“I am so sorry about this,” I told them. “I will pay for your car to be repaired. But please, do not call the police. I don’t have any insurance.” I also did not have a license, causing this accident to be an even more serious offense. My stomach was in knots, and with the sun bearing down on me, I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead and sticking to my shirt. The moment I said I didn’t have insurance, the daughter cried louder. “I’m hurt,” she whimpered. “I’m hurt.”
I tried to calm her down, but she only ignored me and continued crying uncontrollably. A moment later, a policeman arrived at the scene. When he asked for my driver’s license and insurance card, a lump formed in my throat, and I could barely speak. I managed to say that I didn’t have either. Then I showed him my learner’s permit. The disapproving look on his face caused me to sweat nearly as much as the sun did. He pulled a pad of paper from his chest pocket just as a colored man charged toward us, holding a paintbrush.
“Officer, I saw everything. I was painting on the second floor of that house over there, and I saw this man hit a parked car.”
Confused, the policeman looked at where the man pointed, and then he looked at me. After walking over to the parked car and observing the dent, he thanked the man, who looked quite proud of himself. Feeling his work was done, he looked me up and down smugly and strode away, paint brush swinging jauntily.
The situation could not have gotten any worse. Pen poised, the officer shook his head in disbelief, and added another offense to the growing list.
As he wrote out the ticket, I glanced over at the two women. The mother was glaring at me, arms crossed over her chest. The police officer began reading me the charges.
“These charges are for a hit-and-run, missing a stop sign, hitting another car, injuring two ladies, and having no driver’s license or insurance,” he said. “What do you have for identification?”
I showed him my student ID. Since I was a foreign student at UT, the policeman did not know what to do. He called his captain and explained the situation. The captain did not know either, but told the officer to keep me there, and he would come shortly. When the captain arrived, he asked where I lived and the same questions the first officer asked. Then he contacted my foreign student advisor, Nelson Nee, and told him to come to the scene. While waiting for Nelson, I spoke to the ladies and told them I would take care of any medical expenses and the repair of the car. I did not have any cash on me, but I said I would work part time and pay them later. They did not look too reassured.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Nelson Nee came huffing and puffing up the hill. “When did you buy this car?” he snapped at me.
“A month ago.”
“Why?” he yelled. “You do not have driver’s license!”
“I have a learner’s permit,” I murmured. I was beginning to feel scared. Before, the entire situation seemed surreal, but now, after the ordeal with the police, the unknown outcome, and my advisor fuming at me, I thought, What if they put me in jail?
The captain, the officer, and Nelson Nee held a conference right on the spot. My case was unusual. The officers rarely dealt with foreign students, but they decided I must appear in court. They gave me a ticket requiring that I appear before the judge. Nelson Nee said, “I assure you, Mr. Bedi will be at court on that day.”
The police officers helped push my damaged car to Ravi Sood’s house, a little way down the street. After the officers departed, Nelson Nee scolded me again, and then he left too. I walked back to my apartment feeling sad about the whole situation and disappointed that I couldn’t show off by driving Sandhu to the bank in my car.
Within several hours, the news had spread among the Indian students that Bedi had been involved in an accident, two ladies were injured badly, and the cops took Bedi to jail.
Ravi Aggarwal called me and sounded surprised when I answered the phone. “I thought you were in jail for a hit-and-run,” he said, “but I called to make sure. Tell me what happened. Everyone is saying you are in big trouble!”
“Everything is okay,” I assured him. “Please calm down.”
Ravi immediately came to the apartment to see if I was okay. By the time he arrived, I was fixing the evening tea and asked if he would like some.
“Bedi, are you all right? Are you hurt? Are you in pain?” Ravi asked.
“Let us have tea first, and I will explain what happened,” I said.
He was more anxious to know about my well-being and the accident than to drink tea.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I am!” I said.
He shook his finger at me. “What did I tell you? Never drive a car without a driver’s license! Very bad, Bedi. Very bad. At least you are not hurt. Now we will see about this court date.”
While waiting for my court date, Ravi Sood took me to the UT parking lot for driving lessons. A few weeks later, I got my license. Now I could go anywhere I wanted, and I felt more self-assured when asking girls out since I could pick them up in my banged up car.
On my court date, Ravi Aggarwal accompanied me to the courthouse. We entered a large room with no windows. At the front of the room, an austere man in black robes was conferring with an officer and
