•En Route (Oct. 2003)

My aunt tells me she saw a dancing cop at Luz Corner. She readily demonstrates, turning and waving gracefully like she’s doing traffic-direction Tai Chi. Finally, I have an eyewitness.

I try not to feel cheated. Despite weeks of methodically spying on traffic police in Chennai (better known as Madras), I haven’t yet seen one dance, whereas my aunt just waltzed out to run some errands and got the full monty. My obsession is making me a laughingstock among my relatives. Some of them believe the dancing policemen are an urban myth. Others—the commuters—rant about how traffic cops are ineffectual and corrupt and ask my why I’m wasting my time. The great-uncle I’m staying with asks, “Why aren’t you content with the dancing pedestrians, leaping back and forth so they don’t get hit trying to cross the road?” He, too, demonstrates, guffawing. Even the restaurants (called “hotels” here) seem mocking, with names like Hotel Traffic Jam and Hotel Runs. (I had a different interpretation of the second one before everything in my world became an oblique traffic reference.)

Finally, I got see Chennai’s Joint Commissioner of Police for Traffic, G.U.G. Sastry, who confirms I’m not crazy after all.

There are about 2,000 traffic officers in Chennai. It’s a repetitive, dangerous job, and their morale is not helped by the fact that everyone resents them. In early 2002, the department commissioned “dancing signals” for cops interested in trying something different. Sastry contacted Padma Subramaniam, one of the premier practitioners of Bharata Natyam, a South Indian classical dance. “She understood what we wanted,” Sastry says. “All she did was integrate the 10 basic signals into 10 basic movements of Bharata Natyam—a subtle difference, more of a graceful style.”

Sastry, as you can tell, is a bit of a traffic geek. He arranges for a demo. Lieutenant Haridoss was trained with the initial batch of 50 dancing cops last year and now trains new volunteers—about 130 so far. We go to a training park, an arrangement of scaled-down roadways set up for traffic-safety instruction. Haridoss snaps on a pair of Mickey Mouse-ish white gloves and runs through the standard signals. Then, with pride, he delivers the dancing variations.

The first few signals, for straight and T-junctions, involve an innocuous but pleasing wrist rotation and lunge. He releases turning traffic with a swing and flourish of his arms; a four-way stop is effected with hands brought up and out from the chest and a simultaneous parting of the legs. Things get gradually more spectacular with the increasingly complex signals, combining pivots, lunges and arms swung from the shoulders or elbows. He looks, frankly, terrific. But I won’t be satisfied until I see the real thing. I ask Sastry when and where to stake out a spot. When he mentions Luz Corner, I decide to check it out for myself.

I’m disappointed. There are no police directing traffic at all, though some cops are pulling people over for spot checks. I find a pay phone nearby and call Sastry to confirm the schedule. I return. Nothing. Finally, I ask if any of them can dance. Nasar Kahn has done the training but explains that as long as the traffic light is operational, it’s unnecessary, even dangerous, to put a cop on traffic duty. He’s on standby for a power failure, a common occurrence in most parts of India. And he’s feeling self-conscious talking to me because his immediate supervisor is leaning on a  jeep a few metres away, issuing tickets.

I return to the pay phone and call Sastry again, to ask if he can suggest another place. Instead, he asks me to put Khan on the phone. Khan looks at me in disbelief, as well  he should. “Madam, this is very wrong what you’re doing. I can’t just leave my post to take a phone call. My supervisor is right here.” I apologize profusely. I know I’ve gone too far. But by the time I run back to the phone, the joint commissioner has been cut off.

However, in a gesture of tremendous goodwill and in the spirit of promoting initiatives toward a safer, more orderly Chennai, Sastry has walkie-talkied the intersection supervisor to turn off the traffic signal so I can see a policeman dance in traffic. To my eternal mortification, Khan follows orders.

Once put into practice, the movements blend with an ease and fluidity that Sastry hopes will be imparted to the flow of traffic. The rhythmic gestures of the police are meant to inspire confidence and calm in drivers and to capture their attention—apparently in short supply otherwise. The program also aims to reduce the cops’ physical and mental stress and to improve morale by elevating their status.

And Khan does seem to relax while showcasing his talents, even as thousands of vehicles dash toward him from every side. Later, when the signal is turned back on, he insists on further extending South Indian hospitality by getting us coffees. He returns, coffee in hand, and explains how valuable the program is for guys at the bottom of the traffic totem pole. Most have minimal education and little chance for advancement, he says. Dancing in traffic may be their best opportunity to move up.

I, of course, am easily convinced.