I slowed down when a rusty Mehran cut across the road, without indicating, to vanish down a side street.
I stopped when a Mercedes driven by a glamorous matron burst out of a side street without slowing down.
When a bicycle appeared ahead with a vast load of firewood and three small children perched on top, I gave them a wide berth.
As I did with the camel.
And with the family of five, all in black, walking along the tarmac at midnight.
Then I made my mistake.
The lights had gone red when a yellow Porsche overtook me - is it called 'to overtake' when the car in question shoots between you and a small school bus, to run the red light and cross the intersection?
A middle-aged bearded policeman witnessed all this, gave the driver a friendly wave and stared after the speeding car, hand on heart, like a proud parent.
My mistake was to roll forward and come to a stop on the pedestrian crossing which - as we all know - means nothing on these streets. In fact, all you need to ensure a successful suicide mission is to step onto the zebra. I once stopped the car at a zebra and waved a man across. He refused to take a single step and looked daggers at me instead.
But here I am now, an inch over the white lines and Beard-in-Uniform is Not Pleased. The hand-on-heart suddenly takes a darker, Napoleonic air and he strides over. I've had it.
'Apke yakata yakata' he barks at me. I understand the snarl, I do, just not the words, alas. My bad. My mad. I address him, politely, in Romanian. I start with the first verse of the national anthem which tells us to rise against the barbarian tyrants. I stop to draw breath.
'You don't speak Urdu?' he says, in English, momentarily thrown.
'And YOU speak English.' I note, also in English. Second mistake. And third mistake: I smile.
He reverts to a stream of Urdu, delivered with a toxic glare and in anaerobic conditions (i.e. without taking a breath, oh-la-la!). I understand the word for 'home' - strangely reminiscent of the Romanian word for 'claw'. Is he exhorting me to go home? I am staggered at his vitriol. His beard trembles, his chest puffs out, his words rattle like pebbles in a tin can. A younger me would dissolve into tears (the current-me undergoes a lip wobble and a numb nose - both mild signs of shock). Mid-speech, Bully-Beard drops his notebook. It puts a little undignified muffler in his flow, as he folds himself double to retrieve it. On the flip side, it gives him the idea to fine me.
The lights go green. A million cars start trumpeting from behind. Barbabully waves me along with a scowl and a show of squashing a cockroach on the hot tarmac.
And so we go back to our lives: I to my chaos of words and work and family; he to his precarious mid-ladder balancing: on one side his musty power repertoire, which consists of bullying his family and anyone on his tiny traffic patch; on the other side, a 6th sense and constant vigilance, to spot and kowtow to any greater bully than himself. His cardboard castle, his neon uniform, his rusty and tremulous beard depend on it.
I stopped when a Mercedes driven by a glamorous matron burst out of a side street without slowing down.
When a bicycle appeared ahead with a vast load of firewood and three small children perched on top, I gave them a wide berth.
As I did with the camel.
And with the family of five, all in black, walking along the tarmac at midnight.
Then I made my mistake.
The lights had gone red when a yellow Porsche overtook me - is it called 'to overtake' when the car in question shoots between you and a small school bus, to run the red light and cross the intersection?
A middle-aged bearded policeman witnessed all this, gave the driver a friendly wave and stared after the speeding car, hand on heart, like a proud parent.
My mistake was to roll forward and come to a stop on the pedestrian crossing which - as we all know - means nothing on these streets. In fact, all you need to ensure a successful suicide mission is to step onto the zebra. I once stopped the car at a zebra and waved a man across. He refused to take a single step and looked daggers at me instead.
But here I am now, an inch over the white lines and Beard-in-Uniform is Not Pleased. The hand-on-heart suddenly takes a darker, Napoleonic air and he strides over. I've had it.
'Apke yakata yakata' he barks at me. I understand the snarl, I do, just not the words, alas. My bad. My mad. I address him, politely, in Romanian. I start with the first verse of the national anthem which tells us to rise against the barbarian tyrants. I stop to draw breath.
'You don't speak Urdu?' he says, in English, momentarily thrown.
'And YOU speak English.' I note, also in English. Second mistake. And third mistake: I smile.
He reverts to a stream of Urdu, delivered with a toxic glare and in anaerobic conditions (i.e. without taking a breath, oh-la-la!). I understand the word for 'home' - strangely reminiscent of the Romanian word for 'claw'. Is he exhorting me to go home? I am staggered at his vitriol. His beard trembles, his chest puffs out, his words rattle like pebbles in a tin can. A younger me would dissolve into tears (the current-me undergoes a lip wobble and a numb nose - both mild signs of shock). Mid-speech, Bully-Beard drops his notebook. It puts a little undignified muffler in his flow, as he folds himself double to retrieve it. On the flip side, it gives him the idea to fine me.
The lights go green. A million cars start trumpeting from behind. Barbabully waves me along with a scowl and a show of squashing a cockroach on the hot tarmac.
And so we go back to our lives: I to my chaos of words and work and family; he to his precarious mid-ladder balancing: on one side his musty power repertoire, which consists of bullying his family and anyone on his tiny traffic patch; on the other side, a 6th sense and constant vigilance, to spot and kowtow to any greater bully than himself. His cardboard castle, his neon uniform, his rusty and tremulous beard depend on it.
No comments:
Post a Comment