Traffic and Other Woes…

He hated only three kinds of people on the road. Top on the list were those who brought their vehicles back to lives when it was still 10 seconds before the red light would go off and made them rumble. This rumbling of their vehicles irked him. They would then begin to honk, forcing people ahead of them to crawl their vehicles forward, and eventually, even before the green light would turn on, the entire traffic is moving, forcing him to move along. People like these, he believed, deserved a special place in vehicular hell (if there is any place like that, and he so wished there were a place like that), wherein they should be made to stand before a red light without any timers to them. Only to go green unexpectedly for a second, and then, bam, turn red again. Or, he wished, this vehicular hell should be a place wherein the weather turned so cold at each red signal that their vehicles froze to death and never woke up at the green signal again. Glee.

Next came those who turned to the left while their right indicators blinked proudly pronouncing their indifference towards the humanity driving behind them. For these, he didn’t wish any hell. This could be a genuine error on anyone’s part. But he hated them nevertheless. He had witnessed the traffic going berserk on the road due to this error, a lot of time.

And, a special place was reserved in a part of his heart (in which he kept the people whom he hated inexplicably, I mean, for the hatred which he hadn’t yet found a justification) for the rare category of people who have this irresistible tendency to spit on the road. They would lower down their windows, compromise on the well-conditioned air within the vehicle, ignore anyone on the rearview mirror, and spit outside. Soon would they then retract the windows and go on proudly as if they have just added nutrition to nature. Like a service offered.

But, amidst this all, there was only one big question that bothered him wherever he went, and unlike other great inventors who get an inkling about or are bothered by things at quite an early age, this question hit him after he started riding a bike. The question was that ‘Who amongst the above-highlighted categories was worth deserving the most hatred?’. It became very important to him. This question. And the pursuit to find an answer to it. And now, riding became all the more fun. For almost like a cop on a lookout for the culprits, he looked for the people committing effrontery. Neatly befitting them into these categories. It required precision and was onerous. A lot more than one presumes. For love might be unconditional and be dispensed at will, hatred never is, it never should be. Hatred, he believed, should be calculated and then dispensed. And now as he drives through the traffic and more importantly stops in one, he smiles, as all this nuisance has become a game, and the nuisance makers have turned into the players, like the characters, making both the traffic and his life all the more bearable.

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