The rickshaw started again. The driver didn't thank me. He just drove. And I sat in the back, caught in Hindi — not the language of my mother, not the language of my degree, but the language of the road where every wrong word costs you more than money.
I checked my watch. The interview was in twenty minutes. My polished English, my corporate jargon, my entire vocabulary of "synergy" and "deliverables" — none of it could fix a flat tire. I leaned out. "How long?" I asked, my accent crisp, sharp as a new banknote. caught in hindi
I looked at the constable. "How much is the fine?" I asked, still in English. The rickshaw started again
The constable laughed — a short, dry sound. "Angrez chala gaya, desi reh gaya," he said to the driver. The Englishman has left, but the native remains. Then to me, in slow, cruel Hindi: "Aap ghar bhool gaye, sahab?" Have you forgotten your home, sir? And I sat in the back, caught in
I wanted to say: To the place where I don't feel like a foreigner in my own country.
The driver stared. The constable blinked.
The constable ignored me. He spoke to the driver in a rapid-fire Hindi I could only chase, not catch: " Tera baap ka rickshaw hai? Tu jaanta hai iska maalik kaun hai? "
