a 119-second stop!

So here I am, consciously and yes, cautiously driving down this crowded road—just one of the many remorseless ones that find themselves geographically positioned on my route home. And since the drive is an everyday must-do and a rather long one, my car carries its regular supply of water, wafers and hmm…those favourite tunes. I make it to the first signal. I look around. My car still running. I see that lifeless digital contraption telling me that I have to wait another 119 seconds before I can cruise again. And so, in yet another attempt of conserving that energy resource that we’ve all been musing over and emphatically debating lately, I turn off the ignition and wait my turn. I’m silently curbing my impatience. I turn up the volume and limply sing along, barely realising that it’s Bryan Adams’ ‘Flying’, one of my recent favourites. I’m subconsciously enjoying the cool air and music my Getz provides me with, mutely content that I’m spared the pollution, endless honking and piercing stares of being yet another woman driver…

I begin to look around. There’s this cab driver adjusting his mirror, desperately trying to spot an interesting face. Then there’s this dark green Skoda, hmm… a big shot, who won’t as much as twitch (makes me wonder whether all that money kills only the little wada pav pleasures or also basic body movements ). Then I spot a pretty girl in her hmm…Honda I think...who holds my attention for about half a minute (yes, I admire beauty in all forms, with no modifications to my gender preferences). I’m slightly dead beat. I shut my eyes and calculatedly, miss a few blinks. The distinct noises, not sounds, but noises, still keeping my aural senses alive, forcing me to stay awake. I can hear the relentless honking and faint trails of conversation between folks on two-wheelers, desperately trying to make themselves heard above the din. There’s also the cop blowing his whistle somewhere in the distance, at no one in particular and for no pointed reason, but to simply make his presence felt... Knock! Knock!... I’m forced into reality. There’s this little girl, dirty, filthy and clad in rags. The few bits of tattered orange cloth cover her rather small frame. She wore a nose ring; one made from a crude wire she probably stumbled across. She had moist big bright eyes that starkly contrast her dry, muddy complexion. She intrigued me. I rolled down my window and said nothing. She puts out her hand and in a voice, so much more mature and stronger than her physical self, addresses me… ‘didi’ (not heard that in a long time…). I’m amused by the way, we in India (coz I am blissfully unaware of other regions that connote to similar usage), can create relationships at traffic signals, in a span of few seconds, with mere four-letter words, without necessarily having common ancestry. Hmmm…(smile) … and so, proceeding with my story, she asks for food or money. I reluctantly give her my wafer packet (yes, reluctantly, coz I’m just another selfish human with all my faults and failings and yes, that’s my only excuse). But that doesn’t do it for her; she catches sight of my famous, broken car mirror, lying on the dashboard and picks it up. I reach for her hand to stop it, but she’s faster coz I’m still in my motionless, pondering state. She stares at herself in the mirror for a bit, casually positioning few strands of hair and then pulling them behind her ear. I caught sight of a bright, loud orange marigold tucked away in her braid. The marigold is clean and fresh, starkly contrasting her face. She confidently adjusts her nose ring, purses her lips, raises an eyebrow, gently blinks her eyes, shyly smiles at her image, throws the mirror back inside and runs away. I’m still staring at the marigold bobbing away, dodging between cars. It’s invisible and then seen and then gone forever…Honk Honk…. Damn! Turn key, quick first gear, hand brake down and I’m cruising again, still dealing with the stares for having interrupted traffic for an eternity of 3 seconds.

I’m still thinking of the little girl, her premature adulthood and her reticent, yet dramatic performance. How different is she from me I wonder? When vanity gets the better of me, I too purse my lips, blink my ‘kajal’ed eyes, smile at myself in the mirror and yes, can even raise a single eyebrow. How come she does exactly what I do? I wear no marigold and no rose ring, but still see myself in her. Was it her demeanour or was it what she didn’t say? Was it her calling me ‘didi’ or taking my wafer packet away? I cannot know. My education fails me….yet again!

I’ve longed to see her again at that very signal and others too, but never did. Those 119 seconds (plus 3) hold my thoughts, sometimes even late at night while I’m writing my diary. And I still marvel at how in her finding her image, I found my reflection… and then my realisation… that with all my revered qualifications and superficial comforts, just like her… I’m human!