A Unique Burden
Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015
Driving in a city is a pain. But that’s nothing new. Everyone has been in one of those situations when the road home feels like a huge parking lot - bumper to bumper congestion, cars and lorries chasing the never ending line of red brake lights, fumes clouding the sanity of the few pedestrians who thank God for helping them cross the road with a rare ease and the persistent honking by the driver in the car just behind you. It is a rush towards the finish line, though sans the adrenaline an Olympic athlete would experience. Inside the car, there are only aching joints of the driver and creaking sighs of the co-passengers. For the two-wheeler drivers, it is a different story altogether - their own lanes, their own rules, their own sneaky ways over the footpaths and their own pace. They are unique. Their approach to traffic, even rains is unique. I don’t quite like it, but I am not too sure why. I feel that there is an order being disturbed. An order to the orderly ordering of orders in the world around. Anyways, no one cares about what I feel about the subject. In fact, I really don’t care that much. I turn off the ignition and push my chair back a little. This is unusual for me. Not the turning off the ignition part, but the leaning back of my chair. I almost always have my back upright in the car, being a firm believer of ergonomics and staunch nurturer of my spine. I know it is the backbone (literally) of my whole life. It is a unique organ that way. It is so core to existential sustenance. But one can still live a whole life without a functional spine. Unique.
I am unknowingly drifting into my own thoughts when a tap at the window of my car jolts me back into the real world. A beggar. A child beggar with an infant she is balancing on her hip bone that she juts out using an awkward posture of her right leg. Their clothes are tattered and slimy. The infant’s nose is flowing. His sister, as she claims herself to be, has marks of dried tears below her eyes. Or perhaps she had just washed her face. But then why should she appear so unkempt? Stop it! As always, I am noticing too much. I look away from the kids. It is the only way. Inside me, there is a slight, yet certain squirming, a silent screaming of sorts. I would love to provide these kids with a promise of a meal. Yet, I don’t know if these are two of the many children who operate for the numerous beggary cartels in Indian cities. I don’t want, in any way, to abet those bastards. Slumdog millionaire has filled the mind with more graphic visuals of what could become of the unfortunate ones who land up in those gangs.
I look intently at the red lights of the car in front of me. As if brought on by my staring, the traffic moves. Only about four feet though. I am getting cramps in my knees and lower back. I wiggle around in my seat, bend down, touch my toes to release some pressure off my back. I flex and point my toes within the confines of the little room my hatchback has to offer. One of the many hatchbacks that flock the road around me. Something quite unique about India - these small cars that are the most successful family cars - unlike in the West where a family car usually means an SUV or a decent size sedan.
My reverie is again broken by another tap on my window. I don’t turn my head. It is by the size of the shadow that I realize it’s somebody else. I turn my head and my gaze meets that of a hijra on the road. A eunuch. As kids, we were told to never speak with eunuchs. They are different, we were told. Yet, hijras arrive at every function - weddings, naming ceremonies and deaths - to bless the families. You should never risk the ire of a hijra - my grandmother used to warn me. If we ever were to receive a hijra at our door, asking for alms, she would invariably take out her small coin pouch and hand over a few coins to a hijra. From a lady known to be extremely frugal, this was quite unorthodox. I imagine the plight of the eunuchs in India - shunned by their families and shunned by the society - forced to live a life on the outside. Lives that often merge into the shadows of prostitution and beggary. I slide down the window and hand over a 5 rupee coin. The hijra smiles and blesses me, and steps towards the next car to see if there is more that lady luck had to offer. I am intrigued by this strange tradition, the modern implications of it and the unique heredity to the marginalization of such communities.
The signal ahead turns green. All the cars whir up in anticipation. I do not turn on the ignition. The counter on the signal counts back from ninety. Car drivers anxiously pray that they finally make it over to the other side. You can see drivers trying to move forward - even if a few centimeters. They do that on the roads here, I had told my American friend's eight year old son who visited me the last month. He felt it was strange. I told him it was normal. The signal is red again.
I have been on the same spot for the last twenty six minutes. My phone rings and I pick it up. A friend is calling. He asks me where I am headed. I tell him I am going to an evening meet with my theater group. It is a weekday, he reminds me. I tell him I realize that. He asks me a zillion questions to ask. I answer them patiently. He rants about his 9-to-9 work-life imbalance. He tells me he does not understand how I can even think of rehearsing a play while working a full-time job. I tell him I just enjoy theater that much. He tells me I am unique. I smile. He hangs up. I close my eyes and sense the world full of quirks around me - my aching spine, the honking drivers, the beggar girl, the opportunist pedestrian, the hijra. And me. The light ahead turns green. It is time to move on!
Driving in a city is a pain. But that’s nothing new. Everyone has been in one of those situations when the road home feels like a huge parking lot - bumper to bumper congestion, cars and lorries chasing the never ending line of red brake lights, fumes clouding the sanity of the few pedestrians who thank God for helping them cross the road with a rare ease and the persistent honking by the driver in the car just behind you. It is a rush towards the finish line, though sans the adrenaline an Olympic athlete would experience. Inside the car, there are only aching joints of the driver and creaking sighs of the co-passengers. For the two-wheeler drivers, it is a different story altogether - their own lanes, their own rules, their own sneaky ways over the footpaths and their own pace. They are unique. Their approach to traffic, even rains is unique. I don’t quite like it, but I am not too sure why. I feel that there is an order being disturbed. An order to the orderly ordering of orders in the world around. Anyways, no one cares about what I feel about the subject. In fact, I really don’t care that much. I turn off the ignition and push my chair back a little. This is unusual for me. Not the turning off the ignition part, but the leaning back of my chair. I almost always have my back upright in the car, being a firm believer of ergonomics and staunch nurturer of my spine. I know it is the backbone (literally) of my whole life. It is a unique organ that way. It is so core to existential sustenance. But one can still live a whole life without a functional spine. Unique.
I am unknowingly drifting into my own thoughts when a tap at the window of my car jolts me back into the real world. A beggar. A child beggar with an infant she is balancing on her hip bone that she juts out using an awkward posture of her right leg. Their clothes are tattered and slimy. The infant’s nose is flowing. His sister, as she claims herself to be, has marks of dried tears below her eyes. Or perhaps she had just washed her face. But then why should she appear so unkempt? Stop it! As always, I am noticing too much. I look away from the kids. It is the only way. Inside me, there is a slight, yet certain squirming, a silent screaming of sorts. I would love to provide these kids with a promise of a meal. Yet, I don’t know if these are two of the many children who operate for the numerous beggary cartels in Indian cities. I don’t want, in any way, to abet those bastards. Slumdog millionaire has filled the mind with more graphic visuals of what could become of the unfortunate ones who land up in those gangs.
I look intently at the red lights of the car in front of me. As if brought on by my staring, the traffic moves. Only about four feet though. I am getting cramps in my knees and lower back. I wiggle around in my seat, bend down, touch my toes to release some pressure off my back. I flex and point my toes within the confines of the little room my hatchback has to offer. One of the many hatchbacks that flock the road around me. Something quite unique about India - these small cars that are the most successful family cars - unlike in the West where a family car usually means an SUV or a decent size sedan.
My reverie is again broken by another tap on my window. I don’t turn my head. It is by the size of the shadow that I realize it’s somebody else. I turn my head and my gaze meets that of a hijra on the road. A eunuch. As kids, we were told to never speak with eunuchs. They are different, we were told. Yet, hijras arrive at every function - weddings, naming ceremonies and deaths - to bless the families. You should never risk the ire of a hijra - my grandmother used to warn me. If we ever were to receive a hijra at our door, asking for alms, she would invariably take out her small coin pouch and hand over a few coins to a hijra. From a lady known to be extremely frugal, this was quite unorthodox. I imagine the plight of the eunuchs in India - shunned by their families and shunned by the society - forced to live a life on the outside. Lives that often merge into the shadows of prostitution and beggary. I slide down the window and hand over a 5 rupee coin. The hijra smiles and blesses me, and steps towards the next car to see if there is more that lady luck had to offer. I am intrigued by this strange tradition, the modern implications of it and the unique heredity to the marginalization of such communities.
The signal ahead turns green. All the cars whir up in anticipation. I do not turn on the ignition. The counter on the signal counts back from ninety. Car drivers anxiously pray that they finally make it over to the other side. You can see drivers trying to move forward - even if a few centimeters. They do that on the roads here, I had told my American friend's eight year old son who visited me the last month. He felt it was strange. I told him it was normal. The signal is red again.
I have been on the same spot for the last twenty six minutes. My phone rings and I pick it up. A friend is calling. He asks me where I am headed. I tell him I am going to an evening meet with my theater group. It is a weekday, he reminds me. I tell him I realize that. He asks me a zillion questions to ask. I answer them patiently. He rants about his 9-to-9 work-life imbalance. He tells me he does not understand how I can even think of rehearsing a play while working a full-time job. I tell him I just enjoy theater that much. He tells me I am unique. I smile. He hangs up. I close my eyes and sense the world full of quirks around me - my aching spine, the honking drivers, the beggar girl, the opportunist pedestrian, the hijra. And me. The light ahead turns green. It is time to move on!
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