The Invisible Zebra

Bala reached the crossing carrying a cloth bag and the reasonable wish to get to the other side. The markings were faded enough that he looked carefully at the road rather than assuming the paint would manage the task for him.

A car slowed and stopped appropriately. The driver, Mrs Rao, gestured politely for him to proceed when safe. Bala raised his hand in thanks, checked the other movements and waited because the complete situation was not yet clear.

Mrs Rao waved again, meaning she was happy to wait.

Bala waved back, meaning he appreciated that.

Both remained where they were.

For several seconds, the exchange looked like a friendship developing without any useful transport outcome. Mrs Rao smiled. Bala smiled. A man near the corner watched with the interest of somebody who had accidentally found live theatre on the way to buy milk.

Bala took a small step towards the crossing, checked again and waited. He did not assume that one person’s kindness made the entire road safe. Mrs Rao stayed still rather than inching forward and making her intention less clear.

This was all sensible. The amount of hand movement was becoming less so.

An elderly woman beside Bala asked, “Crossing?”

“Yes.”

“Then why so much greeting?”

He laughed and explained that the driver was being considerate, but he was checking the rest of the road. The woman nodded. She had no objection to patience. She simply preferred it without a full farewell ceremony.

They waited for the appropriate safe opportunity and used the crossing together. Bala kept his attention on the traffic, moved predictably and reached the other side without turning the moment into a race. Mrs Rao waited until they were clear before continuing safely.

As he stepped onto the pavement, Bala offered one final thank-you gesture.

The elderly woman looked at him.

“Last one,” he promised.

They both laughed. She went towards the pharmacy. He went towards the vegetable shop, where he discovered he had become so involved in the crossing that he had forgotten which two items his wife had requested.

He called her from a safe place on the pavement, clear of the doorway. She reminded him: tomatoes and onions. He repeated the list, not because it was complicated but because the morning had already demonstrated the limits of communication by intention alone.

At the shop, the owner asked why he was smiling. Bala described the polite standoff. The owner said he once spent several minutes holding a door for a customer who was waiting outside for someone else. They agreed that courtesy worked best when paired with a small amount of shared information.

At the vegetable shop, Bala demonstrated the wave to the shopkeeper, who immediately offered him coriander. “That is not what it means,” Bala said. “Here it does,” the man replied. Bala bought some anyway. By the time he reached home, his story involved three gestures, two interpretations and a perfectly unnecessary bunch of leaves. His wife listened patiently, then requested that future onion instructions be communicated using the ordinary shopping list.

Bala bought the vegetables, checked the list and walked home using the appropriate route. At the crossing again, he waited patiently, kept the gestures brief and crossed only when it was safe. The second attempt involved less theatre and the same amount of care.

His wife met him at the door and asked whether the shopping had been straightforward.

“Mostly. I made a temporary road friend.”

“Name?”

“No name. Excellent manners.”

She looked at the vegetables. “Did your friend help with the onions?”

“Only indirectly.”

That evening, Bala told the story to his grandson, who acted out both roles in the living room. The child waved one toy car through, then waved it back, then asked why nobody knew whose turn it was.

Bala nodded.

“Exactly. Clear signals help.”

The grandson placed a little crossing beside the toy road.

“Then start here.”

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