Driving Women Crazy

            The Abu Dhabi sky was turning orange. Not so beautiful, I reasoned, especially with the frenzied pace of construction activities all around. I have often played at the Marina Beach, building sand castles only to helplessly watch the sea wreak havoc and bring them down. But these guys in the Emirates were into business, far more serious. They were pushing the sea back, reclaiming land and erecting their towering metal and glass edifices. 

            My brother was with me, at the balcony on the 2^nd floor of an apartment complex; we were silently registering the human populace whizzing past in their fancy cars on wide, breathtaking highways. Wow, I thought, if only we had roads like these in Bombay. People wouldn’t need to drive on the pavements then.

            My brother said aloud, “Don’t get taken in with what you see…” he was reading my mind well, even after all these years. Our silences spoke more than the five hundred characters in War and Peace. It was a gift we were born with. Constantly peeping into each other’s minds.

            The timing was right. No sooner had he spoken, an SUV brushed the rear bumper of a small, red hatchback. The bright SUV had tried to take a not-so-bright turn from an outer lane. I waited with bated breath for the fracas…that never happened.

            Both the cars pulled alongside the kerb. The driver of the SUV, a young expatriate, got out and inspected the damage to his front bumper – his demeanour indicated a few scratches, for he relaxed, lit a cigarette and paced the pavement lazily. The occupant of the other car didn’t emerge.

            “What’s happening? I quizzed my brother.

            “They are waiting for the cops.”

            “How will the cops know? I can’t see a cop for a hundred miles.”

            “The driver in the red car would have made the call.”

            “Strange…no angry words...flared tempers…nothing! So boring…”

            An incident such as this on Dhaula Kuan in New Delhi would have provided suitable relief to battle-weary citizens returning home after a hard day’s work. The affected parties would have alighted from their respective vehicles, with foaming mouths and clenched fists. They would call each other unprintable epithets, with grave references to sisters, mothers, aunts, uncles and many others that would suitably impress Sooraj Barjatya. A small crowd would form around the impromptu gladiators, until such time a harried cop would arrive on the scene and disperse the crowd. Meanwhile, a two-kilometre long line of cars, trucks and buses would have jammed the entire way to the airport. People booked onto evening flights could be forgiven for rightfully fretting and chewing on their nails.

            Ofcourse, the situation would have been radically different if the infamous Delhi blueline bus had been involved. The blueline habitually mows down all obstacles in it’s path  and moves on, to ensure that it’s passengers arrive on time at their respective destinations. Time, tide and a blueline wait for no man…

            Boring place this…I thought once again, of Abu Dhabi. In fact, the other day, my brother was driving me around. I was marveling at the road signages – clear, precise and with a sense of direction (rightfully so!). But I cringed at the thought of getting lost on the highway – for there wasn’t a single soul walking on the road, to accost and ask for directions. Not even the roadside panwallah, hawking his handy packets of oral cancer. Not a single soul – only hordes and hordes of cars whizzing past, faster than you can say Narain Karthikeyan!

            That makes New Delhi a fun place to be in.

            For example, a couple of years ago, I wanted to get to Connaught Place. So, I called for my knowledgeable peon, who was of pure local blood. He was overtly friendly and disturbingly helpful.

            “Sir, Aap kaise jaoge?”

            “Matlab?”

            “Aap kaise jaoge? By walk…yaa…by sakootar?”

            Sakootar…now what animal would that be? The closest I could think of was kabootar, but that was justifiably out of context.

            I let that go by. (Sakootar is ofcourse, Delhi local parlance for the humble scooter!)

            “By car,” I answered and posed the good man a direct query, just to speed up things, “Just tell me, if I go straight on Panchsheel Marg, can I go to Connaught Place?”

            The good man’s reply was not-so-good though.

            “Sir, kya baat kar rahen hain…you CANNOT go to CANNOT PLACE like that!”

            CANNOT PLACE! I have heard of all sorts of places – forbidden places, out-of-bounds places…but Cannot Place?

            Now, why would anyone call Connaught Place the Cannot Place? Determined research and a prolonged existence in the Nation’s capital have still not enlightened me. Anyone and everyone knows that “there is nothing that one cannot buy here.”

            I did go to Cannot Place, by the way, faithfully adhering to the elaborate directions my friend so enthusiastically proffered.  

            I recall, that he had rattled off at blistering speed, like a Blueline on a mission…

            “Pehle aap panchsheel marg pakdo, straight jaana…leave two red singals, teesra red singal pe ulte haath ghoomna…phir go straight, straight…straight,” the man’s eyes were closed, as he took a virtual tour in his head, “straight, straight….phir gol chakkar aayega…”

            If the singal hadn’t singed me, the ulte haath would have knocked me down. Had I miraculously survived that blow, the gol chakkar would have left me dizzy anyways…

            Isn’t a Gol chakkar like a round circle? Maybe that’s why a forbidden location is called the Cannot Place! Steeped in mystery, with access routes studded with red singals, upside-down hands and round circles!

            Cut to the scene at the Abu Dhabi highway.

            The traffic cop eventually came, wrote out a report after questioning the respective drivers. But the occupant of the red car stayed put in the car. I fancied that it was a pretty face that peeped out, when the window rolled down. Maybe the poor lady had a kid in the car, adding to the chaos. It’s always very difficult to drive a car with a noisy kid in the backseat. This, I know for a fact, thanks to the time-tested wisdom, my good friend and philosopher so benevolently disseminates,

            “Children in backseats cause accidents. Accidents in back seats cause children.”

            Simple words. Powerful words. Any Formula 1 driver worth his pole position (no pun intended at all) will testify to that.

            Anyways, the colliding cars were soon on their way – homeward bound – no fracas, no noise, no yelling – like an insipid Lung Fung soup at a vegetarian Chinese restaurant in Matunga.

            “What’s with the lady? She never got out of the car. I am sure the cop would have got pissed with her high-and-mighty behaviour.”

            “Oh…that! She had no choice,” my brother remarked.

            “Care to explain?” I hate it when my brother says something so matter-of-fact, like it’s something, even a third-grader would know.

            “Ok…I’ll let you in on a secret my company driver once told me,” he lowered his voice to good effect, “In Abu Dhabi, most women pee in their pants when they get into an accident. They are too embarrassed to get out after that…”

            How ludicrous! But it was a good theory. Just to be doubly sure, I confirmed the veracity of the theory with my sister-in-law.

            “What rubbish!”

            “Then why is it that only men alight from their cars…” my brother parried.

            My sister-in-law had thought that one out long back, “Ha! Men…they have never stopped wearing diapers. They are still babes in the woods, if you ask me…”

            Ouch! That one hurt. More than the ulte haath at Cannot Place!

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Note- The title was a just a cheap gimmick. Sorry!