Eye la!

Car headlights have always invaded my privacy. In a world where stares, grimaces and scorns speak for themselves (without even uttering a word), analogies are palpable even in inanimate things. I think it all began when I got a real bad stare as a scolding from one of my uncles. As a 4 year old, my high voltage vocal yearnings used to be a real persuasive weapon against my mom. Whenever things did not use to go my way, I used to invoke this Divyastra. Toys, sweets and chocolates not in my possession used to mock at me. From their exalted positions in the shop showcases they used to blaze in the arc lights making me feel like a street urchin with an urge that would have made me a pick-pocket had it not been for my upbringing. So it was – hanging like a monkey from my mom’s pony tail, I was shouting at the top of my tarzanesque voice demanding a Cadbury’s dairy milk chocolate, which I just saw in the hands of a not-so-deserving toddler ( How I used to hate all those ‘blessed’ dedh-phutiyas (although I myself was one) is another story. I used to wonder how the bloody hell they managed to find parents who could buy them what they wished). Anyway, while my mom was trying to fend me off as if I was the neighborhood Pomeranian (who always managed to scare my mom by his acrobatic skill of jumping and finding the pallu of her saree in his canine teeth), my Uncle suddenly gripped me underneath my armpits and brought me face to face with his eyes.
He had those bulging eyes which reminded me of the packets of milk which I used to burst by squeezing the other end and in the end getting splashed up and later bashed up(by my Dad). The next thing I knew was that I was scared. Suddenly my mouth had lost its connection from the brainwaves and I was feeling overpowered by the glare that I was getting. Without even speaking a word, my Uncle had silenced me. It was a relief to come out of his grip and glare but an incident a few days later made me realize that his eyes had stayed with me. I was crossing the road with my mom when I saw that green army truck (one of those old ones which had huge round headlights) go past. I felt as if it was gritting its teeth and glaring threateningly at vehicles and people ahead of it. I was immediately reminded of my Uncle. Since then, I have always been reminded of eyes when I look at car or truck headlights. All of them seem to emanate some kind of emotion. I remember the look of my maternal grandfather’s Ambassador. It had that look of a stern and stiff upper lipped IAS officer, just like my grandfather was. I had the feeling that it would not allow lowly Premier padminis, Jeeps and scooters even within 20 feet of its parking space. Although I think I saw it raise one of its eyebrows and smile at me once when it was to carry me to the Zoological garden with the whole army of my cousins. I have seen it bathe outside the garage in the backyard of my grandpa’s bungalow, when it used to spread its arms (doors apart) and relax while Devmuni, the driver used to apply soap and water to its body, armpits (door upholstery), legs (tyres) and nose (the ambassador logo). It was during those days that I really started to emote with cars. Even today I feel their headlights show their attitude.
Taking a look at these Chevrolet trucks today reminds me of burly carpenters, who have spent the whole days cutting huge oak trees with their saws. The doe-eyed Lexus reminds me of a middle-aged top executive who smiles artificially at everybody but avoids rubbing shoulders with the rabble that surrounds her. The Ferrari looks like an eagle which has been punished by Garuda, the lord of birds, to spend a 14 year Vanvaas on the roads. An old Maruti 800 looks like a bespectacled post graduate student whose grades are in the hands of an unforgiving professor. The Swift looks like a Delhi lass who remains in make-up even when she goes to sleep. The latest Camry looks as if it really wants to go where it is going and has a look of concern on its face. The Honda City always smiles and seems shy of its speed. And I have seen it give a sigh when it negotiated a pothole once. Definitely, there are those cars with only one headlight working, who look like pirates. And the others with blazing foglights who seem really angry at the cars ahead of them. And there are some with their headlights half painted, who seem to be meditating or half-asleep and least concerned about the road, the destination or even the person behind the wheel.
Driving is fun when you feel the vehicles on the other side of the road express their emotions in some way or the other. I once felt pity for a tattered Corolla who I felt had red eyes. Then there were the ones with general emotions - A number of cars which zipped by and winked at me. Some seemed to stop, take notice and acknowledge me.

There are so many of them on the road. When I am driving alone, I seem to communicate with these strangers on the move. And what is more, I have felt even my own car give me an inverted-U smile, blink and cuddle up to me when I park it in the snow and leave for my office desk.

The touch of a non-male

These days I shudder to take the motorbike to the office. Its not the infamous Bangalore traffic that worries me. Nor is it the ever increasing heat here that has got to me. Its the traffic lights on the ring road that give me the shivers. There used to be a time when a stop at a traffic light was like visiting a supermarket. Peddlers brought to you towels from turkey, sunglasses from Dubai, swiss watches and various other goodies. The hundred and eighty seconds one had to usually stop at a light was pleasantly spent in sifting through the various items on offer. Add to it the sight of a gentleman in a helmet haggling over a box of ear buds and the scene was complete. It was just short of being a tourist attraction.

Cut to the present day. Stuck amidst a slew of trucks waiting for the lights to go green I hear a loud clap from somewhere in front of me. It sounds again. And again. All my body goes stiff as memories of that sound come flooding back. But that was a different time and place I tell myself. Surely something else caused these sounds. A city like Bangalore would not put up with such vulgarity I decide. But still all my attention is riveted on the truck in front of me. To my shock and utter dismay a eunuch casually walks around the truck and stops by the driver's cabin, one hand on hip and the other outstretched for money. Dressed in a bright yellow saree, sporting a pony tail and a two day stubble it is a sight that proves that some looks can indeed kill the onlooker.

Its not their bisexuality (if that is what it is) that I despise. Neither is it the begging that angers me. Its the combination of the two which has been now perfected to an art that brings me trauma. I have had many a brush with these 'hijras' on the trains to North India. The first sign of impending trouble is when you hear those clapping sounds. Its got a unique ring to it that is only slightly less annoying than the sound of their approaching voices. But that is nothing compared to their infuriating habit of touching people as they speak. I still remember those dirty, rough palms brushing my cheeks while an uncontrollable shiver ran along the length of my body. A round of coy insults that go - 'Aye! Shah Rukh, dena' usually follows. How they expect people to shell out money once they've been called Shah Rukh, I'll never know.

So there I am patting myself on the back for having put on my helmet and jacket. No sweaty palms on me today. But just his gait, tone, accent and attire are so repulsive that I watch him with a sense of foreboding. Thankfully this time round he passes by me ignoring my very existence. Never has it felt better being ignored. I have lived to fight another day!!

Ever since that day I've been observing them from within the security of the company bus. Their numbers seem to have increased in the last few weeks. Business has never been better it seems. As I see it, its the best incentive there ever was for bikers to consider car-pooling or taking public transport seriously. Unless they prefer the touch of a non-male.