.l..

"Lower Parel?" I asked the cab driver rather expectantly. Unable to articulate his ‘Yes’ because of the mouthful of red liquid filled dripping from the corners of his lips, he simply nodded and ignited the engine.

I sat in, coaxing myself for being late once again.

Few minutes later, the cab reached at Curry Road Station Bridge. As usual, the bridge was looking like a river flooded by vehicles. Other cabbies were trying to make a move from the extreme left, sustaining (ignoring) the stinky stares of the passerby. Lucky bikers were finding their ways easily from the sides too.

I sat impatiently, worrying about the work that was waiting for me for the day.
A Corolla was standing in front of our cab, which was blocking half of our way, so our driver didn’t even bother to start the engine for any feeble attempt of escape.

The driver insipidly spat on the road; just when I heard somebody abuse. I turned and saw a biker trying stopped parallel to our cab, shouting at my cab driver, and

“It's motherfuckers like you who make Mumbai dirty!” The guy was really fuming with anger. It felt like he’ll punch the driver hard on his mouth so that he wouldn’t be able to spit next time.

But, the driver’s luck was on his side today. The traffic started moving. Without wasting a moment, he started off the cab and escaped his death.
The guy also kicked his bike, came ahead of our cab and showed a middle finger in the air. (I don’t know whether the cabwallah has connoted it, but it surely made me laugh!)

I looked at his figure racing against the wind, and smiled thinking; still there are a few people left who get agitated seeing somebody make his city dirty!