A Busy Street

Q- Describe a busy street.

First come the food stalls in hope of making business. Their brightly-painted surfaces present an array of various knick-knacks, chaats, ice cream, toys and whatever else one can conjure up within two seconds. The carts teeter forward against their aged, wooden wheels and tilting legs, carried by sweating, panting men. They holler out deals in Hindi with whatever strength they can muster up.

"Five rupees for one pani puri, seven for two!"

Then flood in all the vehicles. It's selling time. The narrow road is clogged by a stream of metallic machinery. Like scuttling beetles, hangs of cars trickle ahead: silver, black, red and occasionally mustard. Gaudy tempo travelers thump behind them. Their frilly, ornate exteriors radiate across the road's entirety. They scream "manner less", for they engulf whatever free space is left. The moment the first tempo traveler arrives, a barrage of exasperated honks arise, piercing the air. Like a stain of blood, a splotch of paan masala appears on the road as the driver spits it out.

Poor, tired pedestrians fill the dusty cracks between the vehicles. An expression of frustration is branded onto their sweaty faces. From the young, navy-clad schoolgirls to the old man sporting a basket of juicy tomatoes atop his head, they're all exhausted. Instantaneously, the drained schoolgirls flit to a stall, demanding food. A sizzling, golden aroma of samosas and pani puri warms the air. With a satisfying crunch, their piquant, fiery flavor tickles their throats. They promptly begin to cough. As if on cue, the vendor holds out cones of light green pistachio kulfi. Its sweetness compensates for the spice. Smiling, the girls leave.

The vendors resume their desperate shouting for sales. This mingles with the rampant honking of cars and trucks. Optimistic screeches arise from their wheels as they inch ahead, only to wistfully halt again due to traffic. Like a river of molasses, the traffic trudges ahead at a sloth's pace. Swarms of pedestrians strut past the vehicles with an aura of superiority- they don't need to wait. Sounds of chit-chat and laughter coagulate from them into dizzying white noise.

All around the street, ancient buildings tower over like a host of watchmen. Speckled with umber dirt and water, the apartments' walls are now bumpy canvases of muck. Between the snakes of dirtied water, archaic, rosy paint peeps out, tired by all the modern-day pandemonium.

Footsteps plodding against the uneven pavement, promising crunches rise from the crispy dust and minute stones. Like a ghost, the dust rises and injects itself into the air. It combines with the stinging, dark stench of cigarette smoke and sweet aroma of frying jalebi to form a whole new atmosphere. A polluted, sweltering one. One customized for this busy street.

Two hours of this madness sulk by until the last car tip-toes out. Finally. With a sigh of relief, the disheveled road, neighborhood and buildings rejoice. No more people.