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The noise was coming from the car's dashboard in perfect harmony with the 'on-off' flashing of the indicator light. Despite the fact that I had to take the 'free left turn' ahead AND that I had reached the intersection when the light was green I was stuck at the light. The road ahead was packed with vehicles whose drivers believed that there was no need to change the lanes till the time they reached the crossing and then it was ok if every one tried to do a criss-cross AT the crossing (how relevent?) leading to a very poor rate of 'vehicles crossing per green light on an intersection'. If the vehicles behind have to suffer, well, who cares. Afterall we are Indians and we are like this only.So well, to take the 'free left turn', I now had to wait for at least another 200 seconds till the vehicles ahead of me in the left lane moved over. You never realize how long 200 seconds can be till you are stuck on a red light or running on a tread mill.
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I glanced at the sheaf of papers lying on the passenger seat with the word 'Confidential' written in Times New Roman, Size 32, Bold, Italicized, on them. It was the "Requirements and Design Interface" document for a product that my company intended to jointly develop with one of our big partners. As usual there was plenty of buzz in both the companies around it with management's speeches full of phrases like 'strategic alignemt of business and technology', 'complete end to end solution for a smarter begining' and 'this time we've got a winner' while describing this. One of our marketing geniuses went to the extent of saying 'this is a smart product that will adapt itself as problems in it will show. We believe it will solve 70% of the unknown problems itself. Yup, that's right, 70%. Of the UNKNOWN'. A common person like me would worry on how I quantified the unknown before making such a statement but marketing geniuses not only make such statements but manage to get paid too for making them. With all this buzz going on, there was only one problem. The supposedly sharpest brains of the both the companies couldn't agree on what actually was it the the product was supposed to do and how we were to do it. And for some strange reasons (despite the fact that I never opened my mouth to give any opinion in any meeting and always expressed my agreement over everything), the stalwarts of both the companies felt that I should review the document and see if it served its purpose (of fixing the 70% of the unknown?). I was carrying the bundle home thinking it will act as the perfect panacea for insomnia but I thought of utilizing the free time (I am otherwise an extremely busy man, believe me) I got due to traffic jam I thought of giving it a read. Barely had I read the word 'Confidential' and I was a little scared to think what I might find inside, my cellphone buzzed with a text message from my better half. The fear of anticiapting what the document might have is nothing in comparison to the fear of what the wife's message might have. It usually contained a job for me that I invariably mess up and then face dire consequences. Today it said 'Make sure to take the dosa batter out of the fridge and DOSA batter this time'. It is almost a simple instruction for those who know how to uniquely identify the dosa batter from a variety of 'white viscous' substances in the fridge. The last time I ended up taking out the yoghurt custard instead. I began wondering if my company chose the right person to review the design document of the product that will solve '70% of the unknown problems'.
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"Aww, that's so cute", I heard the melodious voice of the radio jockey who was talking to a 13 year old girl in her talk show that invited listeners to call in with their troubles (it could be anything from relationships to constipation). Apparetly 13 year olds don't have troubles with constipation but they do have relationship troubles. This girl had called because she was upset with her boy friend who did not tag her in the pictures that he uploaded on facebook. What made the little girl even upset was that the boy friend had actually tagged some other friend of her's. "Do you think he doesn't love me anymore?", she had asked the "all wise" radio jockey who found the question very cute. I was hoping the goddamn conversation to get over so that I could listen to some music and when it finally did with the jockey saying 'beat those traffic jam blues and listen to some songs' a never ending series of commercials started. Fresh prawns from Thailand, olive oil from Italy, salsa dance classes by original Mexicans, Smart 3 BHK homes, car loan, home loan, insurance, aeroplane, rocket, nuclear missile, if it could be sold it was being advertised on the radio. "A reflection of our increasing disposable income", I thought as I heard the tap on the window of my car. A poor lady with 2 infants in her arms was begging. Number of beggars on a traffic intersection is another interesting metric of the economic growth of our cities.
From one car to another, she had been trying to get a portion of that 'disposable income' but clearly everyone had reserved it to dispose it on higher essentials of life. For a moment I looked at her and began wondering what was that I had done to be able to sit in an air conditioned car on a traffic signal and she has done to be forced into begging. For most part, we were in these situations just because of where we were born and that's something none of us had any role to play in. I wondered if the product that could solve 70% of the unknowns would solve her problems too or did she belong to the other 30%. Just about the time she was about to leave my car, I scrounged around to find whatever change I could and gave it to her. I don't know if I did right or not but at that moment it seemed useful to try and contribute in solving the known than the unknown.
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A group of young boys and girls were enjoying the 'gol-guppas (a.k.a. paani-poori a.k.a puchka)' at a road side vendor. Off late the city had been inundated with road side food vendors, particulary gol-guppa and momos (dimsums) vendors. I looked at the ecstatic stock of boys and girls. Their casual attires of a funky t-shirt, jeans and sports shoes and a backpack suggested that they too worked in the burgeoning 'new gen knowledge industry' that promoted a liberal work culture by allowing casual dressing. The joy and exuberance of youth was so clearly visible. Perhaps they were fresh out of college and enjoying the new found freedom that comes with earning money and living by yourselves. Enjoying the fun filled life of non-stop late night parties, casual romantic encounters (for those who got lucky) and broken hearts for the others. The life where you are not worried of traffic jams, monthly EMIs or receding hair lines.
"Why this kolaveri kolaveri kolaveri di", the blaring music from a white Tata Indica pulled next to me broke my reveries. The driver was half in and half out of the car. "Call center cab drivers", I muttered condesendingly under by breath and looked in the other direction. Through the semi-tinted glasses of Santro i-10 I saw a pretty looking girl talking on the cellphone. As I found a source of energy cached somewhere, I sat upright in my seat, looked in the rear view mirror to rearrange the left over strands of hair on my head to cover the balding areas and held my breath to suck in my stomach (as if she could see though the car door). The girl was looking radomly all over while talking on the phone and the next time our gazes met, I gently smiled at her. She gave me a disgusting looking and I won't be surprised if she might have said 'a lecherous bastard is ogling at me' to whoever it was she was talking to.
With a disappointed exhale, the tummy expanded back to its normal size and the back slumped into the earlier position.
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"Vrroom"..."Vrromm".., The atmospher was filled with the noise of the vehicles turning the ignition on as the light on the signal turned green. Barely had the light turned and the engines revved up, the incessant honking started. The call center Indica driver picked up his car as if he was aiming for next formula 1 race. The girl in the santro was still on her phone while trying to get her car moving forward. The group of young people were still engulphed in eating their gol-gappas. The beggars paved way for traffic taking a break in their hectic work day before the next lot arrive. The radio jockey was back on to announce that her show was getting over and those who did not get their problems solved today could call her again tomorrow at the same time on the same number and as she played her last song of the day, Akon's voice filled the interiors of my car 'You are my chammak challo". For the moment, Life had moved on and while I missed the moments of tranquility of last 200 seconds, I moved the gear shift to plunge the car forward. Fortunately the vehicles moved out of my way and I could finally get to my desired 'free left turn'. Barely had I driven for 5 minutes past the intersection, I hit the next one where I had to turn Right and this was not even FREE. The light ahead turned red as I approached the crossing. With a mechanical instincts, my hands pushed the indicator lever and I saw the 'on-off' light started to flash on the dash board with the ever familiar sound of
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