Butt out ... or butt in?

The light turned red.  I came to a stop behind an Acura Integra.

We stop at red lights.  We stop at the "Stop" signs.  We stop to let pedestrians cross the road.  After such a life in this part of the world, I am always shocked at the traffic behavior in the old country.

It is almost trauma-inducing during the first exposure when driving out of the Chennai airport.  Lane markers on roads are treated as graffiti and nobody bothers with the idea of staying in one's lane.  Pedestrians dodge in between vehicles and through momentary pauses.  Red lights are left to the driver's discretion.

I press the imaginary brakes under my right foot.  Sometimes I just close my eyes; what I don't know won't hurt me!

I thought that being a passenger was enough tension.  Years ago, when driving with a friend, I heard her say "this is called high tension road."  It turned out that the name of the road came from the high voltage transmission lines.  Driving under high tension cables, or living right by a distribution transformer, is nothing out of the ordinary in India, unlike here in Oregon where some strongly believe that transmission lines mess up one's minds!

I could see the top of the Acura driver's head moving.  As if in response, the passenger's head moved.  Perhaps they were having a conversation.  I bet they were not talking about traffic conditions in India.

The driver's hand made an appearance outside the window.  The fingers dropped a cigarette butt.

Who litters like this in my town?  And who smokes cigarettes?

Could it be a person from the old country? But then the hand wasn't brown or dark.  

What if it was one of those lighter-skinned Indians?  Maybe you can take the cigarette smoker out of India, but you can't take India out of that smoker who litters like how it is done in the old country?

I wished that was not the case.

In one of my earliest newspaper commentaries after moving to Oregon, I wrote about how I was practically the representative of a billion people to Oregonians who might never have met an Indian until their paths crossed with mine.  I had to be on extra alert and not commit any faux pas, because they might conclude that all Indians are that way.  On the other hand, if my thoughts and actions impressed them enough to think highly of India and Indians in a positive light, well, mission accomplished!

After the light turned green, as the vehicles started moving, I caught a better view of the light-skinned driver.  It was a white woman.

Thankfully, not an Indian!

I drove on.