Horn Engagement

Cycling in the UK is a quiet affair. I understand this now. If you are unfortunate, you will be on the receiving end of a horn from a grumpy driver. There will be the grumble of motors and occasional over-revv’d engine. In essence though, one only honks if absolutely necessary – and even then, it’s usually in an embarrassed sort of way.

Across many of the countries I have travelled the rules of horn engagement are different. From about Turkey onwards – taking in Georgia, Azerbaijan and Central Asia – horns are used much more regularly. However, they’re a helpful toot. They say “I’m coming up behind you, so don’t wobble out into the road.” I personally find that a helpful heads-up, and several times it’s meant I’ve reigned in the wobble just in time.

However, in India, the horn is a tool of aggression. It is like a sword brandished in front of you. Or better, a lance of a charging knight who will smite all who stand in his path. To understand its transformation, consider volume.

We don’t realise it, but not all horns are as loud as each other. Well, in the UK and the rest of the world, they are: a moderately loud beep. But in India they are not. People get their horns specially tuned up to be AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE. The result is that even a motorbike will give an ear-splitting blast that makes you duck your head and wince on the open road, and in a narrow side street makes you dive off the road into the chaiwallah or chaat cart in the gutter.

It doesn’t matter the mode of transport: motorbike, autorickshaw, bike, truck, bus or lorry – they all have a horn that makes puppies cover their tiny floppy ears in the next state.

Even this wouldn’t be so bad but for the frequency with which the lance is wielded. Horns are used for close overtakes, naturally. They are also used if overtaking in the adjacent (empty) lane. They are used if the next vehicle is 300 metres ahead. They are used if there are no other vehicles in sight.

And let’s be clear: a short blast won’t do. Any self-respecting hornblower in India must commit for a full five seconds (staccato, legato or semibreve is personal choice).  

Dev and I would be cycling along a two lane highway and a bus or bike would start screaming murder behind us as if it was about to uncontrollably crash into us. We would serve into the hard shoulder, expecting an overtake with centimetres to spare… only to discover the bus had happily roared past in the outer lane. Such moments put one in a fabulous mood. By the end of the day Dev and I would be clutching each other in a bunch of shredded nerves, somehow finding things to laugh about (hysterically) over our evening meal of channa, shahi paneer and roti.

There’s on final category of horn. The horn of the lorry. Clearly these guys need something to amuse them during their long hours behind the wheel because these merrily tootle all sorts simple tunes, almost like a nursery rhyme. From speakers the size of a door. I can only assume all lorry drivers in India are deaf owing to the frequency, length and loudness of their ‘musical instruments’. Maybe they should form a merchant band.

So picture the scene: Dev and I are cycling on the main highway between Delhi and Agra, sharing the road with motorbikes, cars, buses and lorries. And it’s dark. So we don’t see the vehicles, but hear them, screaming past like howling banshees. One after the next and the next. It’s like Peter and the Wolf – do any of these horns actually mean anything? To begin, we lurch off the road each time there’s a particularly loud horn behind us. But disconcertingly soon, I begin to ignore them, carry on with Bring Up The Bodies on audiobook, and am transported to Henry VIII’s royal court, hoping we will not be among them.

The horns continue day after day and I begin to catch myself daydreaming: at the next motorcyclist who passes us with his horn blaring, I will punch him from his bike and scream “why? Why? WHY IS THIS NECESSARY?!”

And then a horn jolts me from my daydream and I think better of it.