Bus: #56; 6:04 a.m.
Pages read: 115 - 127
More on driving in India:
"Every now and then, the various horns, each with its own pitch, blended into one continuous wail that sounded like a calf taken from its mother [awesome simile]. Fumes filled the air. Wisps of blue exhaust glowed in front of every headlight; the exhaust grew so fat and thick it could not rise or escape, but spread horizontally, sluggish and glossy, making a kind of fog around us." pg 115. Add to this coughed up phlegm splattering window and you have a traffic jam in India. I'm packing my bags for India right now.
Balram, while in the comfort of an air-conditioned automobile, looks at the poor lining the roads as they spend their days like all others; waiting for ??? In these blank, dirty faces he sees his father's eyes looking back at him. Balram feels a kinship to the squatters. The difference? While those people are living in the Darkness, Balram's Darkness is now merely the shadows of his masters amid the surrounding light.
Still, Balram complains. "The worst part of being a driver is that you have hours to yourself while waiting for your employer. You can spend this time chitchatting and scratching your groin." pg 126 Now come on, sure waiting around tapping your toes is a bit frustrating, but you get to scratch your groin. How bad can it really be? A few disinfectant wipes in the glove box to wipe the steering wheel every now and then and life's good. Much better than cleaning the red paan spit from the spittoon.