It's All About Cross Purposes
Like George Washington telling his father about the cherry tree, I simply have to confess to you, my gentle readers, that I flunked the ultimate test yesterday. I almost failed to cross an Indian road. It's a veritable art form, as I know so well. It can be a foxtrot without a partner, because you have to be fleet of foot, you have to be nimble and you have to occasionally sidestep and pirouette. Like dancing, you can sometimes fall flat on your backside.
Yesterday I airily tried to cross a narrow street here in Dehra Dun - and almost landed in ungainly fashion on my butt. I negotiated the first side of the street, with traffic coming from my right. Then I was almost ninety per cent across the second side of the street, with traffic coming from my left. And at that precise point of time, a motorcyclist roared past me, forcing me to retreat like a quickstep from Torvill and Dean.
How did I make such a basic error? I didn't. The motorcyclist was ignoring all rule of road decency and going the wrong way, at high speed. It was such a close shave I guess I can put my razor away for tomorrow.