Five minutes. I could do five minutes.
I opened my mouth. The words came out wrong, twisted, my tongue a foreigner in my own mouth: " Usse… mat… do. " (Don't… give… him.) caught in hindi
Two hundred rupees. I had it. But to offer it, I would have to enter their conversation. I would have to stop being the observer and become the participant. I would have to speak their Hindi — not the textbook Hindi of Mera naam hai , not the Bollywood Hindi of Main tumse pyar karta hoon , but the gutter Hindi of negotiation, of mercy, of the street. Five minutes
The driver’s hands began to shake. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled receipts, a beedi, and a laminated card so faded it looked like a ghost. "Sahab, gareeb aadmi hoon…" The words came out wrong, twisted, my tongue
I had meant: Don't fine him. But what came out was: Don't give him. I had accused the driver of something. I had become the enemy.
I looked at the constable. "How much is the fine?" I asked, still in English.
I paid five hundred. Not because I was kind. Because I had no words to argue.