23 March,2010 08:58 AM IST | | Lindsay Pereira
In Mumbai, fights on the street are always welcome. Two grown men baring their teeth at each other, warily running slow circles, abusing each other's parents, screaming like ghouls -- it's what we call a good Monday morning. Without these bursts of violent activity, there would only be the occasional accident to keep us occupied.
They start, as they often do, for the most ridiculous reasons known to man; or, in most such cases, two men. A teenager's bicycle accidentally running across someone's left foot. A bus conductor refusing to accept anything but exact change.
Without these bursts of violent activity, only the occasional accident would keep us occupied
And then, game time: That first shout, and an instant reciprocal one; the first slow circle; the first show of fists. Finally, like a sudden splash of paint on a wall, the first solid slap. Thwack!
Time quickly thuds to a stop on such corners. Like flies, onlookers gather, hovering around these urban gladiators, squeezing in and out in search of the best angle, eyes wide open, refusing to blink. Automobiles slow down, public transport crawls past, heads pop outside windows high above the circling figures. Now picture, if you will, these miniature fistfights spread across pockets of the city. This is the story of how grid-lock first came to urban India.
As for me, I have often walked past such fights in the past. I have watched a great many fights. I have nodded sympathetically at my curious neighbours and, like them, have never made more than a half-hearted attempt to stop the fighters.
The last time I found myself before one, it was right at that juicy moment when the pummelling was about to begin. The air was heavy with expectation; the crowds, leaning forward slightly, holding each other up to create a small amphitheatre. This is what men have always done. Imagine them crowding around two Neanderthals in a cave, their roughly hewn clubs at the ready, while curious dinosaurs outside stop chewing wild grass to stare.
"Kuch karo yaar," said one of the guys standing next to me, at the last skirmish. "Make them stop." I sneered at him, despite the fact that one of the two warring foes was an old friend. To make the guilt go away though, I tapped my angry pal. "Let me hold your glasses," I told him. "They may fall off during the fight."
