I wish I was a witch and could swish on a portkey to any place that I need to go to. But mere muggle that I am, I brave the traffic and voyage across to work and to them little leisure joints. Everyday is a new escapade, as I interweave the streets and by-lanes of Chennai, hoping to keep myself in one piece. I could travel in a car, if only they didn’t give me claustrophobia, an affliction only when I am the driver. I could travel in my scooty, but that gives me an oily face, passion pimples, splits my hair and not to mention, tans my arms. Besides, if truth be told, I couldn’t bother myself to drive. That leaves me with little option but to travel using public transport.

Now those three wheeler engineering wonders from Piaggio are indeed the favored mode of transportation. Those alluring yellow marvels that beckon you from anywhere you chance to glance. They give you overhead protection while ensuring there is a slight breeze playing a little with your hair but mostly with your dupatta. You could also get to hear free music, courtesy the driver, opening up to you an unsavored variety of earthy hip shaking numbers. If you are like me, preferring peace to money, you wouldn’t have much trouble negotiating a deal with ‘em drivers. But be assured that at times the asking price does indeed hit the roof. At times like that, quote half the asking price just to bug the fellow. Take two steps back, look somewhere up in the air, ignore him totally, throw some attitude and try and be a bitch. If the guy persists, tell him you couldn’t care to pay so much. Usually the guy sobers by then and gets more reasonable. This always works for me. Try it. (But sometimes I secretly think, maybe the guy just takes pity on me.)

But no matter what, at times you just can’t escape a ride on those monstrous MTC busses, bellowing smoke, sluggishly inching ahead, inclined with the collective weight of a sea of humanity. Riding one is no small task, let me assure you. I am clearly unequipped to face the catastrophic challenges this mode of transportation poses. Firstly, you have to be agile like highland sheep, to nimbly jump on to the footboard. Next, you have to charge like wild bison and ram yourself to the centre of the bus. Proceed to kick like a horse until you get leg space. Take a breather. Frantically wave your arms with money for the ticket, hoping some good Samaritan, will take pity on you and offer to pass your money through several hands to the bus conductor. After that, you can only pray that by the time you get down, (which I swear would take an eternity) you would get your ticket, hopefully with the change. In this whole process, you will lose your identity, your distinct scent as a woman plus that delectable perfume you chose that morning, to the combined concoction of the pheromones of a hundred odd individuals. That would leave you disoriented for an entire day, something not even the strongest caffeine shot could alleviate.

Today was one of those fateful days when a ride on the bus was risked. As I was waiting to disembark at the Guindy bus stop, I discovered to much consternation that the location was shifted from point A to point B. To traverse from point B to point A, from where I generally take an auto for the rest of my trip to work, one has to go through a bridge above railway tracks and a subway. This being my first across said path I was shocked to see so much red. Now surely if you have been in India you couldn’t have been oblivious to paan stains. But what greeted my eyes was red of gargantuan proportions. Combine that with a madly rushing populace in both directions and beggars at every step with twisted limbs and cataract eyes. It is at moments like this that I realize the fallacy of the India Shining propaganda.

On arriving at point A, I discovered a row of policemen stretching 1km on either side of point A, threatening auto drivers from stopping and negotiating with customers. While I tried to wave one down, the auto guy was made to pull up, threatened and checked for license etc. Seriously, is there any rule in our country that prohibits one from flagging down a moving auto at certain places? Surely, those guys didn’t think we would be parleying for even five minutes? I am told this is going to be the norm at Guindy bus stop from now. The logic behind this rule eludes me. I do not see it aiding free flow of traffic in any way. Added is the 1km of trudging every bus commuter needs to take now, at a place conspicuous by the absence of a pavement. As I was trudging along, a police guy on a bike does a circle around me and asks me if he could drop me anywhere. Seriously dude, you ought to be the last person hitting on me.

Tomorrow, I shall as usual take an auto and this day shall fade away. As writing code and meeting deadlines to ensure a successful car launch with fancy features at Europe or the Americas shall gain importance.