Ever since the little lad called Prince was saved, India has shown consistent potential for a podium finish only if Kid-Extraction-From-Deep-Holes was to be an Olympic sport. Purists are now arguing that the sport be duly given its well-earned National Sport status. To further the cause, an unassuming Indian Hockey contingent’s performance at the Olympics has managed to displace Pinki’s feat of failing the gender test as the biggest embarrassment to Indian Sports in the last decade. Or wait, is it being Rohit Sharma ?
Heartbreak set aside, the Olympics have managed to invoke nostalgia for me. The closest I ever got to Olympic glory was precisely four years ago when I legitimately went past the Delhi Transport Licensing Authority and earned myself a driving license. Interestingly, four years also marks the time when both Saina and I ventured into our respective careers of Badminton and Law. Aside from sumptuous calf muscles, she boasts of an Olympic Bronze today and I run the risk of setting up a Steel Porta-Cabin outside Tis Hazari for my bread and butter. But lets save the discussion about my insecurities for some other day. This one’s about the rather secure ride on the Delhi roads.
The Wasseypur tale is archaic. Vengeance fuels our blood and we prefer settling scores just after three signals rather than sitting on it for three generations. If you dare overtaking us from the left, we shall hunt you down and chase you until we roll down the windows, glance into your eyes and scare you with the Kangana Ranaut-Showstopper look from Corporate. Quite often, the look is laced with verbal insults and unique harms that would put Lee-Hesh spats to shame. To come across as intimidating during such occasions, the intellectuals amongst us also sport the Advocate/Doctor/CA/Engineer tag on the windscreens while others show true allegiance to their parents and vividly flaunt their “Mom’s Gift/Dad’s Gift”. Or better still, a stick-on mentioning the venue of Baba Ramdev/Anna Hazare’s next live Protest Music Concert ( Read : Anshan ). The ill-fated ones with Tushar Kapoor’s frustration levels who haven’t been gifted either the Automobile/Intellect/Love by their Parents/God/Spouses respectively, eventually end up splashing – “Bina Vajah To Kutta Bhi Nahi Bhonkta – Do not honk” on their windscreens.
Half the reason why ‘Hum do Hamare Do’ campaign never took off was because we had a handicapped choice of effective role models (Read : Laloo Yadav), who further had a handicap with the effective use of rubber. The other half was the combined effect of traffic jams in the capital and the largest number of registered four wheelers in the country. This essentially means that you’d even go past the time taken by Indian Athletes to complete the Marathon run at the Olympics while driving home on the ring road.
The rollercoaster ride is incomplete without the mention of the quintessential female driver. First things first, wearing sunglasses in the late evening hours is very Rabbi-Performing-Live-Like and makes as much sense as Chetan Bhagat’s “literature”. Additionally, the women paint a very happy picture of the traffic lights in their conscience ( Read : Fancy Chinese Diwali Lights ), capturing the Zebra Crossing at almost every display of red as if unhappy at the very idea of Jaywalking being an offence. The ones who actually stop in time are as proficient with Handbrakes as Sourav Ganguly was with Shoaib Akhtar’s bouncers. Owing to such handicap, they give the Handbrake a miss and do an Emran Hashmi every signal while slightly kissing the rear bumper of their car with the front bumper of the following car. Its high time they realized that every cylindrical entity eventually needs a pair of dexterous hands to come to life and perform.
P.S – Understanding the extreme risk of being termed as an EM-CEE-PEE, the author hereby quotes and clarifies that he has strong feminist orientations, if any. Mom wasn’t around for a couple of days and our maid had a hearty laugh at our (me and my Dad’s) attempts to successfully convert Milk and Mango into an edible drink.
P.P.S – To those women who’d want to prove a point or two, lets go for a test drive? Your ride. Your gas/petrol. Okay. My place, may be ?