A moment of wait

Like every morning, one of the world’s busiest city Bengaluru pulled a blanket of smog over itself.

The streetlight flickered, greeting Shamanna as he began setting up his little tea stall for the day’s first customers. While the early birds stepped out for their fitness routines — jogging, yoga, or a gym session — the night owls remained curled in their dreamlands until the shrill alarm yanked them out with its wicked grin.

As humans stayed caught in their man-made routines, the city’s four-pawed wanderers busied themselves feasting on scraps left behind by their inhumane counterparts. Above all this, the sun wielded his sword of rays, piercing through the towering skyscrapers, trying to find his way in.

Tower cranes at a construction site began to sweep away the clouds like giant windshield wipers.
At 8 o'clock, time whispered to the sun to lift the smog’s veil.
The lazy sun obliged—an hour late—and finally said ‘hello’ to metro life, beginning its office hours.

But what’s least expected in a supposedly educated cosmopolitan — road rage — is ironically its most regular affair. In a city where the most-heard phrase is “Chill maadi, bro”, I’ve rarely seen anyone even remotely calm during rush hour.

The ‘heroes’ on two-wheelers seem to go colorblind the moment they spot a traffic light. Red and yellow suddenly look green to them. (Researchers should really investigate this mysterious syndrome.)
The traffic laws? Seems like the government itself has forgotten what it once drafted in them.

And yet, this city isn’t just home to us—it belongs just as much to Gajalakshmi, the stray mother dog, who braves its chaos each day to feed her little ones.

Her pups under an abandoned vintage car on the side of the road are hungry.
Wondering how she finds food?
Like an oasis in the desert, kind-hearted souls occasionally visit the bakery across the road and toss her a few buns or biscuits. But to reach them, Gajalakshmi must perform a task harder than rescuing Sita from The Lanka— cross the death trap we call a road.

She waits on the pavement, hopeful that the traffic might pause for her.
But before she can take a step, massive machines barrel down the sidewalk, honking mercilessly at her.
She backs off.
Her puppies begin to cry — and I, a human, couldn’t tell if it was hunger or the fear of losing their mother that made them wail.

Gajalakshmi tries again.

She’s almost lost hope — until an unexpected angel appears.
A woman, with a school bag on her shoulder, balancing an infant on her hip, holds the hand of her 6-year-old daughter on the other hand is the lunch bag, rushing to drop her off at school.
The woman waits patiently for the signal to turn red.
It’s terrifying to cross the road — but for Gajalakshmi, this stranger is her chance at survival.

As the signal turns, the mother steps forward, and Gajalakshmi hurries to match her pace.
Suddenly — a biker comes hurtling from nowhere, screeching to a halt just inches from the woman.

The lunchbox slips from her hand, crashes onto the road, and the contents spill, rolling straight into a pothole. The only ingredient in that meal — a mother’s love — now lies wasted, and wounded.

Gajalakshmi leaps away in panic.

The child screams, clutching her mother tightly.
The biker speeds off, disappearing before the woman can even register what happened.
Thankfully, everyone is safe — even Gajalakshmi.
A few pedestrians and riders yell at the biker. But most remain indifferent. They belong to the same tribe, after all.

The mother picks up the tiffin box, dusts it off, and rushes ahead.
As they reach the other side, the signal turns green, and the impatient orchestra of honking begins. No driver waits. They demand back the four feet of space the mother dared to borrow.
She doesn’t want to own the road. She only wanted to cross it.

With a sigh of relief, the mother reaches the bakery. Gajalakshmi waits nearby, eyes filled with cautious hope.

“Anna, eradu buns kodi,” she asks the bakery man. (Brother! give me two buns)
Her child tugs her kurta, “Amma, jam beku.” (Mom, I want jam.)
“Haage, eradu jam packet,” she adds with a tired smile. (Also, two jam sachets please)

As the child stares at Gajalakshmi, the mother notices the dog's pleading eyes.
“Anna, ondu bun extra kodi.” (Brother! One more bun, please.)

The child throws it gently toward Gajalakshmi.
With grateful eyes and a humble bow, Gajalakshmi picks up the bun and trots back toward the road, hoping another angel will help her cross once more.

The child smiles and turns toward her mother.

Just then — a shriek of brakes tears through the signal. It was red.

Startled, the little girl turned without meaning to. Her face shrank in horror. Her eyes shut tightly, instinctively protecting her from the sight she never wished to carry in her memory.
Her mother pulled her close, arms wrapping around like a shield.

The child trembled in silence, her little body unable to process the brutality of what had just unfolded.

A few metres away, unnoticed by most, a bun lay on the road — the very bun that moments ago brought a tail-wagging joy to Gajalakshmi.
Now, it was soaked in a slow, crimson stream.
Blood flowed from the unmoving figure of another creature — perhaps a stray, perhaps a human — blurred into a forgotten statistic by the city's indifference.

The bun… once a symbol of mercy, now soaked in tragedy.
The street had eaten another life. And no one stopped.

In the distance, an ambulance siren wailed — not in urgency, but as if in mourning.

And then, like a gentle whisper above the chaos:

“Time may not hold everything, and everything may not wait for everyone.”

- Marvin Dilip Dsouza