Nothing drives home the hard realities of retired life than the transition from moving around in the comforts of a chauffeur-driven car to coping with the countless threats to life and limb in your own self-driven vehicle in the merry mayhem that’s Chennai traffic. Born and raised in this city when it went by the name Madras, I had rashly assumed that my native sense would see me through the ordeal without much effort. I could not have been more wrong.

Trying to adjust to this chaos saw my reactions change from righteous anger to irritation and, finally, benign acceptance of the inevitable. Not long ago, inspired by a TV programme called Built to Kill, which vividly described the fascinating ways in which members of the animal world stalk and hunt their prey, I discovered that there is no better antidote to frayed nerves than letting your imagination soar into the world of fantasy, Walter Mitty style. So here is a quick tour of the wild life of Chennai.

Behold the Lord of this Metro Jungle: the inimitable MTC bus. Truly the monarch of the City’s roads, it sets its own rules and is not deterred by minor impediments like traffic signals, lane discipline and emission control, which are meant only for lesser species. As it takes its majestic strides along the city’s roads, it suddenly stops wherever it pleases, not necessarily at prescribed spots. Perhaps that was why the bus-stop signboards of yesteryears were embellished with an exclamation mark.

Several varieties of big cats can be seen on the Chennai roads. The pride of place no doubt goes to the Chennai tiger, generically known as SUVs. If there is one species that can give the MTC lion ‘a run for its money’, it is the SUV tiger. Closely related to this species are the equally ferocious leopard, the cheetah and the puma – the fascinating variety of goods transport vehicles, which come in all sizes and shapes, three- and four-legged. They are particularly dangerous as they can attack, that too when could be least imagined or expected, without any provocation or warning.

The autorickshaw is the City’s own version of the proverbially cunning specie, fox. Capable of turning within a radius shorter than its length, like a dog chasing its own tail, it dances its way, now overtaking, now dodging, now suddenly swerving to the left, now to the right, vehicles to the rear be damned. When challenged, it spews the choicest abuse in typical Madras Tamil, a unique but very effective, protective mechanism for survival.

Then there are majestic wild horses, comely deer and graceful antelope – the fast proliferating variety of cars. There is an unspoken class system amongst them, with the species of foreign origin turning up their noses on the locals and the bigger ones trying to edge out the pygmies. Not for them the minor irritants like speed limits. Big or small, of late, they have all learnt to sound their multilingual mating calls, ranging from Sare Jahan Se Achcha and Vande Mataram to Happy Birthday to You and the plaintive Snehidhane, while moving backwards – a veritable musical celebration of progress in the reverse.

The jungles (sorry, roads) of Chennai reportedly have the largest population of two-wheelers amongst all the metros in this country. Though more primitive forms of this species can be seen in other metros and towns, the Chennai variety is unique. They defy specific classification in the animal world as they combine the ubiquitousness of the cockroach, the silky smoothness of the snake, and the quick-silver agility of the ape, rushing from right to left or left to right, squeezing through the smallest openings available. They are particularly adept in pouncing from a side lane on to the main road, looking neither to the left nor the right, exhibiting great courage.

In this exotic jungle, you can also spot the elephant (overladen trucks), the rhino (bullock carts), the hyena (fishcarts) and a variety of reptiles (cycles, bi- and tri-). Of course, at the bottom of this fascinating zoological chain are the crawling insects and the worms – you guessed right, the pedestrians.

Watching benignly over the adventures of this panorama of wild life is the hapless game warden, the traffic policeman, who is just that – a very game warden who ignores most of the minor transgressions (and a few major ones) of his frolicking wards.

And so the fascinating chaos goes on.

Over the years, Chennai traffic had evolved its own special brand of inter-species communication, elevating it to a high art of verbal and, sometimes, gesticulatory oneupmanship. For example, before the more violent forms of road rage became fashionable, a disgruntled driver would jab his hand at an intruding cyclist or pedestrian, accompanied by the classic taunt: “En..ya. Veettiley sollittu vandhirukkiya?”, which translates roughly into ‘Hey you! Did you bid farewell to your people at home and come out on the road to see your Maker?’ The object of this reprimand, far from displaying any contrition, would usually thumb his nose or show some other defiant or obscene gesture. Sadly, today, with the proliferation of airconditioned vehicles with closed, tinted windows and with everyone being too busy even to exchange a round of abuse, opportunities for such nuanced interactions are limited.

I wonder what good old Swaminathan (our family car driver, may his soul rest in peace) who taught me driving would have done had he been around now. He would surely have quit driving. In the comparative tranquillity of Madras of the 1950s and 60s, he strictly observed a self-imposed speed restriction of 15 to 20 mph, even if he had the whole road to himself. He would fix any driver who honked and overtook him with a cold, contemptuous stare. Perhaps what he and men of his rare tribe – not so rare those days – conveyed through their driving was that good traffic discipline, like good manners, is made up of petty sacrifices.

I was jolted out of my reverie by the symphony of horns announcing the glad tidings of a red signal turning green. I instinctively cursed the turtle (handcart) in front for obstructing my instant take-off. An SUV tiger in my rear growled loudly displaying its impatience. For it, I was the turtle.

Which made me philosophical. What right have I to complain about poor Muniswamy pulling his fully laden handcart barefoot in the scorching heat, to earn an honest living? After all, Chennai traffic, like death, is a great leveller.