We talked about Indian driving-the anarchic, chaotic system adopted by road users.
Basically, the bigger you are, the more rights you have.
Pedestrians were at the bottom of the ladder.and were forced to run for their lives on a regular basis. Cyclists, were only a fraction above as self powered lowly vehicles, easily crushed under the wheels of uncaring buses and trucks.
As motorcyclists, we were a grey area. At once the fastest, most nimble vehicles on the road, but often forced into the dust by the mighty trucks and the not-stopping-for-anything busses,or the unpredictable rickshaw drivers, who sat just above us on the pecking order.

Cars fell into two categories, small , cheap , villagers cars, and huge,expensive 4x4s and imported luxury cars, the latter normally travelling at immense speed, with the driver using one hand to constantly lean on the horn and the other to hold his mobile phone next to his ear.

The busses wouldn’t even stop for passengers. The driver had is eyes on the prize, firmly fixed on the road ahead, while his mate would bang loudly on the side of the bus if anyone wanted to get on or off.
The bus would slow down , but not stop, the doors would open and the passengers would jump on or off. There would be no indicators, occasionally the ‘stop ‘ lights would work,but never would the bus move from the middle of the road.

Trucks were everywhere, lavishly decorated and beautifully painted, mantras hanging from the cockpit and statuettes of favoured Gogs stuck to the dash. The driver would sit behind huge, grimy windows, invariably with a Beedi handing from his stained lips. They would roll up hill in first gear, fully laden with anything from logs to rubbish to livestock,at walking speed, sometimes being overtaken by a similar vehicle, also crawling along, but infintisimly faster, taking risks on every corner, safe in the knowledge that any oncoming traffic would be forced out of the way on roads that were barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other comfortably.

But even the biggest trucks, fastest Mercedes’ and most dedicated bus drivers had to give way to the King of the road. The Holy Cow-and my gosh, these road kings knew it. Wondering carefree in the middle of carriage ways across dirt roads and highways alike, these creatures exuded a feeling of utter untouchablility.

Human life was far less valuable than that of grazing god.

‘You know what is happening when one bus driver kills a person’ Juz explained. “The bus company protects the driver, they will pay some judge a small sum of some hundereds of rupees, and to the family the bus company will pay also, maybe 2,000 rupees, and the driver may have to stay one week in prison. Then he will go back to work, this is all. If the person killed is rich, then there is big problem, the rich families can fight and prove the driver is driving rashly. If they can prove this the driver is finished. He goes to prison and his loses his license, but more people and poor, they cannot fight. The drivers race each other to get to the stops first to pick up more passengers. They mostly have no good tires, and they do not care. And the driving is like this because no one knows. If a cow is killed, the driver will straight away be pulled from his vehicle and beaten, badly.
“Is there not a test?” we asked , dumfounded by this revalation.
“Yes, but to pass you must not study, only pay”
Juz told us about his own experience taking his mototrcyle license.
‘”I studied, and I knew, I was ready and sure I would pass. I sat in the room with some others and waited for the test paper. We had one hour and after 45 minutes we had still no paper, then the examiner left the room and another man came in with completed tests, demanding his baksheeh- his bribe. We had no choice, but to pay him for the answers as no time left to answer for oursleves. Everybody pays, no one studies, you cannot pass like that’.
This explained a lot. The busy streets of towns and cities were a cacophony of horns and sirens, white lines on the road meant nothing, emission control was non-existent, but with all this choas, we saw no road rage. Even when I had my first ‘accident, a small car nudging my rucksack tied to the side of the bike, causing me to wobble dangerously, but not fall, the driver simply tooted me, smiled and drove off, probably not even looking in his mirror to see me shaking my fist at him.