The Courteous Standoff

At 9:17 on a quiet Jayanagar morning, two cars met at a narrow section of lane and discovered that their drivers had been raised extremely well.

In the white hatchback sat Mr Raghavan, retired bank manager, balcony gardener, and a man who always offered the last vada even when he had specifically hoped to eat it. In the blue sedan sat Mrs Farida, school librarian, neighbourhood cake expert, and an equally formidable practitioner of “No, please, after you.”

Mr Raghavan lifted a hand, inviting her forward.

Mrs Farida smiled and waved him through instead.

Both remained exactly where they were.

At first, the exchange was charming. A vegetable seller arranging coriander nearby smiled at the civility. A pedestrian passed along the clear edge of the lane, nodding in appreciation. Bengaluru could use more patience, everyone silently agreed.

Then the courtesy entered its second minute.

Mr Raghavan pointed towards a small space behind his car to explain that he could wait. Mrs Farida interpreted this as information about a vehicle approaching behind him and waited more firmly. She pointed towards the entrance near her side. He thought she was warning him about somebody emerging.

They had now communicated enough incorrect information to support a small conference.

Behind Mr Raghavan, an auto stopped at a respectful distance. Its driver, Shankar, assessed the situation. There was room for one car at a time, and a straightforward way to resolve it. Unfortunately, neither participant appeared willing to win.

Shankar waited. He had seen arguments, stubbornness, and poor judgement. This was his first jam caused by competitive generosity.

Mrs Farida lowered her window. “Please come!”

Mr Raghavan lowered his. “No, no, you go!”

They smiled at each other with increasing determination. The vegetable seller put down his coriander. There were levels of politeness after which an observer began to feel personally trapped.

A courier arrived on foot carrying a parcel. He paused, checked an address, and asked Shankar what was happening. Shankar explained. The courier looked at the cars, then back at his phone.

“Can I deliver here and return?”

“Probably,” Shankar said.

On a nearby balcony, Mr Raghavan’s wife appeared with a watering can. She recognised her husband’s car and asked whether it had broken down.

“No,” he called. “I’m allowing madam.”

“I’m allowing sir,” Mrs Farida clarified.

His wife put down the watering can. She had lived with the vada situation for thirty-eight years and understood the scale of the problem.

Before she could intervene, a schoolgirl named Nethra came along the footpath with her grandmother. Nethra watched both drivers perform another round of hand signals. She looked up at her grandmother, who had started smiling already.

“Why aren’t they going?”

“Both are being kind.”

Nethra considered this. Then, from beside her grandmother and well clear of the cars, she called, “One uncle or aunty can please be kind second?”

Everyone heard. Shankar laughed. The vegetable seller laughed. Mr Raghavan’s wife laughed loud enough to startle a myna.

Mrs Farida pointed clearly to the space where she would wait and remained still. Mr Raghavan acknowledged her, checked the way ahead, and moved carefully through. The practical portion of the event took less than half a minute.

Once clear, he stopped only where it was appropriate and thanked her with a single, decisive wave. She returned exactly one wave. They had learned something about communication.

That evening, Mrs Farida sent over a small cake. Mr Raghavan brought the empty container back with homemade mixture. Neither wanted to accept the other’s final thank-you.

Nethra’s grandmother, witnessing this second standoff at the gate, quietly took the container inside.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.