She gets off at her stop, the doors slide snugly shut and the Metro moves on down the line, destined for Central Secretariat. I eye suspiciously the oldish, bellied man siting across from me, and with a slight tinge mentally rehearse getting up from the seat at exactly the right moment, out onto the platform, up the stairs and out, into an auto that does not charge more than fifty rupees, to Chanakyapuri. The pull in the stomach and screech of the brakes, and the train eases into the station; People gather at the doors, when they open, a crowd rushing in so as not to be left behind dodges past a crowd rushing out so as not to get swept off to where they don't want to go. Everyone gets what they want eventually; the doors hiss shut right behind the latecomers who slip down the stairs and dash into the train. I tramp heavily up the steps and at the top pick an exit at random out of a similarly unknown four or five. Still glancing suspiciously around, step gently onto an escalator that is constantly smoothly rising to the glaring day above.
I am standing calmly at the corner, complacent in my superiority because I have arrived at the corner of the right street, and for the stipulated fifty rupees, albeit twenty minutes or so off the given time. But still, there and in one piece, and without having to admit defeat and ask for help, even though I did not know the place. So I stand calmly and observe a scarecrow in the garden of D-II/305 with a silly black pot for a head.
White Esteem-car roars up the lane, screeches to a stop at the corner. Complacence fled, I hop it into the car, for the driver has spared me only one brief, impatient glance, then revving up to roar off again. Like the Metro, only louder and less mature and steel-shiny. Obviously impatient- Silly child, dawdling under the tree there, while we have a Harry Potter movie to get to.
I slam the door in agreement, car dashes around the corner, and tears up the sedate residential avenue.
"We're late ! We're fucking late." I apologise meekly. Airy dismissal of my claim for fault. Cousin has organised badly, now where to pick up the Frigging Girl, need a smoke, and then to get there in time, we're so frigging late. Weaving hot-and-botheredly through traffic, whatthehellCan'tthemotherfuckerseewherehe'sfuckinggoing, and the girl isn't at the AIIMS bus stop. Isn't at the next one either. Cousin idiotically calls her, twice, elicits no useful info. Here You talk to her, Sure I will Mallu Dumbfuck and she's actually on the Ring Road already. Then a mile to the U-turn with all the Metro construction, the Cousin who can't take some simple Goddam directions, and Women, who can't give them, getting it bad all the way. I should stick up for women, but I'm too busy agreeing with that bit in particular. She's in front of Safdarjung Hospital- 'Why couldn't she just say...'- and then not even at the busstop, so we grab her and the smokes from in front of the hospital and tear off. Every red light possible. Every single fucking one. When not cursing Murphy, fondly reminiscing of egg-pelting police vans, never getting caught drunk-driving- 'What are the chances, man, considering..?' and we'd'a got belted man, only we freakin' belted off..'- and all the What Bull we've been upto, man, especially when we were, like, pissed-out-of-our-fucking-minds-man. Idiotic girl and I, after a one-glance-one-sentence introduction-cum-judgement, look out of our own windows.
Driving like friggin' lunatics, man, down the Ring Road in hot, dusty summer afternoon, cursing and laughing and rebelling and holding on tight, fags at windows and pounding music belting out of the radio, and hot highway wind in our faces, we parked the car, flung the keys at the attendant, ran in- just 20 minutes late, and we were satisfied with that.
