Never Mind the Bullocks Read Free Page A

host of luxury features stripped from the mid-range (CX) and standard models in the name of economy. Had she not noticed the beaded roof, the spoiler, the ever-so-subtle tint across thewindows, the front and rear fog lamps, the fabric upholstered seats, the – ahem –
electronic
trip meter, power windows, double cup holder and locks on the passenger side? And of course, it was impossible to tell from these photos, but the car also had air conditioning. Glossing over the scantier safety features and the fact that the front bonnet’s foreshortened size looked like a driver’s legs might take a drubbing from something as light and likely as a bicycle collision, I kept a perfectly straight face when Mum hammered in the final nail.
    â€˜As long as it’s got airbags. Traffic’s a bit hairy over there, isn’t it?’

1

TRIAL BY RUSH HOUR – Girl Meets Traffic
    MUMBAI; KM 0
    What’s the worst thing about driving in India-
aaaaaaarrrrgggghhh
?’ I asked Puran from the back seat, my question trailing off into a startled squawk as he narrowly avoided scraping a bus on the left. He didn’t blink before promptly answering, ‘The traffic, madam. Never drive in Mumbai from 8 until 10 morning time.’
    I took a mental note, but didn’t really believe that morning traffic was the absolute worst thing about driving in the city. As far as I could see from our little jaunt along the seaside road, every second spent in one’s vehicle here had the flavour of an exhilarating movie car chase, packed with stunts, terror and close calls. Puran drove as though he were auditioning for
Mario Cart the Movie
: swerving one way then the other, speeding up and slowing down with effortless dexterity in order to overtake, dodge and thread into a gap that looked about half the size of our Skoda. It felt like we were kissing the wing mirrors of every vehicle we passed.
    Akhil had instructed Puran to collect me from Chhatrapati Shivaji International and take me to the Gupta residence, where his cook would be waiting for me with toast, tea and, I was starting to hope, plenty of sympathy. My morning landing in Mumbai coincided perfectly with the early rush hour, and within two hours of disembarking into the tepid humidity of a February morning, I sat sweating in the back, tending to a bruiseon my lower calf that was the consequence of a trolley skirmish at baggage reclaim. The incident, a split-second pile-up after a luggage belt mix-up, had given me my first insight into how conflicts over right of way were resolved in India. Now I was watching the same principle play itself out on a larger scale.
    â€˜It’s your first time in India?’ Puran chirped from the driver’s seat, clearly trying to distract me from the visceral fear I must have been emitting in waves from behind.
    â€˜Er, no,’ I replied, though from my bewilderment at what I was seeing out of the window, it might as well have been. I’d always known India’s reputation for manic driving, but the detail had somehow faded from my memory. It was as though, through the rose-tinted filter of my recollection, I had hung on to the country’s more charming images – the sunsets, the smiles, the smoke-filled temples – while discarding the chaff of urban congestion and batty driving.
    We were in the eye of a tornado of vehicles expanding out to every last inch of available road space, weaving, swerving, revving, braking, doing just about anything in their capacity to execute their objective, which was to keep on moving forward, no matter what. Lorries rushed past in shades of scarlet, orange and blue; yellow and black taxis barged through barely available gaps; sleek-looking coaches cruised proudly through the fray like metal maharajas; while rickety three-wheelers apparently held together by masking tape and string laced a wobbly path along any available breach.
    We bolted past an elegiac road sign that read