Stuck in Traffic

The salty air kissed her clammy skin as she inched past the winding line of colorful cars. She was riding a rented black scooter with frontal mirrors that sorely stuck out like large ugly ears. Cheap silver 3D stickers covered the vehicle, reflecting the impatient flashing of headlights from the fuming traffic jam she was trying to pass. She dragged her cherry-red sandals on the dirt road raising a cloud of dust, as she desperately tried balancing her weight along with that of the chunky bike, and its limp passenger. 

 The passenger’s upper body curled into her back, as if a prop support. 

“Sit up Kim!” she spoke urgently to her back “I told you not to drink so much!” 

The figure gradually unfurled, wobbling like jelly with the occasional snorts and sporadic giggles. It was a girl, not more than five foot five. Her long sooty locks were that kind of effortless wavy that happens when the beach meets hair. Her skin glowed mocha under the crooked tungsten street lamp.   

Calling the device a “street lamp” was a definite generosity. The cracked beige bamboo pole bent precariously, dangling what was a small yellow bulb under the layers of buzzing bugs that swarmed towards its deathly rays. “Zap” was the fatal sound that predicted a shower of lifeless insects on whoever was waiting below.  

The scooter now spluttered and coughed as its breathless rider manually attempted to push it in between two jaundice yellow ambassador taxis.

  

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?(What are you doing?)”, annoyed voices yelled at her, through the thick blare of what sounded like horn wars.  

The air was getting thicker, spiced up by the irritation that spread thick through the traffic. A sudden shrill shriek of a police whistle made her jerk her head up. Drops of perspiration jeweled her brow as she licked her lips nervously, poking a drooping Kim into erection. 

“Whaaaaat?” Kim said, irritated to be interrupted by the sharp jabbing of bony ringed fingers.  

“Sit up!” she said, trying to wave away the sour stench of body odour that was rising in concentration by every minute.  

But the driver of the monster orange lorry ahead of her had succumbed to the situation. He generously contributed to the ambiance by raising his damp patched khaki armpits, airing them out while humming along to a deafening radio tune.  

An aggressive Maruti 800 that was working towards escape blazed its neon headlights on full beam, blinding her momentarily. She instinctively pressed the back break clutch, jolting the pudgy tires into submission. 

“Tu paagal hai?! (Are you crazy?) ” she said waving and punching her one fist violently at the navy car that had almost knocked her over.  

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?”  it’s driver said, turning off  his roaring engine, and beckoning  to the portable tea stall that had magically appeared to profit from the chaos. It was as if the scheming chai-wallah (tea maker) could psychically sense the mere thought of someone needing a fresh cup of tea- he was always near. She exhaled loudly squeezing her glassy eyes shut, opening them only to be hypnotized by the stylish preparation and presentation of the tan coloured beverage that sustained and nurtured the very masses that kept India running.  

The  pot bellied, russet skinned  chai-wallah let the creamy liquid boil up until that very urgent  instant, before it was going to spill over and stain the dull metal sides. Then with skilful agility, he started swirling the aluminum pot an inch over the hungry flames, suspending it in an almost-boiling-over state before removing it from the heat, only to repeat the trick again.  He then blended the chai by pouring it back and forth between two pots at two arm-lengths apart.   

“ Chai? (Tea?),” asked a face that had more lines than a road map. 

 A terracotta cup was deftly shoved under her nose while its cardamom flavoured steam immediately hit her face, breaking her from her trance. 

 “No!” she said shaking her brown head so ferociously that she spattered sweat blobs on her bar-end mirrors.  

Ignoring everything else she tried hard to re-focus on getting out of the mess she was stuck in. She pressed the clutch (which is like a bicycle brake), turning the left throttle and putting her machine in gear, ready for action, while still pressing her tired foot on the bottom brakes. But nothing happened. Nothing moved. The traffic stood still midst the enterprising activities that were now contagiously erupting.  

The latest addition was a cobalt blue trampoline cover which was being propped up over several scattered, foldable, rusted chairs. The chai-wallah’s grinning competition-a snack vendor-was doing a great job at enticing frustrated drivers into his lair of delicious greasy promises. 

Her taut muscles screamed in pain while blissful mosquitoes freely feasted on her numb feet. With smells and sounds which were now stronger than scores of the most potent Epsom salts, she was now fighting the urge to drop her heavy burden, Kim and all.   She drummed her fingers on her stationary speedometer trying to listen to the news from the neighboring car’s radio.  

The car had been white once but, like its driver’s teeth, had gone prematurely yellow with neglect. The rare patches of original color only served as a reminder of better days.  

“Police have stopped all traffic over the Bardoman bypass,” his radio companion said. “We have received several eye witness reports of the cow that is blocking the road.” 

The driver accusingly glared at his good-luck charm of chilies and lemons dangling inches away from his nose. Snarling at the driver reading a newspaper to his left, he groaned at his fake Rolex wristwatch. He was probably going to be late again. 

The disembodied voice of the RJ continued. “If you haven’t left home yet, get back in bed! There’s no telling how long this will take to clear up.” 

“Fantastic advice you moron,” her back spoke through gritted teeth. Kim was finally functional, or trying hard to be through what seemed like the worst hangover. 

“Coming up next we’ve got Priya with Long line of cars to ease -” the RJ was cut off by the driver slamming his fist into the on/off button on the stereo. He flinched in reflex. His knuckles ached but he was too proud to let it show, even to his empty car. 

She felt his pain. Needing to do something, anything, she turned off the bike’s rattling engine, ordered a dazed Kim to get off, and finally stood up - this time accepting the clammy embrace of the soggy summer air and, as life would have it, her inevitable fate of being stuck with no quick-fix way out.