Kolkata can be very crowded. Crowded and noisy and dusty. At least, the metropolis used to be so thirty years ago. It was impossible to walk around Sealdah, Howrah and Burra Bazar without dashing into a human being, an animal, or a rickshaw. Early morning calls of street hawkers jolted one out of sleep, the day resonated with the toots of vehicles, slogans of protest rallies and clamour of football enthusiasts, and the evening never set without the sky reverberating with fervent shouts of mothers calling their children back home, Rabindra Sangeet being practised somewhere, and televisions blaring everywhere. There were few neighbourhoods where one could live in peace without encroaching on the privacy of people or animals.

My views may be outdated. It’s possible that things might have changed and Kolkata might have transformed into a clean and silent city. An exactly opposite possibility can also not be denied. But I sincerely doubt both scenarios.

In those days ‘Kolkata’ was still written and pronounced as ‘Calcutta’ in English. Hindi speakers called it ‘Kalkatta’. Middleclass folk, termed Bhodrolok by the Bengalis, lived in Lake Gardens. Triple and four-storeyed houses in yellow and white colour schemes overlooked the narrow but clean streets of that peaceful neighbourhood. Though a residential colony, it had a heart big enough to accommodate my office on the ground floor of a building. My residence lay just about eight hundred meters away in another house.  A school bus picked and dropped my children barely a furlong away, and the market for fresh vegetables and items of daily needs bustled just behind my residence.

Living life on my own terms, I would saunter to my office at ten after a relaxed cup of tea, a cozy bath, and a hearty breakfast. Around two in the afternoon, it was time to return home for an oven-fresh meal and go back to the office which rarely functioned beyond seven in the evening. I devoted two to three days every week to visit clients. There was no point in making more calls. Meeting the same guy repeatedly in a fortnight would hamper business that was already suffering due to regular strikes and Bundhs on weekends.

My colleague used to accompany me on  customer calls. We mostly travelled in yellow Ambassador cabs and the Metro, both of which were yet to experience airconditioning. Using public transport made more sense than driving my car in congested areas with policemen too eager to impose a fine, as my car’s registration application was still stuck somewhere in the piles of files at the transport department. As per the automobile association officials, it was customary for such regular work to take time. Complicated work took still more time. Till the coveted Bengal registration was done, I must drive the car within the boundaries of my traffic-police-free mohalla chanting Dugga Dugga, they had confidentially advised.

I was sensitive to the sentiments of Carrie (my car) that appeared to watch me with dismay everytime I passed around her. Cars may not suffer from a heart attack, but they do convey intimate sentiments through a failed battery, jammed clutchplate, leaked radiator, and such other symptoms. Not wishing to upset her, I started driving Carrie on the narrow but barren Lake Gardens lanes in the early hours once every fortnight. The bimonthly half-an-hour excursion did good to both of us—Carrie shed her nagging looks and the almost forgotten system music rejuvenated my wits.

When you play a musical instrument for many years, it becomes an extention of your body. Ditto with a car. You just occupy the driver’s seat; it automatically negotiates bumps and blocks, speeds up and slows down, and stops at the destination without much effort from your end. The same thing happened that morning—Carrie drove herself as I enjoyed the effect of the music and also planned the schedule of the day ahead, till we halted behind a cycle-rickshaw. My right foot automatically pressed the brake pedal, the left one caressed the clutch pedal, and the right palm gently touched the horn button.

The street was empty. I expected the rickshaw to clear my path immediately.

My expectation was misplaced. “Beep, beep, beep!” I honked three times.

Useless. The rickshaw continued to crawl at five kilometres per hour right in the middle of the road.

Blood rushed to my ears. My face became red. “Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep …” I deliberately released a series of toots. Bhodrolok at distant houses started watching from their balconies. The rickshaw continued to hog the road.

I got introduced to road rage that morning. The moment a wider patch appeared, I stood on the accelerator, brushed my car against the right mudguard of the rickshaw, and stopped with a screech right in front of the offending thing.

I rolled down the left window of the car and glanced at the rascal with vengeance. Barely out of his teens, the lanky guy must have been fair once but now sported copper-complexion, probably due to his all-weather toil in sun and shade. He stood trembling with a face that had turned crimson in fright. He had seen death in my eyes. He started pleading his case with animated gesticulations typical of the deaf and dumb.

My anger metamorphosed into shame. I responded to him with folded hands and resumed the journey. The incident continues to make me feel guilty about our socio-economic conditions that compel people to risk their and others’ lives to earn a measely living. I also wonder, why it’s perfectly okay for a car owner to act superior to a rickshaw puller. What do you think?