The traffic felt like little bullets of testosterone today. As I weaved through the haze of exhaust, hornscream, dirty looks and angry rants, on my cycle, I saw a pair of cars plonked bang in the middle of the road. Their tyres were caked with dust, their metal armour dented and scarred in several places – remains of other such battles for pace and space fought in crowded Bombay streets. The agitated male owners were in the thick of a loud fight. Arms flailing, gesticulating madly they were screaming the usual gaalis and making tall claims about how they’d have to spend a couple of hours more in their air conditioned office to pay for the damage.
All I could hear was:
‘Mine’s bigger than yours!’