I had meant: Don't fine him. But what came out was: Don't give him. I had accused the driver of something. I had become the enemy.
He nodded. And for the first time, he didn't hear an accent. He just heard a destination. caught in hindi
The rickshaw started again. The driver didn't thank me. He just drove. And I sat in the back, caught in Hindi — not the language of my mother, not the language of my degree, but the language of the road where every wrong word costs you more than money. I had meant: Don't fine him
I checked my watch. The interview was in twenty minutes. My polished English, my corporate jargon, my entire vocabulary of "synergy" and "deliverables" — none of it could fix a flat tire. I leaned out. "How long?" I asked, my accent crisp, sharp as a new banknote. I had become the enemy