The Art of Crossing (Indian) Roads

I was cutting through the city traffic when I almost collided with a person trying to cross the road. Joy’s bike, with its superb handling, saved itself, me and the person. Clearly, this guy had not mastered the art of crossing roads. He was continuously twisting his neck from left to right and then back to left, in order to look out for the traffic. He was unsure of himself, and kept moving back and forth. An amateur. This is how a master does it:
He stands nonchalantly at one end of the road, never giving any indication when, or if at all he is going to cross the road. But his eyes are moving and gauging the traffic. They are estimating the speeds of the vehicles coming from both sides. It is here that experience plays an important part-more experience means better estimation. The master knows exactly how fast he can run. There are parameters of safety defined for crossing the road: If at any point of time, you are away from the vehicles by at least 1 meter, you are safe. But the master can, and often does, push this limit. When he finds an opportunity, he suddenly takes off like a cheetah, surprising those around him. He may change direction, but never the speed (It is here that the guy had committed a blunder- he had stopped). His ears filter out all the honkings. Within a flash, he is at the other side of the road. Once there, he again goes back to his nonchalant state, ignoring the angry drivers. He never looks their way, leave alone answering them.
There are some losers who wait and wait till the road is reasonably clear of traffic, look left and then right, and then walk across the road. Glory is never theirs and they die unremembered.

The Call

Drrrr…. My cellphone vibrated and danced like crazy on my desk. I quickly took it in my hand and looked at the number. Nope, none of my contacts, and I didn’t recognize the number either. There was no STD code, so it wasn’t a landline.
“Hello”, I said.
“Hello..” said a sweet voice of a female from the other end. My mind raced to guess who it could be.
“Good afternoon sir, this is Natasha calling from HSBC…”
“Aaaah,” I thought, “not again.”
“…would you like a free credit card...”
“No”
“Sir, this is a lifetime free card, so you will not have to..”
“Fuck off”
“I beg your pardon”
“Yes, you heard me. Don’t you have anything better to do than bugging people?”
“Sir, it hurts to be talked to like that.” She sounded calm and composed. But I could sense she was uneasy. And there was something else I felt. But I couldn’t place what exactly it was.
I got back to my senses. I had been really rude.
“Sorry” I apologized,” I didn’t mean to say that”
“Its all right, you must be really irritated by these calls”
There was something in her voice, and I tried hard to guess what it was.
“Well, normally I am cool about this. Its just that.. I guess it’s because my boss shouted at me this morning, and I was venting out my anger at the wrong person.”
“Yeah, I understand. It happens to all of us.”
Is it her accent? Is it the way she is pronouncing her R’s? I tried hard to guess from her accent where she could be from. It’s becoming foggy. Meanwhile, I had to find something to say.
“I am sure you are not irritable at all” I said, “I mean, the way I talked to you, and you are still calm”
“I can’t afford to be. My job depends on it”
“Your job?”
“Yeah,” She stretched “yeah” in a way people do when they show surprise at your ignorance. “Of making calls and offering people credit cards. It’s a 9-6 job, and I get a salary for it.”
I was stunned. I had never seen it this way before. It’s her job? Just like I have mine? I had always thought of them as “the credit card people”. They came in different flavours, “personal loans” being the latest. I had often ridiculed them, sometimes on their face (on the phone of course). I would narrate to my friends, with pride, how I had got rid of these people. For instance, I had once told one of them, “It’s none of your business.” My friends would then tell their experiences. These stories were meant to be funny. And the meaner you were, the funnier your story would be.
“Hello…” She said, “Are you there?”
“huh?,” I was taken by surprise” yes, yes..umm...I had never thought of this before. Hey, I am really sorry for how I talked to you”
“As I said, it’s all right. I am used to it.”
“You are?” I was surprised.
“Yeah, of course. You think you are the only person I called? I make 150-200 calls on an average day.”
“And they all talk to you like that?” I felt miserable
“Of course not, But on an average, 20 calls are worse than you could imagine”
“Are they worse than me?”
“As I said, you can’t imagine”
I didn’t know whether to feel better or worse. Better, because I am not the worst. Worse, because she handles all that filth. Wait a minute, why do I care? Do I even know her name? She did mention it when she called, and it did register in my mind for a while, but I had forgotten it now.
I was still struggling to place what I was feeling about her.
“Vikram, I have to make other calls now”
“You know my name?”
“I knew your number.. Bye Vikram”
That did it. The way she said my name. Yes, it has to be her. My childhood crush, Natasha. The girl I used to think about while turning restlessly in my bed.
I suddenly felt a surge of emotions. One part of me was angry at myself. Another was even angrier at those 20 people. Another wanted to make her feel better, And yet another wanted to ask her where she had been all this while, and why she was doing this….
The fog had cleared, and I was restless.