Hohum

They’ve dug up the road connecting Gwyer Hall and PG Women’s Hostel / Miranda House Backside. Must be for the Commonwealth Games. But who can ever tell?

So I took the long way to Hudson Lines: looping past the Metro station on the Ring Road and back onto Probyn Road. I was driving with the windows down and the a/c on– a trick I learnt from NC– which always puts me in a good mood. And then a cycle-rickshaw came barrelling down my side of the road, all set to make his right turn into the Metro premises a good 300 metres further down the road. (That’s how people make turns in India.)

We did our own little version of the Pedestrian Give-Way Dance. Both veer left (his right). Both veer right (his left). Repeat. Finally I deliberately crashed into him, and we battled each other all the way down to hell. No, I joke. I passed him on the right, snorting in disgust. 

Oh, if only we had a designated side of the road to drive on.

~~~

I can’t write about it, because a friend of mine is benefiting tremendously from it and I don’t want to ruin it for him. Like, tremendously. It disgusts me utterly. (And I don’t usually give a fuck about anything other than breasts and parking spaces.)

Well, it doesn’t really disgust me, not at all actually– I just wish it had happened at a time I could have taken advantage of it. (There, see.)

But it does go to show– there’s simply no point taking the moral high road. As with a making a third right-turning lane at a signal: if you don’t do it, someone else will.

Why the hell should it matter who your father is? You’ll never be a judge yourself, fucking woman.

But it does matter, as we all know. Who’s your daddy, little girl?