Driving, Delhi, Crazy

Everybody loves cribbing about driving in Delhi. I think it builds character.
No? Let me convince you otherwise.

What other life-altering experience can gift you the faculty of psychoanalysis-at-the-speed-of-light, (when you're changing lanes and need to predict car reactions around you)? Can anything challenge your incredible will power control more than that moment when all you want to do in response to those incessant flashing headlights behind you, is show the middle finger in one swift, qiuick, effective gesture? Have you ever experienced the epiphanic rush of The Slow Takeover of Curdling Blood on being overtaken yet again by same uncle you overtook three times already (he be in the spirit of the overtake-then-sleep-then-overtake spirit of the rabbit in the rabbit-tortoise story)? And nothing except Dilli's driving can make you realise the existential, literal ramifications of that classic book, The Trick is to Keep Breathing.

You'd better believe me because I have spent a major part of my dwindling twenties' years on the road (given state of being if you've lived in two extreme corners of the city, as I have). I've made peace with the fact that I live in my car. My car is my suitcase, my disco, my tempo, my dining table, my music room, my dressing mirror. (Ever seen a girl with one kajal-lined eye in the adjacent car, at a traffic light? That must be me. The other eye usually gets lined at the next traffic light, unless it's a rotten bad luck day and all the lights are green.)

One of my friends (also Dilliwali and lover of her gaaddi) once mentioned how her morning drive to work was like being in a videogame. The analogy fits so perfectly, you'd wonder why you hadn't thought it up already. I'm no long-time lover of vid games (being girly-girl ghissu by DNA), but I imagine the adrenaline rush of zipping ahead, the dread and frustration of being on the losing side, the unconscious body movements accompanying the finger swerves, the sheer unbelievability of it all, must be the same as that of a videogame, yes? (No? How would I know. Those are my only reactions while videogaming, which is rather toxic if you consider that I lose every time).

Ok, out with it. Despite the mad hypothesis, there's a small pleasure in thinking that it really is a videogame, right? Doncha just love hitting the steering wheel theatrically when orange light turns red just before you reach the Stop line (and to make things worse, a thulla stands on the other side, typically in statue-thumka pose)? Don't you control, every single day, the urge to run over all of the following :

- The aunty who dangles one foot, a baby and a polythene bag in voluptuous glory from the scooter hurtling at breankneck speed, and dangerously, uncontrollably thrusting its bulging baggage into the side of your car bonnet.
- The driver who just can't decide if he should overtake the car in front of him, making you curse-chant 'Whither, balls?' inwardly.
- The right lane hogger with the frantic red 'L' sign on windscreen, who also makes you want to flash index finger and thumb style 'L is for loser' on your forehead when you catch him spotting you in the rear view mirror.
- The Badan Pe Sitarey Lapetey Huay Pedestrian Aunty who crosses the road like an experiment in solar refraction and temporarily blinds with chakaachaundh roshni.
- The bihari and his casual Am-Crossing-Street-Brake-Now outturned palm gesture at you, who makes you wonder if he'd dance in the middle of road if you jiggle the steering and refuse to slow down.
- The Scooterwale Uncle Who Never Figured Out Indicators. You'd block his sideways moves just for the heck of it. Just because he has a system of doing yoga type neck rotations (centre to left, repeat 10 times instead of pressing left indicator button), doesn't mean you'll follow his code, right?

I meet all of above everyday on my to-and-fro drives. I can smile and type them away as stereotypes in a blogpost, but can I be frank and tell you that they still rattle me? There are still moments when I scream 'Abbe chal naa!' at full volume, knowing well that no one but me is tortured by the rude decibel levels of that holler. I'm still bellowing soundproofed-ly in my car, at The One and a Half Lane driver, the Old Uncle at Wheel of Ancient Fiat, the Can't Go Beyond 50kmph For a Month New Car, the Meandering Bike-wala who Deserves to Be Swatted Like a Fly, the Aunty Who is Mesmerised by Invisible Tip of Her Car Bonnet.

Aunty reminds me; I like using the Dilli road's misogyny well, for some good ol' fashioned rash-driving-misbehavin'. Especially when my look of the day is all gharelu, complete with bindi and sari et al. (The shocked look on the curious overtaken rogue driver as he catches up with me at the traffic light... it's just priceless). Now you'll ask me, 'use misogyny well'... how? Let me count the ways. For one, the average Dilli Driver's misogyny liberates me from the pressures of good driving conduct. Because no matter how well I drive, I will always get that unsaid look from adjacent car's male driver - that look that tells me my entire sisterhood is cursed, that XY chromosome is incapable of cultivating driving skills, that female DNA is programmed to be perpetually in the 'L' state of driving. So I might as well drive rash, brash, hell, positively nutsy. I can just brake randomly (or worse, rhythmically, which I do on Evil Mood days) and scare the bejesus out of the unlucky bugger behind me. I can reverse my car in a way that makes it look completely drunk-possessed. I can be lazy and park terribly unaesthetically, because hey, doncha know I'm a Ladiej Driver?

Driving in Dilli can leave you paralysed for words, or too fatigued to express your bottled rage, or plain incoherent with angst (especially if you're being chased by me on an Evil Mood day). Take this Dilliwali's tip and drop the commas from 'Driving, Delhi, Crazy'. Then you could well be Driving Delhi Crazy. And that's the only survival technique, the one that I can safely say, has let me live to tell the tale.