free to dismount

I keep expecting someone to stick a worn hand in front of my face, wiggling an index finger. I keep expecting to hear "2 rupees madam". Each time I drag my bike out of the parking lot, I brace myself for the unavoidable, almost enjoyable fight with the token-man.
"Two rupees-a?!" I would say, and keep my eyebrow up and my mouth open in the "aa" shape — a tried and tested expression of incredulity.
"Aanh, ok ok," the parking attendant would say. "One rupee, 50 paisa," he’d demand, looking urgently in the direction of some other motorist trying to slink away without paying the parking fee.
Or there’d be a little word-tussle about how he never gave me the token/ticket.
Some people would give him Rs.2, but insist that he took their bike out of the stand. After all, the Corporation was paying him. He had to earn that extra 50 p. But I don’t think any of the parking guys really cared what the bikers thought. Moving a featherweight Scooty wasn’t much of a deal anyway.
Each day, it was the same. We might smile at each other today, and look through each other tomorrow. But everyday, without fail, we’d repeat the same ticket-and-paisa charade, as if yesterday didn’t happen at all. And no one really wanted that extra 50 paisa either. It was the only way we would ever talk, probably. We’d exchange big fat lies about one being poorer than the other, I’d grumble about how the world was out to swindle me, and he’d hiss about how I could drink coffee for Rs,25 but not pay him half a rupee. We both knew where we stood, but we’d haggle anyway.
Fun, it was... Not the kind of fun you look forward to or anything, but a routine that never changed. A momentary jolly.
Here in Chennai, I can park anywhere but in the middle of a flyover, and no one asks me anything. Coins and change have lost significance suddenly. When the chemist (I think I insulted him by referring to him as ‘medical shop guy’ to a friend) gave me 3 one rupee coins as change, I could sense grief welling in my heart. What for is their existence? Sniff.
But the little area outside Khadi Bhandar near my office has a parking attendee. She wears a cap, from under which half-dried mallipoo pops out. She blows on her whistle proudly, gesturing to cars and bikes to park behind the yellow line. "They all know to buy cars, but see if even one idiot knows to park properly," she curses under her breath to no one in particular.
Maybe I’ll park my bike there one day. I’d like to know if she thinks I’m a good parker.
Till then, the chilrai (change) can come of use for a pile-them-up game when boredom strikes, groundnuts, platform tickets, tea at a chai shop, or a khaara biscuit.