Sorigi-fying*

*Sorigi-fying: Ancient Tamil expression for the act of squeezing an automobile into spaces that defy the laws of physics.

The sky was a crispy crimson
As a burning dawned from far,
The highway was a flat mirror
With lanes for eleven cars.

The breeze was a violent whisper,
Forced through hills on either side,
As our Hero checked his armour
And journeyed on a ride…

The traffic was light and easy,
For the people were not yet woke,
Except a beemer in the distance
With a driver clearly gone rogue.

His father, he fathom’d, was royalty,
With riches past his term,
So bequeathed his life’s earnings
To what was once his sperm.

“Don’t sorigi-fy, Oh Highness”,
All Hero could do was pray.
“The highway is wide and majestic
For the both of us to stay”.

The son came careening closer
Too cool to shift a lane
But as Hero swayed over, he noticed
A smile beneath that mane.


Off, he went, the highway,
Into a quieter back road.
Sure, there were bumps and breakers,
But fewer jerks on Fords.

The path was a tiny walkway,
Just wide enough to stay
Without falling in the ditches,
But even that was covered in hay.

Close enough, he saw it — 
A purple painted bus,
With two wheels on the tarmac
And two wheels streaming dust…

“Don’t sorigi-fy, you monster”,
Screamed our scared little hero.
“I’d let you go in a minute…
 here, the pass is just too narrow”

Of course, the driver had a purpose
And all the requisite skill
To get to the town in time
No matter who he’d have to kill.

As our Hero dove to the sidelines 
Risked drowning in paddy and hay,
Looking to what almost killed him
To the driver — ’twas just another day


The sun was a blazing red,
The clock ticked half past noon,
As he crossed the gates to the city
He’d reach his destiny soon.

The populace, though, was ready
Standing shoulder to shoulder
Adding heat from their bodies and engines
The traffic might’ve well been a boulder.

Yet through the noise and chaos,
Like a fly carrying out its duty,
Came the music of hundred cubic centimeters 
Of an angry TVS Scooty.

Dressed head-to-toe like a ninja
Except a slit for eyes,
As she cut through truck and traffic
She didn’t pretend to be nice…

“Don’t sorigi-fy, my princess”,
Came Hero’s pathetic appeal…
“It’s not like you’ll cover distance
By scraping off my steel”.

The scooter went on its manoeuvre
Claiming every inch of reach,
As plastic scraped through metal
In a final ominous screech.

Our Hero lifted his visor
As she drove through debris.
The ninja waved her left palm
As a truly heart-felt sorry.


The road came by a crossing,
As roads are wont to do.
Our Hero waited for his passing
But the tide of traffic grew…

Minutes passed to hours
And hours eventually to days,
But nought was a gap forming
Not even a tiny maze…

He might have waited forever
But chance and luck agreed
Through a divine autorickshaw
Black, Yellow and wheels three.

“Please sorigi-fy, my Master
And clear me a path
For You are the God of Sorigi-ing
And I shall follow your aftermath.”

The auto inched forward
Graceful was his glide
His wheel cut through like razor
And our Hero, too, sorigi-fied.

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