In the chaotic symphony of Hyderabad traffic, where two-wheelers weave like over-caffeinated ants, Officer Reddy had found his sweet spot: the *perfect* side of the Begumpet bridge. Every day, like a hawk with a quota, he’d perch beside the divider—a concrete Berlin Wall for bikers—snatching helmetless riders who realized too late they’d entered a one-way trap. “No U-turn, only *challan*!” he’d chuckle, waving his fines like confetti.
Enter Raju, a man whose entrepreneurial spirit rivaled a monsoon mushroom. One glance at the bridge’s daily drama, and he saw not tragedy—but *opportunity*. “Why sell lemonade when you can sell salvation?” he mused. By sunrise, Raju’s “Helmet Rentals” stall (yes, the ‘H’ was missing; budgets matter) bloomed at the bridge’s mouth. For ₹10, panicked riders could borrow a helmet that had seen more heads than a barber shop. “Guaranteed safety!*” he’d wink (*safety from fines, not concussions).
But Raju’s genius truly shone 100 meters ahead, where his cousin Bheem loitered post-police checkpoint, grinning like a coconut vendor in a heatwave. “Helmet return here, sir/madam! Extra ₹5 for *convenience fee*!” he’d bark, snatching back the rentals before riders could mutter, “But I just—”
By dusk, the duo’s profits rivaled a decent day selling biryani. Officer Reddy, meanwhile, scratched his head. “Why so many helmets suddenly… and why do they all smell like *old samosas*?”
Moral of the story? In India, every problem is just a ₹10 solution waiting for a guy with a hustle… and a cousin
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