Life On The Edge

by Yahya Akkeri (Tunisia)

A leap into the unknown India

"Why is she driving on the edge of the road?" It was 2 am, we had just got off the plane and hopped on a pre-paid taxi. The road was wide and rather empty at this time of the day, but our driver, for unknown reasons, was always driving outside of the lane. "Living that edge", Hanaka joked as I shot the first video in India. Little did I know that that joke was a premonition of the first 24-hour in India. We got into the city 30 minutes later. There were many new buildings under construction, while many more have been abandoned altogether or already mottled with time, the rain, and the smoke. When we made a turn onto the main street, there it was – a Tuk Tuk. “Oh my God, I finally see the first Tuk Tuk in my life”, I cried, as if my life is complete, and there is nothing else I want to see for myself. I knew it was probably my 15-year-old self speaking. That’s when I read a book about India and fell in love with it ever since. Then, we got to the hostel. The security guard and the bell boy insisted that they want to take our luggage for us. Surprised and almost flattered, in 10 seconds, we already got everything off the taxi and were already heading towards the reception desk. I looked back to the taxi driver, nodded and smiled to thank her for the ride. She wobbled her head and smiled back. “She is beautiful”, I thought to myself. The hostel looks so good. I love that apartment. Well, some parts look old, but it should be fine. Do you know how to turn on the hot water? Can you come help me with the hot water? It should come out soon, sir. It is not coming out. 3:45 am. Good night. The next morning, I woke up to the engine of cars, or perhaps motorcycle rumbling from few streets away and the nonstop honks coming from everywhere. 8:35 am. I tried the hot water again. Maybe I can be cooking breakfast when I wait for the hot water to come out in the coming 10 days. An egg and some bacon would be good. They probably don’t have bacon here because it’s pork. I will open the French window and listen to the city getting ready for the day. The hot water finally came out. 8:55 am. Morning my dear. Do I want to get some food with room service? Of course, it’s so cheap. Egg masala sounds good for breakfast. Let’s go out for a bit? Sure. The streets were crazy. On our way to the money exchange shop, we were honked at least 500 times, pull each other to the side of the street 20 times, thought we would get hit 10 times and almost stepped on cow dung once. Buses do not have doors and do not really stop at the bus stop. Auto (Tuk Tuk) drivers slow down next to you and ask with their stare, “come in, sir.” Motorcycle drivers pass through with one hand on the throttle and the other on their phones. Car drivers try to speed up, but always slowed down by the motorcycles or autos weaving through the street. Most men dressed up in western clothes – jeans, shirts, suits, leather jackets. Only few of them, mostly old men, wear shorts and Dhoti. They tend to look somewhat bony and not energetic. Women usually go with Saree. However, contrary to the colorful, bright, and vibrant look that we associate saree with, theirs seem to have discolored with time and dust. One time, when a woman in saree walked by, the hustle and the bustle disappeared for a split second, and felt like I have barged into a move that is set in the 50s or longer ago. I kept on walking. 6:20 pm. It was rush hour already. The honking, the rumbles of the engines, and the squeak of breaks continue. I looked at the stagnated traffic. Life on the edge… I thought as smile wistfully before turning my back against the crowd and going into the hostel.