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.