong side of the net.

Or was it because Tennis was not exactly his cup of tea...the world will never know, because The Player has since retired from competitive sport (or anything remotely active) to an anonymous life as an auditor....