It happened one night.

Within a span of two hours this evening:

I scrambled off the bus with my laptop bag and groceries as it began moving when I was barely on the bottom step.  I crossed through heavy traffic heading to my apartment.

Two men on a motorbike called out to me and made kissing noises as they passed by.  I glared at them using my worst possible face as they slowed to a stop ahead of me on the busy street, looking back at me.  As I approached them I waved my arm and yelled out, “Get out of here! And don’t talk to me!” They sped off.

At home, I grabbed our gas canister – I told you about this thing, right? – and headed back out to get it refilled.  As I waited for the gas man to check the new tank for gas leaks by lighting a match near the valve, I took closer notice of the raucous over my shoulder. 

A passel of men were standing in the bed of a truck, and five or six on the ground.  People were yelling – I knew they were yelling because the gas man glanced in their direction as well (sometimes it’s hard to tell if people are yelling or simply speaking emphatically).  I kept a careful eye and asked the gas man if everything was alright.  He said, “ok, ok,” but I still am not convinced.

Walking back toward Naveen’s vegetable stand, gas canister in hand, another man on a motorbike asked if I needed help carrying it.  “No. I am fine, thanks,” I replied without looking him in the eye, making sure not to smile.

Vegetables bought, I arrived home to my quiet apartment to cook dinner.

Yes, my quiet apartment.  Remember when I thought this place was little respite from the cacophony of India?  That was over seven months ago.

Time marches on.  This evening was not stressful or abnormal. It simply happened.