Traffic in Delhi and Bangalore, where I have driven for more than two decades, is not angelic; in some basic ways, the same chaos binds together all the country's urban roads. But within this overarching oneness of India, every town or city is different. India's unity in diversity is all there on its roads.
As I sat behind the wheel, I soon realised that Kolkata gets a bad name for many inaccurate reasons. One cliche is that people cross the road whenever and wherever they like, simply by waving a hand - as if it is a magic wand that converts for a moment the human into a uniformed policeman. In fact, people on foot are careful and seldom take undue risks. So accidents involving only walkers are not on top of the list.
The truly liberated spirit on Kolkata roads, celebrating the sense of freedom that only an anarchist mindset can create, is the three-wheeler or a shared auto-rickshaw, a relatively new phenomenon. Its driver knows no rules, least of all those necessary for his own safety. He is like a terrorist who will have his own way, dominate others, and if, in the process, he himself comes to grief, then no matter, for there is an army of his compatriots behind him.
I learnt quickly that taking punga with an auto-rickshaw driver was worse than challenging a policeman. You can say you are a journalist, threaten to call the policeman's boss on your cell phone and see a wary look come over his face. But the auto-rickshaw driver has no boss and only a policeman can tell you in what contempt he holds the rule of law.
The second rule I learnt quickly was that the successor to the old formidable black and yellow taxi, the all-yellow one, was a shadow of its former self. The Ambassador looks and moves every bit like a lumbering dinosaur going inexorably towards its extinction. He can neither give chase nor sprint away, and often at the wheel is a migrant from Bihar who is easily browbeaten.
The new terror on the road is the car with a yellow number plate - or private taxi in Indian parlance. Mostly a Tata Indigo or a Maruti Swift Dzire, it can shoo you off and scoot faster than any Bofors howitzer could. And the worst mistake that you can make is to be ahead of one of these. You will be honked at till you run out of sanity, in a demand that you give way - being before a red light is no excuse. The yellow-plated gnome must go round you and stick its nose out ahead of the rest of the traffic, ready to speed as soon as the traffic light starts blinking, long before turning green.
I have also realised what a blessing the slow speed of traffic is. This is because the one international traffic rule that is expressly flouted in Kolkata is the need to keep a safe distance between your car and the one ahead. Try doing that and you will have to live through the nightmare of a car swerving from left or right and squeezing in, just managing to avoid grazing your bumper. After a few such experiences, I have now learnt to tail the car ahead and hope that when its driver applies brakes, mine will be as good, if not better.
But all these are minor irritants compared to the ultimate monster on the road - an invisible demon that makes his presence felt by the sound it creates. Kolkata's streets must have the highest decibel count in the world. People merrily honk on roads all over India, but in Kolkata they honk not just in aggression but also in repose; with attention as well as absent-mindedness; and sometimes for no reason at all, simply out of habit, as if from a nervous tic.
I have been forced to speed up innumerable times on a narrow road because of the honking behind. Unable to overtake me, since there is simply no space to do so, the fellow forces me to drive the way he does. I am yet to take the wife's advice to ignore the honking behind me or start honking away the sanity of the driver ahead of me. I know I am getting old, but it is the honking on the road that is foremost responsible for my rapid loss of hearing power.
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