He always wanted a fast car. Long drives during the weekend were something he would always dream of. It had been a few years into the job, and now he finally had the chance to get a car with some fizz. He longed to be behind the wheel, racing along the highways or motoring around the city in the warmth of its beauty. It was time to announce his arrival and banish the boredom of sitting in a car without the steering wheel in his hands. Riding was not fun; driving would be, he knew.
The smiling salesman did his job, the mortgage looked meagre, and the dream car beckoned. Everything fell into place.
On a sunny, sparkling Sunday afternoon, the car was delivered. It was a brand that was a symbol of the elite. The top speed the beast could hit was 200 kmph. Everything inside the car was a dream; almost every feature was intelligent. The air conditioning adjusted itself without any flick switches or knobs. The doors were smart, the music system lively, and even the seats would cool at the bottom. It was one of those modern contraptions with so much intelligence that the dumbest thing in the car was the one driving it.
Heads turn as they often do at such spectacles. And they did when it arrived at his house. Life was finally on its way, and people around seemed to notice him. It definitely was money well spent.
When all the heads that could turn had turned, our man settled down into his life. It was time for the drudgery of daily life. The excitement of the drive to the office woke him early; the time until he walked into his garage flitted by. He entered the garage, flicked the remote, and settled into the seat. Having done that, he breathed the air around him, scanned the lighted dashboard, and got going.
He revved up to the gate of his house at 60 kmph, and the world opened up before him. The fun of all the money spent was just waiting beyond the gate.
And then the world intervened.
The Urban Prison closes in.
The mere mortals on the road in their ordinary cars and dirty motorcycles would not allow him into the steady stream of traffic. The city was already awake, abuzz and out on the roads. After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to get into the stream.
He suddenly realised he was noticing more things than he ever did. A helmeted bike rider appeared in the right rearview mirror, then disappeared. The rider appeared in the left mirror a second later as he swerved from side to side, looking for an inch to get into.
The mirrors were playing a trick. Our man was in trouble. His muscles contracted as he expected a bump and relaxed as the danger passed.
A blue bus crept up on him. It was about two inches to his right, and it smoothly slid in alongside and past him. The angle of the bus changed as it eased itself in front of him. It was now just centimetres away.
The brakes were hit. The muscles went through the routine.
A cab on his left realised it was in the wrong lane and had to go right at the next light. It cut in and across. It had got its nose ahead, an undeniable advantage, as anyone who knows how to drive should know. The cabbie understood his advantage and pressed it home.
There they went, the muscles. Our man had lost control, his mind and body now independent of each other, doing their own things.
While he tried to make sense of all this, the outside world pushed the pause button. The traffic ahead had stopped, and the lights were red at a signal on the horizon. He could barely see them. His seat was so low he almost felt threatened by the exhaust pipes of the huge container truck to his left.
The light in the distance had lost its mind and its routine. It was probably broken and stuck at red. The green never came on.
He was already tired of this. He decided to try the usual solution and switched on the radio.
The adverts are great, aren’t they?
He wondered why a noisy RJ spoke in between the peppy ads. It was his lucky day; the station was actually playing a song. Some stoned Punjabi hunk was reciting a song. They called it rap. It didn’t make any sense. Neither today, nor ever.
Geeta Dutt and Majrooh Sultanpuri would have made more sense:
Jaata kahaan hai deewane, Sab kuch yahan hai sanam
Baaki ke saare fasaane, Jhoote hain teri kasam
(Where do you want to go, oh crazy one? Everything is right here. All other stories are just a lie.)
The car horns blew as patience wore thin. They were in tune with the beats on the radio.
An eternity passed, and the lights magically repaired themselves and went green. Unseen to him, there was a mad rush at the lights. The traffic woke up and rushed forth. Four lanes of cars and buses dove into two crossing lanes ahead. The ones next to him also stirred into life.
The world seemed to converge on our friend.
Boxed in by demons, he was petrified and frozen.
He could hear the horns behind him, alongside him and ahead of him. He snaked his way to the crossing and, with his eyes flitting from one mirror to another, turned the corner and joined the tail end of the traffic waiting for the next signal.
He was sweating. The song on the radio didn’t even register. The smart air conditioner could cool the car, but couldn’t stop the sweat glands. Eyes squinted and darted from one mirror to another and then another. A bus was an inch behind him, filling his rear window and mirror.
The wait for the next green began.
A million crossings, signals and heart stops later, he eased into the parking lot of his office.
The dream of a great day in the office was dead.
The day’s target had been to make a meal of the monthly sales target, but now it was one of recovering from the hell he had endured just to get there.
Taking the lift, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he remembered the old farmer in his village who wanted a job for his son as a driver.
An hour later, thousands of miles away, a phone screen lit up in a modest house sitting beside a green farm patch.
Farming in the villages was about to lose another hand.
Ironically, growing food was neither filling the plate nor a way to make ends meet, and the old man knew it. At least his son would get a dream job in the city.
One more innocent victim was about to be added to the madness of this urban prison.
An unsuspecting man was being forced into a city, one where the smoke clouds your eyes, the traffic kills your spirit, and hell is actually experienced.
Another kid would suffer this hell on the way to and in school. One more lady would work as a house help for some thankless idiots blinded by misplaced ego.
And all this in the poisonous air and dry, dusty lanes of what is called a great city.
The trees are disappearing, the lakes are gone, water is scarce, and the crowd is swelling.
This is the beginning of the end.
Welcome to the show.
