autos and right relation

[song – young galaxy, searchlight, Sophie Ellis Bextor, and Les Breastfeeders]
[drink – Kingfisher strong. Decided to bring back the leftover duty free. Too much Glenlivet to drink in eight days]
[picture - Emperor Ashoka renouncing violence at the feet of the Buddha]

My hands smell like chlorine, and my nose is itchy from Delhi in general and the henna chemicals specifically. It’s warm and close, and for some reason there are no international lines available on Airtel. You’d think in the age of outsourcing a message like ‘all circuits are busy’ would be no more. On second thought, perhaps that’s why there are no lines out at 2:30 pm EDT.

With just a week to go I’m loosing patience frequently. I don’t appreciate auto drivers who say they know where they are going, only to start asking direction as soon as I’ve sat down. An auto driver had asked for 1.5 times what we’d agreed on, and wouldn’t let me close the gate. He came up to the door and said he was going to call the police. I had made the mistake of telling him that no one was at home. The school across the street was dark for the night, and the lot beside was under construction. I put my Rs 70 ($1.75) back in my bag and said I wasn’t going to pay him anything, and tried to close the gate again. He motioned ‘fine, give me the money’. I gave him Rs. 50, then Rs. 20 more. He grabbed the strap of my bag and plucked it towards him. All the blood left my brain. I stepped back, spread my arms wide, and yelled ‘Eh! Come on!’ He was a good five inches shorter, dark and balding, but round in the middle, and still inside the gate. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes. He took a step backward into the shadows. My shoulders square, feeling taller and taller, I had beaten him in my mind. Facing him down, not breathing, I saw him already out the gate and me beginning to feel it.

Just the day before a friend had sent me a note from the Hopi Elders about being in right relation, among other things. I had been very short with some rickshaw drivers when I didn’t trust directions like ‘Ali Aska Rd – its’ parallel to Cunningham Rd’ or ‘Do you see a green truck coming down the street?’ At the time I thought I hadn’t done anything worse than be rude and selfish in my demand for information in a familiar way, in compass bearings and intersections. That night I sat down on the toilet and cried. How was I supposed to be in right relation with people grabbing at my bag? Was it weak that I had to threaten to fight, and believe it, in order to get inside my home?