Breaking Bad

"No duplicates!" the old man living downstairs had said with a Major's authority, as he handed me a key to the lobby entrance of the new dwelling I've shifted my base to. Here I am, a few days later, at this prominent Delhi intersection, getting the duplicates done, having snuck out the lock right under his nose and against the reigning authority And it wasn't like an in-out job, too - I had to pilfer the humble lobby lock thrice over the course of the day; the first two times were a miss, as the keymaker - one hella unreliable fella, whom I learnt was more frequent to the bar than to his roadside shack - was missing from his... shack; the third time was enough for me to drive out to the more trusted of keymakers a bit far, where I am right now at this prominent Delhi intersection. I will deceive the old man twice his unexpectation, as I have asked for two duplicates to be done. Enough of disturbed chains of logic.

In the meantime I can occupy myself at the sight of imbecilic antics of these two kids - a boy and a girl of about the same (6-ish) age - whose guardian apparently thought it a good idea to give these kids fresh air at this polluted and dangerous venue (not to forget the filthy uncovered runnels). There's also a derelict girl (selling balls made of motley bright patches) sitting exhausted and tearing apart one such defective ball, a girl of ~16, whom I imagine could fare better than many women of high standing after a mere bath and wardrobe upgrade. Its a sad thought, but I don't lament her condition for too long. I have some other kick.

In the next few minutes, chaos ensues at the intersection, as the traffic lights, which were dead this far, suddenly come to life, and that too in a maniacal fashion - first they blink orange in harmony, and then abruptly go red (yes, all of them, at once), and then turn green (all at once, again), and then abruptly begin to function responsibly. All this happens before your average Dilliwala could realize some mischief or malfunction involved. Then arrives a confused traffic cop to investigate into the chaos whose origin seems at this hub of keymakers (and their clients), mischievous kids and fatigued bystanders - the lazy arm of authority finally manifesting; he fiddles with a small dashboard with several buttons, then irritably announces foul play, then walks away in anguish - and probably under the assumption of teaching a lesson to one of the kids the next time. The evil smile (one that a friend, S, had perceived in the remoteness of Jispa with the Intrepid 4) briefly appears. I love kids.

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