Doug Defies Death in Dehra Dun

The sun is slipping slowly toward the horizon. The air is sweet and still.
“Would you like to visit Dehra Dun, Doug? I am going to the Centrum to buy a new cell phone and you could see the sights downtown,” says Uncle George, our host. I think I detect a bit of slyness in his broad smile.
But Doug sees none of this subtlety. He nods his head, “all eager for the treat—his face is washed, his clothing brushed, his sandals clean and neat.” (Apologies to Lewis Carroll here.)
We buckle up in the tiny van, Johnson the driver. Uncle George and I are in back. Doug is in shotgun—to get the full effect of the terror he is soon to experience.
The Shahastrada Road to town is busy. Cows and dogs, people walking along the edge, cycles zipping along, cars, trucks, and buses. Johnson weaves noisily through the traffic, sharpening his skills for what lies ahead.
As we near downtown Dehra Dun, tensions mount. The ever present honking of horns rises in a great crescendo, like the squawking of a million seagulls at a landfill.
Uncle George repeats an Indian slogan—you can drive without wheels, but not without a horn.
Here we are at a parking lot, where we dicker over which patch of dirt we will occupy among the crazy quilt “patterns” of lined up vehicles.
On foot now, Johnson eases us into the fray as we jostle our way along the edge of the pavement, all the sidewalks being crammed with packing boxes, goods for sale and shoppers browsing at windows. Uncle finds his shop, where he will spend a half hour selecting his new cell phone. In this period of time he relates later how the clerks (in the upstairs of this hole-in-the-wall shop) sold five or six phones. The Indian economy is brisk in places like this, helping to float the world economy while Uncle Sam struggles.
Doug Johns and I stand on the sidewalk. Some kids are watching a flat screen TV at the appliance store. Smack Down is on—that totally fake stage play featuring brawny “wrestlers.” I will say to their credit that it is obvious they have practiced their stunts and grimaces with diligence. This shop, Doug notices, is about five feet wide and tapers about 20 feet to the end of the building. It has goods hanging from the walls, lining the aisle—enough to fill a spacious section in an American mall.
I turn to see that Doug—this Presbyterian pastor from Canada and once a pastor at West Congregational in Haverhill—is trying to photograph a telephone pole. He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” A rat's nest of wires sprouts from the top, lining off in every direction to deliver power to the sprawling cubbyholes below.
Meanwhile on the street moves a steady stream of everything imaginable. The din of horns is deafening. Some must turn in this jungle of flotsam to head off on one of the five roads that converge here. Cars, cycles, and trucks lurch a few feet to gain a few yards, like a running back churning his way downfield. It is dark now. Some have no lights—but why let that bother you? We have been here nearly half an hour and there has not been one break in the flow of traffic—none. It’s like the waters of Niagara splashing noisily toward the plunging falls.
Ah! Here’s Uncle with his new phone in hand—finally.
“Would you like to take a few minutes to see the bazaar across the square?” I notice that sly grin once again.
“O yes!” Doug says.
“OK, just stay right behind Johnson!”
Off we go. Into the white water of traffic we plunge. Johnson has a long stride. So I fall in behind, trying to match his steps. Thread your way through the jungle. Cyclists honk as we cut them off. Our hands push the cars back, so to speak. I learn to walk across the traffic while brushing against the rear of the vehicle ahead, since other motorists, miraculously, seem never to actually strike the read end of whatever is in front of them.
Why not wait for an opening, instead of taking your life in your hands like this, you ask? You will stand on the curb forever, that’s why.
We make it to the bazaar—a street blocked to cars and buses. I take a deep breath. It’s wall-to-wall people on foot, but we have cheated death to reach this oasis of safety.
But wait. Where is Doug and Uncle George? Ah! Here they come. Doug, are you OK? His pink face seems a few shades paler. He is shaking his head, wide-eyed.
“I’ve never seen anything like this! I can’t believe we made it through. This is unbelievable. I’ve just defied death on the streets of Dehra Dun. No one at home is going to believe me!”
Maybe you won’t get to tell them about it, say I, helpfully. We have to make it back across. What’s the chances of our doing that?
After gawking at the street vendors roasting peanuts or selling treats, backed up by gaudily lighted shops with wares from “Bangles Galore” (sounds like an Indian city 200 miles to the south) to trendy outfits (western styles are invasive here among the younger set) to rugs and house wares—you name it.
Well—it’s time to defy death one more time. Can you handle it?
“Is there a choice?” Doug asks.
Actually… no. What goes east must go west, unless we wait until midnight and walk 6 miles to the college.
“Now you have experienced India.”
Uncle smiles that satisfied sly smile again.