Ramu, a wiry man in his early forties with sun-baked skin and a faded red scarf, kneels by the front tire, his brow furrowed in concentration. The bridge’s shadow stretches across his weathered face as he examines the impossibly tight gap between the truck’s roof and the concrete above.
A traffic policeman, sweating in his khaki uniform, stands nearby, waving his arms and issuing orders that dissolve into the cacophony of horns.
Ramu produces a simple pressure gauge and a wrench, his hands steady despite the mounting tension. He crouches by the front tire, loosening the valve, and a soft hiss escapes as air begins to release. He glances up, catching the skeptical gaze of the policeman and a few onlookers.
"If I let out just enough air, the truck will drop a few inches. We might clear it."
"Are you sure this will work? The bridge is solid, and your truck is big,"
Ramu wipes sweat from his brow, his eyes determined. He presses on the tire, feeling it soften gradually. The crowd grows silent, watching each movement with bated breath.
Ramu signals to the policeman to clear the immediate area. He climbs into the cab, easing the gears, and the huge vehicle inches forward, tires squishing softly against the asphalt.
"Give me some space! I think we’re almost through."
The traffic policeman grins, waving motorists on as the jam slowly dissolves. Drivers climb back into their cars, conversations buzzing about the clever solution they just witnessed.
"Sometimes, you just need to let a little air out,"
Nearby, a group of chai vendors and commuters laugh as they discuss the incident, their voices rising above the traffic’s hum. Ramu finishes his work, glancing up at the bridge one last time—a quiet reminder of ingenuity under pressure.
