Rules of the Road

In New Delhi, the streets have a life of their own. Walk with purpose or don’t walk at all. Traffic lines are suggestions rarely taken and pedestrian cross-walks exist only for decoration. Cars go down roads any way they please, and the same goes for rickshaws and bicycles. Pedestrians just add to the traffic. Yielding only applies to those smaller vehicles on the bottom of the transportation hierarchy. Thus, buses never stop and pedestrians must literally dodge everything from three-wheeled rickshaws to bicycles to horse-and-buggy carriages. 

A view of the streets taken from the backseat of a rickshaw. The yellow and green three-wheeled cars are rickshaws.

People drive with their horns. Honking is the sole form of communication on the road. Drivers honk to tell others to move, where to go, or to announce their presence. When our rickshaw drivers aren’t honking, I’m worried.

On the second day of our trip, we piled four to a rickshaw, three of us squeezing into the backseat and the fourth person (which our professors stipulated had to be a guy) sat in the front, one arm clasped around the driver to keep from falling out. As I sat in between two others in the backseat, I didn’t fear for my life as the periphery people did: moving an inch meant limbs out the window, and outside limbs weren’t guaranteed to survive the duration of the ride.

Madison, Ceewin, and I packed into the backseat of a rickshaw.

The rickshaw afforded us the chance to have a wind-blown view of the streets. Or rather, I should say it allowed us to experience the streets: every pothole, every double speed bump (yes, just as we rattled over one another followed), and every exasperated driver honking behind, in front, and to either side of us. But despite the rickety ride, the views were beautiful: on our way, we passed women dressed in beautiful saris riding bicycle carriages, fruit vendors selling ripe mangos bursting with juice, Mother Dairy ice cream stalls with pop-sickles for seven rupees apiece. We held our noses passing a garbage heap and then breathed in the sweet aroma of marigolds wafting from a row of nearby flower stands.

Roxanne and I enjoy Mother Dairy ice cream in the 130 degree heat.

I also enjoy seeing the other people on the road. Once, our professor had a full-fledged conversation between stops with a driver in another car from the back of his rickshaw. For those of us who aren’t fluent in seven different Indian languages, we prefer watching the other motorists. I especially enjoy the fashion shows which blow past us as women in saris sit side-saddle on the backs of motorcycles. Once, we even saw a bride sitting delicately atop a fuming motorcycle, dressed in the traditional red sari with a beautiful crystal tikka dangling from her forehead.

A bride rides side saddle on the back of a motorcycle.

Late one night we got a different view of the streets, this time in the back of a bicycle carriage. If we thought we’d experienced the streets before, we realized just how wrong we had been. Our driver cycled between cars and swerved around potholes. Without the use of a horn, he warned others of our whereabouts through word of mouth. I was surprised by the durability of his voice. Had I done that much screaming, I’d have been hoarse before we were half-way to our destination.

The streets take on a different feel at night. The shop stands and restaurants become alive in the waning light. Young boys working inside tea shops make roadside deliveries, carrying small cups of chai to and from the shop, running back and forth, wiping the sweat from their brows with old rags. In darkness, smells intensify: frying bread, vegetables cooked in thick curries, meat roasting over an open-flame. Each one overwhelms the previous, each one is the most incredible aroma you’ve ever smelled. 

The rich smells of curries and frying vegetables waft into the streets.

At night, shopping, too, intensifies. As the men return home, the women, who have just put the children to bed, finally come out. Shopping dynamics change. Bangles which glittered in the daylight now hold a mystical glow in the dim light of the shops. Pashmina scarves flutter in the thick evening breeze. Hand-embroidered shoes practically walk out to meet you. Aromatics shop keepers must mop their floors with perfume because the fresh scent of jasmine wafts far into the streets and practically drags you inside. 

Dilli Haat bazaar at night.

But on this particular night we are riding back to the subway station in the bicycle carriage, wishing for a rickshaw but thankful to no longer be navigating the streets on foot. For at night traffic, too, comes alive, and pedestrians surely have the worst luck. Without even the benefits of a bike bell or commanding voice, pedestrians are overlooked by everyone. Clipped ankles and knees are accepted as a certain component of New Delhi night travel. Traffic jams which usually include an assortment of vehicles ranging from rickshaws to cars to motorcycles to pedestrians, lose distinction in the jumble. Once, as we pushed through a particularly dense clot, I fell over the handlebars of a motorcycle. A kind woman in a sari let out a cry and pulled me to my feet before the motorcyclist had realized what had happened. 

Walking the streets of New Delhi, we are constantly reminded of the day we spent in Singapore teaching pedestrian safety to kindergartners. Every time one of us crosses into incoming traffic, clips a bike turning onto a sidewalk, or narrowly misses a more serious collision with a fast-approaching bus, we remember telling the little children to stop at the crosswalk (or “zebra crossing”) and to wait for the Green Man to flash because “Green Means Go and Red Means No.” 

Malhar, Saffa, Ashley Rivenbark, Marquis, Madison, and I teach pedestrian safety at a local kindergarten in Singapore.

But, alas, there are no crosswalks or zebra crossings in India, and if you waited for the Green Man, you’d be hit from the front by presumptuous drivers or from behind by your fellow impatient pedestrians. Anyway, it’s not as if we were the safest pedestrians in Singapore, either, even though the country is practically teaming with superfluous crosswalks and road signs. No, as we left the kindergarten, we illegally crossed the street without the help of a crosswalk or Green Man, right into incoming traffic. I guess we were physically preparing ourselves for the rules of the road in India where there are no rules (perhaps the biggest difference between Singapore and India).

Our professors had told us that when we returned to America, we’d be surprised by the quiet of the streets. They were right. Even traffic jams seem tame at home, and I’m continually disappointed that motorists won’t just drive down the middle of the yellow line to pass through congestion. Think of the time that could be saved! Crossing roads on foot, I’ve often forgotten to look both ways. After all, I’ve survived rickshaw rides and New Delhi traffic jams atop motorcycle handle bars. What’s a little Triangle traffic?