Traffic rules for dummies

It's a mystery. Figuring out how the traffic lights work this side of the Mithi River (Yes, Mumbai actually has a river or two running through it, courtesy third grade geography lessons ? and no, they are not completely sludge-ridden) is almost as intriguing as trying to figure out which of the strangers on the street are certifiably insane or just pretending.

At one massive junction near Andheri railway station, we were in a bus and the lights directly across shone green on the straight arrow and green for the right arrow. Amazingly no one in our section moved either forward or right.

All lanes remained revving. This is not strange the revving I mean. No matter how long it takes, all vehicles rev even while faced with a ten minute red light. Strange though was the movement of traffic from our right.

Like diabolical beings escaping from Pandora's box to wreak havoc in the world, they streamed onwards and to their right. A quick glance to my left, that is their traffic light, (try and stay with me, here) showed a red light.

Either I had rapidly turned colour-blind or there was something I was missing. I decided to ask someone.

A fellow passenger turned, shrugged and told me something about not needing to worry about lights as long as I wasn't driving. Cold, clear logic at its best.

Logic is a wonderful gift intrinsic to the locals. Take the malnutritioned, lice-ridden lady with the crimson skirt, striding down one of our tree-shaded lanes.

She works her way through a vociferous monologue on the many imperfections of the male race when she catches sight of my sons following meekly behind me.

Zeroing in on them, she shakes her head, waves a long twig at them as if to strike, but stops short and settles on a lecture about the importance of virtue. Sam and Victor looked like they had seen a ghost.

I was mercifully saved the prospect of a road-side brawl and had my lecture delivered for me. So much for the methods of madness.

Another one of our neighbours spouts Shakespearean quotations from the corner shrine.

This lady is homeless, well-nourished to the point of being portly, grey-haired, arrayed in sack cloth or sacks and speaks impeccable English.

A woman of mystery, this is the kind of person who has obviously had an interesting past, someone worth interviewing. Only her vile and unpredictable temper holds me back.

She is prone to outbursts of loud and distinctly unladylike language when approached by strangers the same kind of language employed by autorickshaw drivers against the drivers of bullying, fancy cars.

I confess to being no expert on the local lingo, but I managed to catch something about insects and references to certain parts of the human anatomy, once. Lovely.

It happened while waiting on a side road joining into a main road. As far as I could see, there were no traffic lights, but each lane on either side of us and my own auto-driver were all patiently revving and inching towards a quarter of the yellow box area.

As if in response to an invisible green light in the sky, we all lurched forward. A black four-wheel drive vehicle almost shaved my auto's side.

Words, the stuff about insects and others, were yelled and moments later everyone continued on their merry ways. Another normal day in the city.

In Mumbai, road rage is passe. What you have is passion ? road passion. Now, if only I could figure out how the traffic lights really worked.