The Streets of Indiranagar, Bengalaru

The young driver of my autorickshaw comes to a complete stop. He mutters something in Hindi, but I can see for myself that we are going nowhere anytime soon. Up ahead, a woman in a sunset-coloured sari is ushering her six milking cows down the middle of the dusty road towards us. She is oblivious, or perhaps chooses not to hear the abuse being yelled at her while her free-roaming cows trundle forward in silence. 

For once, I’m not in a hurry; luckily I organised a set price for the drive from home to the vegetable market. The meter is silent, but my driver is not. He joins in the cacophony of abuse directed at this sun-dried woman, who is probably much younger than she appears.  

I look around, trying to get my bearings. I am near my favourite street café, but the smell of coffee is being overtaken by the biryani stand, where a man is preparing morning lunches. The smell of masala wafts through the air and suddenly I feel hungry. A line is already forming. It might be the only good thing the English gave the Indians, the concept of queueing.  

A soft voice to my left brings my attention back to the autorickshaw. An old woman selling cotton buds and pens taps my arm. I find some cash, pressing coins into her small weathered hands. She tries to give me my goods, but I gently push them away. She smiles a toothless smile and I hear her bless me. The transaction is complete. 

The cows are now adjacent to the rickshaw, within an arm’s reach. One stops as if it knows me and wants to have a conversation. Instead, it dumps enough dung to fertilize my whole garden for a month.  

A key turns and the engine revs. We move forward, onto the next chaotic moment that inevitably awaits us.