straight turrrn maadi

Footpath, rocky terrain, and mud tracks… nothing stops the Bangalorean from taking the route that would make sure he gets to his destination at least a minute early. At a traffic signal, impatient pizza, courier and death delivery boys fidget with their keys, visibly debating if it’s worth it to switch off the engine. You can see all necks straining to see ahead, to find an inch of space where the two-wheeler can squeeze itself. Horns will blare, voices will curse (“Thu! Nin magne! Nin thathan road-a?!”, “Haiyyo … Evarigella yaaru licence kotro, rama…” and a girl on a kinetic will add, “ExCuuuuse me! Uncle! Can you PLEEEASE move your BIKE?!” and go home to tell her roomies how she lost her cool and “blasted some idiot on the road”).
Then, a two-wheeler rider of great initiative will change all. He will lead all mankind out of this dark, smoky, suffocating agony. Only this chosen one will notice the vantage point — a clean entry spot onto the pavement. He will maneuver his bike deftly, riding along hawkers, pedestrians and parked cycles. And that will get him right in front of the cars, autos, lorries, buses and slow-witted bikes. Not to worry, the traffic cop won’t chase him. After all, it’s nothing out of the ordinary…. Plus, as this brave traffic warrior leads his motor vehicle on to the footpath, at least 15 other bikes would’ve followed suit. Yes. Even if there’s a maddening jam on the road, traffic flows freely on the footpath and adjacent roadless by-lanes. —“Adjust maadi” at it’s best.
But there are some places where alternative routes are avoided like plague. The one I notice everyday is near a road that leads into Ulsoor market. The market is always, always bursting at its seams with people, vegetable vendors, banana stumps, beggars, temple-goers, flower sellers, night-idli makers, auto-men smoking beedis, marwadi pawn shops, parked Safaris and Sumos… All the world comes together in this one pavement-less road, and despite the desperate need to squeeze into all spaces, and find every damn side-road, all the world avoids the adjacent notorious Hijra Street.
Hijra Street is near the now demolished Begum Mahal, where a rich muslim woman is said to have lived. She encouraged and trained dancers who lived in little houses near the Mahal. Many of these performers were hijras and they too lived nearby, reassured by the security and compassion the Begum extended them. Now the Begum and her Mahal are gone, but a large hijra community still lives there, regularly greasing the palms of cops and corporation authorities that relentlessly try to evict them.
Apart from the regular auto-drivers who park near this street and of course, the General Stores owner at the entrance, only a few women riders venture into Hijra Street. The rest of the city, with all its impatience and aggressive road behaviour, is an uneasy, petrified, almost idiotic group of oldies. This time, the term “oldies” has nothing to do with age, of course.