I’d like to share an incident that happened with me this morning, at about 9.00 AM in Bangalore. To give you a bit of history, I was on the way back to Bangalore, a fourteen-hour bus journey from a little town called Manchakal in Dakshin Karnataka, via Belmannu, Mangalore, Hassan, Kunigal and Nelamangala. To give you a few facts, I was starved, surviving on a lone Mangalore bottle of Thumsup that I picked up in a hurry - not Akshay Kumarlike, but hurry it was - and I had seat number 22W booked for me. ‘W’ stands for Window, and 22 stands for the last-but one seat in a bus that drove through some of the worst roads known to mankind. Needless to say, my body went flying on many occasions - suspended in mid-air for a bit - before it landed back on the seat, almost every time the bus driver gave up on slowing down before potholes. Every time it landed safely, I’d gasp an ‘oh’, say three ‘Hail-Mary’s, and then go back to listening Eminem curse America on the iPod.

So, here I am, back in smokey, chilly Bangalore. Dressed to counter Mangalore’s sizzling heat, so the teeth are chattering in frosty fright. I’m all cranky, I haven’t slept well and my back has been through the mill. I hop out of the bus at Yeshwantpur (The driver told me that he’ll “stop” at Yeshwantpur, but he ended up slowing down just enough for me to jump out of the bus whilst in motion, almost as if I were auditioning for a junior 007’s role in the next Bond flick). I arrive - on my feet, mercifully - and I look around for a rickshaw. Along he comes, greets me with thirty-one teeth and beckons me into his metallic three-wheeled excuse for a ride.

The distance is hardly eight kilometers, and surely it wouldn’t cost more than fifty rupees. Matching the absurdity of rents in Bangalore, dude in rickshaw whispers - and I managed to catch it in spite of my plight - a figure. 100 rupees. What was he driving, a rickshaw or a Concorde? Lucky for him, this year, I don’t curse, although he pushed his luck.

I walked out of the rick, still cranky, half-sleepy. Mumbled some random Kannada words which repeatedly questioned the existence of meters. At the mention of the word ‘meter’ - which, for a rickshaw driver equates to profane verbiage in rickshawtongue - he flinched, did a double-take, and then resorted to negotiation.

‘One and a half, sir’.

‘No.’ I was yawning, because of sleep, but it seemed to him that I was bored from his talk already. Good.

‘Twenty rupees extra sir’.

‘No.’ Threw in another yawn. In his face, and this time I didn’t bother stifling it either. Let Satan enter and exit as He wills.

‘Sir, fuel prices have increased’.

And then I let it all out. Fury that Yeshwantpur might have rarely seen from a normal citizen. Not-so-politely, I did remind him - and a crowd of about twenty rickshawdrivers who easily outnumbered me - that they went on a strike few days ago. That there are better ways of demanding better fares. That I don’t subscribe to their half-baked stupid ideology, that they should’ve protested when fuel rates went up, that they have always managed to survive with the high fuel rates, and that if they want to extract more money from passengers then the strike was meaningless. Because they’re getting overpaid anyway - by demanding such fares. And saying that, I walked away in a hurry. Where to - I didn’t know.

Until another rickshaw guy came running along, asking me where I wanted to be dropped. ‘Chinnappa Gardens’, I replied loudly, in absolute pride, as if it were the Palace and I was King Wodeyar myself. He nodded his head and walked away, beckoning towards his ride.

‘Not a single rupee more!’ I shouted, and he kept nodding. True to his word, the guy dropped me at my doorstep, and I paid him the fare to the exact rupee. I got out, he drove off. Transaction complete and that’s how it ought to be.

I used to have pity at times, but when I see a majority of them drowned in their booze, ruining their families, they don’t deserve it. So, these days, I give some stick back. And I hope the rest of the city does that too.

It’s about time they behave. And it’s no coincidence that I’ve filed this post under ‘terrorism’.