Delhi Street Talk: Horn and Bell
Last year, I returned to Delhi after a two year stay in my hometown of Portland, Oregon. Portland is a small city that takes itself very seriously. Among other things, Portlanders are proud of their public transportation, their parks, and the fact that they host the ‘World Naked Bike Ride’ every summer. I’ve never cycled naked, but I was proud to be one of the six percent of Portlanders who cycle to work each day. At a party just before leaving, I found myself promising a group of friends that I would spend my first year back in Delhi commuting by cycle, bus and Metro. I said I might even write a book about what I learned. I wasn’t serious, of course, but they believed me.
I’m not sure about the book yet, but I mostly kept my word about my commute. During my first year back,I kept track of every one of the 5,200 kilometers I traveled to and from work. In all, I cycled 1823 km, I rode 1401 km on the Delhi Metro, and I boarded 237 DTC buses. I took an auto or a taxi from time to time, but I traveled over 80 percent of my commuter miles by foot, bus, Metro or cycle. In my spare time, I read books, news reports, court documents and research papers about the serious things experts write about transportation: how people die on our roads; what makes our air so unhealthy; the history of the old Blueline bus fleet.
I won’t go into that stuff here, since those things require footnotes, which are serious in a traditional way, and this is a magazine that aims to explore less traditional forms of seriousness.
But I did learn a few things that don’t require footnotes. Things that don’t find a place in traditional discussions of transportation, but which are nonetheless important to people who travel on city streets. Today, I’ll tell you about one of them: the wordless language spoken on the roads of Delhi.
When I talk to myself — as most cyclists do — I refer to this language as Horn and Bell. Horn and Bell is not related linguistically to any of the official Indian languages — or to any other language that uses words, for that matter. It has a wide vocabulary and a basic grammar, but at root it is a language of pragmatics: context matters more than syntax and meaning takes precedence over music, though it seems strange to write that, since Horn and Bell is more musical than any spoken language I know of.
Rudimentary versions of Horn and Bell are spoken in all kinds of places, from Southern California expressways to winding roads high in the Himalayas. But nowhere is it as well developed as it is in Delhi. And anyone who knows Horn and Bell, and who gives a moment’s thought to the matter, will agree that The Earth Saviour’s well-intentioned ‘Don’t Honk’ bumper sticker campaign is not just silly, it is an attack on both road safety and freedom of expression.
Like any citizen of the modern world, I learned a few words of Horn and Bell at an early age: the emergency ‘OH NO, DON’T CRASH!’ and the rude blasts signaling, ‘GET OUTTA MY WAY, NOW!’ At candle light vigils and picket lines, I learned to distinguish between honks that meant, ‘Peace Brother!’, ‘SOLIDARITY FOREVER!’ and ‘SHUT UP, PINKO SCUM!’ But though I could understand these and a few other phrases, the dialect used in my home state was not well suited to the expression of complex ideas.
Cycling in Delhi has exponentially increased my language skills. I can now tell the difference between, ‘GET OUT OF MY WAY, MY CAR IS LARGE,’ ‘GET OUT OF MY WAY, MY CAR IS EXPENSIVE’ and ‘GET OUT OF MY WAY, THIS IS MY FATHER’S ROAD.’ Of course there are many other ways to be rude in Horn and Bell, and Delhi has a reputation for this kind of thing, which probably explains most of the knee-jerk calls for quieter roads in the capital. As with any language, those with the loudest voices tend to be the ones we remember. But if you slow down and listen, you’ll find that, reputation aside, much of the talking we do on Delhi roads is not only necessary, but also polite.
I first realized this when a car narrowly missed me and the cyclist I was following up the slip road that runs past the Hauz Khas metro station. Surprised and shaken, the first thought that came to mind was, ‘Hey guy, where was the warning toot-toot?’ Cycling in Delhi has given me a deep appreciation for the gentle tap or two that cars often use to signal their presence. I now understand these to mean something like, ‘Pardon me, sir, but I’ll be passing you, and I wanted you to know I’m watching out for your safety…’ or ‘You can’t see me, because I haven’t yet turned this corner, but please be aware that our paths may cross in a moment!’
Learning to speak Horn and Bell took some time. For a few months, I confess, I did a lot of unnecessarily loud ringing. I was trying to express something like, ‘HEY ALL YOU BIG VEHICLES, I’M COMING THROUGH, AND I EXPECT YOU WILL RESPECT MY RIGHT OF WAY.’ I later realized, that in most cases, I was really only talking to pedestrians and other cyclists, and that I was actually saying something like, ‘Side please! Side please! I’m faster than you, so move aside please!’ Not polite, but more annoyingly shrill than rude. It is difficult to be really rude in the Delhi sense of that word while ringing a cycle bell.
It’s common knowledge that pedestrians and cyclists, who are more likely to be poor, get the short end of the stick on Delhi’s roads when it comes to safety and respect. But my friend Sudhanva, a long-time Delhi cycle commuter, taught me that just because a car has a loud horn doesn’t mean you have to give it the last word. In addition to being a cyclist, Sudhanva is a an actor and director at a leftwing Delhi theatre company, so few people are better suited than he to understand the interaction of non-verbal communication and power relationships on Delhi roads — kinesics, proxemics, and praxis, you could say.
Sudhanva reminded me that the car that is blasting at you with a really loud horn is not the car you have to worry most about, because a honking car is aware you are there. Better to hold your ground than to be shoved to the edge of the pavement, where any number of hazards may lurk: open manhole covers, piles of rubble, sleeping dogs. Holding steady in that case is a quiet way of saying, ‘I know you have a big car, but I also know you can see me and are unlikely to run me down and risk the hassle that might entail, so have some patience, brother-in-law.’
I still have a lot to learn, but I am proud of how far I’ve come. With a gentle ping of my bell, I now know how to say, ‘Excuse me Auntie, I’m here on your right and don’t want to startle you’ or with a little more force, ‘Hey, bhaisaab, I’m just shadowing your auto as we pass through this intersection so as to avoid any misunderstandings with that line of cars eager to hang a right across our path.’ Or my favorite expression, rung in a chorus of other cyclists grouped at the front of a long line of vehicles: ‘Chalo, chalo! It’s our turn now and nothing can stop us, so as long as we stick together!’
Michael Creighton is a transportation-obsessed schoolteacher who lives in New Delhi with his partner and three kids. His poetry has appeared in various places, including Wasafiri, Mint Lounge, Pratilipi, and The Sunday Oregonian.