racecar

Then, waiting at a red light in separate rickshaws, my friend Anand and I reach across a lane of traffic to bump fists.

“Let’s fist bump, I love you man!” we cry gaily to each other.

The motorcyclist between us glares through his visor back at Anand, then around to the other side at me.

“You’re right, I gotta stay in Pune this weekend!” I yell into my cell phone like a general in the heat of battle. “What was I thinking?”

Through both eyes I see my buddy shouting and smiling out of the rickshaw, mirroring me. Through one ear I hear real Anand, voice drowning at sea; through the other I hear loud cell phone Anand, voice bobbing afloat. My real voice launches ambitiously towards him but fizzles and dies prematurely, disintegrated by the smelly vibrating clamor of motors. My cell phone voice carries. Despite being ten feet away from each other and looking into each other’s eyes, we both stay on the phone. I lean out and yell to him, he leans out and yells to me – two people, four voices.

Anand’s rick has pulled up and stopped next to ours, a few meters away, motorcycles revving between us.

I’m taking mental bullets of epiphany. “When I return, they’ll be gone.” I only have a week left with my closest friends in India, before we all go home or off to find ourselves up North.

“This is our last weekend together! Sam, bloody hell!” Anand yells over the smog and jackhammer din of a rickshaw, “You know I’m leaving for up North before you get back! See, Anita’s telling me you’re planning on going to Hampi this weekend! Heyyy,” It’s Anand! My phone rings.

We launch into oncoming lanes and regain the lead, hollering and waving as we drive by. Their rickshaw zooms off before ours can start. Obviously it’s a race. Anand and Anita hop in one rickshaw, Phoebe and I in the one right behind. It’s another great day leaving the office with friends.

[rewind sentence by sentence]