"They Got Me, Sarge, They Got Me!"

The patrol, er, walk, began normally enough. The route was familiar and so was the time of day. Despite the familiarity, I was alert. Phone but no ID, so if I get hit, someone can use my phone to notify somebody on my contacts list. Good enough, I think, a routine march. Approaching a gate, I glance to the left to make sure no one is emerging. At intersections in India, drivers don’t stop and look, or necessarily slow. They merge. Looking at what’s oncoming always seems an afterthought to these drivers. At any rate, nothing emerges and I walk on. The traffic is busy but not especially heavy. I reach the circle where I’ll cross to the median. There’s a painted crosswalk there, although for the life of me (literally), I don’t know why. As far as affecting on rushing vehicles (even camel and cow carts, although “on rushing”, is a stretch), they might as well have sprinkled pixie dust on the road. Eying the oncoming traffic as I step off the curb, I see the usual assortment of motorcycles and cars. No busses. Good, because with their funny-car style, obnoxiously loud horns, they’re reverse kamikazes: drivers act if they’re intent on taking someone out, only they won’t be the losers. I give them the widest possible berth. 

The trick is to gauge the flow, find the breach, and move across it quickly, waiving the hand down if anyone approaches because that’s what I see natives do. It’s probably a nervous tick, but you don’t waste a tip. I see my chance and—wham!—I’m knocked back on my butt. Fortunately, the sidewalk is about 15 inches high at that point so that my butt doesn’t have far to travel before it hits the concrete. Fazed but not feeling any serious injury, I look at the cyclist, who was traveling the wrong way up the one-way street. 

“You f%$@*!^ idiot! Watch where you’re going!” 

The motorcyclist gives me a dumb look and drives on, reaches the gate, and turns in. I repeat my mantra to myself. It felt cathartic, and because the “wham!” was more of just a “ugh”, I could afford to dwell on my choice words. 

I continue my journey and successfully cross. 

“They only winged me, sarge”, I think to myself. 

Once I’ve safely traversed the roadway, I reproach myself. 

“A rookie mistake”, I say to myself. 

“Listen kid, in India, looking both ways before crossing a one-way street ain’t just a sayin’, it’s a rule of survival”. My super ego in the voice of a battle-tested veteran starts piping in. 

I nod in agreement to my wiser self. 

“I should’ve known better”. 

“You were lucky, kid.” (The voice is Bogey’s. It fits.) 

I was lucky. Usually I have my buddy with me, but not this time. I should’ve known that I needed eyes in the back of my head, like my friend Clydie Maxwell’s mom. (She caught me doing something naughty when I didn’t think she was looking. She explained that she had “eyes in the back of her head”.) 

“You gotta’ be like a kindergartner making his first walk to school”, the veteran reminds me. (I’m beginning to feel like a little kid.) 

Yeah, only I never saw this many cars and motorcycles in five or six years on Pioneer Avenue, or even on our bustling (by Shen standards) Nishna Road. (Perhaps on Highway 2, but I never graduated into crossing it solo until after moving away; plus, it has speed limits, lanes, directional traffic: all child’s play by comparison.) 

Oh, well, a lesson learned. 

“It’s a jungle out here, kid”. 

On the streets, yes it is.