The car had been there with me for about 4 years. It's a very white, very proper car. Looks good on the road. I keep it clean, and in turn, it makes me look good in it. There is an agreement. I keep you, you keep me.
In the past four years, the car has been bruised about 8 times. The wound is generally attended to in a day, with a lot of sensitivity and care. Akbar, my close friend, is one of the best denter painter in town. He talks to the car, and the car allows Akbar to heal it.
There are other cars on the road. Rogue cars. Cars that try to run down this car. Cars that jump signals and come crashing on this car's fenders. Cars that overtake on steep turns and force this car on to strange walls. The car has been assaulted eight times. The car protests each time. It protests with a strange silence that follows each assault. I think the car talks to Akbar of how it feels. With me, it is silent.
Victims of an inhuman race of rogue cars on indian roads, I think the car and I share the same indignity of being, by just being on the road. In each assault, I and the car is united in our agreement. You hurt, I hurt. We both go to Akbar.