Finding Happiness on My Autorickshaw Commute

I rushed out the door on my way to work, obscenely late, as usual. (Stop it. I can hear your snickering through the internet void.) As I emerged from the gate, an autorickshaw driver who had already taken me to work a few times waved at me wildly, encouraging me to walk past the other three such drivers who were trying to get my attention and beeline straight for his rickety wheels. I complied. He was fast, less rude than most, and seemed to take the quickest route through the least congested parts of south Delhi. I hopped in, and he looked at his watch and remarked that I was later than usual. I grunted. As if I hadn’t noticed. We sped off, weaving and honking our way through other weavers and honkers. As we approached one turn, I braced myself, gripping the railing of the rickshaw with one hand and my stuff with the other. I had learned on previous days that this road was traumatically bumpy, with potholes and craters the entire length of two city blocks. It didn’t help that most rickshaw drivers didn’t feel the need to slow down to accommodate the conditions. But today there was an excessive amount of traffic on the approach. When I realized that the clog was due to steamrollers and other construction equipment working its way down the offending block, my heart sang. I know it sounds a bit extreme, but literally — the sense that I had been in this town and traveling a certain route long enough to figure out which parts of it drove me nuts and then to see it through a positive change (in Delhi no less) raised my spirits for long enough to temporarily forget that the traffic jam meant I was going to arrive at work sometime after lunch. The recognition that roads do get better, one block at a time, in at least some parts of the city, was a bonus. And to top it all off, for the first time in four months and a result of this strange and fleeting connection I had created with Delhi public services on my way to work, I felt like I actually lived here.