The 4X4 Indian

It was on one fine day, like every other fine day in Bangalore that it started pouring the very moment the thought of leaving office crept stealthily into my subconscious mind. The rain gods always read my thoughts before I do. A colleague of mine, Mr. Varun (oh, the irony!) offered to drop me home. Earlier that week, he had distributed sweets to celebrate having bought a SUV. The only ‘sport’ he ever played though, was foosball. He bought one of those seemingly muscular off roaders which don’t hold up very well on the potholes dotting the landscape of the city.

Having climbed in, he detailed the fully loaded features of his big boot 5 seater; its high end music and GPS navigation system. One could barely squeeze 5 people on the seats but the boot could easily take in 2 corpses. We sped through stagnant water, slush and over flowing sewers alike, not without a morbid fascination for the corrupting influence of the 500hp engine. We overtook cycles, bikes and buses. We left behind those mortals who rode vehicles too small to pay a hefty road tax.

Mr. Varun, from Finance, fluently worked his story around the technical details of automotive engineering. He drifted slowly on to automotive industry and eventually onto his infallible theories on all that government had done wrong. He hinted subtly that the real causes behind a falling rupee were the equatorial Indians who spent too much on gold and the politically motivated farm subsidies. Given that he had majored in macro-economics, he was able to substantiate all his statements with a lot of unverifiable data. He was a genuine authority on that subject.

Barely had we gone a kilometer when we approached the beginning of a long traffic queue. We weren’t alone. There were several bloated egos on the 4x4 drive. From a bird’s eye view, the traffic on the road must have look like a python that had swallowed a deer whole.

Above the incessant honking, sounded the feeble siren of an ambulance. It was a puny Omni converted into an ambulance, the top of which was barely visible from the rear window. I could only see the reflections of its sirens on the film tinted glasses of vehicles that sandwiched the Omni. The presence of an ambulance gave people a reason to breach the red signal. Every one of the unstoppable Indians stamped the pedal hard, honked and mouthed obscenities that could’ve passed off as polite conversation in New Delhi. It looked like they were stuck in a morning queue to enter the shared toilet at a bachelor mansion. Everyone wanted to rush in but none were willing to come out in time.

None of these able gentlemen - not one - pulled over to the left. The parking assist screamed that the ambulance was at close proximity. I formed a mental image of the Omni prostrating at the bumper feet of the SUV, pleading to be allowed to proceed.  Mr. Varun remained cool, as if that was his only option. He honked at the guy in front, accelerated faster and successfully ceded some 10 meters to the needy. An ephemeral smirk of patriotic satisfaction suffused his cheeks.

The half a minute of a beseeching siren felt like an eon. I leapt out and goaded the car on my left to move a couple of feet and requested Varun to pull over. Varun guessed my intentions and said, “No use man, don’t get soaked. See, the ambulance crossed us but is stuck behind the next car anyways. The traffic and road condition of this useless country is such.” “Petrol or diesel?” I inquired, through the window. “What??” he asked, bewildered at the question. “Diesel of course”, he stuttered. “How much did you say the fuel subsidy is robbing this country of?” I asked him. There was no answer and none was expected. “Tail the ambulance. You will reach home faster”. By then the ambulance managed to reach the crack near the median, leapt to the wrong side and scurried away. The rain, I felt, cleansed me of some ineffable filth. I walked home feeling better.