Even the rifle's butt makes a good impact. The other day I was at the receiving end, in a manner of speaking. Four of us are returning from a Srinagar hospital after visiting a colleague's father. As I try going around a parked bus, a white Gypsy approaches from the other side. We block each other's way. I reverse, trying to steer myself behind the bus so that the other vehicle can pass. But the Gypsy keeps coming at me, leaving me no room for manoeuvre.

I should have been quicker in getting out of the way of the executive magistrate's vehicle, I realise. In seconds, three or four policemen jump out of the escort vehicle just behind the Gypsy. As they begin slamming the butts of their rifles at ourcar, we are taken aback by the sudden attack.

Later we assess the damage. There is an impressive dent in the door on the driver's side. I try to imagine what the rifle-butt would have done to my rib-cage. I have car insurance, but believe that mutual funds are a better investment than paying out Life Insurance premiums.

Mentioning that we were members of the press probably limited the damage. Later, we were also assured that the policemen at fault would face action. Some informal explanations for the brief explosion of violence too were offered. The policemen had taken a few butchers in custody in a pre-Eid drive against those overcharging for mutton, and were in a hurry to get away from the womenfolk protesting against the arrests. Also, the police force was on edge after a demoralising militant attack recently on a DIG.

As a driver, this happened to be my second brush with authority in quick succession. A day earlier we pass through an Army checkpoint in the countryside, some 40 km from Srinagar. Thesolitary jawan by the roadside doesn't signal us to stop. But taking no chances, I slow down virtually to a halt as the car approaches him. ``Don't your brakes work?'' he asks. What he means is that we should have telepathically guessed that he wanted us to stop a few yards ahead of the checkpoint. Since I instinctively obey anyone who carries a firearm, I back the car the required distance. Then we all get out.

We mention the press, I talk in his native Punjabi, and the jawan now even takes back the order to lift the bonnet. As we are waved through, I have no hard feelings. It is a little-used road and the jawan was probably bored, and itching for some action.

But dropping the P-word doesn't always help in roadside encounters with the security forces. Last year two colleagues on a motorcycle were stopped by CRPF jawans while returning home from work late at night. An officer pointed a gun at the chest of one of them. The reporter played meek, not challenging the officer's action. A wise decision becausethe officer appeared to be on patrol after having more than one for the road.

I too have decided to play safe while I am on the road. I am replacing my small standard-issue Express sticker on the windscreen with a bigger, bolder Press label. More important, I have worked out the protocol for approaching a checkpoint. Always stop your car at a non-threatening distance, say 20 yards, ahead of it. Then get down s-l-o-w-l-y. Raise your hands in the air and walk non-threateningly towards the guards. If you have brought your little white flag, wave it.