The folly of procrastinationTwo days ago I learnt an important lesson in life from what might seem the most insignificant of incidents. But then I guess that's what greatness is all about - gleaning the most not-so-obvious truths from the almost absolutely mundane.
Well the story goes like this. About fifteen days ago, I got hauled up by a traffic cop trying to make his end-of-the-month earnings in the way only cops know how - pull up someone for not carrying on his person his vehicle papers, or not wearing his helmet, and make him pay a heavy fine. I say 'him' or 'his' because you don't generally see cops stopping women, either because they don't have the heart to do so, or because they don't have the guts to do so, or they take it for granted that women always obey the law. Don't get me wrong - no hard feelings here. Just a small observation and totally inconsequential to my story.
Anyway the cop asked me for my papers. I was totally bored and just wanted to get home without too much delay. This man in front of me seemed like a pesky interference in my plans to retire peacefully to the comfort of my bed for the day, and I threw at him all the boredom and nonchalance that I possessed. I lazily and deliberately brought out my licence and he scanned it closely under the streetlight. That done he asked for my vehicle's emission test certificate. I pulled that out even slower. None of this escaped his keen official eye. But correcting my manner of expression lay quite out of his penal powers. So he did what only he knew best - scanned this document too under the streetlight.
Next he asked me for my vehicle's insurance papers. I produced this too. He scanned them as well. Ah. His eye lit up. At last he had got me. Very casually he pointed a scrubby forefinger at a spot on the papers and told me in Kannada that my vehicle's annual insurance cover had expired. He was triumphant, but professionally casual about it. To me I couldn't care less. My bed still beckoned me. I didn't feel like arguing with him. Besides I couldn't even if I had wanted to, considering that I can hardly put two words of Kannada together. And anyway I was feeling too lazy to part my lips. So I looked at him through half-closed eyes and nodded. He asked me for 500 bucks. 500? - I uttered a mild exclamation of surprise. He nodded indulgently. I shut up and pulled out a note. This was all too boring and I wanted to be on my way again... Soon. He took the note. I asked him for a receipt. I wasn't going to pay a bribe after all. He pulled out the book.
"Name?" he asked.
"Prem," I replied. That was easy.
"Profession?"
"Press (the colloquial equivalent for journalist)."
He stopped and stared like he had bitten into something really hard. I was like, next question please, or so I said with my eyes.
So he continued. "Organisation?"
"The Hindu," I replied. He stopped and stared again, this time like he had bitten into something both hard and bitter.
Then before I knew it he had launched into a barrage of Kannada that absolutely escaped me. Nor was I even bothering to try to understand. But he wasn't angry. In fact, if possible, he seemed even mildly apologetic. This was a strange turn of events. Maybe all my lazy arrogance had suddenly struck him in a new light. I realised, cops are for some reason shit scared of us journalists. Anyway, all of a sudden, amidst this barrage of verbal crap he was throwing at me, he returned me this 500-buck note I had given him, showed me the list of traffic offences that informed me that he was indeed justified in charging me the amount he had asked for, and then waved me on. So I beat it, amused, but thinking, my profession does have its merits. That was something comforting to chew on.
The next day I went over to the bike store to renew my insurance policy. The man went through with all the formalities and told me to return after 10 days or so. When the time came, I went and collected the papers, photocopied them and stored them away in my bike locker.
Now here's where the lesson comes in. One year ago, when I had got the last policy, I had promised myself that I would photocopy it immediately and lock it up in my bike. But, true to my nature, I procrastinated and kept putting it off, thus forcing me to carry it around in my bag everywhere I went. All I had to do was hop across the road from my house and get the thing done. It was a matter of two minutes, approximately. But I kept delaying it and a whole year passed.
It struck me suddenly even as I made a deliberate decision to photocopy the new policy immediately. If I had allowed myself to procrastinate something so small, for a whole year, how much more would I procrastinate bigger decisions in life? Possibly I have been doing so for a long time too. The thought struck me to my bone and it wouldn't be going too far to say I quivered at this point. Procrastination was Hamlet's tragic flaw that actually did him in. There are many things in life I don't want to be, and one of them is a dead Shakespearean hero.
