Tags:
Journalism of Courage
In Delhi, slowing down or halting your vehicle on facing an amber traffic light is indeed dangerous. Almost every one tries to ‘make it’ before the red light. ‘Amber’ is considered an extension of ‘green’. If you follow the rules strictly, and abruptly halt on facing the amber light, you are most likely to be hit from the rear by a monster driving at breakneck speed, racing to get past amber.
I had a different, and more pleasant experience, during my five years in Tamil Nadu. It is a treat to reminisce about the faithful followers of traffic rules, particularly on the hill roads of the Nilgiris.
The drivers of vehicles moving uphill sound a short and soft note on their horns after passing downhill rolling vehicles, who invariably halt and give wide berth to uphill traffic. It is my friend, Shammi, who educated me about this ‘thank you’ horn. The downhill drivers acknowledge this courtesy by two equally soft toots. This near musical and momentarily established bond between two unknown users of the road left a memorable impression on my north Indian mind.
To a visiting north Indian, long orderly queues for buses at Coimbatore may come as a surprise, specially the peace and calm among commuters — the majority of whom are reading newspapers and magazines. During my stay at Wellington, Nilgiris, I had an unforgettable experience in queue waiting.
I was returning to Wellington after a short stay at Delhi. Not seeing my car at the airport, I decided to hitch hike to Wellington. Somehow I made it to Mettupalayam but thereafter the only alternative was to travel by bus. The direct route to Wellington was closed due to landslides caused by heavy rains. The buses were plying on a narrow subsidiary road via Kotagiri. A few rickety buses were attracting large crowds.
I and a casual acquaintance — another north Indian — calculated on seeing long queues that our turn would come in the third or fourth bus. How could the spirited and enterprising duo from the north get discouraged? Only losers wait in queues, we both decided.
My friend abruptly left the queue and entered the first bus through the side window, with the ease of an experienced acrobat. With one foot on the tyre, both hands clutching the window, and encouraged and assisted by my friend inside the bus, I also tried to get in. I heaved and heaved but just could climb in. I suddenly found my body weighing a ton.
I looked back and saw two determined Tamilians holding my belt with a hand each, completing the north-south link. They did not speak, not even a word, although anger was writ large on their faces.
I let go of the window and meekly joined a queue. My friend also evacuated the bus and joined me — in north Indian solidarity, perhaps. That was the last time we tried to bend the rules governing commuting in the south.
