Death becomes her

I’ve always been quite clear about how I want to die – spectacularly, succinctly and suddenly. A smush down to earth during a sky dive would pretty much cover it. Another fantasy did have a eaten by a pack of sharks, but while it does meet my fundamental requirements, it also necessities a greater level of pain than I anticipate during my point of departure. Driving back to Pune late on Saturday night, I realize the young man who is ferrying me with such reckless abandon, could well by positioned to deliver my requisites. I’m seriously impressed with the confidence with which the car weaves about, a mere centimeters away from other body work, like a deft seamstress wielding a needle over an intricate piece of embroidery. My hand surreptitiously sneaks to the side in search of a seat belt, and encounters some slack and draws it discreetly across my chest, left hand fumbling for the buckle. My negotiations end abruptly as the belt sags impotently in copious quantities around me. Well, given my definition, we would need to explode in a fireball, so a seat belt would really be moot. That thought comforts me considerably, and I snuggle back to enjoy the skills that would put Schumacher to shame. What impresses me even more, is that despite the raucous belting of the horn, flashing of lights and veering to the edge of intimidation as we shoot past, on the wrong side, hugging the rim of the road, sandwiched between two trucks close enough to feel their breath, he smoothly transitions out of the way of oncoming speedier traffic when on the right lane, not needing more than approaching headlights in the rear view (it might be a stretch to assume he occasionally glances at the rear view, but his actions would certainly imply it). His sheer effrontery at the toll nakas takes my breath away, and my mental cursing of his aggressive approach to the left which leaves us mired in the midst of vehicular confusion as realization sets in that the booth is closed, turns into unbridled admiration for his chutzpah as he brazenly snouts the car in front of a long suffering in queue beleaguered truckkie and we zip off to freedom. The same lad fetches me for my return journey and despite a sedate (and deeply frustrating) 80/kmph on the expressway, his artfully dodging on the ghats and in traffic and miraculous gate crashing at the toll naka, ensures that even an unnecessary detour via Worli makes it a three hour door to door journey. And I’m still pondering the coolest way to die…