Tobacco and Traffic

As I wasted precious hours of my life stuck in peak Delhi traffic, I saw her green eyes lock onto mine as her head snapped out of the car window. 

A glob of tobacco flew from her mouth with violent force, seeming to just chuck itself out of her.

She looked rough, fierce, and carried the weight of otherworldly pain on her striking face. Her features were soft, a stark contrast to the intensity of her expression. A white scarf wrapped around her head, and from what I could make out, her hair was matted. 

I couldn’t help but wonder about her story. Why was her face fixed in a grimace when it could easily harbour a beautiful smile? Even a neutral expression would have been more comforting to see. 

As I drove past, I noticed her halfheartedly rocking a baby on her lap. This innocent soul, what kind of childhood would it have?

I knew I shouldn’t judge, but “Is wondering considered judging?” I thought out loud.

“I suppose if the wondering seeks an answer, then it’s not. If the wondering is its own answer, then it is,” my husband replied, staring in the opposite direction.

Someone, somewhere, honked, unleashing a cacophony of repressed angst, and the caravan of irritated commuters inched forward. 

As I lifted my foot off the brake, I resisted the urge to step on the gas, letting the latent energy of the beat-up old Camry move us a mere 1.5 inches closer to our apartment. 

I turned on the radio, signalling both my commitment to and disdain for the silence awkwardly sitting as the third wheel in my four-wheeler.