It Sat Silently, Holding Its Breath

(January 25) (Wrote this a while back...just now posting!)

It’s Friday night and I’m returning home from work. My taxi driver is wearing a white skull cap and white togs. He is Muslim. I don’t yet know the way home, and thus have to depend on the kindness of strange taxi drivers. He is trying to find the highway and has already asked three people about its whereabouts, which doesn’t leave me much hope of arriving home without us having to ask at least four more people along the way.

The sun hasn’t yet set, and there are tons of people out and about on the roads, driving, walking, biking. I notice that along the road, here and there, are boys of all ages looking up at the sky. Reading their faces, there’s a mix of curiosity and hope. I roll down my window and turtle my head out to see what’s so interesting. Above me there are three colorful kites—little diamonds of paper bouncing on the air. As we wade through traffic, I spot more tugging strings connected to unseen kites.

Tomorrow is Independence Day—a day to celebrate the day the British got the heck out of India (back in 1947). In Delhi, India’s Washington DC, there will be military parades and drum lines tomorrow. Here, and in other parts of the country, Independence is celebrated through kite running.

I’ve heard that in a few days there will be a kite flying competition. Everyone is practicing, I presume. There are boys flying kites on narrow lanes and at the side of the road. Here and there I see temporary stands selling bulky spools of string. Boys who have spare pocket change buy the string laced with fiberglass to protect their kite from incursions from other kites. The important thing is having a kite to fly. Boys with little money can choose one kite with a good string, or a couple of kites with regular string. The competition is cutthroat.

(A day after the kite flying competition was held, I read in the paper about a number of people who died or were injured. The fiberglass string intersected with a motorcyclist’s throat and nearly slit it. Several people died falling off rooftops; completely focused on their kite, they dropped straight off the edge.)

We finally made it to the highway, and as we were waiting to join the stream of traffic, we passed another “black and yellow.” (The cabs for the common man in Mumbai are black and yellow, have no A/C, were built for people who are less than 5’8’’ tall, and are usually tricked out with mirrors on the ceiling (no pink champagne on ice, though), and imitation velvet cloth. “Cool cabs” are more expensive, have to be formally booked, and as the name indicates, have amazing A/C.) I'm slouching in my black and yellow, because, as usual, I am too tall for this thing. The taxi to my left is carrying 9 people, not including the driver. This taxi, my taxi—the exact same size and model---is carrying one, not including the driver. In an "A/C, non A/C world," (just one of India's dichotomies) iniquities abound, and I feel very much a perpetrator.

Halfway through the ride, as we cruised down the highway past teetering cliff-top slums, it dawned on me that the driver was liberally using the horn even though there weren’t many vehicles around us. I looked up from my blackberry after two minutes of HORN to see the driver hitting his wheel as we tumbled along: the horn had broken into one long continuous wail and he was attempting to bang it back into silence, to no avail. Passing cars took no notice. Amidst the cacophony that is Bombay, one relentless horn made no difference.

We pulled over to look under the hood and disconnect the wiring. It worked. He climbed back in, shut the door, started the engine and we drove. As we reached 40 or 50, the horn began a long low drone again. The driver pulled over once more. Fiddled with the wiring. Climbed in, shut the door, started the engine and we drove. As we reached 40 or 50 the horn whined. I laughed. This was becoming awkwardly funny. The driver obviously had no idea what he was doing under the hood, and seemed legitimately embarrassed. He pulled over once more, more sheepish than before. He did this three times, until finally, even he was laughing at the insanity of the situation. When we resumed our commute the third time the horn gave us a few more hiccups and then sat silently, holding its breath, as we drove on.

The highway came to an end, stopped by the sea, and we took the exit, past necking couples and whispering lovers. This is lover's highway. At the end, the part that looks out over the water, couples come to share moments with each other. It's tempting to call them "quiet" moments or "romantic" moments as I write, but it's hard to see the romance in whizzing rickshaws and black and yellows, noxious bodies of water, and exhaust fumes. However, for young unmarried couples and those with disapproving or conservative parents, this is an escape.

We arrived in Bandra, my suburb for the moment. Three or four more inquiries later and I was home.