Nothing to do with weeks of carnage, but one afternoon in Ahmedabad, I stumble on an exclamation point to two depressing Gujarat days. On my way to lunch, a white Indica accidentally, gently, nudges my rickshaw from behind. Too mild a bump to have damaged car or rickshaw, so we keep going. But the Indica has other ideas. Seconds later, he forces us off the road. The driver bounds out. Shiny shoes, creased trousers, buttoned sleeves, a hint of CK One: the picture of a successful 30-year-old executive. His face, though, is twisted with rage. He advances on my driver, an older man, shouting angrily that he had beeped his horn at us thrice. They abuse each other loudly, lewdly.
I try to pacify them. The Indica man seems to calm down. Then, without warning, he races back to his car and pulls out just the fine car accessory you might have expected—a long, sturdy lathi. Before I can say a word, he brings it down violently on my driver's forearm. So hard that the lathi actually breaks in two. He leaps into his Indica and is gone. Blood flowing from his arm, my driver doubles over in pain. A curious child picks up the broken lathi. People stare and grin and move on. I stand there in the sun, horrified, speechless.
