Fighting traffic

Well, as the wiser of you probably expected - I've been upbraided for dedicating my previous post to a viewer, especially one whom I described as a neophyte. Let me tell you what I believe my thinking was.

I think it's like when you get married. You certainly appreciate the mistresses, maybe even more, but you gotta give the wife a nod now and again, ‘cuz, even if her affection ain’t the strongest, still, she did go to the trouble to make it official.

That said, the mistresses get angry if they don’t get their attention, too, so I hereby salute and dedicate this post to one of my most devoted readers – someone who’s read every single post, “even the weird ones,” as she says. I thank you, Maria, for your devotion and loyalty. And your concern that I will electrocute myself while bathing.


I was hot. I was tired. I was at the end of a static line in a hot Belapurean* train station.
I was pissed off.

*Belapur is the suburb of Mumbai in which I reside.

My eyes were half-closed as I endured the pain of existing in that state, waiting in one of two long, parallel lines ending at adjacent ticket windows.

I hadn’t been able to get the microphone/recorder from the office, as it had been closed when I arrived, despite the fact that I thought it opened at eight and had gotten there at five past.
Therefore, I’d have to rely solely on note-taking at the interview I was on my way to conduct, which wasn’t terrible, but was definitely less desirable than having the aid of an audio record of events.

As I stared at the line of pale button-down shirts and salwar kameezes in front of me, I heard some noise from the front of the adjacent line. I looked up to see a younger guy throwing a sloppy punch at another’s cheek and landing a pretty solid-looking, and sounding, blow. Then I saw some douchebag, former resident of one of the lines, I assume, turned around on the other side of the fight, enjoying the action. That was what really annoyed me. I could just see a cigar in his mouth, one hand up in the air, full of makeshift tickets from the surrounding crowd, with odds written on them, a cigar-and-Brooklyn-accented voice shouting out what bets he was taking.
Other people kind of formed a circle around the combatants as well. That, too, I couldn’t stand – people taking this as a rare opportunity for entertainment in their daily commute.

I slid my backpack off of my shoulder and held it by one strap. I left the line and took the few steps it required to bring me within range of the fighters. I swung my backpack in a wide arc and smacked the side of the fighting mass.

They kind of noticed. Then I was there, so I tried to push them apart. I actually remember focusing on the older guy (maybe in his thirties), but somehow I ended up pushing, as I walked away, hands-to-chest, the younger guy (maybe early twenties) from the epicentre of the entanglement.

About four or five steps away, his eyes had a pleading look. He made sounds. I had a feeling he was speaking English, but I didn’t understand any of it, so it must not have been. I guess it was just the clarity with which I understood his intended communication – he was obviously indicating that he couldn’t be back here, away from the beginning of the line, as he needed to get a ticket or do whatever he had been trying to do when he and the other gentleman had decided to break for fisticuffs.

So I looked back to see where the other guy was and found he was off to the side. I don’t remember if someone else was keeping him there, perhaps talking to him, or not. But I do remember a quick recurrence of fighting seemed not too likely, so I ceased impeding the kid’s progress.

Then I got back in line approximately where I had been. I tried to ask the people around me if that’s where I had been. They seemed to understand absolutely zero of the intended inquiry. Or at least care to. So I just stayed where I’d re-entered.

I was there probably fifteen seconds when I noticed my legs were a little shaky. But it was, to my surprise, nothing major.

Maybe ten seconds after that, another ruckus erupted from the front of the adjacent line – it seemed the two pugilists would not be deterred. They were fighting again. At this, I thought, “Well, you can’t stop the inevitable,” and laughed as I stayed in line.

However, some other guy broke them up this time, pushing the older guy away from the younger. Soon after, the older guy quickly exited, seemingly having gotten what he’d wanted at the ticket window. Within ten seconds, the younger followed in a similar state. They didn’t look at each other, but their paces were rapid, and the crowd’s eyes followed them in a way that indicated they half expected a recurrence of the festivities right outside the station.

Of course, no one left their place in line.