Not a game
Being in a vehicle on an India road feels like being in a fast-paced video game, with rapid jousting and ducking needed to survive. The sense is heightened in an open-air autorickshaw, where I keep one bag trapped between my knees and my backpack firmly wedged against the seat to avoid them rolling out of the swerving vehicle.
Obstacles assail the driver constantly, some created by others moving forcefully ahead of him, others by him attempting to create a new lane and ultimately becoming further ensconced in traffic. There is the mildest semblance of order: cars on the left of side of the road go one way, cars on the other side go the other way – most of the time. Additionally, drivers somehow manage to convert one-lane roads into two and occasionally three-land thoroughfares, plus a pedestrian on each side.
There are other non-gas powered residents of the road. Traffic will be slowed by the man in thin sandals pushing his wooden cart which artfully carries arrangements of fruits and vegetables. There are also brave souls biking, sitting upright, on their rusted, squeaking, dust-covered bicycles.
Then there are the cows. Today there was a large, regal beast, calmly camped in the middle of one of the busiest roads in Dehradun. She was confident in the fact that traffic would adapt to her. I wondered what it was about that location that satisfied her – the vibrations from the ground? the chaos of engines and horn-honking? the pungent odour and residue of diesel and gas? Or simply the fact that she had the power to be there, and human activity was secondary to her needs.
Another calm being was a little girl, maybe three years old, seated between her father and mother on a motorcycle careening through traffic. None of the riders were helmeted, a common sight, although occasionally there will be a helmeted driver with a bare-headed passenger, usually a woman sitting side-saddle or straddling the seat. This little girl had her cheek resting on her father’s back, her eyes closed, her soft mouth slightly open, small curls of hair waving against her forehead. Her mother held her in place with her arms forming guardrails on either side, hands clenching the folds of the father’s loose green shirt. Despite the precarious reality, the little girl looked like she couldn’t be safer.
