Bengaluru Blues

 

The horns continued to honk, a dull hum beneath the cacophony of squealing brakes and incessant "beep beep" of auto-rickshaws. Rajesh reclined against the worn seat of his auto, the sun beating hot upon the thin plastic canopy. His leg pained, a throbbing ache that refused to abate. It had been broken in a hit-and-run at the Silk Board junction, and it was healing slowly, too slowly.

He observed the crowded Hosur Road in Bengaluru. Buses emitted black smoke, inching through traffic like giant, lumbering brutes. Motorcycles, with two or three riders, sped by, their horns contributing to the cacophony. Peddlers wandered between the stationary cars, hollering, "Sir, Madam, idli, dosa!" above the din. It was a chaos of frustration, a cacophony of impatience, and Rajesh, trapped there as a witness, had a bitter taste in his mouth.

He was once a programmer, a coder. He had ambitions of having his own company, of creating the next hot app. He even had a notion, something that would assist people in navigating the city's complicated streets, forecasting traffic and providing shortcut recommendations. It's ironic, he mused, an unfunny twist of fate. Now, his universe was the four wheels of his auto, his aspirations buried in mountains of medical bills and debt.

He recalled the accident day. He was on his way to a meeting, late as ever, stuck in traffic by the Forum Mall. A vehicle, a white, shiny one, veered off to avoid a pothole and rammed into his car, ejecting him. He found himself waking up in a hospital bed with a casted leg, the other driver missing. Another story in a city where accidents were a daily occurrence.

Now, sitting in his car, waiting for traffic to clear, he reflected upon his previous life. He thought of the long nights at work, the partying with his colleagues, the thrill of solving a difficult issue. He recalled his girlfriend Priya, her beaming smile, her smiling demeanor. She went to see him in the hospital a few times, but the visits grew fewer and farther between, her eyes brimming with a sadness he couldn't abide. He knew, without anyone having to tell him, that it was over. His broken leg was just another broken dream.

He glanced around at the other auto drivers, their faces etched and exhausted, their sweat-stained clothing dirty. They were all there, doing what he was doing, struggling to survive in a city that just seemed to chew people up. He had fallen in with them reluctantly, necessitated by events, his pride dwindling every day.

Traffic finally began to move, gradually, agonizingly. Rajesh began his car, the engine sputtering. He got in line, his leg aching at each pothole in the road. He had to press on, had to make enough money to pay the bills, and had to stay alive. But as he navigated through the congested streets of Bengaluru, he couldn't help but feel that he was driving not only his auto, but his life as well, to a destination he did not wish to reach. The vision of coding, of building something, of something better, was slipping away, like the sun behind the smog, another casualty of the city's hard life.