“We only fix a few,” Kajal said, staring at the endless traffic. “There are hundreds of bad drivers out there.”
In the sprawling, sun-baked city of Jarapura, the traffic was a living creature. It roared, coughed, and slithered through veins of cracked asphalt. At the heart of this chaos was the tuktukpatrol —not an official force, but a legend whispered by commuters and feared by scammers.
“ Tuktukpatrol? ” a shaky voice asked. It was an elderly man. “He won’t stop. He says my destination is in the ‘red zone.’ The meter is at 400 rupees. I’ve only gone two blocks.”