Whose Fight Is It Anyway

Every love affair has its make or break moment. In one case, it was when I kissed her hand. The suspense was killing me. I expected a slap. She hugged me instead. With my ex-wife, it happened when I proposed. She should have refused. Love would have lasted longer. The moment turned up today with the current love of my life when I met her best friend. With better actors, it could have been a comedy of errors. “Is he your ex-hubs?” a love exclaimed to an ex-love at the end of a volatile introduction. All that was called love was erased to give space to all they had discussed in private about a villain (everything except my identity was laid bare, it seems). I vanished from the scene.

 In the good old days, men in such a condition walked to their local bar, had one drink too many, got into a pointless argument and exited with a few bumps and cuts. In these lean times, men drive a car. I snarled at carefree pedestrians, honked at relaxed fellow-travellers and laughed at startled elders. No one took umbrage.

At a traffic signal, an auto-rickshaw overtook me on the left, jumped right in front of me, dangerously close. I braked and swerved dangerously to the right to avoid collision. Curses and horns protested loudly. I followed that rickshaw. At the next signal, the same manoeuvre was repeated with another car. This time, the car swerved but did not slow down. I heard the sweet sound of a crash. God be praised, I thought.

I stopped at a safe distance from the crash-site, got out and grabbed a front-row position. It was not a serious accident. The car had scraped the side of the rickshaw, that’s all. The driver of the car was an old man, too young not to protest, too old to be loud enough. His wife, an elegant old lady, stood by him, holding his hand. The rickshaw-driver was joined by comrades and sympathizers of smaller vehicles. I watched them bully and threaten the old couple. A politician entered the scene and advised everyone to be calm. A policeman on the scene was glad to give charge to the man of the people. A quick settlement seemed imminent. The car-driver’s shoulders fell, his wife’s face showed more resolve, but they were beaten, they knew.

I stepped forward and pointed at the rickshaw-driver, “He did the same thing to me. I barely escaped.”

The mob turned its attention towards me. The old couple smiled.

The rickshaw-driver fumbled for a moment before deciding to go on the offensive. He asked the policeman to make sure that the rich don’t get away with every crime. The politician nodded in agreement.

“Oh yes, let’s go to court,” I said and went ahead with my taunt, “wait till I show the video clip. Or would you like to watch it on the Net first?”

The old couple frowned. They must have had some experience with the legal fraternity. The politician slipped away from the scene. The policeman mumbled, “Show me the clip.” The lynch mob correctly guessed that I was bluffing. The law of large numbers states that that is a pant-wetting moment.

My mobile phone rang then. I took the call. My love cooed, “Sorry, my dear. She explained that you are not really that bad.” She was a trifle late.