Of Anger, Acidity & Ambassadors

It is Sunday afternoon. We pass by Sarojini Nagar market when a car stops right in front of us. The driver, a man oozing smugness, had chosen a parking spot neither hither nor thither. Not at the side of the road designated for parking by those funny No Parking signs, nor in the centre of the road to clearly identify himself as the bugger he was. He had carefully positioned his car in a way that said, I won’t move for quite some time, and neither will you, since his front bumper bumped right into our lane. So we followed the Indian protocoll. We honked.

He turns around with this Now what is it you want look on his face and, with his index straight up, says „Ek minute“. It gets my hackles up. Like so. And I did it again. I sunk low and snorted at him.

It was at this moment when I realized that Delhi is not suffering from acidity because of all the chole bhature it gobbles. It’s road rage. That sour feeling crawling up your food pipe has got nothing to do with any food orgy but with simple things in life. Such as traffic. And the anger it causes. Unless you choose to stay aloof. Which I don’t.

I rewind this entire episode in my mind and play it again, only this time I am driving one of those ravaged Ambassadors. That’s because an Ambassador never stops. Unless of course it breaks down. But it never stops voluntarily, especially not to give way. So when that driver pokes his index at us I stomp the accelerator and I do what Ambassadors do: I make way.